note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 20260-h.htm or 20260-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/6/20260/20260-h/20260-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/6/20260/20260-h.zip) daybreak a story for girls by florence a. sitwell [frontispiece: "little night-dresses rustled."] london s. w. partridge & co. 9 paternoster row. 1888 contents. chapter i. life in the orphanage ii. the flight iii. in the hospital iv. in a third-class carriage v. by the sea vi. christmas day illustrations. "little night-dresses rustled." . . . . . . _frontispiece_ the westminster clock tower. st. thomas' hospital. kate and frances. daybreak. chapter i. life in the orphanage. long before it was light, little feet were passing up and down those great stone stairs, little voices whispered in the corridors, little night-dresses rustled by the superintendent's door. she did not think of sleeping, for though the moon still hung in the sky, it was christmas morning--five o'clock on christmas morning at the orphanage; and the little ones had everything their own way on christmas day. so she sat up in bed, with the candle lighted beside her, bending her head over a book she held in her hand, and often smiling to herself as she listened to the sounds that revealed the children's joy. she was a grey-headed woman, with a face that might have been stern if the lines about the mouth had not been so gentle; a face, too, that was care-worn, yet full of peace. a tall night-cap surmounting her silvery grey hair gave her a quaint, even laughable appearance; but the orphan children reverenced the nightcap because they loved the head that, night after night, bent over them as a mother's might have done. she was reading milton's "ode on the morning of christ's nativity," and only laid the book aside as the little feet gathered outside her door, and clear, passionless voices blended in a christmas hymn. then the sounds died away again in the distance, and she was left to follow in her thoughts. * * * * * * upstairs to the great dormitory the children crept; trying to be as noiseless as the fairies who filled their christmas stockings. maggie, being the gentlest, led the way, and was trusted to open creaking doors; the younger ones formed the centre of the little army, and behind them all marched jane, the trusted jane, who, though she had been one year only at the orphanage, had won the confidence of all. she was the daughter of honest, industrious, working people, and had not the sad tendencies to slippery conduct which many of the little ones possessed. she was true in word and in deed; and no one could measure the good of such an example amongst the children. the full moonlight was shining in the dormitory on many a little empty bed. who could resist a pillow-fight? the sub-matron was up already trimming an extra beautiful bonnet to wear on this festive day. jane remonstrated, but was met with a wrathful reminder that on christmas day mother agnes let them do just what they liked, a great pillow was hurled at poor jane's head, and the fight began in real earnest. just when the excitement was at its highest pitch, a fierce cry rang from the end of the room. the game ceased suddenly, and the children turned to see what had happened. there was that odd little new-comer, kate daniels, standing with hands clenched and dark eyes flashing, in front of the last small bed. "you wicked, rough girls," she said, "you have hurt my little sister. i shall make you feel it! i shall do something dreadful to you, mary kitson. i hate you!" in their excitement the children had quite forgotten that the little bed at the end of the dormitory had an occupant, a soft curly-headed child of six, who slept soundly regardless of the noise, till that awkward mary tumbled over the bed and made her cry. they understood it all now, and jane and maggie moved up to the bed-side, hoping to soothe the sisters with kind words. but kate stood in front of the bed glaring at them. "you treat us so because we are strangers," she said, "and i hate you all. i never wanted to come here--they made me come--and i shan't stay if i can help it. i shall run away, and take frances." little frances, meanwhile, clung crying to her sister, who went on talking so wildly and passionately that jane thought it better to make a move to the lavatory with the younger children, and leave the new girls for a time to themselves. a great change passed over poor kate's face when she and her sister were once more alone together. the passion left it, and was replaced by a melancholy smile. she sat down on the bed, took her little sister's hand, and looked long into her face. "are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length. "not so badly, but i made a great noise, didn't i!" kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted her out of bed. "now, frances, darling, come with me to the window, and i will show you the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles. look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such strange, pale lights on the snow. look at the icicles--did you ever see such lovely ones! look at the trees--every tiniest little branch covered with frost! look at the pictures the frost has made upon the window,--see, there are forests,--and oh, more wonderful things than i could tell. "nobody loves you and me, frances. we've only got each other,--and i hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). but i am glad things are so pretty. one might almost think that somebody had loved you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!" kate's eyes softened as she said this,--she had beautiful eyes, large and dark. the rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of purpose, but little feeling. poor kate! the furrows on her forehead, the old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of much hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past. she was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little frances in her arms. it was no new attitude to kate. her figure was stunted and slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her little sister about; but the weight of little frances had rested upon her in another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts to shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in appearance was so marked between the two sisters. frances with her soft little pink and white face, her solemn eyes, and smiling mouth, and without a hard line anywhere, looked as if life had smiled upon her. all through the day the little strangers kept close together, and took very little notice of what went on around them. they ate their christmas dinner in solemn silence, and declined to join in the games. mother agnes was disappointed, for her whole heart was bound up in her children's happiness; and least of all she could bear to see sad faces on christmas day. she watched kate with much interest, but could not wholly understand her. * * * * * * before many months had passed, a curious transformation came over kate. she became the recognised leader of the children. mother agnes saw with despair jane's influence waning before that of this strange new girl. jane was so safe, so true, so dependable; and kate, well, who could trust kate, with her odd ways of going on? sometimes she would keep the younger ones awake half the night telling them the wildest of tales. she had laws of her own for the play-hours, and a secret system of rewards and punishments. but, worst of all, she was not straightforward. mother agnes, with her true, honest nature, was cut to the heart to find that kate could act a part, and did not scruple to do so, to shield herself and her little sister from punishment. kate was popular now, and yet no one loved her, and she loved no one except little frances. she never thought any trouble too great to be taken for her little sister. if any one said a rough word to frances, kate contrived to punish the offender in a way that was not easily forgotten. she helped frances with her lessons; shielded her from blame; dressed dolls for her through whole long summer afternoons; told her stories that aimed vaguely at having a good moral; answered her childish questions with infinite patience. the summer and autumn passed, and christmas came and went; and after christmas an event happened, the memory of which no lapse of years could ever efface from poor kate's mind. a certain morning dawned, just like other mornings, bright and cold; lessons, house-work and play went on as usual, only, as the day was drawing to its close, some men came to the door, carrying a little prostrate figure; and kate was standing in the doorway, and saw it all--saw her poor frances lying unconscious in the men's arms, her head terribly bruised, and her pretty, fair curls all tossed over a deathly white face. she was fond of clambering about by herself, and had slipped from the roof of a little outhouse, and fallen on her head. she was put to bed in the sick ward, and the doctor sent for. for three days and three nights mother agnes and kate watched beside her; on the fourth day the doctor told them that he could do no more. frances wandered much through those last days, talking confusedly of green fields, and birds singing, and of flowers. sometimes she would sing little snatches of the hymns they learnt in school; and she often spoke--as little dying children do speak of christ. mother agnes' tenderness to poor kate almost exceeded her tenderness to the dying child, but kate made no response to it. she answered in monosyllables, and hung down her head with its mass of bushy hair, and dark eyes gleaming strangely under her overhanging brow. all was over very soon, and kate was left with a memory, and with a tiny little grave to tend. mother agnes felt for her out of the depths of a womanly heart, but kate either could not, or would not speak of her sorrow to any living being. she gave up all her odd ways, and became quiet, and very gentle; and as months passed on mother agnes began to think that kate had really improved in character. she showed signs of talent in so many directions that the mother thought of training her for a schoolmistress, and took real delight in planning for the child's future, except when now and then some curious little trait of character would raise an uncomfortable feeling which could not be dispelled. chapter ii. the flight. a confirmation was to be held during the spring in the neighbouring village; and the clergyman who prepared the orphanage children looked upon kate as a most promising candidate; she was gentle, and attentive, and wrote her papers with so much care. the confirmation day dawned as sweetly and as brightly as a confirmation day should do. the birds were singing their hearts out in the orphanage garden; primroses and wallflowers were blooming in every corner; the apple-trees were in festive array, and little pink and white petals floated on the breeze, and came in at the open windows. then a troop of little girls in grey dresses with white caps assembled, prayer-book in hand, at the door, waiting for mother agnes. what could keep mother agnes so long? the bells have been ringing for nearly half-an-hour, and they would certainly be late! no, here she comes, but with a very grave face--much too grave--and oh, where is kate? "children, we must start," said the mother sternly, "kate is not coming." naturally the children wondered, and questioned amongst themselves what had happened, but they little suspected the real facts. mother agnes had gone to look for kate in the dormitory, feeling that she should like to take the child's hand in hers, and say something to comfort and to strengthen her. but kate was not in the dormitory. her grey sunday dress lay, neatly folded on the bed, the confirmation cap arranged on the top of it, and by its side a note, addressed in a bold, round hand to mother agnes. what on earth could this mean? mother agnes stared at the dress, fingered the note, and then unfastened it with a hand that trembled a little. the contents were these-"dear mother agnes,--you have been good to me, so i will tell you that i am leaving, and not going to come back any more. and it is not because i do not like you, for i do, though i have never loved any one but frances; but i cannot stay in this place any more. oh! you do not know what the pain is that i bear. when the birds sing, i seem to hear frances' voice singing with them as she did last spring, and i see her running amongst the flower-beds, and i cannot look at the apple-tree without seeing her little fair face peeping at me from between the blossoms. perhaps you will not care whether i go or stay, but i hope you will not mind about me, for i shall go to london to find a place. there's many younger than me in places already. but if i do not find a place, perhaps i will drown myself in the river, for i am sick of life, and i hope you will not think about me, or mind.----kate daniels." mother agnes' face grew very white as she read this letter--but no time was to be lost--she sat down and wrote a little note giving information to the police, and sent it by a servant; and then she went downstairs to join the waiting children. she tried to comfort herself by thinking that kate could not have got very far in so short a time. at the most she could only have been gone an hour, and surely she would be quickly found? and yet, strange misgivings took possession of mother agnes' mind. * * * * * * ten days later, a tall woman dressed in black was hastening at early dawn along the thames embankment, near westminster. mother agnes scarcely knew herself, her heart seemed bursting. it was the old story of the one lost sheep becoming all in all to the shepherd. the days had seemed months since poor kate was missed, and this first news of a girl who might possibly turn out to be kate, had made mother agnes hurry up to town by the night train, quite forgetting that she could not disturb st. thomas' hospital with inquiries at such an early hour. so she paced feverishly up and down by the river-side, thinking. it did seem just what she could imagine kate doing, rushing across the road to save a little child about the age of frances from being run over, and both children, whoever they might be, were knocked down by the passing omnibus. they were much injured, and were accordingly carried to st. thomas' hospital. the younger child was soon identified through her own statements, but the elder one remained long unconscious. her dress was very ragged, but her underclothing bore the stamp of some institution. mother agnes went over in her mind every word of the short report she had received, again and again. how strange london looked at this early hour! she scarcely knew it in the dim grey light, with hardly a sound in the streets, and there floated into her mind lines of wordsworth's, written from this very spot at this very hour, three-quarters of a century ago- "ne'er saw i, never felt, a calm so deep! the river glideth at his own sweet will: dear god! the very houses seem asleep, and all that mighty heart is lying still!" but was it all so still? what of the sick in the hospitals, constrained to watch and bear the world's burdens through the long hours of darkness. oh, if she could only pierce those great walls and stand by the bed-side of the poor girl of whom her thoughts were now so full! * * * * * * even the children's ward in st. thomas' hospital looked strange and un-home-like in that dim grey light. it was nearly silent too, except for occasional little moans, coming from little beds. but from one bed there came something besides a moan: a childish voice half whispered the word "kate." "yes, dear," came from the next bed, in a low voice, "what is it?" "do you feel better, dear kate? and would my doll help you to bear the pain?" kate smiled gently. "i do feel a little better; and i am getting rather big for a doll. but tell me, what is your name, dear? what am i to call you?" "my name is frances," said the little girl. kate shuddered, and tried to turn her head away. "is anything the matter?" asked the little voice, as kate did not speak. "no, nothing," said poor kate, not very truthfully--and then to change the subject--"where are your people? where do you live?" "i have five, up in heaven, waiting for me," said frances slowly, "and i live with my aunt. she keeps a baker's shop, and when i am not at school, i clean the floors, and mind the little ones, and i go to bed when the baby does, to keep her quiet. and when the stars come out, i lie there, thinking of my father and our own little ones, and thinking of jesus christ, thinking,--thinking,--longing to see his face." the great voice of the great westminster clock at this moment told the hour. how solemn it sounded in the stillness; even more solemn than when it speaks out above the roar of london life in the day-time. [illustration: the westminster clock tower.] "i am going to sleep again now," said the little child. "good-night, dear kate; god bless you, and mind you wake me if the pain is bad." chapter iii. in the hospital. at last mother agnes stood by kate's bed side. how pale the poor girl looked and her dark eyes seemed to have grown larger and more pathetic than they used to be. a real gleam of pleasure passed over her face as her eyes rested on mother agnes. "you are good to come to me," said kate. "i did not think you would have cared. how did you know i was here?" "because, dear child, i took every possible pains to find out what had become of you; and heard of you at last." "i was afraid you would send the police after me," said kate, "and that is why i did not take the straight road to london, but went a long way round." "then what did you do for food and shelter all that time?" "i had a shilling of my own," said kate in a weary voice, "and that lasted me in bread for some days. and at nights i slept in barns and outhouses, and once under the open sky. but when i got near london, i was so weak for want of food that i thought i should have died; and i lay down by the roadside, and could not get any farther. and then some poor men who were tramping the country for work passed that way, and they took pity on me, and gave me some broken meat they had with them, and something out of a bottle,--it may have been brandy for aught i know,--but it set me on my feet again, and so i got to london. "and i tried to think of any one i knew there. i did not dare to go near our district lady who sent me to the orphanage, for fear she should send me back. and i thought of old sally blackburn, who used to live next door to us in westminster, and made a living with buying and selling cast-off clothing and she was good to us,--and when father came in very drunk, she would take us children into her little place to be out of the way. so i hunted her up; and then, mother agnes, i did a very wrong thing. she is old and stupid, and very poor, and i could not take food and lodging with her for nothing,--so i gave her my orphanage dress. she was pleased with it, and said it was worth quite ten shillings, and gave me a ragged old dress in exchange,--and something to buy a bit of print with to run up a dress for going out in the mornings to look for a place. and oh, ma'am, it was such a wretched, dismal, dark place she lived in; i didn't know how to abide it after the orphanage; and yet i wouldn't have gone back for worlds." she sighed deeply as she said this. mother agnes tried to turn her thoughts away by talking cheerfully on other subjects for a time, and made kate tell all she knew of the little girl in the next bed. "i shall come up again to town in a day or two, to see you," mother agnes said. "will you?" said kate. "thank you. i did not think you would have cared." "i do care for you," said mother agnes, with her eyes full of tears; "but kate, there is someone who cares more." "i don't believe he cares," said kate sadly. "i don't see why he should care for me. i know it's all in the bible; but that was written many hundred years ago. please forgive me, ma'am, for speaking so. i don't wish to be rude, but i really can't believe it." just at that moment the patients' tea was carried in, so that no further talk was possible. mother agnes, with an aching heart, said good-bye to kate, and hurried off to catch her train. next day there was a consultation, for kate was not doing well; and the doctors broke to her the news that she would have to lose her leg. it did not seem to distress her in the least. she took it quite quietly; but a passion of sobs broke from the next little bed. "o doctor! doctor!" said a child's voice; "don't go and hurt dear kate so." "don't be frightened about it," said kate. "i shall be moved into another room, and you will know nothing about it till it is all over." "i am not frightened," said the child; "but oh, sirs, if somebody's leg must be cut off, please, please let it be my leg instead of kate's." frances in her eagerness had forgotten her own pain; and had raised herself in bed, and stretched out her arm towards the doctors. the elder of the two men came toward her, and bent over her. "my dear child," he said, "you are doing very well; there is no need to cut off your leg. and try not to distress yourself about your friend, for only what is wisest and best is being done for her." "i will try and be good, and not mind so much, please sir," said frances; and then she hid her face in the pillow, and tried to choke down her sobs. the doctors moved away at last, and kate turned a pair of wondering eyes upon frances as she said: "what made you wish to lose your leg instead?" "only kate, because i love you more than i could tell any one. and if you must lose your leg, please god, i will comfort you for it as much as ever i can." "thank you, dear," said kate, very much touched,--and after that she relapsed into silence. easter fell very late that year. good friday was kept in the hospital after kate had lost her leg. there was a service in the ward, and moreover, the nurse came and sat by kate's side, and read to her the fifty-third chapter of isaiah. "she doesn't seem to take much notice of reading," the nurse said later to mother agnes, who had come up again to see kate. they little knew that it was the first "notice" that kate had ever taken of anything in the bible. kate would not talk to-day to mother agnes. she answered gently, but shortly, and could not be drawn into conversation. one of her old fits of reserve seemed to have taken hold of her. mother agnes was going away, deeply disappointed, when the nurse told her the story of little frances wishing to lose her leg for kate's sake. and also, how the children had grown to love each other; and what a dear child frances was, and how she talked to kate of everything that is good. and then mother agnes was comforted, for she saw that all she had to do was to stand aside, and let a little child do the work. and as she walked along the thames embankment in the glory of the setting sun, it came into her mind how christ had taken all that was sweetest on earth, the love and trust of little children, the love of the father for the child, of the shepherd for the sheep, and made earthly love the stepping-stone to raise us into the thought of the possibility of that greater love outside ourselves. [illustration: st. thomas' hospital.] the next time she came to the hospital, kate had much to ask her about the orphanage. they talked pleasantly for a short time; and then, after a pause kate said: "mother agnes, something is frightening me." "what is it, kate?" another pause--so long that it seemed as if kate did not mean to speak again--and then she said: "the love of god frightens me." "but, kate, _that_ was meant to be the greatest joy and comfort of our lives." "it is always there," said kate, earnestly, "burning into me so that i cannot forget it. it is much worse to bear than the pain. indeed, i cannot bear it, it is almost intolerable. night and day, i can never, never forget it. and oh, mother agnes, if i had killed my own little frances, it would not have given me the trouble it does to think of the things i have done against jesus christ." kate's words, her face, and her whole manner awed mother agnes so much that she could not speak for some moments. and then she talked to kate for long--gently and tenderly and more plainly than she had ever done before. kate said good-bye to her with eyes that were full of tears. that night, before she went to sleep, frances said: "kate, does what you spoke of still burn into you?" kate was startled, for she did not think that frances had heard the half-whispered conversation. "yes," she said, "it is there just the same. i can scarcely bear it! what can i do?" "i don't know what you can do," said frances, "except that you are bound to speak to him about it." kate turned on her pillow with a half sob, and said no more. chapter iv. in a third-class carriage. "kate--i can't sing any more--i'm just tired out with happiness." "cuddle up against me, darling, and try and go to sleep then." "then, dear kate," said frances, earnestly, "will you _promise_ to tell me all about the next stations, and the green fields, and the sheep, and the cows, and the people hay-making, and the dear little white houses. and i will dream about the sea. oh, i am so glad that you and i are going to the sea." so the little head with its mass of golden brown hair found a resting-place on kate's shoulder, and silence reigned for a time. and kate, her arm round the sleeping child, watched those green fields flooded with summer sunlight with thoughts so new and strange that often the tears would come into her eyes. she could not quite understand this new life yet, but somehow, since the day when the fast-closed door was unlocked, and the friend admitted, she had found all her old restlessness and her hard thoughts of life vanish, and deep peace and love had come in their place. "is it a station?" said a little dreamy voice at length, and the brown head moved uneasily. "please tell me when there's something to be seen besides 'colman's mustard.'" "there _is_ something!" cried kate, breathlessly, "there is, oh, frances, such a beautiful face!" little frances was on her feet in a moment, and rushed to the farther window. before the train had quite stopped, her head was such a long way out that an old german from the next window shouted to her, "if you do not take care, miss, some fine morning you vill get up vidout your head." "i see her," said frances, turning round to kate, "all in grey, with a very, very large bunch of roses in her hands. now she is talking to three big brothers. now the big brothers are carrying all her things; books, and a bag, and a basket, and a cloak, and a parasol, and a funny stick with wires in it." "lawn-tennis racket," suggested kate, who knew country ways. "there is a funny old woman with a hook nose walking with them, and now the big brothers are laughing and talking to her." "maybe she's the old nurse," remarked kate. "they are coming our way; oh, do you think she will get into our carriage?" "no, she'll travel first-class," said kate, with a little sigh. "no, no, i can hear them speak of travelling third. kate, put your old hat straight on your head. tie my blue tie--quick, please!" the arrangements were scarcely completed when a young man's face appeared at the window, and soon after they heard a voice: "i say, violet, if you really mean to travel third, you and nanny had better get in there. there's only a poor girl with crutches and one other child." "all right, dick; help nanny up first, and give her a corner seat with my cloak behind her. now nanny, darling, lean on his arm." "put nanny facing the engine, or she'll think she's going the wrong way," shouted another voice, and a peal of laughter followed.. the old woman after some difficulty was safely landed inside the carriage. the brothers, carrying the things, followed. violet with her great bunch of roses came last. it was quite new to poor kate to hear brothers and sisters laughing and joking together. she could not half understand the little jokes that passed, but she liked to listen. the musical voices and the ringing laughter seemed to do her good. and violet all the time was conscious of a great pair of wistful eyes fixed on hers. as soon as the final good-bye to the brothers had been said, and the train was really off, she whispered something to nanny, and began unfastening her bunch of roses. nanny, meanwhile, bent forward towards kate: "you've been ill, my dears," she said. "we've both been run over," said kate. "eh, dearie me, now! to think of that!" said the old woman, sympathisingly. "and you were hurt a great deal, i daresay." "i lost my leg," said kate. "well, now, i can feel for you there,--not as i ever lost one of mine, as is as good as ever,--but i as good as lost one in mr. fred. you remember, miss violet, my dear, that summer when he fell from the apple tree, and the doctor said as he'd never seen such a leg. dearie me, what a sight of trouble we had with him to be sure!" violet had risen from her seat, and came towards the two poor girls. "i want you to let me pin some of these roses in your dresses," she said, brightly. "they are so sweet. do you care for flowers?" "i do. thank you, miss, very much." kate lifted her head, and for a moment the two girls looked each other full in the face. such a contrast they were! violet all glowing with life and happiness and beauty; and kate with her old, sad face, and pathetic, dark eyes. "nanny, dear," said violet, turning to the old nurse; "don't you think my other cloak would make quite a nice soft cushion? do reach it over," and in one moment more poor kate, who, truth to say, was getting very weary with her journey, found something that she could lean her tired back against with comfort. violet went back to her seat, and for some little time sat still, with a book in her hand but her eyes kept wandering off to the two poor girls in the farther corner. after old nanny had fallen asleep, violet at length came and sat next the girls. "do you mind my asking,--are you sisters?" she asked, in her soft voice. "no, miss," said kate. "it pleased god to take my little sister. and this is a little girl he sent me instead, when my heart was pretty nigh broken." "you've had great trouble," said violet. "it's not so long ago that i was near drowning myself," said kate. a look of great compassion came into violet's face as these words were said. she only answered quietly: "shall i tell you a true story? a lady one evening who was walking over a bridge in london, saw a poor man leaning over a parapet, and he had such a sad look in his face that she felt sure he meant to drown himself. she didn't like to speak to him; but, as she passed by, she said these words out loud, 'there is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of god.' and long after they met, and he recognised her and said, 'you saved my life,' and told her that that night he had had the fullest intention of drowning himself. i think her words had made him suddenly remember another city besides london, and another river besides the dark, gloomy thames rolling away beneath his feet." she waited a moment to see if kate had taken in the little story, and what effect it was having upon her. kate's head was bent down, and she had fast hold of little frances' hand. "like enough the city and the river made him think of christ," she said. "i couldn't drown myself now, miss,--not if it was ever so,--for his sake i couldn't. and if i had to be miserable all the rest of my life, it seems to me it would be worth while to have lived to have known the love of christ even for five minutes." "and it isn't only for five minutes," said violet, in a low voice, her eyes glowing, "but for ever and for ever. this is only the beginning." they were silent for some moments, and then violet's gentle questions called out much of the history of kate's sad life. they were learning from each other, those two girls. kate learned what sympathy may do, and a deep desire to minister to others sprang up within her. violet learned how dull and sad and surrounded with dangers the lives of many girls in our great cities are, and the knowledge gave rise to new prayers and plans and work in her future life. a cathedral town came in sight. violet, starting up, woke old nanny, and then began quickly putting together books and cloaks. only a few minutes more, and she was standing with outstretched hand at the door of the railway carriage. "good-bye, good-bye," she said. "do write and tell me how you and little frances like the sea-side. i hope it will do you good," and she was gone. kate and frances watched with eager eyes till the tall graceful figure of the girl and the bent figure of the old woman were lost to sight in the crowded station. "do you think we shall ever see her again?" said little frances. "perhaps," said kate, "we shall have to wait till we reach the golden city." chapter v. by the sea. two little girls were lying out, in two long chairs, by the sea-shore. the younger one was knitting, and, as she knitted, talking and laughing, and often looking up to rest her eyes lovingly on the sea. her lap was covered with shells and sea-weed, brought to her by some pale-faced fellow-patients who were wandering about the shore. mother agnes had sent both kate and frances to a convalescent home by the sea, and their delight over this their first sea-side visit was untold. from early morning, when they woke to find themselves in a pink room, in beds with white dimity curtains printed with pink rose-buds, and the smell of the sea coming in at the open window, till the last light had faded away in the long summer evenings, their days were one continued dream of delight. kate's face was growing sunburnt and warm in colouring. her eyes had a soft, surprised look in them, as if she were suddenly waking up to a whole world of unsuspected wonders in heaven and on earth. there was a gladness about her, like the gladness of a little child who has been turned out of a dull, close room into a field of cowslips. she and frances never tired of each other's company; and kate, for the first time in her life, was guilty of laughing and talking nonsense from sheer lightheartedness. and so the days sped by, till kate began to have a sort of wish to see the orphanage again, and a feeling that after all the pain might be conquered, and life there be brightest and best. and, oddly enough, as she and frances were talking about it one morning, who should make her appearance but mother agnes herself, who spoke about kate's return as if it had been all settled long ago; and then told frances to her great surprise that she too was to become an inmate of the orphanage. the poor aunt had had losses, the little shop was given up, and she could no longer provide for frances, and had entreated mother agnes to get the child admitted. and frances' great love for kate helped her over the trouble of changing her old home for a new one. when the two invalids arrived at the orphanage, they found a great "welcome" arranged in daisies over the door. kate was feasted like the prodigal son on his return, and no one thought of reproaching her for having run away. and kate returned the love and kindness she met with fully and joyously, for now she had entered into that mysterious rest and sweetness existing somewhere at the heart of things, of which so much is written, but which so few set themselves with earnest purpose to find. it was a surprise to every one, except perhaps to mother agnes, who understood the girl's mind, when kate began to write little poems, and to receive sundry little sums of money from different magazines for them. kate's first wish, of course, was to give back the value of the orphanage dress in which she had run away; and then mother agnes started a money-box, into which all the earnings were put in the hope that some day enough would be found in it to buy kate a cork leg. "that day, kate," said she, "may yet be a long way off. but, meanwhile, dear child, you will remain here, and complete your education, and by-and-by i hope we shall see you mistress of a village school." the money-box was placed in the orphanage schoolroom, and the children dropped their pennies in, and sometimes strangers who came to visit the orphanage were told how kate had lost her leg, and added something to the fund. and, in course of time, the box got so full that mother agnes, for prudence sake, would carry it to her own room to lock it up at night. * * * * * * another frosty christmas, but it was night now, and all the glories of a starlit sky could be seen from the corridor window, on the broad ledge of which kate and frances sat. the years that had passed had changed them much. kate had a quiet power about her that could be more felt than expressed in words. her face, quaint and clever, was lighted up by a singularly sweet smile; and nothing reminded one of the old kate except the large, pathetic eyes. she was mother agnes's right hand with the little ones. her way of managing them was so winning that she seldom or never caused vexation; and she brought sympathy, imagination, and judgment to bear in her work amongst them. frances had grown very pretty; she had golden brown hair, and blue eyes that were always laughing; and her face was not only beautiful in form and colour, but sensitive and refined. she had quite recovered her accident; was fleet of foot as a little hare, and full of health and spirits. frances was always laughing, and it was a laugh so utterly joyous and free from care, that it seemed to have no place in this weary, hard-working, grasping, eager, restless nineteenth century, but to belong to some early age, before the world had lost its freshness, or better still, to be an earnest, with all that is good and true, of the "restoration of all things." [illustration: kate and frances.] she was leaning her head against kate's shoulder, and talking eagerly. "and then, dear kate, as you have made up your mind to be a schoolmistress in westminster, and to teach those poor little sickly children whom no one seems to care for, i have made up my mind to be an hospital nurse, and mother agnes has given her consent; and oh kate, every spare minute they give me shall be spent with you. and you will have some dear little sitting-room looking on the river, i know. and there we shall sit together, and watch the rush of life on the river; and talk of a hundred things--of your school children and my patients, and the beautiful things that happen to us, and the comic ones. and, as we are talking, mother agnes will perhaps come in for a cup of tea (having come up to town on some errand), and you will give her the nicest tea possible, and then we three will sit there still when it is dark, and talk of everything in heaven and on earth. and when the girls from here are put out to places in london, they will come and see you, and have tea with you in your little sitting-room." voices and rushings of feet were heard on the stairs. "kate! where is kate?" "kate, you are wanted in the schoolroom!" "o kate, here you are! now, guess what has come for you from london!" little hands seized hold of kate, and the children's eagerness was so great that she was obliged to remind them that she had only a wooden leg, and couldn't get downstairs quickly. "kate, we can't keep it back, we must tell you! it is your cork leg arrived. mother agnes has given the last five pounds herself, and ordered the leg to be here by christmas." but when kate was introduced to her new member, with injunctions to treat it with due respect, she was quite overcome. she leaned against the wall and sobbed. she had never cried when she lost her leg; and it was only the love and kindness shown her that made her cry now. but the tears were only for a moment,--and they were followed by a great rush of gladness. the little ones would not be satisfied without helping kate upstairs and to bed that night, and placing the cork leg in a prominent position in the room, "so that you will be quite sure to see it, kate, as soon as you wake up on christmas morning." chapter vi. christmas day. "why, my dear old kate, you're only half awake yet, and the little ones have been up for hours already, and christmas day has broken upon the world once more. there; give me a kiss, and wish me a merry christmas in a proper manner." "another christmas," said kate, half dreamily, raising herself in bed. "frances, what are you doing?" "finishing a frock for poor aunt's youngest; but oh, kate, i have been watching the dawn too, such a lovely dawn; i shall never forget it. there, lean your head against me while i tell you about it. the light came creeping, creeping up, so slowly, and so shyly. then suddenly the clouds parted, and a burst of glory came, making the dull snow, and even the icicles look warm in the red light. and was it stupid, do you think? i couldn't help thinking of you and the little children in westminster, and how you would watch the sunshine coming into so many little desolate lives." frances stopped suddenly, and neither spoke for some moments. her big blue eyes were resting on the snow scene outside. a vision crossed kate's mind of two little girls watching that same scene many years ago, in the cold moonlight with sorrowful hearts. she thought she knew well what frances meant about sunshine coming into a desolate life. "dear old kate, how tired you will get sometimes with teaching those poor little things, who are sure to be tiresome and naughty. but then, you know, it will be all work for him, and so of course you will be quite glad to be tired. and then he will not let you bear one tired feeling alone. it will be like those verses in your favourite poem:- "but this it was that made me move, as light as carrier-birds in air; i loved the weight i had to bear, because it needed help of love. nor could i weary, heart or limb, when mighty love would cleave in twain, the lading of a single pain, and part it, giving half to him." "o kate, what a life! and then to think that all these little dawnings we see in people's lives are only pictures of the great dawn coming, when all things will be made new. kate, doesn't it make you unutterably glad?" "indeed, it does, frances. and, please god, you and i will take our places side by side in the great army of watchers and workers." * * * * * * one glimpse more into the lives of two happy women. only a few years later, and frances had a love-story and a wedding. the story began in a summer holiday in the country, where she, not being very strong at the time, had gone for rest and change. he was the village doctor, and he first met her sitting by the bed-side of one of his poor patients, and her bright face haunted him. they met again in the sunday school; and again at a great open-air parish tea, where frances sat next him. she pitied him for being shy, and tried gently to draw him into talking about himself and his work; and her quick sympathy soon discovered a large intellect and large heart behind an uncouth manner. and then each found that the other was working out of love to an unseen lord, and watching for the daybreak, and the interest in each other deepened. they met again often during those bright summer days; and when the time came for frances to go back to her work in london, the doctor found that he could not let her go without first asking her to become his wife; and she found that she could not refuse. and now the doctor's little wife trots with him over the snow, wherever he goes, carrying sunshine into poor cottages, and often things more substantial than sunshine, and more likely to be understood by hungry people. all his patients are her patients; and, with her nurse's experience, she is able to show them how to carry out his orders. she rejoices in showing kindnesses to the poor aunt who once gave her a home. to kate she writes that the country is looking lovely, and kate must make haste to come and spend christmas in the happiest home in england. and kate herself? in some corner of the great world she still works, with patience and tenderest sympathy, amongst uncared-for children. she has seen the first rays of light come into many a sad little life. and together she and the children watch "until the day break and the shadows flee away." wikkey a scrap by yam new york e. p. dutton & company 31 west twenty-third street 1888 wikkey. a scrap. chapter i. mr. ruskin has it that we are all kings and queens, possessing realms and treasuries. however this may be, it is certain that there are souls born to reign over the hearts of their fellows, kings walking about the world in broad-cloth and fustian, shooting-jackets, ulsters, and what not--swaying hearts at will, though it may be all unconscious of their power; and only the existence of some such psychological fact as this will account for the incident which i am about to relate. lawrence granby was, beyond all doubt, one of these royal ones, his kingdom being co-extensive with the circle of his acquaintance--not that he was in the least aware of the power he exercised over all who came in contact with him, as he usually attributed the fact that he "got on" with people "like a house on fire" to the good qualities possessed by "other fellows." even the comforts by which he was surrounded in his lodging by his landlady and former nurse, mrs. evans, he considered as the result of the dame's innate geniality, though the opinion entertained of her by underlings and by those who met her in the way of business was scarcely as favorable. he was a handsome fellow too, this lawrence, six feet three, with a curly brown head and the frankest blue eyes that ever looked pityingly, almost wonderingly, on the small and weak things of the earth. and the boy, wikkey whiston, was a crossing-sweeper. i am sorry for this, for i fancy people are becoming a little tired of the race, in story-books at least, but as he _was_ a crossing-sweeper it cannot be helped. it would not mend matters much to invest him with some other profession, especially as it was while sitting broom in hand, under the lamp-post at one end of his crossing that he first saw lawrence granby, and if he had never seen lawrence granby i should not be writing about him at all. it was a winter's morning in 1869, bright as it is possible for such a morning to be in london, but piercingly cold, and wikkey had brushed and re-brushed the pathway--which scarcely needed it, the east wind having already done half the work--just to put some feeling of warmth into his thin frame before seating himself in his usual place beneath the lamp-post. there were a good many passers-by, for it was the time of day at which clerks and business men are on their way to their early occupation, and the boy scanned each face in the fashion that had become habitual to him in his life-long look out for coppers. presently he saw approaching a peculiarly tall figure, and looked at it curiously, tracing its height upward from his own stunted point of view till he encountered the cheery glance of lawrence granby. wikkey was strangely fascinated by the blue eyes looking down from so far above him, and scarcely knowing what he did, he rose and went shambling on alongside of the young man, his eyes riveted on his face. lawrence, however, being almost unconscious of the boy's presence till his attention was drawn to him by the friend with whom he was walking, who said, laughing and pointing to wikkey, "friend of yours, eh? seems to know you." then he looked down again and met the curious, intent stare fixed upon him. "well, small boy! i hope you'll know me again," he said. to which wikkey promptly returned in the shrill, aggressively aggrieved voice of the london arab: "i reckon it don't do you no harm, guvner; a cat may look at a king." lawrence laughed, and threw him a copper, saying, "you are a cheeky little fellow," and went on his way. wikkey stood looking after him, and then picked up the penny, holding it between his cold hands, as though it possessed some warming properties, and muttering: "it seems fur to warm a chap to look at him;" and then he sat down once more, still pondering over the apparition that had so fascinated him. oddly enough the imputation of cheekiness rankled in his mind in a most unusual fashion--not that wikkey entertained the faintest objection to "cheek" in the abstract, and there were occasions on which any backwardness in its use would betray a certain meanness of spirit: for instance to the natural enemy of the race--the bobby--it was only right to exhibit as much of the article as was compatible with safety. indeed, the inventor of a fresh sarcasm, biting in its nature yet artfully shrouded in language which might be safely addressed to an arm of the law was considered by his fellows in the light of a public benefactor. the errand-boy also, who, because he carried a parcel or basket and happened to wear shoes, thought himself at liberty to cast obloquy on those whose profession was of a more desultory nature, and whose clothing was scantier--he must be held in check and his pride lowered by sarcasms yet more biting and far less veiled. these things were right and proper, but wikkey felt uncomfortable under an imputation of "cheekiness" from the "big chap" who had so taken his fancy, and wondered at his own feeling. that evening, as lawrence walked briskly homeward, after his day's work, he became aware of the pale, wizen face again looking up into his through the dusk, and of a shrill voice at his side. "i say, guvner, you hadn't no call fur to call me cheeky; i didn't mean no cheek, only i likes the look of yer; it seems fur to warm a chap." lawrence stopped this time and looked curiously at the boy, at the odd, keen eyes gazing at him so hungrily. "you are a strange lad if you are not a cheeky one," he said. "why do you like the look of me?" "i dunno," said wikkey, and then he repeated his formula, "it seems to warm a chap." "you must be precious cold if that will do it, poor little lad. what's your name?" "wikkey." "wikkey? is that all?" "no, i've another name about me somewheres, but i can't just mind of it. they allus calls me wikkey." "poor lad!" lawrence said again, looking at the thin skeleton frame, sadly visible through the tattered clothing. "poor little chap! it's sharp weather for such a mite as you. there! get something to warm you." and feeling in his pocket he drew out half-a-crown, which he slipped into wikkey's hand, and then turned and walked away. wikkey stood looking after him with two big tears rolling down his dirty face; it was so long since any one had called him a poor little chap, and he repeated the words over and over as he threaded his way in the darkness to the dreary lodging usually called "skimmidges," and kept by a grim woman of that name. "it seems fur to warm a chap," he said again, as he crept under the wretched blanket which mrs. skimmidge designated and charged for as a bed. from that day forward wikkey was possessed by one idea--that of watching for the approach of the "big chap," following his steps along the crossing, and then, if possible, getting a word or look on which to live until the next blissful moment should arrive. nor was he often disappointed, for lawrence, having recently obtained employment in a certain government office, and wikkey's crossing happening to lie on the shortest way from his own abode to the scene of his daily labor, he seldom varied his route, and truth to say, the strange little figure, always watching so eagerly for his appearance, began to have an attraction for him. he wondered what the boy meant by it, and at first, naturally connected the idea of coppers with wikkey's devotion; but he soon came to see that it went deeper than that, for with a curious instinct of delicacy which the lad would probably have been quite unable to explain to himself, he would sometimes hang back as lawrence reached the pavement, and nod his funny "good night, guvner," from midway on his crossing, in a way that precluded any suspicion of mercenary motives. but at last there came a season of desolation very nearly verging on despair. day after day for a week--ten days--a fortnight--did wikkey watch in vain for his hero. poor lad, he could not know that lawrence had been suddenly summoned to the country, and had arranged for a substitute to take his duty for a fortnight; and the terrible thought haunted the child that the big chap had changed his route, perhaps even out of dislike to his--wikkey's--attentions, and he should never see his face again. the idea was horrible--so horrible that as it became strengthened by each day's disappointment, and at last took possession of the boy's whole soul, it sapped away what little vitality there was in the small, fragile frame, leaving it an easy prey to the biting wind which caught his breath away as he crept shivering around the street corners, and to the frost which clutched the thinly-clad body. the cough, which wikkey scarcely remembered ever being without, increased to such violence as to shake him from head to foot, and his breathing became hard and painful; yet still he clung to his crossing with the pertinacity of despair, scanning each figure that approached with eager, hungry eyes. he had laid out part of lawrence's half-crown on a woolen muffler, which at first had seemed a marvel of comfort, but the keen north-easter soon found its way even through that, and the hot pies on which he expended the rest did not warm him for very long; there came a day, too, when he could only hold his pie between his frozen hands, dreamily wondering why he felt no wish to eat it, why the sight of it made him feel so sick. a dreadful day that was. mechanically, wikkey from time to time, swept his way slowly over the crossing, but the greater part of the time he spent sitting at the foot of the lamp-post at either end, coughing and shivering, and now and then dozing and starting up in terror lest the "big chap" should have passed by during his brief unconsciousness. dusk came on, and then lamp-light, and still wikkey sat there. a policeman passing on his beat saw the haggard face and heard the choking cough. "you'd best be off home, my lad," he said, pausing a moment; "you don't look fit to be out on a night like this;" and wikkey, taking the remark to be only another form of the oft-heard injunction to "move on," seized his broom and began sweeping as in an evil dream--then sank down exhausted on the other side. it was getting late, later than he usually stayed, but something seemed to warn him that this might be his last chance, and he remained crouching there, almost too far-gone to be conscious of the cold; till on a sudden there came, piercing through the dull mist of returning consciousness, a voice saying: "hullo, wikkey! you are late to-night." and starting upward with wild startled eyes the boy saw lawrence granby. he staggered to his feet and gasped out: "you've come, have you? i've been a watching and a waiting of you, and i thought as you'd never come again." then the cough seized him, shaking him till he could only cling to the lamp-post for support till it was over, and then slip down in a helpless heap on the pavement. "wikkey, poor little chap, how bad you are," said lawrence, looking sadly down on the huddled-up figure; "you oughtn't to be out. you--you haven't been watching for me like this?" "i've been a watching and a watching," wikkey answered, in faint hoarse tones, "and i thought you'd taken to another crossing and i'd never see you again." "poor little chap! poor little lad!" was all the young man could find to say, while there rose up in his heart an impulse which his common sense tried hard to suppress, but in vain. "wikkey," he said, at last, "you must come home with me;" and he took one of the claw-like hands in his warmly gloved one, and walked on slowly, out of compassion for the child's feeble limbs: even then, however, they soon gave way, and wikkey once more slid down crying on the pavement. there was nothing for it but for lawrence to gather up the child in his strong arms, and stride on, wondering whether after all it were not too late to revive the frozen-out life. for one blissful moment wikkey felt himself held close and warm, and his head nestled against the woolly ulster, and then all was blank. to say that lawrence enjoyed his position would be going too far. whatever might be wikkey's mental peculiarities, his exterior differed in no way from that of the ordinary street arab, and such close contact could not fail to be trying to a young man more than usually sensitive in matters of cleanliness; but lawrence strode manfully on with his strange burden, choosing out the least frequented streets, and earnestly hoping he might meet none of his acquaintances, till at last he reached his lodgings and admitted himself into a small well-lighted hall, where, after calling "mrs. evans," he stood under the lamp awaiting her arrival, not without considerable trepidation, and becoming each moment more painfully conscious how extraordinary his behavior must appear in her eyes. "mrs. evans," he began, as the good lady emerged from her own domain on the ground floor. "mrs. evans, i have brought this boy"--then he paused, not knowing how to enter upon the needful explanation under the chilling influence of mrs. evans' severe and respectful silence. "i dare say you are surprised," he went on at last in desperation; "but the poor child is terribly ill, dying, i think, and if you could do anything." "of course, mr. lawrence, you do as you think proper," mrs. evans returned, preserving her severest manner, though she eyed wikkey with some curiosity; "only if you had mentioned when you engaged my rooms that you intended turning them into a refuge for vagabonds, it would have been more satisfactory to all parties." "i know all that. i know its very inconsiderate of me, and i am very sorry; but you see the little fellow is so bad--he looks just like little robin, nurse." mrs. evans sniffed at the comparison, but the allusion to the child she had so fondly tended, as he sank into an early grave, had its effect; together with the seldom revived appellation of "nurse," and her mollified manner encouraged lawrence to continue. "if you wouldn't mind getting a hot bath ready in the kitchen, i will manage without troubling you." "i hope, mr. lawrence, that i know my place better than that," was the reply, and forthwith mrs. evans, who, beneath a somewhat stern exterior, possessed a really good heart, took wikkey under her wing, administered warmth and restoratives, washed the grimy little form, cropped and scrubbed the matted locks, and soon the boy, dreamily conscious and wondrously happy, was lying before a blazing fire, clean and fair to look on, enveloped in one of mrs. evans' own night-dresses. then the question arose, where was wikkey to pass the night, followed by a whispered dialogue and emphatic "nothing will be safe" from the lady of the house. all of which the boy perfectly understanding, he remarked: "i aint a prig; i'll not take nothink." there was a touch of injured innocence in the tone; it was simply the statement of a fact which might easily have been otherwise, and the entire matter-of-factness of the assertion inspired lawrence with a good deal of confidence, together with the cough which returned on the slightest movement, and would effectually prevent a noiseless evasion on the part of poor wikkey. so once more he was lifted up in the strong arms and carried to a sofa in lawrence's own room, where snugly tucked up in blankets, he soon fell asleep. his benefactor, after prolonged meditation in his arm-chair, likewise betook himself to rest, having decided that a doctor must be the first consideration on the following morning, and that the next step would be to consult reg--reg would be able to advise him: it was his business to understand about such matters. a terrible fit of coughing proceeding from the sofa awoke lawrence next morning, startling him into sudden recollection of the evening's adventure; and when the shutters were opened wikkey looked so fearfully wan and exhausted in the pale gray light, that he made all speed to summon mrs. evans, and to go himself for the doctor. the examination of the patient did not last long, and at its conclusion the doctor muttered something about the "workhouse--as of course, mr. granby, you are not prepared----" the look of imploring agony which flashed from the large, wide-open eyes made lawrence sign to the doctor to follow him into another room; but before leaving wikkey he gave him an encouraging nod, saying: "all right, wikkey. i'll come back. well," he said, as they entered the sitting-room, "what do you think of him?" "think? there's not much thinking in the matter; the boy is dying, mr. granby, and if you wish to remove him you had better do so at once." "how long will it be?" "a week or so, i should say, or it might be sooner, though these cases sometimes linger longer than one expects. the mischief is of long standing, and this is the end." lawrence remained for some time lost in thought. "poor little chap!" he said at last, sadly. "well, thank you, doctor. good-morning." "do you wish any steps taken with regard to the workhouse, mr. granby?" asked the doctor, preparing to depart. wikkey's beseeching eyes rose up before lawrence, and he stammered out hastily: "no--no thank you; not just at present. i'll think about it;" and the doctor took his leave, wondering whether it could be possible that mr. granby intended to keep the boy; he was not much used to such quixotic proceedings. lawrence stood debating with himself. "should he send wikkey to the workhouse? what should he do with a boy dying in the house? how should he decide?" certainly not by going back to meet those wistful eyes. the decision must be made before seeing the boy again, or, as the soft-hearted fellow well knew, it would be all up with his common sense. calling mrs. evans, therefore, he bade her tell wikkey that he would come back presently; and then he said, timidly: "should you mind it very much, nurse, if i were to keep the boy here? the doctor says he is dying, so that it would not be for long, and i would take all the trouble i could off your hands. i have not made up my mind about it yet, but of course i could not decide upon anything without first consulting you." the answer, though a little stiff, was more encouraging than might have been expected from the icy severity of mrs. evans' manner. (was she also making her protest on the side of common sense against a lurking desire to keep wikkey?) "if it's your wish, mr. lawrence, i'm not the one to turn out a homeless boy. it's not quite what i'm accustomed to, but he seems a quiet lad enough--poor child!" the words came out in a softer tone; "and as you say, sir, it can't be for long." much relieved, lawrence sped away; it was still early, and there would be time to get this matter settled before he went down to the office if he looked sharp; and so sharp did he look that in a little more than ten minutes he had cleared the mile which lay between his lodgings and that of his cousin reginald trevor, senior curate of s. bridget's east, and had burst in just as the latter was sitting down to his breakfast after morning service. and then lawrence told his story, his voice shaking a little as he spoke of wikkey's strange devotion to himself, and of the weary watch which had no doubt helped on the disease which was killing him, and he wound up with-"and now, reg, what is a fellow to do? i suppose i'm a fool, but i can't send the little chap away!" the curate's voice was a little husky too. "if that is folly, commend me to a fool," he said: and then, after some moments of silent thought--"i don't see why you should not keep the boy, lawrence; you have no one to think of except yourself, unless, indeed, mrs. evans--" "oh, she's all right!" broke in his cousin; "i believe she has taken a fancy to wikkey." "then i do not see why you should not take your own way in the matter, provided always that the boy's belongings do not stand in the way. you must consider that, lawrence; you may be bringing a swarm about you, and wikkey's relations may not prove as disinterested as himself." "but that is just the beauty of it; he hasn't any belongings, for i asked him; beyond paying a shilling for a bed to some hag he calls skimmidge, he seems to have no tie to any living creature." "that being so," said reginald, slowly; "and if you do not feel alarmed about your spoons, i don't see why you should not make the little soul happy, and"--he added with a smile--"get a blessing too, old fellow, though i doubt you will bring a sad time on yourself, lawrence." lawrence gave a sort of self-pitying little shrug, but did not look daunted, and his cousin went on-"meanwhile, i think the hag ought to be made aware of your intentions; she will be looking out for her rent." "bother! i forgot all about that," exclaimed lawrence, "and i haven't a minute to spare; i must race back to set the boy's mind at rest, and its close upon nine now. what's to be done?" "look here, i'll come back with you now, and if you can get me mrs. skimmidge's address i'll go and settle matters with her and glean any information i can about the boy: she may possibly be more communicative to me than to you. i know the sort, you see." as lawrence encountered wikkey's penetrating gaze, he felt glad that his mind was made up; and when the question came in a low, gasping voice, "i say, guvner, are you going to send me away?" he sat down on the end of the sofa and answered: "no, wikkey, you are going to stay with me." "always?" lawrence hesitated, not knowing quite what to say. "always is a long time off; we needn't think about that; you are going to stay with me now;" and then feeling some compensation necessary for the weakness of his conduct, he added very gravely, "that is, wikkey, if you promise to be a good boy and to mind what i and mrs. evans say to you, and always to speak the truth." "i'll be as good as ever i know how," said wikkey, meekly; "and i reckon i sha'n't have much call to tell lies. yes, i'll be good, guvner, if you let me stop;" and again the black eyes were raised to his in dog-like appeal, and fixed on his face with such intensity that lawrence felt almost embarrassed, and glad to escape after eliciting the "hag's" address, and promising to return in the evening. "i will look in this evening and tell you what i have done," reginald said, as they went out together; "and also to get a peep at wikkey, about whom i am not a little curious." "yes, do, reg; i shall want some help, you know, for i suppose i've got a young heathen to deal with, and if he's going to die and all that, one must teach him something, and i'm sure i can't do it." "he has got the first element of religion in him, at any rate. he has learned to look _up_." lawrence reddened, and gave a short laugh, saying-"i'm not so sure of that;" and the two men went on their respective ways. the "hag" began by taking up the offensive line, uttering dark threats as to "police" and "rascals as made off without paying what they owed." then she assumed the defensive, "lone widows as has to get their living and must look sharp after their honest earnings;" and finally became pathetic over the "motherless boy" on whom she had seemingly lavished an almost parental affection; but she could give no account of wikkey's antecedents beyond the fact that his mother had died there some years since, the only trace remaining of her being an old bible, which mrs. skimmidge made a great merit of not having sold when she had been forced to take what "bits of things" were left by the dead woman in payment of back rent, omitting to mention that no one had been anxious to purchase it. yes, she would part with it to his reverence for the sum of two shillings; and mr. trevor, after settling with mrs. skimmidge, pocketed the book, on the fly-leaf of which was the inscription- "sarah wilkins, from her sunday-school teacher. _cranbury, 18--._" wilkins! might that not account for wikkey's odd name? wilkins, wilky, wikkey; it did not seem unlikely. that evening, reginald, entering his cousin's sitting-room, found lawrence leaning back in his arm-chair on one side of the fire, and on the other his strange little guest lying propped up on the sofa, which had been drawn up within reach of the glow. "well," he said, "so this is wikkey; how are you getting on, wikkey?" the black eyes scanned his face narrowly for a moment, and then a high weak voice said in a tone of great disapprobation: "it wouldn't warm a chap much fur to look at _him_; _he_ ain't much to look at, anyhow;" and wikkey turned away his head and studied the cretonne pattern on his sofa, as if there were nothing more to be said on the subject. evidently, the fair, almost fragile face which possessed such attraction for lawrence in his strength had none for the weakly boy; possibly he had seen too many pale, delicate faces to care much about them. but lawrence, unreasonably nettled, broke out hotly-"wikkey, you mustn't talk like that!" while the curate laughed and said: "all right, wikkey, stick to mr. granby; but i hope you and i will be good friends yet;" then drawing another chair up to the fire he began to talk to his cousin. presently the high voice spoke again-"why mustn't i, guvner?" "why mustn't you what?" "talk like that of _him_?" pointing to reginald. "because it's not civil. mr. trevor is my friend, and i am very fond of him." "must i like everythink as you like?" "yes, of course," said lawrence, rather amused. "then i will, guvner--but it's a rum start." he lay still after that, while the two men talked, but reginald noted how the boy's eyes were scarcely ever moved from lawrence's face. as he took leave of his cousin in the hall, he said-"you will do more for him just now than i could, lawrence; you will have to take him in hand." "but i haven't the faintest notion what to do, reg. i shall have to come to you and get my lesson up. what am i to begin with?" "time will show; let it come naturally. of course i will give you any help i can, but you will tackle him far better than i could. you have plenty to work upon, for if ever a boy loved with his whole heart and soul, that boy loves you." "loves me--yes; but that won't do, you know." "it will do a great deal; a soul that loves something better than itself is not far off loving the best. good night, old fellow." lawrence went back to wikkey, and leant his back against the mantelpiece, looking thoughtfully down at the boy. "what did the other chap call you?" inquired wikkey. "granby, do you mean?" wikkey nodded. "lawrence granby,--that is my name. but, wikkey, you must not call him 'chap'; you must call him mr. trevor." "oh, my eye! he's a swell, is he? i never call you nothink only guvner; i shall call you lawrence; it's a big name like you, and a deal nicer nor guvner." lawrence gave a little laugh. was it his duty to inculcate a proper respect for his betters into this boy? if he were going to live it might be; but when he thought how soon all earthly distinctions would be over for wikkey, it seemed hardly worth while. "very well," he said. "by-the-by, wikkey, have you recollected your own other name?" "yes, i've minded it. it's whiston." "do you remember your father and mother?" "i don't remember no father. mother, she died after i took to the crossing." "do you know what her name was before she was married?" wikkey shook his head. "don't know nothink," he said. lawrence showed him the old bible, but it awoke no recollections in the boy's mind; he only repeated, "i don't know nothink." "wikkey," said lawrence again, after a silence, "what made you take a fancy to me?" "i dunno. i liked the looks of yer the very first time as ever you came over, and after that i thought a deal of yer. i thought that if you was king of england, i'd have 'listed and gone for a soldier. i don't think much of queens myself, but i'd have fought for you, and welcome. and i thought as i wouldn't have had you see me cheat jim of his coppers. i dunno why;" and a look of real perplexity came into wikkey's face as the problem presented itself to his mind. "did you often cheat jim?" "scores o' times," answered the boy composedly. "we'd play pitch-and-toss, and then i'd palm a ha' penny, and jim he'd never twig." a quick turn of the bony wrist showed how dexterously the trick had been done, and wikkey went off into a shrill cackle at the recollection of his triumphs. "he's the biggest flat as ever i came across. why, i've seen him look up and down the gutter for them browns till i thought i'd have killed myself with trying not to laugh out." the puckers in the thin face were so irresistibly comical that lawrence found it hard to preserve his own gravity: however, he contrived to compose his features, and to say, with a touch of severity-"i can tell why you wouldn't have liked me to see you; it was because you knew you were doing wrong." wikkey's face expressed no comprehension. "it was wicked to cheat jim, and you were a bad boy when you did it." "my stars! why, he could have got 'em from me in a juffy; he was twice my size. i only boned 'em cos he was such a soft." the explanation appeared perfectly satisfactory to wikkey, but lawrence, feeling that this was an opportunity that should not be lost, made a desperate effort and began again-"it was wicked all the same; and though i did not see you do it, there was someone who did--someone who sees everything you do. have you ever heard of god, wikkey?" "yes, i've heard on him. i've heard the name times about. ('_how_ used?' wondered lawrence.) where is he?" "he is everywhere, though you cannot see him, and he sees everything you do." "is he good?" "very good." "as good as you?" "a great deal better." poor lawrence felt very uncomfortable, not quite knowing how to place his instructions on a less familiar footing. "i don't want no one better nor you; you're good enough for me," said wikkey, very decidedly; and then lawrence gave it up in despair, and mentally resolving that reg must help him, he carried wikkey off to bed. chapter ii. the following evening lawrence found a letter from his cousin on his table. "from what you tell me," reginald wrote, "i should say that wikkey must be taught through his affections: that he is capable of a strong and generous affection he has fully proved, so that i advise you not to attempt for the present much doctrinal instruction. ('doctrinal instruction!' mentally ejaculated lawrence; 'what does he mean? as if i could do that;' then he read on.) what i mean is this: the boy's intellect has probably, from the circumstances of his life, been too strongly developed to have left much room for the simple faith which one has to work on in ordinary childhood; and having been used chiefly as a weapon, offensive and defensive, in the battle with life, it is not likely to prove a very helpful instrument just now, as it would probably make him quicker to discern difficulties than to accept truths upon trust. i should, therefore, be inclined to place religion before him in a way that would appeal more to his affections than to his reason, and try to interest him in our lord from, so to speak, a _human_ point of view, without going into the mysteries connected with the incarnation, and if possible without, at first, telling the end of the gospel narrative. speak of a person--one whom you love--who might have lived for ever in perfect happiness, but who, from love to us, preferred to come and live on earth in poverty and suffering (the poor lad will appreciate the meaning of those words only too well)--who was all-powerful, though living as a man, and full of tenderness. then tell of the miracles and works of love, of his continued existence--though for the present invisible to us--of his love and watchfulness; and when wikkey's interest is aroused, as i believe it will be, i should read from the bible itself the story of the sufferings and death. can you gather any meaning from this rough outline? it seems to me that it is intended that wikkey should be led _upwards_ from the human to the divine. for others a different plan of teaching might be better, but i think this is the right key to his development; and, moreover, i firmly believe that you will be shown how to use it." lawrence remained for some time after reading his letter with his elbows on the table, and his head resting on his hands, which were buried in his thick brown hair; a look of great perplexity was on his face. "of course, i must try," he thought; "one couldn't have it on one's conscience; but it's a serious business to have started." looking up, he met wikkey's rather anxious glance. "is anythink amiss, lawrence?" "no, wikkey--i was only thinking;" then, plunging on desperately, he continued: "i was thinking how i could best make you understand what i said last night about someone who sees everything you do--someone who is very good." "cut on, i'm minding. is it someone as you love?" lawrence reddened. what _was_ his feeling towards the christ? reverence certainly, and some loyalty, but could he call it _love_, in the presence of the passionate devotion to himself which showed in every look of those wistful eyes? "yes, i love him," he said slowly, "but not as much as i should." then as a sudden thought struck him. "look here, wikkey, you said you would like to have me for a king; well, he that i am telling you of is my king, and he must be yours, too, and we will both try to love and obey him." "where is he?" asked wikkey. "you can't see him now, because he lives up in heaven. he is the son of god, and he might always have stayed in heaven, quite happy, only, instead of that, he came down upon earth, and became a man like one of us, so that he might know what it is. and though he was really a king, he chose to live like a poor man, and was often cold and hungry as you used to be; and he went about helping people, and curing those who were ill, because, you know, wikkey, he was god, and could do anything. there are beautiful stories about him that i can tell you." "how do you know all about the king, lawrence?" "it is written in a book called the bible. have you ever seen a bible?" "that was the big book as blind tim used to sit and feel over with his fingers by the area rails. i asked him what it was, and he said as it was the bible. but bless you; he weren't blind no more nor you are: he lodged at skimmidge's for a bit, and i saw him a reading of the paper in his room; he kicked me when he saw as i'd twigged him;" and wikkey's laugh broke out at the recollection. poor child, his whole knowledge of sacred things seemed to be derived from- "holiest things profaned and cursed." "tim was a bad man to pretend to be blind when he wasn't," said lawrence, severely. "but now, wikkey, shall i read you a story about the king?" "did he live in london?" wikkey asked, as lawrence took up the old book with the feeling that the boy should hear these things for the first time out of his mother's bible. "no, he lived in a country a long way off; but that makes no difference, because he is god, and can see us everywhere, and he wants us to be good." then lawrence opened the bible, and after some thought, half read, half told, about the feeding of the hungry multitude. each succeeding evening, a fresh story about the king was related, eagerly listened to, and commented on by wikkey with such familiar realism as often startled lawrence, and made him wonder whether he were allowing irreverence; but which at the same time, threw a wondrously vivid light on the histories which, known since childhood, had lost so much of their interest for himself: and certainly, as far awakening first the boy's curiosity, and then his love, went, the method of instruction answered perfectly. for wikkey did not die at the end of the week, or of many succeeding weeks: warmth and food, and mrs. evans' nursing powers combined, caused one of those curious rallies not uncommon in cases of consumption, though no one who saw the boy's thin, flushed cheeks, and brilliant eyes, could think the reprieve would be a long one. still for the present there was improvement, and lawrence could not help feeling glad that he might keep for a little while longer the child whose love had strangely brightened his lonely lodgings. and while wikkey's development was being carried on in the highest direction, his education in minor matters was progressing under mrs. evans' tuition--tuition of much the same kind as she had bestowed years before on master lawrence and her sweet master robin. by degrees wikkey became thoroughly initiated in the mysteries of the toilette, and other amenities of civilized life, and being a sharp child, with a natural turn for imitation, he was, at the end of a week or two, not entirely unlike those young gentlemen in his ways, especially when his conversation became shorn of the expletives which had at first adorned it, but which, under mrs. evans' sharp rebukes, and lawrence's graver admonitions that they were displeasing to the king, fast disappeared. wikkey's remorse on being betrayed into the utterance of some comparatively harmless expression, quite as deep as when one slipped that gave even lawrence a shock, showed how little their meaning had to do with their use. one evening lawrence, returning home to find wikkey established as usual on the sofa near the fire, was greeted by the eager question-"lawrence, what was the king like? i've been a thinking of it all day, and i _should_ like to know. do you think he was a bit like you?" "not at all," lawrence answered. "we don't know exactly what he was like; but--let me see," he went on, considering, "i think i have a picture somewhere--i had one;" and he crossed the room to a corner where, between the book-case and the wall, were put away a number of old pictures, brought from the "boys' room" at home, and never yet re-hung; among them was a little oxford frame containing a photograph of the thorn-crowned head by guido. how well he remembered its being given to him on his birthday by his mother! this he showed to wikkey, explaining that though no one knows certainly what the king is like, it is thought that he may have resembled that picture. the boy looked at it for some time in silence, and then said-"i've seen pictures like that in shops, but i never knew as it was the king. he looks very sorrowful--a deal sorrowfuller nor you--and what is that he has on his head?" "that has to do with a very sad story, which i have not told you yet. you know, wikkey, though he was so good and kind, the men of that country hated him, and would not have him for their king, and at last they took him prisoner, and treated him very badly, and they put that crown of sharp, pricking thorns on his head, because he said he was a king." "was it to make game of him?" asked wikkey, in a tone of mingled awe and distress. lawrence nodded gravely, and feeling that this was perhaps as good a moment as any for completing the history, he took the book, and in low, reverent tones, began the sad story of the betrayal, captivity, and death. wikkey listened in absorbed attention, every now and then commenting on the narrative in a way which showed its intense reality to himself, and gave a marvellous vividness to the details of which lawrence had before scarcely realized the terrible force. as he read on, his voice became husky, and the child's eyes were fixed on him with devouring eagerness, till the awful end came, and wikkey broke into an agony of weeping. lawrence hastily put down the book, and taking the little worn frame into his arms tried to soothe the shaking sobs, feeling the while as though he had been guilty of cruelty to the tender, sensitive heart. "i thought some one would have saved him," wikkey gasped. "i didn't know as he was killed; you never told me he was killed." "wikkey, little lad--hush--look here! it was all right at the end. listen while i read the end; it is beautiful." and as the sobs subsided he began to read again, still holding the boy close, and inwardly wondering whether something like this might have been the despair of the disciples on that friday evening--read of the sadness of that waiting time, of the angel's visit to the silent tomb, of the loving women at the sepulchre, and the joyful message, "he is not here, he is risen;" and lastly, of the parting blessing, the separating cloud and the tidings of the coming again. a look of great relief was on wikkey's face as lawrence ceased reading, and he lay for some time with closed eyes, resting after his outburst. at last he opened them with sudden wonder. "lawrence, why did he let them do it? if he could do anything, why didn't he save himself from the enemies?" the old wonder--the old question--which must be answered; and lawrence, after thinking a moment, said-"it had to be, wikkey. he had to die--to die for us. it was like this:--people were very wicked, always doing bad things, and nobody that was bad could go to heaven, but they must be punished instead. but god was very sorry that none of the people he had made could come and be happy with him, so his son, jesus christ, our king, became a man, and came down on earth that he might be punished instead of us, so that we might be forgiven and allowed to come into heaven. he bore all that for each of us, so that now, if we believe in him and try to please him, we shall go to be with him in heaven when we die." lawrence was very far from guessing that his teaching had become "doctrinal." he had spoken out of the fulness of his own conviction, quickened into fresh life by the intensity of wikkey's realization of the facts he had heard. "it _was_ good of him--it _was_ good," the child repeated again and again, with a world of love shining in his eyes, till, worn out with his emotion, he fell asleep, and was gently laid by lawrence in his bed. but in the middle of the night sounds of stifled weeping aroused lawrence. "what is it, wikkey boy?" he asked, groping his way to him. "are you worse?" "i didn't mean for to wake you; but i wish--i _wish_ i hadn't boned them coppers off jim; it makes me feel so bad when i think as the king saw me;" and wikkey buried his face in the kind arm which encircled him, in uncontrollable grief. it needed all lawrence's assurances that the king saw his repentance, and had certainly forgiven--yes, and the prayer for pardon which the young man, blushing red-hot in the darkness at the unwonted effort, uttered in husky tones, with the child's thin hands clasped in his own--before wikkey was sufficiently quieted to sleep again. before going down to the office lawrence wrote to his cousin: "i can do no more; he has got beyond me. he loves _him_ more than ever i have done. come and help us both." so reginald came on such evenings as he could spare, and wikkey, no longer averse, listened as he told him of the fatherhood of god, of the love of the son, and of the ever-present comforter; of creation, redemption, and sanctification, and all the deep truths of the faith, receiving them with the belief that is born rather of love than of reason; for though the acuteness of the boy's questions and remarks often obliged reginald to bring his own strong intellect to bear on them, they arose from no spirit of antagonism, but were the natural outcome of a thoughtful, inquiring mind. sometimes, however, wikkey was too tired for talking, and could only lie still and listen while lawrence and the curate conversed, the expression of his eyes, as they passed from one to another, showing that he understood far more than might have been expected. one evening, in the middle of march, after he had been carried up-stairs, the cousins sat talking over their charge. "i have been considering about his baptism," reginald said. "his baptism! do you think he hasn't been christened?" "no, i don't think so," returned the other, thoughtfully. "i cannot bring myself to believe that we have been working on unconsecrated soil; but still we do not know. of course i could baptize him hypothetically, but i should like to know the truth." "baptize him _how_?" lawrence asked, with a frown of perplexity. "hypothetically. don't be alarmed, it isn't a new fad of mine: it means baptizing on the _supposition_ that there has been no previous baptism; for, you know, our church does not allow it to be done twice. i wonder if anything could be learnt by going down to the place named in the book?" "cranbury! i looked in bradshaw for it, and it seems to be a small place about an hour and a half from euston station; i might find a day to run down, though i don't quite see when; and how if i were to find a heap of relations wanting the boy? i could not spare him now, you know." "scarcely likely. wikkey has evidently never seen a relation for, say, ten years, or he would recollect it, and it is hardly probable that any one will be anxious to take a boy in his state whom they have not seen for ten years. besides, he couldn't well be moved now." "no, he couldn't; and i sincerely hope that no affectionate relatives will want to come and see him here; that would be a most awful nuisance. what do you think of a tearful grandmother haunting the place?" "the idea is oppressive, certainly, but i do not think you need fear it much, and you have established a pretty fair right to do as you like about the boy. look here, lawrence; supposing i were to run down on this place; i believe i could spare a day better than you, and a breath of fresh air would do me no harm." "i shouldn't think it would," said lawrence, looking at his cousin's pale face--all the paler for the stress of his winter's work. "do, reg; and for pity's sake, bring a root of some flower if you can find one; it is sickening to think of a child dying without ever having had such a thing in his hands." "all right, then, i will go to-morrow; for--for," reginald added gravely, "there is no time to be lost." "i know there is not; i know it must come soon. reg, i couldn't have believed i should have grown to care for the boy as i do." "no, you have prepared a wrench for yourself, old fellow, but you will never be the worse for it, lawrence. you know all about that better than i can preach it to you." there was a silence, and then lawrence said-"ought he to be told?" "well, that puzzles me; i feel as if he ought, and yet there can be no need to frighten the child. if it came naturally, it might be better for you to tell him gently." "i?" exclaimed lawrence, aghast. "yes, it must be you; he will take it better from you than from anyone else; but wait and see; you will be shown what to do." the result of the curate's mission to cranbury was very satisfactory. on being directed to the solitary remaining inhabitant of the name of wilkins, reginald learnt that sarah wilkins had been the only daughter of his brother, that she had married a ne'er-do-weel of the name of whiston, who had deserted her shortly before the birth of her child, that she had followed her husband to london as soon as she was able to travel, and after a while had been lost sight of by her family. the old man seemed but slightly interested in the matter, and reginald saw that no interference need be feared from him. on further consulting the parish register, he found recorded the marriage of thomas whiston and sarah wilkins, and a year later, the baptism of wilkins, son of thomas and sarah whiston, in 1856. "so it is as i hoped, the child is one of the flock," the curate said to himself. "and that mite of a boy is thirteen years old!" and he returned to london triumphant, bringing with him besides the information he went to seek, a root of primroses with yellow-tipped spikes ready to burst, and an early thrush's nest containing five delicate blue eggs. this last treasure reginald displayed with intense pride. "i found a boy carrying it on the road, and rated the young rascal soundly for taking it, but i'm afraid the shilling i gave him made more impression than the lecture. isn't it a beauty? i wonder when i last saw a nest?" he went on, touching the eggs with loving fingers. "hardly since our old bird's-nesting days, eh, lawrence! do you remember the missel-thrush in the apple-tree?" "ay, and the licking you got for splitting your sunday jacket up the back;" and the two "working-men" laughed at the recollection, as they carried the prize to display to wikkey, with a comical anxiety, almost amounting to dread, lest it should not produce the effect they intended. no fear of that! wikkey's eyes dilated as he gazed into the nest, and, after some persuasion, took one of the smooth eggs into his hand; and from that moment he could not endure it out of his sight, but had it placed morning and evening beside his sofa or bed, near his other treasure, the picture of the king, on the other side of which stood the primrose, planted in one of mrs. evans' tea-cups. as the spring advanced, wikkey became visibly worse, and all saw that the end could not be far off. reginald, coming in one evening, found him asleep in lawrence's arms, and was startled to see how great a change had taken place in him during the last four and twenty hours. in answer to his inquiring look, his cousin said, speaking very low-"since this morning, he is much worse; but better now than he was." sitting down, on the opposite side of the fire, reginald thoughtfully contemplated the two. what a contrast! lawrence, all health and strength, with the warm light glancing on the thick waves of his hair, and deepening the ruddy brown of his complexion, while the glow scarcely served to tint the pale face lying on his breast--deadly white, save for the two red spots on the sunken checks--or the hair hanging in loose lank threads. for some time no one spoke, but as the boy's sleep continued sound and unbroken, the cousins fell into talk, low and subdued, and many things were touched on in that quiet hour, which neither could have put into words at another time. at length reginald rose to go, and at the same moment, wikkey opened his eyes and smiled, as he saw his visitor, and tried to lift himself up. "i'm awake now," he said; "i didn't know as you were here." "never mind, wikkey, lie still," said reginald, "you are too tired for any reading to-night. i will tell you one verse--a beautiful one--for you and lawrence to talk about some day," and laying his hand on the boy's head he repeated, in low, gentle tones--"thine eye shall see the king in his beauty." after he was gone, wikkey lay very still, with his eyes fixed intently on the fire. lawrence dreaded what his next question might be, and at last it came. "what does it mean--see the king?" "it means that we shall all see him some day, wikkey, when--when--we die. it will be beautiful to see the king, won't it?" "yes," said the child, dreamily. "i'd like to see him. i know as i'm going to die; but will it be soon? oh, lawrence! must it be directly?" and as he clung convulsively to him, the young man felt the little heart beating wildly. "wikkey--little lad--dear little lad--don't be frightened," he said, stroking the boy's head; "don't be frightened;" but still the eyes questioned him with agonized eagerness, and he knew he must answer, but his voice was very husky, and he felt the task a hard one. "i'll tell you, wikkey. i think the king loves you so much that he wants you to come to him, and not to be ill any more, nor have any more bad pain or coughing. that would be nice, wouldn't it?--never to feel ill any more, and to see the king." "yes," wikkey said, with a long sigh, "it would be ever so nice; but, oh! i _don't_ want for to leave you, lawrence--won't you come, too?" "some day, please god; but that must be as the king likes--perhaps he will not want me to come yet. i must try to do anything he wants me to do here first." "should you like to come now, lawrence?" the question was rather a relief, for a sense of being unreal had come over lawrence while he spoke, and he answered quickly-"no, i had rather not go yet, wikkey: but you see i am well and strong. i think if i were ill like you i should like it; and you need not feel frightened, for the king will not leave you. he will be taking care of you all the time, and you will go to him." "are you quite certain?" no room for doubt here--and the answer came unhesitatingly--"quite certain, wikkey." "and you are _sure_ that you'll come too?" "i wish i were half as certain," the young man thought, with a sigh, then said aloud--"if i try to obey the king i hope i shall." "but you will try--you will, lawrence!" cried wikkey, passionately. very quietly and low lawrence answered--"by god's help--yes!" and he bent and kissed the child's forehead, as if to seal the vow. wikkey seemed satisfied, and in a few minutes was dozing again. he slept for an hour after being put to bed, but then grew restless, and the night passed wearily between intervals of heavy oppression--half-unconscious wakefulness and rambling, incoherent talk, sometimes of his street-life, of his broom, for which he felt about with weak, aimless hands, of cold and hunger; and then he would break out into murmuring complaints of mrs. skimmidge, when forbidden words would slip out, and even then the child's look of distress went to lawrence's heart. but oftenest the wandering talk was of the incidents of the last few weeks, and over and over came the words--"see the king in his beauty." in the morning wikkey was quieter and perfectly sensible: but the pinched look on his face, and the heavy labored breathing, told plainly that he was sinking. hard as it had been for lawrence to leave his "little lad," up to this time he had been scrupulous in never allowing wikkey to interfere with his office duties; but now it seemed impossible to leave the child, who clung feebly to him with a frightened whisper-"oh, don't go, lawrence! p'raps the king will want me, and maybe i shouldn't be so frightened if i kept looking at you." no, he could not go; so writing a hurried line--"cannot come to-day--the boy i told you of is dying--the work shall be ready in time," he dispatched it to the head clerk of his department. "granby's craze" had at first excited a good deal of astonishment when it became known at the office; but lawrence had quietly discouraged any attempts at "chaff" on the subject, and as time went on he used to be greeted by really warm inquiries after "the little chap." the hours passed slowly by. reginald came and went as he could spare time; sometimes he prayed in such short and simple language as wikkey could join in--and the expression of his face showed that he did so--sometimes he knelt in silence, praying earnestly for the departing soul, and for lawrence in his mournful watch. as the day began to wane, reginald entering, saw that the end was near, and knelt to say the last prayers; as he finished the pale march sun, struggling through the clouds, sent a shaft of soft light into the room and touched wikkey's closed eyes. they opened with a smile, and raising himself in lawrence's arms, he leant forward with a look so eager and expectant, that with a thrill of awe, almost amounting to terror, the young man whispered-"what is it, wikkey? do you see anything?" "not yet--soon--it's coming," the boy murmured, without altering his fixed gaze; and then for an instant a wondrous light seemed to break over the wan face--only for an instant--for suddenly as it had dawned, it faded out, and with it fled the little spirit, leaving only the frail worn-out form to fall back gently on lawrence's breast. was he gone? almost incredulously lawrence looked down, and then, with pale, set features, he rose, and laying wikkey on the bed, sank on his knees beside it, and buried his face in the pillow, with the sound of a great sob. reginald approached the bed, and laying his hand for a moment on the bowed head, spoke low and solemnly-"the blessing of a soul that was ready to perish come upon you, lawrence." then he quitted the room, and closing the door softly, left lawrence alone with his "little lad." * * * * * so wikkey passed away, and lawrence went back to his work, ever retaining deep down in his heart the memory of the child whose life had become so strangely interwoven with his own, and more precious still, the lesson bequeathed to him by his "little lad," of how a soul that looks persistently upwards finds its full satisfaction at last in the vision of "the king in his beauty." +-----------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | page 8: changed unusal to unusual | | | | page 11: changed "skimmedges" to "skimmidges" | | changed "skimmedge to skimmidge | | | | page 13: changed wikky to wikkey | | | | page 34: changed guvnor to guvner | | | | page 46: changed wikkie to wikkey | | | | page 65: changed evans's to evans' | | | | page 70: changed to to too | | | +-----------------------------------------------+ transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including non-standard spelling and punctuation. some changes have been made. they are listed at the end of the text. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. the minor drama. no. cccci. a christmas carol; or, the miser's warning! (adapted from charles dickens' celebrated work.) by c. z. barnett, _author of fair rosamond, farinelli, the dream of fate, oliver twist, linda, the pearl of savoy, victorine of paris, dominique, bohemians of paris, &c._ +-------+ samuel french (canada) limited | price | 480-486 university avenue | | toronto canada | | +-------+ new york | london samuel french | samuel french, ltd. publisher | 26 southampton street 25 west 45th street | strand _the middle watch_ a farcical comedy in 3 acts. by ian hay and stephen king-hall. produced originally at the times square theatre, new york. 9 males, 6 females. modern costumes and naval uniforms. 2 interior scenes. during a reception on board h. m. s. "falcon," a cruiser on the china station, captain randall of the marines has become engaged to fay eaton, and in his enthusiasm induces her to stay and have dinner in his cabin. this is met with stern disapproval by fay's chaperon, charlotte hopkinson, who insists that they leave at once. charlotte, however, gets shut up in the compass room, and a gay young american widow accepts the offer to take her place, both girls intending to go back to shore in the late evening. of course, things go wrong, and they have to remain aboard all night. by this time the captain has to be told, because his cabin contains the only possible accommodations, and he enters into the conspiracy without signalling the admiral's flagship. then the "falcon" is suddenly ordered to sea, and the admiral decides to sail with her. this also makes necessary the turning over to him of the captain's quarters. the presence of the ladies now becomes positively embarrassing. the girls are bundled into one cabin just opposite that occupied by the admiral. the game of "general-post" with a marine sentry in stockinged feet is very funny, and so are the attempts to explain matters to the "old man" next morning. after this everything ends both romantically and happily. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price 75 cents. _nancy's private affair_ a comedy in 3 acts. by myron c. fagan. produced originally at the vanderbilt theatre, new york. 4 males, 5 females., 2 interior scenes. modern costumes. nothing is really private any more--not even pajamas and bedtime stories. no one will object to nancy's private affair being made public, and it would be impossible to interest the theatre public in a more ingenious plot. nancy is one of those smart, sophisticated society women who wants to win back her husband from a baby vamp. just how this is accomplished makes for an exceptionally pleasant evening. laying aside her horn-rimmed spectacles, she pretends indifference and affects a mysterious interest in other men. nancy baits her rival with a bogus diamond ring, makes love to her former husband's best friend, and finally tricks the dastardly rival into a marriage with someone else. mr. fagan has studded his story with jokes and retorts that will keep any audience in a constant uproar. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price 75 cents. a christmas carol; or, the miser's warning! (adapted from charles dickens's celebrated work.) by c. z. barnett, _author of fair rosamond, farinelli, the dream of fate, oliver twist, linda, the pearl of savoy, victorine of paris, dominique, bohemians of paris, &c._ new york | london samuel french | samuel french, ltd. publisher | 26 southampton street 25 west 45th street | strand dramatis personæ. ebenezer scrooge, the miser mr. r. honner frank freeheart, his nephew mr. j. t. johnson mr. cheerly mr. hawkins mr. heartly mr. green bob cratchit, scrooge's clerk mr. vale dark sam mr. stilt characters in the dream. euston, a ruined gentleman mr. lawler mr. fezziwig mr. dixie old joe, a fence mr. goldsmith ghost of jacob marley mr. morrison ghost of christmas past mr. lewis ghost of christmas present mr. heslop ghost of christmas to come * * * dark sam mr. stilt peter, bob's eldest son miss daly tiny tim master brady mrs. freeheart mrs. hicks ellen, scrooge's former love mrs. h. hughes mrs. cratchit mrs. daly first produced at the royal surrey theatre, feb. 5th, 1844. costume. scrooge--brown old-fashioned coat, tea colour breeches, double-breasted white waistcoat. 2nd.--dressing gown and slippers. frank--private dress. mr. cheerly--blue coat, cord breeches, and gaiters. mr. heartly--green coat, black breeches, top boots. bob cratchit--black old-fashioned coat, black trousers. dark sam--dark green shooting coat and breeches, ragged. second dress--shabby black coat. euston--shabby private clothes. mr. fezziwig--black coat, black breeches, double-breasted waistcoat, and striped stockings. marley's ghost--slate coloured coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons, black boots, white frill, white band. christmas past--white dress trimmed with summer flowers, rich belt, fleshings and sandals. christmas present--long green robe, trimmed with ermine, flesh body and legs, wreath round head. christmas to come--very long black gown. tiny tim--blue jacket and trousers. all the ladies--modern dresses. a christmas carol. act i. scene i.--_chambers of scrooge, the miser. one side of it is filled up with a desk and high stool, the other is a fireplace, fire lighted. easy chair table, with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _scrooge, the miser, discovered near fire. bob cratchit, writing near desk, l. h. as the curtain rises he descends from stool--approaches fire to stir it._ scrooge. bob--bob, we shall be obliged to part. you'll ruin me in coals! bob. ruin you--with such a fire in such weather! i've been trying to warm myself by the candle for the last half hour, but not being a man of strong imagination, failed. scr. hark! i think i hear some one in the office. go--see who it is. bob. (_aside._) marley's dead--his late partner is dead as a door nail! if he was to follow him, it wouldn't matter much. (_exit 2 e. l. h._ scr. marley has been dead seven years, and has left me his sole executor--his sole administrator--his sole residuary legatee--his sole friend--his sole mourner! my poor old partner! i was sorely grieved at his death, and shall never forget his funeral. coming from it, i made one of the best bargains i ever made. ha, ha. folks say i'm tight-fisted--that i'm a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching miser. what of that? it saves me from being annoyed by needy men and beggars. so, this is christmas eve--and cold, bleak, biting weather it is, and folks are preparing to be merry. bah! what's christmas eve to me? what should it be to them? _enter frank and bob, 2 e. l. h._ bob. there's your uncle, sir. (_aside._) old covetous! he's worse than the rain and snow. they often come down, and handsomely too, but scrooge never does! (_exit 2 e. l. h._ scr. who's that? frank. a merry christmas, uncle! scr. bah! humbug! frank. uncle, you don't mean that, i'm sure. scr. i do. merry christmas! what right have you to be merry? you're poor enough. frank. (_gaily._) come, then, what right have you to be dismal! what reason have you to be morose? you're rich enough. scr. bah! humbug! frank. don't be cross, uncle. scr. what else can i be, when i live in such a world of fools as this? merry christmas! out upon merry christmas. what's christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money--a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer. if i could work my will, every idiot who goes about with merry christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart--he should! frank. uncle! scr. nephew, keep christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. frank. keep it! but you don't keep it. scr. let me leave it alone, then. much good may it do you. much good it has ever done you. frank. there are many things from which i might have derived good by which i have not profited, i dare say, christmas among the rest, but i am sure i have always thought of christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time--a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time i know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys, and, therefore, uncle, though it has not put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, i believe that it has done me good, and will do me good, and i say, heaven bless it! bob. (_looking in._) beautiful--beautiful! scr. let me hear another sound from you--(_to bob._)--and you'll keep your christmas by losing your situation. bob. (_aside._) he growls like a bear with a sore head! (_disappears._) scr. you're quite a powerful speaker. i wonder you don't go into parliament. frank. don't be angry. come--dine with me to-morrow. scr. no, no---frank. but why not? scr. why did you get married? frank. because i fell in love. scr. because you fell in love! bah! good evening. frank. i want nothing--i ask nothing of you. well, i'm sorry to find you so resolute--we have never had any quarrel--i have made the trial in homage to christmas, and i'll keep my christmas humour to the last--so, a merry christmas, uncle. scr. good evening! frank. and a happy new year! scr. good evening! _enter bob, 2 e. l. h._ frank. and a happy christmas, and a merry new year to you, bob cratchit. (_shaking him by the hand._) bob. the same to you, sir, and many of 'em, and to your wife, and to your darling children, and to all your friends, and to all you know, and to every one, to all the world. (_exit frank, 2 e. l. h._) scr. (_aside._) there's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry christmas. i'll retire to bedlam. bob. two gentlemen want you, sir, as fat as prize beef--shall i call 'em in? (_goes to side._) walk this way if you please, gentlemen. _enter mr. cheerly and mr. heartly, 2 e. l. h., with books and papers._ cheer. scrooge and marley's--i believe i have the pleasure of addressing mr. marley! scr. mr. marley has been dead these seven years. cheer. at this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute--many thousands are in want of common necessaries--hundreds of thousands are in want of common comfort, sir. scr. are there no prisons? and the union workhouses, are they still in operation? cheer. they are still--i wish i could say they were not. scr. the treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour then? cheer. both very busy, sir. scr. oh! i was afraid from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. i'm very glad to hear it! cheer. under the impression that they scarcely furnish christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. we choose this time because it is a time of all others, when want is keenly felt and abundances rejoice. what shall we put you down for? scr. nothing! cheer. you wish to be anonymous? scr. i wish to be left alone. i don't make merry myself at christmas, and i can't afford to make idle people merry--i help to support the establishments i have named--they cost enough--those who are badly off must go there. cheer. many can't go there--many would rather die! scr. if they'd rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population. however, it's not my business, so good evening, gentlemen. cheer. i am sorry we disturbed you. (_as they are about to exeunt, bob approaches them--scrooge retires up._) bob. beg pardon, gentlemen, i've got an odd eighteen-pence here that i was going to buy a new pair of gloves with in honour of christmas day, but my heart would feel warmer though my hands were colder, if it helped to put a dinner and a garment on a poor creature who might need. there take it. cheer. such acts as these from such men as you sooner or later, will be well rewarded. bob. this way, gentlemen. i feel as light as my four-and-ninepenny gossamer! (_exeunt 2 e. l. h._) scr. (_coming down._) give money--humbug! who'd give me anything, i should like to know? _re-enter bob, 2 e. l. h._ bob. a letter, sir. (_gives it and retires up._) scr. (_opens it--reads._) ah! what do i see? the mary jane lost off the coast of africa. then frank is utterly ruined! his all was embarked on board that vessel. frank knows not of this--he will apply to me doubtless--but no, no. why should i part with my hard gained store to assist him, his wife and children--he chooses to make a fool of himself, and marry a smooth-faced chit, and get a family--he must bear the consequences--i will not avert his ruin, no, not by a single penny. bob. (_coming down._) please, sir, it's nine o'clock. scr. already! you'll want all day to-morrow, i suppose. bob. if quite convenient, sir. scr. it's not convenient, and it's not fair. if i was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, i'll be bound, and yet you don't think me ill used when i pay a day's wages for no work. bob. christmas comes but once a year. scr. a poor excuse for picking a man's pockets every twenty-fifth of december! well, i suppose you must have the whole day. be here all the earlier next morning. here's your week's money, fifteen shillings--i ought to stop half-a-crown--never mind! bob. thank you, sir! i'll be here before daylight, sir, you may depend upon it. good night, sir. oh, what a glorious dinner mrs. c. shall provide. good night, sir. a merry christmas and a happy new year, sir. scr. bah! humbug! (_exit bob, 2 e. l. h._) so--alone once more. it's a rough night! i will go to bed soon--that will save supper. (_takes off his coat, boots, etc., and puts on morning gown and slippers, talking all the time._) 'tis strange now the idea of marley is haunting me to-night--everywhere i turn his face seems before me. delusion--humbug! i'll sit down by the fire and forget him. (_takes basin of gruel from hob._) here's my gruel! (_sits in easy chair by fire--puts on night cap, and presently appears to dose. suddenly a clanking of chains and ringing of bells is heard--he's aroused, and looks up terrified._) that noise! it's humbug! i won't believe it! (_the door slowly opens, and the ghost of marley glides in. a chain is round his body, and cash boxes, ledgers, padlocks, purses, etc., are attached to it._) how now! what do you want with me? ghost. much. scr. who are you? ghost. ask me who i was. scr. who were you, then. you're particular for a shade--i mean to a shade. ghost. in life i was your partner, jacob marley. you don't believe in me! why do you doubt your senses? scr. because a little thing affects them. a slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. you may be an undigested bit of beef--a fragment of an underdone potato. there's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. ghost. (_unfastening the bandage round its head._) man of the worldly mind, do you believe me or not? scr. i do--i must! but why do spirits walk the earth? why do they come to me? ghost. it is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and wide--if not in life, it is condemned to do so after death. it is doomed to wander through the world, oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness. scr. you are fettered! ghost. i wear the chain i forged in life--i made it link by link. is its pattern strange to you? oh, no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused. scr. but you were always a man of business---ghost. business! mankind was my business--charity, mercy, were all my business. at this time of the year i suffered most, for i neglected most. hear me! i am here to-night to warn you that you have a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. you will be haunted by three spirits---scr. i--i'd rather be excused! ghost. without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path i tread. expect the first when the clock strikes one. look to see me no more. for your own sake, remember what has passed between us. (_binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly approaches the door and disappears. scrooge follows the phantom towards the door._) scr. it is gone. the air seems filled with phantoms--shades of many i knew when living--they all wear chains like marley--they strive to assist the poor and stricken, but in vain--they seek to interfere for good in human nature, but have lost the power forever. (_the clock strikes one--scrooge staggers to a chair--the room is filled with a blaze of light--the ghost of christmas past rises through trap--as described in work, page 43._) are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me? 1st spirit. i am! scr. who and what are you? 1st spirit. i am the ghost of christmas past. your welfare--your reclamation brings me here. turn, and behold! (_the stage, becomes dark--a strong light is seen behind--the wall of the miser's chamber fades away and discovers a school-room--a child is seated reading by a fire._) all have departed but this poor boy. scr. my poor forgotten self--and as i used to be! 1st spirit. look again! (_a figure of ali baba is shown beyond the child._) scr. why it's dear old honest ali baba! yes, one christmas time, when yonder poor child was left alone, he _did_ come just like that! (_the figures of valentine and orson appear._) ha! and valentine and his wild brother orson, too! (_robinson crusoe and friday appear._) ha! and robinson crusoe, and his man friday! poor boy! he was left alone, while all the rest were making holiday. (_the figures of ali baba, etc., disappear. as he speaks, a little girl enters the school-room, and approaches the boy._) girl. i am come to bring you home, dear brother--we are to be together this christmas, and be so merry! (_she leads him out. scene fades away._) scr. my sister! poor little fanny! 1st spirit. a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. she died a woman, and had, as i think, children. scr. one child! 1st spirit. true--your nephew. know you this place? (_the scene at back is again lighted up, and discovers fezziwig's warehouse. fezziwig and characters grouped as in frontispiece of work. scrooge, as a young man._) scr. why, 'tis old fezziwig, to whom i was apprenticed--he is alive again! my fellow-apprentice, dick wilkins, too--myself, as i was _then_. 'tis christmas eve there. the happiness he gave at so small a price was quite as much as though it cost a fortune. (_the tableau fades away. the stage becomes dark. enter ellen in mourning. during the fading of the tableau scrooge puts a cloak around him, etc., and seems a younger man._) i feel as if my years of life were less. ha! who is this beside me? 1st spirit. have you forgotten your early love? scr. ellen! ellen. ebenezer, i come to say farewell forever! it matters little to you--very little--another idol has displaced me, and if i can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as i would have tried to do, i have no just cause to grieve. scr. what idol has displaced you? ellen. a golden one--the master passion. gain alone engrosses you. scr. i have not changed towards you. ellen. our contract is an old one--it was made when we were both poor. you are changed--i am not. that which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now we are two. how often and how keenly i have thought of this i will not say. i _have_ thought of it, and can release you. scr. have i ever sought release? ellen. in word--no, never! scr. in what, then? ellen. in a changed nature--in an altered spirit--in every thing that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. if this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out, and try to win me now? ah, no! scr. you think not---ellen. i would think otherwise if i could--but if you were free to-day, can even i believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who weigh everything by gain? or did you so, do i not know your repentance and regret would surely follow. i do--and i release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. you will forget all this--may you be happy in the life you have chosen! (_she slowly exits r. h. scrooge throws aside his cloak, and appears as before._) scr. spirit, show me no more! why do you delight to torture me? 1st spirit. one shadow more. she whom you resigned for gold--for gain--for sordid ore--she you shall now behold as the tender wife of a good and upright man--as the happy mother of smiling children. you shall see them in their joyous home. come, thou lonely man of gold--come! scr. no, no! 1st spirit. i told you these were the shadows of the things that have been--that they are what they are do not blame me. come---scr. no, no--i've seen enough--haunt me no longer! (_the spirit seizes him--he seizes the cap presses it upon the spirit's head, who sinks under it, and disappears in a flood of light while scrooge sinks exhausted on the floor._) scene ii.--_a street. houses covered with snow._ _enter dark sam, l. h._ sam. it's very odd! i an't nimmed nothing to-night. christmas eve, too--when people's got sich lots of tin! but they takes precious good care of it, 'cos i s'pose they thinks if they loses it, they shan't be able to get no christmas dinner. if i can't prig nothin', i'm sure i shan't be able to get none. unless this trade mends soon, i must turn undertaker's man again. there is a chance, in that honourable calling of a stray thing or two. somebody comes! i wonder if i shall have any luck now. _enter bob, r. h._ bob. i shall soon be home! won't my martha be glad to see me--and what a pleasant happy christmas day we shall spend. what a dinner we shall have! i've got fifteen shillings--my week's wages--and i'm determined to spend every farthing of it. won't we have a prime goose, and a magnificent pudding! and then the gin and water--and oranges--and the--oh, how jolly we shall be! and tiny tim, too--he never tasted goose before--how he will lick his dear little chops at the sage and onions! and as for martha--my dear martha, who is a dress-maker, and can only come to see us once in about four months--she shall have the parson's nose. let me see--a goose will cost seven shillings--pudding five--that's twelve. oranges, sage and onions, potatoes, and gin, at least three shillings more. oh, there will be quite enough money, and some to spare. (_during this speech sam advances cautiously and picks his pocket._) sam. (_aside._) some to spare! it can't fall into better hands than mine, then! (_exit r. h._ bob. i've a good mind to buy the goose going home; but then if it should turn out fusty--i think i had better leave it for mrs. c. the moment i get home, i'll pop the money into her hands, and--(_feeling in his pockets._)--eh?--what--what's this? somebody has been having a joke at my expense. eh? my week's salary--my fifteen shillings--it's gone! i'm ruined--lost----undone! my pocket has been picked! i've lost my christmas dinner before i've got it! oh, how can i face mrs. c., and bob, and martha, and tiny tim! oh, what can i do? _enter frank, l. h._ frank. what my worthy friend bob cratchit--how is this, man? you look sorrowful, and on christmas eve, too! bob. some of those boys whom i was sliding with on the ice in cornhill must have done it. frank. done it! done what, man? bob. stole my christmas dinner--my--salary--i mean my fifteen shillings, that your uncle paid me not an hour ago. frank. that's unfortunate! bob. unfortunate! think of tiny tim's disappointment--no goose--no pudding--no nothing! frank. tiny tim shall not go without his christmas dinner notwithstanding your loss--no, nor you either--nor any of your family, bob cratchit. at such a time as this, no one should be unhappy--not even my hard-hearted uncle, much less a worthy fellow like you. here, bob, here's a sovereign--you can return it when my uncle raises your wages--no thanks, but go and be as happy as you deserve to be--once more, a merry christmas to you! (_exit r. h._ bob. he's a regular trump! i wanted to thank him, and couldn't find the words! i should like to laugh, and i feel as if i could cry. if tiny tim don't bless you for this my name's not bob cratchit! i've lost fifteen shillings, and i've found a sovereign! (_dances._) tol lol li do! oh, mrs. cratchit! oh, my little cratchit! what a happy christmas day we shall spend, surely! what a pity christmas don't last all the year round! (_exit l. h._) scene iii.--_scrooge's chamber, as before._ _scrooge discovered, sleeping in a chair. the stage becomes suddenly quite light, and the ghost of christmas present discovered, as in work, page 78, the wall at back covered with ivy, holly, and mistletoe--heaped upon the floor, almost to form a throne, are turkeys, geese, plum puddings, twelfth cake, etc._ (_see page 78._) 2nd spirit. know me, man? i am the ghost of christmas present. look upon me. (_scrooge rises, approaches, and gazes at the figure._) you have never seen the like of me before? scr. never! 2nd spirit. have never walked forth with the younger members of my family, meaning, for i am very young, my elder brothers born in these latter years. scr. i'm afraid i have not. have you had many brothers, spirit? 2nd spirit. more than eighteen hundred! scr. a tremendous family to provide for! (_the spirit rises._) spirit, conduct me where you will--if you have ought to teach me, let me profit by it. why do you carry that torch? 2nd spirit. to sprinkle the light and incense of happiness every where--to poor dwellings most. scr. why to poor ones most? 2nd spirit. because they need it most. but come--touch my robe--we have much to see. (_as scrooge approaches nearer to him, the scene changes._) scene iv.--_a bleak and barren moor. a poor mud cabin._ (_painted in the flat._) _the second spirit and scrooge enter._ scr. what place is this? 2nd spirit. a place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth--they know me. see! (_as he speaks, the window is lighted from within. the spirit draws scrooge to window._) what seest thou? scr. a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire--an old man and woman, with their children, and children's children all decked gaily out in their holiday attire. i hear the old man's voice above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste; singing a christmas song, while all swell out the chorus. 2nd spirit. come, we must not tarry--we will to sea--your ear shall be deafened by the roaring waters. scr. to sea? no, good spirit! 2nd spirit. see yonder solitary lighthouse built on a dismal reef of sunken rocks. here we men who watch the light, have made a fire that sheds a ray of brightness on the awful sea, joining their horny hands over the rough table where they sit, they wish each other a merry christmas in can of grog and sing a rude lay in honour of the time. all men on this day have a kinder word for one another--on such a day--but come--on--on! (_as he speaks the scene changes._) scene v.--_drawing-room in frank freeheart's house._ _frank, caroline his wife, mr. cheerly, and male and female guests discovered--some are seated on a sofa on one side, others surround a table on the other side. scrooge and the spirit remain on one side._ (_at opening of scene all laugh._) frank. yes, friends, my uncle said that christmas was a humbug, as i live! he believed it, too! omnes. more shame for him. frank. he's a comical old fellow! however, his offences carry their own punishment. cheer. he's very rich! frank. but his wealth is of no use to him. he don't do any good with it. he don't make himself comfortable with it. he hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it! ladies. we have no patience with him! frank. but i have! i'm sorry for him! i couldn't be angry with him if i tried. who suffers by his ill whims? himself! he loves a good dinner--pleasant moments, and pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, or in his mouldy chambers. he may rail at christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it, i defy him! if he finds me going there, year after year and saying, uncle scrooge, how are you? if it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something, and i think i shook him yesterday! (_all laugh._) well, he has given us plenty of merriment so here's his health. uncle scrooge! omnes. (_drinks._) uncle scrooge! frank. a merry christmas and a happy new year to him wherever he is! scr. spirit, their merriment has made me so bright and gay, that i could almost pledge them in return, and join in all their innocent mirth! _a servant enters, l. h. and gives a letter to frank, then exits._ frank. (_opens it and reads. aside._) ah! what do i see, the vessel lost at sea that bore my entire wealth within her! then i'm a lost and ruined man! (_his wife approaches him._) cheer. no ill news, i hope, mr. freeheart. frank. (_aside._) the stroke is sudden and severe but i will bear it like a man! why should i damp the enjoyment of those around by such ill tiding? no, it is christmas time--i will not broach such bad news now--no--at least to-night. all shall be happy--nor word of mine shall make any otherwise. (_to his friends._) come, friends, let's have a merry dance, shall we not? omnes. a dance! a dance! (_short, country dance, in which scrooge joins without being observed by the rest. towards the conclusion of it the spirit advances--draws scrooge back from the group--a bright glow lights up the scene, as the spirit and scrooge sink through the stage unnoticed by the groups._) end of act i. act ii. scene i.--_humble apartment in bob cratchit's house. table, chairs, etc., on._ _mrs. cratchit and belinda cratchit discovered laying the cloth. peter cratchit is by fire. scrooge and the spirit of christmas present rise through the stage, and stand aside and observe them._ scr. so, this is my clerk's dwelling, spirit--bob cratchit's. you blessed it with the sprinkling of your torch as we passed the threshold. bob had but fifteen _bob_ a week. he pockets on saturdays but fifteen copies of his christian name, and yet the ghost of christmas present blessed his four-roomed house. (_two of cratchit's younger children, boy and girl, run in._) boy. oh, mother--outside the baker's we smell such a goose! it must have been ours--no one has got such a goose. oh, gemini! (_they dance round the table in childish glee._) mrs. c. whatever has got your precious father, bob, and tiny tim. and martha warn't as late this christmas day by half an hour! _enter martha, l. h._ mart. here's martha, mother! children. here's martha, mother--hurrah! there's such a goose, martha! mrs. c. (_kissing martha, and assisting her off with her bonnet, etc._) why bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! mart. we'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. mrs. c. well, never mind, so long as you are come. sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm. lord bless ye! children. (_looking off._) father's coming! hide, martha, hide! (_martha runs behind closet door in f. bob cratchit enters with tiny tim upon his shoulder, l. h._) bob. (_looking round._) why, where's our martha? mrs. c. not coming. bob. not coming upon christmas day! martha. (_running towards him._) yes, dear father, yes. (_they embrace._) children. come, tiny tim, into the washhouse, to hear the pudding singing in the copper! (_they carry tim out--peter exits l. h._) mrs. c. and how did little tim behave? bob. as good as gold. somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the sweetest things you ever heard! (_the children re-enter with tim._) children. the goose! the goose! (_peter re-enters carrying the goose--it is placed on the table, etc. all seat themselves at table._) scr. bob's happier than his master! how his blessed urchins, mounting guard upon their posts, cram their spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn arrives to be helped! and now, as mrs. cratchit plunges her knife in its breast, a murmur of delight arises round the board, and even tiny tim beats the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cries hurrah! bob. beautiful! there never was such a goose. it's tender as a lamb, and cheap as dirt. the apple sauce and mashed potatoes are delicious--and now, love, for the pudding. the thought of it makes you nervous. mrs. c. too nervous for witnesses. i must leave the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. (_exit l. h._ bob. awful moment! suppose it should not be done enough? suppose it should break in turning out? suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it? (_gets up, and walks about, disturbed._) i could suppose all sorts of horrors. ah! there's a great deal of steam--the pudding's out of the copper! a smell like a washing day--that's the cloth! a smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that--that's the pudding. (_mrs. cratchit re-enters with pudding, which she places on table. bob sits._) children. hurrah! scr. mrs. cratchit looks flushed, but smiles proudly, like one who has achieved a triumph. bob. mrs. cratchit, i regard this pudding as the greatest success you have achieved since our marriage. mrs. c. now that the weight's off my mind, i confess i had my doubts about it, and i don't think it at all a small pudding for so large a family. bob. it would be flat heresy to say so. a cratchit would blush to hint at such a thing! scr. their merry, cheerful dinner's ended, but not their sweet, enjoyment of the day. (_mrs. cratchit, etc., clears the table. a jug and a glass or two are placed on it. bob fills the glasses._) bob. a merry christmas to us all, my dear--heaven bless us! (_they drink and echo him--tiny tim is near his father, who presses his hand._) scr. spirit tell me if tiny tim will live? 2nd spirit. if the shadows i see remain unaltered by the future, the child will die. scr. no, no--say he will be spared. 2nd spirit. if he be like to die--what then? he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. scr. my own words! 2nd spirit. man--if man you be in heart, and not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live--what men shall die? to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust. bob. my dear, i'll give you, "mr. scrooge, the founder of the feast!" mrs. c. the founder of the feast indeed! i wish i had him here--i'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon! bob. my dear--the children--christmas day---mrs. c. it should be christmas day, i'm sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as mr. scrooge. you know what he is, robert--no one better. bob. my dear--christmas day---mrs. c. i'll drink his health for your sake not for his. long life to him! a merry christmas and a happy new year! he'll be very merry and very happy, no doubt! (_all drink._) 2nd spirit. your name alone has cast a gloom upon them. but they are happy--grateful--pleased with one another. scr. and they look happier yet in the bright sprinkling of thy torch, spirit. (_as he speaks the stage becomes quite dark. a medium descends, which hides the group at table. scrooge and the spirit remaining in front._) we have seen much to-night, and visited many homes. thou hast stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful--by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope--by poverty, and it was rich. in almshouse, hospital and jail--in misery's every refuge, thou hast left thy blessing, and taught me thy precepts. 2nd spirit. my life upon this globe is very brief--it ends to-night--at midnight--the time draws near. scr. is that a claw protruding from your skirts? 2nd spirit. behold! (_two children, wretched in appearance, appear from the foldings of his robe--they kneel, and cling to him._) oh, man--look here! scr. spirit, are they yours? (_see plate in work, page 119._) 2nd spirit. they are man's--and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance--this girl is want. beware all of their degree--but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow is written that which is doom, unless the writing be erased. admit it for your factious purposes, and bide the end. scr. have they no regular refuge or resource? (_scrooge shrinks abashed._) 2nd spirit. are there no prisons--no workhouses? hark, 'tis midnight! i am of the past! (_the children exeunt--the spirit disappears through trap--at the same moment the ghost of christmas to come, shrouded in a deep black garment rises behind medium, which is worked off, discovering_--- scene ii.--_a street. night._ _the spirit advances slowly. scrooge kneels on beholding it._ scr. this spirit's mysterious presence fills me with a solemn dread! i am in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come! (_the spirit points onward._) you are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us? (_the spirit slightly inclines its head._) though well used to ghostly company by this time. i fear this silent shape more than i did all the rest. ghost of the future, will you not speak to me? (_the spirit's hand is still pointing onward._) lead on, spirit! (_the spirit moves a few steps on, then pauses. scrooge follows. the stage becomes light._) _enter cheerly and heartly._ heart. he's dead, you say? when did he die? cheer. last night, i believe. heart. what has he done with his money? cheer. i haven't heard, he hasn't left it to me. it's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for i don't know of any one likely to go to it. heart. well, i don't mind going to it if lunch is provided. i'm not at all sure i was not one of his most particular friends. cheer. yes--you used to stop, and say "how d'ye do?" whenever you met. but, come--we must to 'change. (_exit r. h._ scr. a moral in their words, too! quiet and dark beside me stands yet the phantom, with its outstretched hand. it still points onward and i must follow it! (_the spirit exits slowly followed by scrooge._) scene iii.--_interior of a marine store shop. old iron, phials, etc., seen. a screen extends from r. h. to c. separating fireplace, etc., from shop. chair and table near the fire._ old joe _seated near the fire, smoking. a light burns on the table. the spirit enters, followed by scrooge._ scr. what foul and obscure place is this? what place of bad repute--of houses wretched--of people half naked--drunken and ill-favoured? the whole quarter reeks with crime--with filth and misery. (_shop door opens, and mrs. dibler enters. she has hardly time to close the door when it opens again, and dark sam enters closely followed by mrs. mildew. upon perceiving each other they at first start, but presently burst into a laugh. joe joins them._) sam. let the charwoman alone to be the first--let the laundress alone to be second--and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. look here old joe, here's a chance! if we all three haven't met here without meaning it. joe. you couldn't have met in a better place. come into the parlour--you're none of you strangers. stop till i shut the door of the shop. ah! how it shrieks! there an't such a rusty bit of metal here as its own hinges--and i'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling. we're well matched. come into the parlour. (_they come forward by screen._) mrs. m. (_throwing down bundle._) what odds, then, mrs. dibler? every person has a right to take care of themselves. he always did. sam. no man more so, so don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman--who's the wiser? we're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, i suppose? omnes. no, indeed! we should hope not! mrs. m. who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? not a dead man, i suppose? omnes. (_laughing._) no, indeed! sam. if he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? mrs. m. if he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying, gasping out his last, alone there by himself--it's a judgment upon him! open that bundle, old joe, and let me know the value of it. sam. stop! i'll be served first, to spare your blushes, though we pretty well knew we were helping ourselves, and no sin neither! (_gives trinkets to joe._) joe. two seals, pencil case, brooch, sleeve buttons! (_chalking figures on wall._) five bob! wouldn't give more, if you was to boil me! who's next? (_mrs. dibler offers bundle which he examines._) there's your money! (_chalks on wall._) i always give too much to ladies--it's my weakness, and so i ruin myself. if you asked for another penny, and made it an open question, i'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half a-crown! (_examines mrs. mildew's bundle upon his knees._) what do you call this? bed curtains? you don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there? mrs. m. yes. i do! why not? joe. you were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it! blankets! his blankets? mrs. m. whose else's? he won't take cold without 'em! joe. i hope he didn't die of anything catching! mrs. m. no, no! or i'd not have waited on such as he! there, joe, that's the best shirt he had--they'd ha' wasted it, but for me! joe. what do you call wasting it? mrs. m. putting it on him to be buried, to be sure! somebody was fool enough to do it, but i took it off again! if calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it ain't good enough for anybody! it's quite as becoming to the body! he can't look uglier than he did in that one! scr. i listen to their words in horror! joe. there is what i will give you! (_chalks on wall, then takes out a small bag, and tells them out their money._) mrs. m. ha, ha! this is the end of it, you see--he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead--ha, ha, ha! (_all laugh._) scr. (_shuddering._) spirit, i see--i see! the case of this unhappy man might be my own--my life tends that way now. let us be gone. (_the spirit points onward. the scene changes._) scene iv.--_a chamber. curtain drawn over recess. the spirit points to it--then approaches it, followed by scrooge trembling. the curtain is withdrawn--a bed is seen--a pale, light shows a figure, covered with a sheet upon it._ scr. (_recoiling in terror._) ah! a bare uncurtained bed, and something there, which, though dumb, announces itself in awful language! yes, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, is the body of this man! (_the spirit points towards the bed._) it points towards the face--the slightest movement of my hand would instantly reveal it--i long yet dread to do it. oh, could this man be raised up and see himself! avarice, hard dealing, griping cares! they have brought him to a rich end, truly! he lays alone in a dark empty house, with not a man, woman, or a child, to say--"he was kind to me--i will be kind to him!" spirit, this is a fearful place! in leaving it, i shall not leave its lesson. let us hence. if there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death, show that person to me, i beseech you. (_as he speaks the scene changes._) scene v.--_a chamber. scrooge and spirit on l. h._ _enter ellen, r. h., second dress, followed by euston, l. h._ ellen. what news my love--is it good or bad? eus. bad! ellen. we are quite ruined! eus. no! there is hope yet, ellen! ellen. if he relents, there is--nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened. eus. he is past relenting! he is dead! ellen. dead! it is a crime but heaven forgive me, i almost feel thankful for it! eus. what the half drunken-woman told me last night, when i tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and which i thought a mere excuse to avoid me, was true,--he was not only ill, but dying then! ellen. to whom will our debt be transferred! eus. i don't know, but before that time we shall be ready with the money, and were we not, we can hardly find so merciless a creditor in his successor. we may sleep to-night with light hearts, ellen. come! (_exeunt r. h._) scr. this is terrible! let me see some tenderness connected with a death in that dark chamber, which we left just now, spirit--it will be for ever present to me. (spirit _points onward and slowly exits followed by scrooge._) scene vi.--_apartment at bob cratchit's._ (_mrs. cratchit, peter, and the two younger cratchit's discovered. candle lighted. the spirit enters, followed by scrooge._) scr. as through the old familiar streets we passed, i looked in vain to find myself, but nowhere was i to be seen. mrs. c. (_laying down her work. mourning._) the colour hurts my eyes, and i wouldn't show weak eyes to your father. it must be near his time--he walks slower than he used, and yet i've known him walk, with tiny tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed--but he was very light to carry, and his father loved him, so that it was no trouble--no trouble--- _enter bob, l. h. mrs. c. advances to meet him--the children crowd around him._ bob. there, wife, i've returned at last. come, you have been industrious in my absence--the things will be ready before sunday. mrs. c. sunday! you went to-day, then? bob. yes, my dear! i wish you could have gone--it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. but you'll see it often--i promised him i would walk there of a sunday--my little--little child--(_with much emotion._) mrs. c. don't fret! bob. fret! i met mr. scrooge's nephew just now, who, seeing that i looked a little down, asked me what had happened. ah, he's the pleasantest spoken gentleman you ever heard--he told me he was sorry for me and for my good wife--but how he knew _that_ i don't know! mrs. c. knew what? bob. why, that you were a good wife! and he was so kind--it was quite delightful! he said he'd get peter a better situation--and, mark me, whenever we part from one another, i am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny tim, shall we, or this first parting that was among us? omnes. never! never! (_the children crowd around their parents, who kiss them tenderly. a medium descends and hides the group._) scr. spectre, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand--tell me, ere you quit me, what man that was whom we saw lying dead? (_the spirit points onward slowly traverses the stage._) still he beckons me onward--there seems no order in these latter visions, save they are in the future. through yonder gloom i can see my own dwelling--let me behold what i shall be in days to come--the house is yonder--why do you point away? ah! that house is no longer mine--another occupies it. ah! why is this? (_the medium is worked off, and discovers._) scene vii.--_a churchyard. on slab centre, is engraved "ebenezer scrooge."_ scr. a churchyard! here, then, the wretched man who's name i have now to learn, lays underneath the ground! (_the spirit points to centre slab. scrooge advances, trembling, towards it._) before i draw nearer to the stone to which you point, answer me one question. are these the things of the shadows that will be, or are they the shadows of the things that may be only? (_the spirit still points downward to the grave._) men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in they must lead--but if the courses be departed from the ends will change--say is it thus with what you show me? still as immovable as ever! (_draws nearer to grave._) "ebenezer scrooge!" my own name! (_sinks on his knees._) am i that man who lay upon the bed? (_the spirit points from the grave to him, and back again._) no, spirit! oh, no, no! (_see plate, page 150. the figure remains immovable._) spirit! (_clutching its robe._) hear me! i am not the man i was--i will not be the man i must have been but for this intercourse! why show me this if i am past all hope? (_the hand trembles. scrooge sinks on his knees._) good spirit, your nature intercedes for me--assure me that i yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life! (_the hand trembles still._) i will honour christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year--i will live the past, the present, and the future--the spirits of all three shall strive within me--i will not shut out the lessons that they teach--oh tell me i may sponge away the writing on this stone! (_in his agony he catches the spectre's hand--it seeks to free itself--his struggles become stronger in his despair--the spirit repulses him--he sinks prostrate to the earth--the spirit disappears, as the medium is worked on. clouds roll over the stage--they are worked off, and discovers._) scene viii.--_scrooge's chamber. same as scene i, act i. it is broad day--the fire is nearly extinguished--the candle nearly burnt down to the socket. the stage arrangement in other respects, precisely the same as at end of scene i, act i._ scrooge _discovered, sleeping in his chair. he appears restless and uneasy, then starts up, exclaiming._ scr. pity me! i will not be the man i have been! oh, no, no! (_pauses, and looks around him._) ah! here! could it all have been a dream! a dream--ha, ha, ha! a dream! yes! this table's my own--this chair's my own--this room's my own--and happier still, the time before me is my own to make amends in! i will live the past, the present, and the future! heaven and the christmas time be praised for this! i say it on my knees--on my knees! my cheek is wet with tears, but they are tears of penitence! (_busies himself in pulling on his coat, throwing off his cap, etc., and speaking all the time._) i don't know what to do--i'm as light as a feather--i'm as happy as an angel--i'm as merry as a school-boy--i'm as giddy as a drunken man! a merry christmas to every body--a happy new year to all the world! hallo, there! whoop! hallo! there's the jug that my gruel was in--there's the door where the ghost of jacob marley entered. it's all right--it's all true--it all happened--ha, ha, ha! i don't know what day of the month it is--i don't know how long i've been among the spirits--i don't know anything--i'm quite a baby--never mind, i don't care--i'd rather be a baby! hallo! whoop! hallo, here! (_runs to window--opens it._) here, you boy! what's to-day? boy. (_without._) why, christmas day! scr. ah! i haven't missed it! glorious! i say--go to the poulterer's round the corner, and buy the prize turkey for me! boy. (_without._) wal-ker! scr. tell 'em to send it, and i'll give you half a crown. he's off like a shot! i'll send it to bob cratchit's. how astonished he'll be. (_coming down._) i'll write a cheque for that society that they called on me about yesterday. oh, i'll make every one happy, and myself, too! (_knocks heard without._) that must be the turkey! (_opens door._) as i live, it's bob cratchit! _enter bob cratchit, 2 e. l. h._ bob. excuse my calling, sir, but the fact is, i couldn't help it. that worthy gentleman, your nephew, is ruined. i said, ruined, sir---scr. i'm glad of it! bob. glad of it! there's an unnatural cannibal! _enter frank, 2 e. l. h._ frank. oh uncle, you know all! i come not to ask your assistance--that would be madness--but i come to bid you farewell. in three days' time, with my unfortunate family, i shall quit england. scr. no, you shan't. you shall stay where you are! frank. you mock me! scr. i say you shall stay where you are! (_writes at table._) there's a cheque for present use--to-morrow i will see how i can make up your losses, and at my death you shall inherit all my wealth--but i don't mean to die yet, you dog! frank. this generosity---scr. no thanks. i'll dine with you to-day, frank--and as for you, bob, tiny tim shall be my care, and your salary's trebled from this hour. bob. oh, this can't be my master! oh, i'm quite sure it must be somebody else. yes--it is him, too! he must have gone mad! i've a great mind to knock him down with the ruler, and get mr. frank to help me to fit him on a strait waistcoat! well, i never! scr. a merry christmas, frank--a merry christmas, bob--and it _shall_ be a merry one. i have awoke a better man than i fell asleep. so may it be with all of us! oh, may my day dreams prove as happy as my night ones? (_as he speaks, the gauze medium is lit up behind, and the ghost of christmas past, the ghost of christmas present, and the ghost of christmas to come, with the other characters in the miser's dream, are seen in separate groups._) their remembrance haunts me still. oh, my friends--forgive but my past, you will make happy my present, and inspire me with hope for the future! the curtain falls. _the bat_ a mystery play in 3 acts. by mary roberts rinehart and avery hopwood. produced originally at the morosco theatre, new york. 7 males, 3 females. 2 interior scenes. modern costumes. miss cornelia van gorder, a maiden lady of sixty, has leased as a restorative for frayed nerves, a long island country house. it had been the property of a new york financier who had disappeared coincidentally with the looting of his bank. his cashier, who is secretly engaged to marry miss van gorder's niece, is suspected of the defalcation and is a fugitive. the new occupants believe the place to be haunted. strange sounds and manifestations first strengthen this conviction but presently lead them to suspect that the happenings are mysteriously connected with the bank robbery. any sensible woman would have moved to the nearest neighbors for the night and returned to the city next day. but miss van gorder decided to remain and solve the mystery. she sends for detectives and then things begin to happen. at one time or another every member of the household is suspected of the theft. the audience is kept running up blind alleys, falling into hidden pitfalls, and darting around treacherous corners. a genuine thriller guaranteed to divert any audience. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price 75 cents. _the haunted house_ comedy in 3 acts. by owen davis. produced originally at the george m. cohan theatre, new york. 8 males, 3 females. 1 interior. modern costumes. a newly married couple arrive to spend their honeymoon in a summer cottage owned by the girl's father, who has begged them not to go there, because he claims the house is haunted. almost immediately after their arrival, strange sounds are heard in the house. the bride leaves the room for a few moments and when she returns, her husband is talking very confidentially to a young woman, who he claims has had trouble with her automobile down the road, and he goes out to assist her. but when he comes back, his wife's suspicions force him to confess that the girl is an old sweetheart of his. the girl is subsequently reported murdered, and the bride believes her husband has committed the crime. a neighbor, who is an author of detective stories, attempts to solve the murder, meantime calling in a prominent new york detective who is vacationing in the town. as they proceed, everyone in the action becomes involved. but the whole thing terminates in a laugh, with the most uproarious and unexpected conclusion imaginable. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price 75 cents. _louder, please_ a comedy in 3 acts. by norman krasna. produced originally at the masque theatre, new york. 12 males, 3 females. 1 interior scene. modern costumes. the breathless and amusing comedy has to do with the efforts of criterion pictures to keep one of its stars, polly madison, before the public gaze, and press agent herbert white is called in to promote the necessary ballyhoo. he conceives the brilliant but ancient idea of having polly get "lost at sea" in a motor boat. there is a law making it a punishable crime to fake a false news report to the press, but what is a law to herbert if he can get over the necessary publicity? he broadcasts the news that polly has strangely disappeared and is lost at sea. consequently the forces of the law get busy, the coast guard sends out a fleet of airplanes to rescue the lost film star, with the result that the front pages of the papers are loaded with stories of the frantic search for the actress, and the world at large is on its ear. detective bailey becomes suspicious of the fake and puts the criterion staff through a stiff third degree. a prison cell looms up for herbert white and he has to resort to the most desperate measures to make the fake story appear true. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price 75 cents. _skidding_ comedy in 3 acts. by aurania rouverol. produced originally at the bijou theatre, new york. 5 males, 5 females. 1 interior. modern costumes. a fresh, sincere picture of american family life, showing marion hardy, a modern college girl who falls ecstatically in love with wayne trenton just as a career is opening up to her, and the difficulties she has in adjusting her romance. then there are the two pretty young daughters who chose to marry before they finished their education and want to "come home to mother" at the first sign of trouble. mother hardy is so upset at the modern tendencies of her daughters, that she goes on strike in order to straighten out her family. young andy hardy is an adorable adolescent lad with his first "case"--a typical booth tarkington part. he keeps the audience in a gale of merriment with his humorous observances. grandpa hardy touches the heart with his absent-mindedness and his reminiscences about grandma; and the white satin slippers he makes for marion to be married in, have a great deal to do with straightening out her love affair. humor is blended with pathos and a deliciously garnished philosophy makes "skidding" more significant than the average comedy. it is life. "skidding" is one of our most popular plays for high school production. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price 75 cents. transcriber's notes: the line "happy as my night ones? (_as he speaks, the gauze_" was duplicated in the original. the following is a list of changes made to the original. the first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. _author of fair rosamond, fairinelli, the dream of fate,_ _author of fair rosamond, farinelli, the dream of fate,_ christamas carol. a christmas carol. _easy chair table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _easy chair, table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ (_binds wrappr round its head once more--slowly_ (_binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly_ either--nor ony of your family, bob cratchit. at either--nor any of your family, bob cratchit. at mrs. c. sunday! you went to day, then? mrs. c. sunday! you went to-day, then? [illustration: cover: old scrooge] "old scrooge:" a christmas carol in five staves. dramatized from charles dickens' celebrated christmas story, by charles a. scott. newark, n. j.: new jersey soldiers' home print. 1877. entered according to act of congress, in the year 1877, by charles a. scott, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington, d. c. all rights reserved. _this edition is limited, and is printed for the convenience of to enable the owner to make such alterations as may seem judicious._ _characters._ ebenezer scrooge, a miserly broker frederick merry, a nephew to scrooge bob cratchit, clerk to scrooge ghost of jacob marley, dead seven years spirit of christmas past spirit of christmas present mr. thomas topper mr. henry snapper mr. mumford | philanthropic citizens mr. barnes | peter cratchit little cratchit tiny tim scrooge's former self mr. stevens | mr. jones | mr. fatchin | scrooge's business friends mr. snuffer | mr. redface | mr. kemper mr. fezziwig, scrooge's former master mr. james badger dick wilkins, fezziwig's apprentice old joe, a pawnbroker mr. shroud, an undertaker old baldhead, the fiddler the lamp lighter first man second man ignorance the boy with the turkey thomas, a servant mrs. belle kemper, scrooge's first and last love mrs. frederick merry | miss julia kemper | her daughters miss sarah kemper | mrs. cratchit, a devoted wife belinda cratchit | her daughters martha cratchit | mrs. caroline badger mrs. mangle, a laundress mrs. dilber, a char-woman mrs. fezziwig, a worthy matron clara fezziwig | her daughters emma fezziwig | little fanny scrooge want six or eight children for tableaux. [illustration: hand with pointing finger] by a distribution of two or three character to one person, the piece can be performed by fifteen males and nine females. _costumes._ _scrooge._ first dress: brown quaker-cut coat, waistcoat and pants. dark overcoat. low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. black silk stock and standing collar. bald wig with tufts of white hair on each side. smooth face. second dress: dressing gown, cotton night-cap and slippers. _fred. merry._ first dress: walking suit, overcoat, black silk hat. black silk stock and standing collar. side whiskers. second dress: dress suit. _bob cratchit._ long-tailed business coat of common material, much worn, and buttoned up to the neck. woolen pants and waistcoat of check pattern. colored scarf and standing collar. large white comforter. narrow-rimmed silk hat, old style and the worse for wear. smooth face. _ghost of marley._ drab cut-away coat and breeches. low-cut single-breasted vest. ruffled shirt. white neckcloth. drab leggings. gray, long-haired wig, with queue. shaggy eyebrows. _spirit of christmas past._ white tunic trimmed with flowers. fleshings. jeweled belt around waist. long white hair hanging loose down neck and back. jeweled star for forehead. white conical hat, very high, carried under the arm. smooth, pale face--no wrinkles. wand of holly. _spirit of christmas present._ green robe bordered with white fur. fleshings. trunks. brown hose. dark-brown curls. holly wreath for the head. _mumford._ overcoat. under suit of the period--1840. black silk hat. white neckcloth and standing collar. gray, long-haired wig. smooth face. spectacles. _barnes._ blue cloth over and under coats. black silk hat. black silk stock and standing collar. iron-gray short-haired wig. mutton-chop whiskers. walking stick. _topper and snapper._ dress suits of the period--1840. _peter cratchit._ jacket or short coat. very large standing collar and neckerchief. _little cratchit._ calico shirt. short trousers. shoes and stockings. apron. _tiny tim._ same as little cratchit, with the addition of a jacket. _scrooge's former self._ first dress: cutaway coat. knee breeches. second dress: cape coat. hessians. _ignorance and want._ clad in rags. fleshings. _old joe._ gabardine or long-skirted coat. shaggy wig and beard. old smoking cap. _mrs. cratchit._ plain black or brown dress. cap and apron. _mrs. merry, kemper and misses kemper._ handsome house dresses of the period. _misses fezziwig._ low-necked dresses with short sleeves. _mrs. badger._ plain walking dress. bonnet and shawl. _scenery, furniture and properties._ act i. scene i.--scrooge & marley's counting house, 1st g. backed by an interior 2d g. set fire-place--painted grate fire l. window in flat l. c. double doors in flat, thrown open, r. c. scrooge's desk and chair near window--ruler, pens, ink and paper on desk. bob cratchit's desk in inner room in sight of audience. lighted candles on both desks. scuttle of coal near fire place. clothes hooks on flat for scrooge's hat and great coat. coal shovel for bob to enter with. subscription list for mumford to enter with. [illustration: hand]clear stage of desk, chair and scuttle. scene ii.--scrooge's apartments 3d or 4th g. door l. c. and window r. c. in flat, backed by a street scene. small grate fire and mantel l. 2. old-fashioned clock and two plaster casts on mantel. door r. 2. table l. c. lighted candle, spoon, basin and writing materials on table. saucepan of gruel on hob. two easy chairs near fire place. lights down. fender at fire. ringing bells of place. scrooge's hat and coat hung on the wall. chain made of cash boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purses, etc., for ghost to enter with. toothpick for scrooge to show. trap ready for ghost to disappear. act ii. scene i.--scrooge's bed room 1st g. chimney c., with painted coal fire. door l. c., window r. c. trap near hearth for spirit of christmas past to enter. small four-post bedstead with curtains l. bureau or washstand r. scene ii.--an old school room 3d g. door l. c., and window r. c. in flat. chair at window. a stuffed parrot on stand near r. 3. two or three school desks, a platform and desk for the master; books for young scrooge. scene iii.--a wareroom, full depth of stage. an elevated platform, centre of flat, for the fiddler. old-fashioned arm chair at l. 2, for mrs fezziwig. scene iv.--plain room, 2d g. no properties. scene v.--drawing room, 5th g., trimmed with evergreens. a christmas tree, trimmed and lighted, r. u. e. ornaments on mantel. fireplace l. suite of parlor furniture. centre table c. toys for children--doll and doll's dress for belle. trap ready for spirit to disappear. act iii. scene i.--a room in scrooge's house, 1st g. flat painted to show game, poultry, meats, etc. torch, shaped like a cornucopia for spirit of christmas present. scene ii.--bob cratchit's home--plain room 4th g. door r. and l. c., backed by kitchen flat. dresser and crockery c. of flat. fireplace l. u. e. saucepan of potatoes on fire; six wooden or cane-seat chairs; a high chair for tiny tim. large table c.; white table-cloth; large bowl on side table r.; three tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. nuts, apples and oranges on dresser. small crutch for tiny tim to enter with. goose on dish for peter to enter with. scene iii.--a street mansion with lighted windows showing shadow of a group inside, 1st g. snow. torch and ladder for lamp lighter. scene iv.--drawing room 4th g. arch 3d g. handsome suite of furniture. large table r. sideboard with wine and glasses at flat c. piano l. 2d e. coffee-urn and cups on small table r. 3d e. piano-stool, music stand. sheet music on piano. salver for waiter. act iv. scene i.--scrooge's bed room 2d g. as in scene 1, act 2. scene ii.--street 1st g. snuff-box for snuffer to enter with. scene iii.--pawn shop 3d g. doors r. and l. c. in flat--table c., four common chairs; a smoky oil lamp--lighted, and a piece of white chalk on table. bundle of bed curtains--same as on scrooge's bedstead--blankets and shirts for mrs. mangle to enter with. bundle of under-clothing, towels, sheets, sugar-tongs, tea-spoons and old boots for mrs. dilber to enter with. a package containing a seal, pencil-case, pair of sleeve-buttons and scarf pin, for shroud to enter with. purse of coins for old joe. scene iv.--street--exterior of scrooge and marley's 1st g. window l. c. no properties. scene v.--bob cratchit's home--same as scene 2, act, 3. table c., candles and work-basket on table. book for peter on table; calico or muslin for mrs. cratchit and belinda to sew. act v. scene i.--scrooge's apartment, as in scene 2d act 1st. no additional properties. scene ii.--street--exterior of scrooge's house 1st g. brass knocker on the door. turkey for boy to enter with. scene iii.--drawing room same as scene 4, act 3. handkerchief for fred to blindfold. old scrooge. stave one. scene i.--_christmas eve. counting house of scrooge & marley. set fireplace with small grate fire_ l. _centre door in flat, thrown open, showing a small inner chamber and desk, at which bob cratchit is discovered seated, endeavoring to warm his hands over the candle. small desk,_ l. c., _at which scrooge is discovered busy at figures_. _enter bob cratchit, from inner room, with coal shovel, going toward fireplace._ _scrooge._ and six makes twenty-eight pounds, four shill----what do you want in here? _bob._ my fire is nearly out, sir, and i thought i would take one or two lumps of coal, and-_scro._ you think more of your personal comforts than you do of your business and my interest. _bob._ the room, sir, is very cold, and i-_scro._ work sir, work! and i'll warrant that you'll keep warm. if you persist, in this wanton waste of coals, you and i will have to part. (_bob retires to his desk, puts on his white comforter, and again tries to warm his hands. scrooge resuming_). four shillings and ninepence-_enter fred'k merry_, c. d., _saluting bob as he passes him_. _fred._ a merry christmas, uncle. god save you. _scro._ bah; humbug. _fred._ christmas a humbug, uncle! you don't mean that, i'm sure? _scro._ i do. merry christmas! what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? you're poor enough. _fred._ come then. what right have you to be dismal? what reason have you to be morose? you're rich enough. _scro._ bah; humbug. _fred._ don't be cross, uncle. _scro._ what else can i be when i live in such a world of fools as this? merry christmas! out upon merry christmas! what's christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? if i could work my will, every idiot who goes about with "merry christmas" on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. he should. _fred._ uncle! _scro._ (_sternly_). nephew, keep christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. _fred._ keep it! but you don't keep it. _scro._ let me leave it alone, then. much good may it do you. much good it has ever done you. _fred._ there are many things from which i might have derived good, by which i have not profited, i dare say, christmas among the rest. but i am sure i have always thought of christmas-time, when it came round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time i know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. and, therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, i believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and i say, god bless it. (_cratchit applauds, but observing scrooge, endeavors to be intent on something else._) _scro._ (_to bob_). let me hear another sound from _you_, and you'll keep your christmas by losing your situation! (_to fred_). you're quite a powerful speaker, sir, i wonder you don't go into parliament. _fred._ don't be angry, uncle. come, dine with us to-morrow? _scro._ i'd see you in blazes first. _fred._ but why? why? _scro._ why did you get married? _fred._ because i fell in love. _scro._ because you fell in love! the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry christmas. good afternoon. _fred._ nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. why give it as a reason for not coming now? _scro._ good afternoon. _fred._ i want nothing from you; i ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends? _scro._ good afternoon! _fred._ i am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. we have never had any quarrel, to which i have been a party. but i have made the trial in homage to christmas, and i'll keep my christmas humor to the last. so a merry christmas, uncle. _scro._ good afternoon! (_as fred goes out he exchanges greetings with bob._) _fred._ a merry christmas. _bob._ the same to you, and many of them. _scro._ there's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry christmas. i'll retire to the lunatic asylum. _enter mr. mumford and mr. barnes with subscription book and paper, ushered in by bob._ _mr. mumford._ scrooge & marley's. i believe (_referring to paper_). have i the pleasure of addressing mr. scrooge, or mr. marley? _scro._ mr. marley his been dead these seven years. he died seven years ago this very night. _mr. m._ we have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. (_presents list. scrooge frowns, shakes his head, and returns it._) at this festive season of the year, mr. scrooge, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir. _scro._ are there no prisons? _mr. m._ plenty of prisons. _scro._ and the union work-houses--are they still in operation? _mr. m._ they are. i wish i could say they were not. _scro._ the tread-mill and the poor law are in full vigor, then? _mr. m._ both very busy, sir. _scro._. oh! i was afraid from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. i'm very glad to hear it. _mr. m._ under the impression that they scarcely furnish christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. we chose this time because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. what shall i put you down for? _scro._ nothing. _mr. m._ you wish to be anonymous? _scro._ i wish to be left alone. since you ask me what i wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. i don't make merry myself at christmas, and i can't afford to make idle people merry. i help to support the establishments i have mentioned; they cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there. _mr. b._ many can't go there; and many would rather die. _scro._ if they had rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. besides, excuse me, i don't know that. _mr. b._ but you might know it. _scro._ it's not my business. it's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not interfere with other people's. mine occupies me constantly. good afternoon, gentlemen. _mr. m._ it is useless, we may as well withdraw. [_exeunt. as they go out bob is seen to hand them money._] (_voice at door_ r. _singing_.) god bless you, merry gentlemen. may nothing you dismay-_scro._ (_seizes ruler and makes a dash at the door._) begone! i'll have none of your carols here. (_makes sign to bob, who extinguishes his candle and puts on his hat and enters._) you'll want all day to morrow, i suppose? _bob._ if quite convenient, sir. _scro._ it's not convenient, and its not fair. if i was to stop half-a-crown for it you'd think yourself ill-used, i'll be bound? (_bob smiles faintly._) and yet you don't think _me_ ill-used when i pay a day's wages for no work. _bob._ it's only once a year, sir. _scro._ a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of december. (_buttoning up his great coat to the chin._) but i suppose you must have the whole day. be here all the earlier next morning. (_exit_ c.) _bob._ i will, sir. you old skinflint. if i had my way, i'd give you christmas. i'd give it to you this way (_dumb show of pummelling scrooge._) now for a slide on cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of christmas eve, and then for camden town as hard as i can pelt. (_exit_ c., _with sliding motions, closing doors after him_.) scene ii.--_scrooge's apartments._ _grate fire_, l. _2, window_, r. c. _door_, l. c. _in flat_. _table_, l. _4. spoon and basin on table. saucepan on hob. two easy chairs near fire. lights down._ [_scrooge in dressing gown and night-cap, discovered, with candle, searching the room._] _scro._ pooh! pooh! marley's dead seven years to night. impossible. nobody under the table, nobody under the couch, nobody in the closet, nobody nowhere (_yawns_). bah, humbug! (_locks door_ r. _and seats himself in easy chair; dips gruel from saucepan into basin, and takes two or three spoonsful. yawns and composes himself for rest._) [_one or two stanzas of a christmas carol may be sung outside, at the close of which a general ringing of bells ensues, succeeded by a clanking noise of chain._] _enter jacob marley's ghost._ r., _with chain made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purposes, etc. hair twisted upright on each side to represent horns. white bandage around jaws._ _scro._ it's humbug still! i won't believe it. [_pause, during which ghost approaches the opposite side of the mantel._] how now. what do you want with me? _ghost._ much. _scro._ who are you? _gho._ ask me who i _was_. _scro._ who _were_ you then? you're particular, for a shade. _gho._ in life i was your partner, jacob marley. _scro._ can you--can you sit down? _gho._ i can. _scro._ do it, then. _gho._ you don't believe in me? _scro._ i don't. _gho._ what evidence do you require of my reality beyond that of your senses? _scro._ i don't know. _gho._ why do you doubt your senses? _scro._ because a little thing affects them. a slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. you may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under-done potato. there's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. you see this tooth-pick? _gho._ i do. _scro._ you are not looking at it. _gho._ but i see it, notwithstanding. _scro._ well! i have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of gobblins, all of my own creation. humbug, i tell you; humbug. (_ghost rattles chain, takes bandage off jaws, and drops lower jaw as far as possible._) _scro._ (_betrays signs of fright._) mercy! dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? _gho._ man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me, or not? _scro._ i do. i must. but why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me? _gho._ it is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men and travel far and wide, and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. it is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me--and witness what it can not share, but might have shared on earth, turned to happiness. [_shakes chain and wrings his hands._] _scro._ you are fettered; tell me why? _gho._ i wear the chain i forged in life; i made it link by link and yard by yard. i girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will i wore it. is its pattern strange to _you_? or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself. it was full as heavy and as long as this seven christmas-eves ago. you have labored on it since. it is a pondrous chain! _scro._ jacob, old jacob marley, tell me more. speak comfort to me, jacob. _gho._ i have none to give. it comes from other regions, ebenezer scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers to other lands of men. nor can i tell you what i would. a very little more is all that is permitted to me. i can not rest, i can not stay, i can not linger anywhere. my spirit never walked beyond our counting house, mark me!--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me. _scro._ you must have been very slow about it, jacob. _gho._ slow? _scro._ seven years dead. and traveling all the time. _gho._ the old time. no rest, no peace. incessant tortures of remorse. _scro._ you travel fast? _gho._ on the wings of the wind. _scro._ you might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years, jacob. _gho._ (_clinking his chain._) oh! captive, bound and double-ironed, not to know that ages of incessant labor by immortal creatures; for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. not to know that any christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused. yet, such was i. oh, such was i! _scro._ but you were always a good man of business jacob. _gho._ business! [_wringing his hands and shaking chain._] mankind was my business. the common welfare was my business. charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business. the dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business. [_holds up chain at arm's length, and drops it._] at this time of the rolling year i suffer most. why did i walk through crowds of fellow beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them, to that blessed star which led the wise men to a poor abode? were there no poor houses to which its light would have conducted _me_? hear me! my time is nearly gone. _scro._ i will; but don't be hard upon me. don't be flowery, jacob, pray. _gho._ how it is that i appear before you in a shape that you can see, i may not tell. i have sat invisible beside you many and many a day. that is no light part of my penance. i am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. a chance and hope of my procuring, ebenezer. _scro._ you were always a good friend to me. thank 'er. _gho._ you will be haunted by three spirits. _scro._ is that the chance and hope you mentioned, jacob? _gho._ it is. _scro._ i--i think i'd rather not. _gho._ without their visits you can not hope to shun the path i tread. expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls one. _scro._ couldn't i take'em all at once, and have it over, jacob? _gho._ expect the second on the next night at the same hour. the third on the night following, when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us. [_ghost replaces bandage around jaws, rises, winds chain about his arm, walks backward to window, beckoning scrooge, who rises and follows. as soon as ghost walks through window, which opens for him, he motions for scrooge to stop, and disappears through trap. window closes as before._] curtain. stave two. scene i.--_scrooge's bed room. a small, four-post bedstead with curtains at_ l. e., _bureau_ r. e. _bell tolls twelve. scrooge pulls curtains aside and sits on side of bed. touches spring of his repeater, which also strikes twelve._ _scro._ way, it isn't possible that i can have slept through a whole day, and far into another night. it isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve o'clock at noon. (_the spirit of christmas past rises from the hearth as scrooge finishes his speech._) _scro._ are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me? _spirit._ i am. _scro._ who, and what are you? _spir._ i am the ghost of christmas past. _scro._ long past? _spir._ no; your past. _scro._ i beg you will be covered. _spir._ what! would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light i give? is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow? _scro._ i have no intention of offending you. may i make bold to enquire what business has brought you here? _spir._ your welfare. _scro._ i am much obliged, but i think a night of unbroken rest would be more conducive to that end. _spir._ your reclamation, then. take heed! observe the shadows of the past, and profit by the recollection of them. _scro._ what would you have me do? _spir._ remain where you are, while memory recalls the past. scene ii.--_the spirit waves a wand, the scene opens and displays a dilapidated school-room. young scrooge discovered seated at a window, reading._ _scro._ (_trembling_) good heavens! i was a boy! it's the old school; and its the christmas i was left alone. _spir._ you remember it? _scro._ yes, yes; i know! i was reading all about ali baba. dear old honest ali baba. and valentine and his wild brother, orson; and the sultan's groom turned upside down by the geni. served him right, i'm glad of it; what business had _he_ to be married to the princess! [_in an earnest and excited manner, and voice between, laughing and crying._] there's the parrot: green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! poor robin crusoe, where have you been, robin crusoe? there goes friday, running for his life to the little creek. halloo! hoop! halloo! [_changing to a pitiful tone, in allusion to his former self._] poor boy. _spir._ strange to have forgotten this for so many years. _scro._ (_putting his hand in his pocket and drying his eyes on his cuff_) i wish--but it's too late now. _spir._ what is the matter? _scro._ nothing; nothing. there was a boy singing a christmas carol at my door, last night, i should like to have given him something, that's all. [_young scrooge rises and walks up and down. door opens and fanny scrooge darts in and puts her arms about his neck and kisses him._] _fanny._ dear, dear brother! i have come to bring you home, dear brother. (_clapping her hands and laughing gleefully._) to bring you home, home, home! _young s._ home, little fan? _fan._ yes! home for good, and all. home for ever and ever. father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home is like heaven. he spoke so gently to me one dear night when i was going to bed, that i was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. and you're to be a man, and never to come back here; but first we're to be together all the christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world. _young s._ you're quite a woman, little fan! [_she claps her hands and laughs, tries to touch his head, but being too little, laughs again. stands on tip-toe to embrace him, and in childish eagerness and glee, drags him willingly towards the door. exeunt._] _voice_ [_outside_]. bring down master scrooge's box, there. [_scene closes_] _spir._ always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. but she had a large heart. _scro._ so she had. you're right. i will not gainsay it, spirit. lord forbid. _spir._ she died a woman, and had, as i think, children. _scro._ one child. _spir._ true; your nephew. _scro._ [_uneasily_] yes. _spir._ let us see another christmas. (_waves wand._) scene iii.--_fezziwig's ball, full depth of stage, representing a wareroom. fezziwig and mrs. fezziwig l., the former standing and clapping his hands, and the latter seated in an arm-chair, manifesting delight. old bald-headed fiddler, on an elevated seat, at the back. dick wilkins, with two miss fezziwigs, forward to right and back. scrooge's former self advances and retires to the partners, with fancy steps: hands around; right and left; ladies change; balance; promenade. other characters to fill up the picture. laughter and merriment to follow scrooge's speech._ _spir._ do you know it? _scro._ know it! i was apprenticed here. why, its old fezziwig. bless his heart; its fezziwig alive again, and mrs fezziwig, too. dick wilkins, to be sure, with fezziwig's two daughters. bless me, yes. there he is. he was very much attached to me, was dick. poor dick. and see me, cutting the pigeon-wing. dear, dear, dear! (_dance comes to an end amid general hilarity and merriment, and the scene closes in._) _spir._ a small matter to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. _scro._ small! why, old fezziwig was one of the best men that ever lived. he never missed giving his employees a christmas ball. _spir._ why, is it not! he spent but a few pounds of money--three or four pounds, perhaps--. is that so much that he deserves your praise? _scro._ it isn't that, spirit. he had the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our services light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. say that his power lives in words and looks; in things so light and unsignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up; what then? the happiness he gives is quite as great if it cost a fortune--oh, dear. _spir._ what is the matter? _scro._ nothing, particular. _spir._ something, i think. _scro._ no, no. i should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk, just now, that's all. _spir._ my time grows short, let us hurry on. do you remember this? (_waves wand._) scene iv.--_a room. enter belle and scrooge's former self, at twenty-five years of age._ _scro._ it is belle, as sure as i am a living sinner. _belle._ it matters little to you. to you very little. another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as i would have tried to do, i have no just cause to grieve. _young s._ what idol has displaced you? _belle._ a golden one. _young s._ this is the even-handed dealing of the world. there is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity, as the pursuit of wealth. _belle._ you fear the world too much. all your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. i have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion _gain_, engrosses you. have i not? _young s._ what then? even if i have grown so much wiser, what then? i am not changed toward you, (_she shakes her head._) am i? _belle._ our contract is an old one. it was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. you _are_ changed. when it was made you were another man. _young s._ i was a boy. _belle._ your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are. i am. that which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. how often and how keenly i have thought of this, i will not say. it is enough that i _have_ thought of it, and can release you. _young s._ have i ever sought release? _belle._ in words; no, never. _young s._ in what, then? _belle._ in a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another hope as to its great end. in everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. if this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? ah, no! _young s._ you think not? _belle._ i would gladly think otherwise, if i could; heaven knows. when i have learned a truth like this, i know how strong and irresistible it must be. but if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even i believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you, who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by gain; or choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do i not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? i do; and i release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. (_he is about to speak, but with her head turned from him she resumes._) you may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. a very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. may you be happy in the life you have chosen. fare well. [_exit._] _young s._ (_following_) belle, belle! hear me. let me explain. [_exit._] [_scene closes._] _scro._ spirit, show me no more! conduct me home. why do you delight to torture me? _spir._ o, mortal, what a treasure didst thou cast away. she, whom you resigned for paltry gold, became the happy wife of your former schoolmate, kemper. one shadow more. behold now the tender mother of smiling children, in their joyous home--a home that might have been your own. _scro._ no more! no more! i don't wish to see it. _spir._ behold. (_waves wand._) scene v.--_drawing room. six or eight children, of various sizes, in groups, playing with toys. a christmas tree, trimmed and lighted. mr. and mrs. kemper seated at table; their daughter belle seated at fire, dressing a doll for one of the girls._ _mr. k._ belle, i saw an old friend of yours this afternoon. _mrs. k._ who was it? _mr. k._ guess? _mrs. k._ how can i? tut, don't i know (_laughingly_), mr. scrooge? _mr. k._ mr. scrooge it was--your old sweetheart (_laughing_). i passed his office window, and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, i could scarcely help seeing him. his partner, old jacob marley, lies upon the point of death, i hear. and there he sat, alone. quite alone in the world, i do believe. _mrs. k._ poor old man. [_scene closes._] _scro._ spirit (_in a broken voice_), remove me from this place. _spir._ i told you these were shadows of the things that have been. that they are what they are, do not blame me. _scro._ i am to blame for what they are, and now that i see what they might have been, i am more wretched than ever. remove me! i can not bear it. (_turns upon the spirit, and struggles with it._) leave me! take me back! haunt me no longer! (_seizes the extinguisher-cap, presses it down, while spirit sinks through trap, and disappears. when trap is replaced, scrooge reels to the bedstead, apparently exhausted, and with the cap grasped in his hand, falls asleep._) curtain. stave three. scene i.--_adjoining room in scrooge's house. flat to represent piles of turkeys, geese, game, poultry, joints of meat, sucking-pigs, strings of sausages, oysters, mince pies, plum-puddings, pears, apples, oranges, cakes and bowls of punch; also holly, mistletoe and ivy._ _the spirit of christmas present_ r. [_a giant_], _discovered holding a glowing torch--shaped like a cornucopia, to shed its light on scrooge's entrance._ _spir._ come in! _enter scrooge, timidly_, l. _spir._ come in, and know me better, man. you have never seen the like of me before. _scro._ never. _spir._ have never walked forthwith the younger members of my family, meaning--for i am very young--my elder brothers, born in these later years? _scro._ i don't think i have. i am afraid i have not. have you had many brothers, spirit? _spir._ more than eighteen hundred. _scro._ a tremendous family to provide for. spirit, conduct me where you will. i went forth last night on compulsion, and i learned a lesson which is working now. to-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it. _spir._ touch my robe, and remember that we are invisible, and unable to manifest our presence to those with whom we come in contact. loose not your hold, lest you should lose yourself. [_exeunt_ l.] scene ii.--_bob cratchit's home. mrs. cratchit discovered laying cloth. belinda assisting her. master peter cratchit blowing the fire._ _mrs. c._ what has ever got your precious father, then? and your brother, tiny tim! and martha warn't as late last christmas day by half an hour? _enter little cratchit and martha. door in flat._ _little c._ here's martha, mother! here's martha hurrah! oh, martha, there's such a big goose at the bakers, next door. i smelt it cooking. _mrs. c._ why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! (_kissing her and taking off her bonnet and shawl._) _martha._ we'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. _mrs. c._ well, never mind, so long as you are come. sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, lord bless ye. _little c._ no, no! there's father coming. hide, martha, hide. (_martha gets behind the door._) _enter bob cratchit with tiny tim on his shoulder and little crutch in his hand. spirit and scrooge following, coming down front, and observing with interest all that passes._ _bob._ why, where's our martha? (_looking around and putting tiny tim down._) _little c._ come, tiny tim, and see the pudding boil. [_exeunt children._] _mrs. c._ not coming. _bob._ not coming! not coming, on christmas day? _mar._ (_running into his arms._) dear father! i could not see you disappointed, if it were only in joke. _bob._ (_embraces her._) you're a good girl, martha, and a great comfort to us all. (_commences to mix a bowl of punch._) _mrs. c._ and how did little tim behave? _bob._ as good as gold, and better. somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. tiny tim is growing strong and hearty. _enter little cratchit and peter cratchit with the goose, followed by tiny tim._ _little c._ hurrah! hurrah! here's peter with the big goose. _tiny tim._ hurrah! (_children place chairs around the table; bob puts tiny tim in a high chair beside him, and peter on his left, facing front, belinda and little cratchit opposite. mrs. c. and martha at the end of the table. bob carves and serves the goose, mrs. c. the gravy and mashed potatoes, and martha the apple-sauce._) _little c._ oh! oh! look at the stuffing. _tiny t._ hurrah! _bob._ i don't believe there ever was such a goose as this cooked. it's more tender than a woman's love, and only cost two and sixpence. a merry christmas to us all, my dears. god bless us. _all._ god bless us. _tiny t._ god bless us every one. _scro._ spirit, tell me if tiny tim will live? _spir._ i see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner and a crutch without an owner carefully preserved. if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race will find him here. what then? if he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. _scro._ (_hangs his head._) my very words. _spir._ man--if man you be in heart, not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die. it may be, in the sight of heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. oh, heaven! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers of the dust! _mrs. c._ now, martha and belinda, change the plates, while i bring the nuts, apples and oranges. _bob._ (_rising and placing the punch-bowl on the table._) here is what will remind us it is christmas. (_fills three tumblers and custard-cup without a handle, and passes them to mrs. c., peter and martha._) i'll give you mr. scrooge, the founder of the feast. _mrs. c._ the founder of the feast, indeed! i wish i had him here, i'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and i hope he'd have a good appetite for it. _bob._ my dear, the children! christmas day. _mrs. c._ it should be christmas day, i am sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as mr. scrooge. you know he is, robert. nobody knows it better than you, poor fellow. _bob._ my dear. christmas day. _mrs. c._ i'll drink his health for your sake and the day's, not for his. long life to him. a merry christmas and a happy new year! he'll be very merry and very happy, i have no doubt. _all._ a merry christmas, and a happy new year. _scro._ spirit, take me away. i see the very mention of my name casts a gloom on what, were it not for me, would be a very happy party. _spir._ wait; they will soon put the memory of you aside, and will be ten times merrier than before, and tiny tim will sing. _scro._ no, no; take me hence. (_as they retire toward the door, the spirit shakes his torch toward the party, which restores good humor._) _little c._ oh! we forgot the pudding! _all._ the pudding! the pudding! (_laughter and confusion._) scene iii.--_a street. mansion with lighted window, showing shadow of a group. sounds of music inside._ _enter spirit and scrooge_ l. _a lamp-lighter with torch and ladder_ r; _as he passes them, the spirit waves his torch, and the lamp-lighter exits singing a carol. enter two men, quarreling._ _first man._ but, i know better, it is not so. _second man._ it is so, and i will not submit to contradiction. (_spirit waves his torch over them._) _first man._ well, i declare, here we are, old friends, quarreling on christmas day. it is a shame to quarrel on christmas day. _second man._ so it is a shame to quarrel on this day. god love it, so it is; come, and if we are not merry for the rest of it, it shall not be my fault. [_exeunt._] _scro._ spirit, is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch? _spir._ there is. my own. _scro._ i notice that you sprinkle it to restore good humor, and over dinners. would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day? _spir._ to any kindly given. to a poor one most. _scro._ why to a poor one most? _spir._ because it needs it most. _enter ignorance and want; approaching the spirit, they kneel at his feet. scrooge starts back appalled._ _spir._ look here! oh, man, look here! look! look down here. behold, where graceful youth should have filled their features out and touched them with its freshest tints; a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, has pinched and twisted them and pulled them into shreds. where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurk and glare out, menacing. no change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. _scro._ they are fine-looking children. spirit, are they yours? _spir._ they are man's. and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance, this girl is want. beware them both, and all of their degree; but most of all, beware this boy, for on his brow i see that written which is _doom_, unless the writing be erased. deny it, great city. slander those who tell it ye. admit it for your factious purposes, make it worse, and abide the end. _scro._ have they no refuge or resource? _spir._ are there no prisons? are there no work-houses? _scro._ my very words, again. _spir._ begone! hideous, wretched creatures, your habitation should not be in a christian land. (_ignorance and want slouch off._) let us proceed, time is passing, and my life is hastening to an end. _scro._ are spirit's lives so short? _spir._ my life on this globe is very brief. it ends to-night. _scro._ to-night? _spir._ to-night, at midnight. (_exeunt._) scene iv--_drawing room. mr. and mrs. fred merry, miss julia kemper, miss sarah kemper, mr. thomas topper, mr. henry snapper, discovered seated around the dessert table. servant serving coffee._ _all._ (_laughing_) ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha! _enter spirit and scrooge_, l. _fred._ he said christmas was a humbug, as i live. _all._ ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha! _fred._ he believed it, too. _mrs. m._ more shame for him, fred! _fred._ he's a comical old fellow, that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be; however, his offenses carry their own punishment, and i have nothing to say against him. _mrs. m._ i'm sure he's very rich, fred. at least you always tell _me_ so. _fred._ what of that, my dear. his wealth is of no use to him. he don't do any good with it. he don't make himself comfortable with it. he hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it. _mrs. m._ i have no patience with him. _julia._ neither have i for such a stingy old wretch! _fred._ oh, i have. i am sorry for him; i couldn't be angry with him if i tried. who suffers by his ill whims? himself, always. here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. what's the consequence? he don't lose much of a dinner. _mrs. m._ indeed, i think he loses a very good dinner. _sarah._ a much better one than he could have served up in his old dingy chambers. _fred._ well, i'm very glad to hear it, because i haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. what do _you_ say, topper? _topper._ a bachelor like myself is a wretched outcast, and has no right to express an opinion on such an important subject. _mrs. m._ do go on, fred. he never finishes what he begins to say. he is such a ridiculous fellow. _fred._ i was only going to say, that the consequence of our uncle taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, _is_, as i think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. i am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he finds in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. i mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for i pity him. he may rail at christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--i defy him--if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, uncle scrooge, i wish you a merry christmas and a happy new year! if it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and i think i shook him yesterday.--come, let us have some music. here, thomas, clear away. [_all rise and go to the piano. waiter clears table during the singing of a christmas carol or any selected piece._] _fred._ we must not devote the whole evening to music. suppose we have a game? _all._ agreed. _spir._ time flies; i have grown old. we must hasten on. _scro._ no, no! one half hour, spirit, only one. _fred._ i have a new game to propose. _sarah._ what is it? _fred._ it is a game called yes and no. i am to think of something and you are all to guess what it is. i am thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal that growls and grunts sometimes, and talks sometimes, and lives in london, and walks about the streets, and is not made a show of, and is not led by anybody and don't live in a menagerie, and is not a horse, a cow or a donkey or a bull. there, now guess? _mrs. m._ is it a pig? _fred._ no. _julia._ is it a tiger? _fred._ no. _topper._ is it a dog? _fred._ no. _sarah._ is it a cat? _snapper._ it's a monkey. _fred._ no. _mrs. m._ is it a bear? _fred._ no. _julia._ i have found it out! i know what it is, fred! i know what it is! _fred._ what is it? _julia._ it's your uncle scro-o-o-oge! _fred._ yes. _all._ ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! _mrs. m._ it is hardly fair, you ought to have said yes, when i said, it's a bear. _fred._ he has given us plenty of merriment, i'm sure, and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. here is some mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and when you are ready i say uncle scrooge! (_servant brings wine forward._) _all._ well! uncle scrooge! _fred._ a merry christmas, and a happy new year to the old man. he wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. uncle scrooge! _all._ uncle scrooge, uncle scrooge! (_scrooge seems to make efforts to reply to the toast, while spirit drags him away._) curtain. stave four. scene i.--_scrooge's chambers._ _scrooge discovered upon his knees._ _scro._ can this be the spirit of christmas future that i see approaching? shrouded in a black garment, which conceals its head, its form, its face, and leaves nothing visible save one outstretched hand. i am in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come. it points onward with its hand. you are about to show me the shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. is that so, spirit? (_rises and stands trembling._) ghost of the future, i fear you more than any spectre i have seen; but as i know your purpose is to do me good, and as i hope to live to be another man from what i was, i am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. will you not speak to me? it will not speak. the hand points straight before us. lead on! lead on! the night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, i know. lead on, spirit. (_scrooge crosses stage, as if following spirit to tormentor entrance, and remains while the scene changes._) scene ii.--_a street._ _scro._ ah, here comes stevens and there jones. i have always made it a point to stand well in their esteem--that is in a business point of view. _enter mr. stevens_ r. _and mr. jones_ l., _meeting_. _stevens._ how are you? _jones._ pretty well. so old scratch has got his own, at last, hey? _stev._ so i am told. cold, isn't it? _jones._ seasonable for christmas-time. you're not a skater, i suppose? _stev._ no, no. something else to think of. good morning. [_exeunt in opposite directions._] _scro._ ah, here are more of my old business friends; the spirit directs me to hear what they say. _enter mr. fatchin, mr. snuffer and mr. redface._ _mr. f._ no; i don't know much about it, either way; i only know he's dead. _mr. r._ when did he die? _mr. f._ last night, i believe. _mr. s._ why, what was the matter with him? (_takes snuff out of a large snuff-box._) i thought he would never die. _mr. f._ i did not take the trouble to inquire. _mr. r._ what has he done with his money? _mr. f._ i haven't heard (_yawning_); left it to his company, perhaps. he hasn't left it to _me_. that's all i know. (_all laugh._) it's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life i don't know of any body to go to it. suppose we make up a party and volunteer? _mr. r._ i don't mind going if a lunch is provided. i must be fed if i make one. (_all laugh._) _mr. f._ well, i am the most disinterested, after all, for i never wear black gloves and i never eat lunch. but i'll offer to go, if any body else will. when i come to think of it, i am not at all sure that i wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. _mr. s._ i would volunteer, but that i have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. however, i have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory. _mr. r._ i am with you. let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [_exeunt._] _scro._ to whom can these allusions refer; jacob marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom i have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. i suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as i have now resolved upon a change of life, i shall treasure up all i see and hear. lead on, shadow, i follow! (_crosses to the opposite entrance and remains._) scene iii.--_interior of a junk or pawn-shop._ _enter old joe, ushering in mrs. mangle, mrs. dilber and mr. shroud, door in flat._ _old joe._ you couldn't have met in a better place; come in. you were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. stop till i shut the door of the shop. ah! how it shrieks! there isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, i believe, and i'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. come, come! we are at home here. (_trims smoky lamp at table._) _mrs. m._ what odds, then! what odds, mrs. dilber? (_throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees._) every person has a right to take care of themselves. _he_ always did. _mrs. d._ that's true, indeed! no man cared for himself more than he did. _mrs. m._ why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? we're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, i suppose? _mr. shroud._ no, indeed! we should hope not. _mrs. m._ very well, then: that's enough. who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? not a dead man, i suppose. _mr. s._ (_laughing._) no, indeed. _mrs. m._ if he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? if he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself. _mrs. d._ it's the truest word ever was spoke. it's a judgment on him. _mrs. m._ i wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if i could have laid my hands on anything else. open that bundle, old joe, and let me know the value of it. speak out plain. i'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. we knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, i believe. it's no sin. open the bundle, joe. _mr. s._ oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. here, joe, value these. (_mrs. d. and mr. s. lay their packages on the table and joe proceeds to examine them._) _joe._ (_chalking the figures on the wall as he names them._) a seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-buttons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen--seven. one and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. that's your account, and i wouldn't give another sixpence if i was to be boiled for it. who's next? _mrs. d._ i hope you'll be more liberal with me, mr. joe. i'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living. _joe._ i always give too much to the ladies. it's a weakness of mine, and that's the way i ruin myself. under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. one pound six, that's your account. if you asked me another penny, and made it an open question i'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown. _mrs. m._ now, undo _my_ bundle, joe. _joe._ (_opening bundle._) what do you call this? bed curtains? _mrs. m._ ah! (_laughing._) bed curtains. _joe._ you don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with old scrooge lying there? _mrs. m._ yes i do. why not? _joe._ you were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it. _mrs. m._ i certainly shan't hold my hand, when i can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as _he_ was, i promise you, joe. don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now. _joe._ his blankets? _mrs. m._ whose else's do you think? he isn't likely to take cold without 'em, i dare say. joe. i hope he didn't die of anything catching. eh? (_stopping his work and looking up._) _mrs. m._ don't you be afraid of that: i ain't so fond of his company that i'd loiter about him for such things if he did. ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. it's the best he had, and a fine one, too. they'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me. _joe._ what do you call wasting of it? _mrs. m._ (_laughing._) putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. somebody was fool enough to do it, but i took it off again. if calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. it's as becoming to the body. he can't look uglier than he did in that one. _joe._ well, well! i'll ruin myself again. i'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (_takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts._) _mrs. m._ ha, ha! this is the end of it, you see. he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead. _all._ ha, ha, ha! [_exeunt door in flat, old joe lighting them out._] _scro._ spirit! i see, i see. this is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. my life tends this way. spirit, in leaving this. i shall not leave its lesson; trust me. if there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me. [_crosses to_ l., _while scene closes in_.] scene iv.--_street. exterior of scrooge & marley's counting house._ _scro._ why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by scrooge & marley for many years. i see the house, let me behold what i shall be in the days to come. why, spirit, the house is yonder. why do you point away? (_goes to the window and looks in._) it is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. ah! some one comes. _enter james badger from counting house, going off right, meets mrs. badger at right entrance._ _mrs. b._ ah! james. i have waited for you so long. what news? is it good or bad? _james._ bad. _mrs b._ we are quite ruined? _james._ no. there is hope yet, caroline. _mrs. b._ if _he_ relents, there is. nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened. _james._ he is past relenting. he is dead. _mrs. b._ dead! thank heaven; we are saved. (_pause._) i pray forgiveness, i am sorry that i gave expression to the emotions of my heart. _james._ what the half drunken woman, whom i told you of last night, said to me when i tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what i thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. he was not only very ill, but dying then. _mrs. b._ to whom will our debt be transferred? _james._ i don't know, and i have been unable to ascertain. at all events, before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. we may sleep to-night with light hearts, caroline! _mrs. b._ yes; and our dear children will be brighter when they find the gloom dispelled from the minds of their parents. we cannot deny that this man's death has occasioned some happiness. _james._ come, let us hurry home [_exeunt_, r.] _scro._ spirit, it is evident that the only emotion you can show me, caused by the event foreshadowed, is one of pleasure. let me see some tenderness connected with the death of another, or what has just been shown me will be forever present in my mind. scene v.--_bob cratchit's home. mrs. cratchit, belinda, little cratchit and peter cratchit discovered at table, the two former sewing and the latter reading a book._ _peter._ (_reading._) and he took a child and set him in the midst of them. _scro._ where have i heard those words? i have not dreamed them. why does he not go on? _mrs c._ (_betrays emotions; lays her work upon the table, and puts her hand to her face._) the color hurts my eyes. _bel._ yes, poor tiny tim! _mrs. c._ they're better now. it makes them weak by candle-light; and i wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. it must be near his time. (_resumes her work._) _peter._ past it, rather (_shutting up book_), but i think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother. _mrs. c._ (_in a faltering voice._) i have known him walk with--i have known him walk with tiny tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed. _peter._ and so have i, often. _bel._ and so have i. _mrs. c._ but he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble; no trouble. and there is your father at the door. _enter bob cratchit. belinda and little cratchit meet him; peter places a chair for him, and mrs. c. averts her head to conceal her emotion. bob kisses belinda, and takes little c. on his knees, who lays his little cheek against his face._ _bob._ hard at work, my dears; hard at work. why, how industrious you are, and what progress you are making. you will be done long before sunday. _mrs. c._ sunday! you went to-day, then, robert? _bob._ yes, my dear; i wish you could have gone, it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. but you'll see it often. i promised him that i would walk there on a sunday. my little, little child! my little child! (_rises and retires up stage to compose himself; returns and resumes his place at the table._) oh, i must tell you of the extraordinary kindness of mr scrooge's nephew, whom i have scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting me in the street, and seeing that i looked a little--just a little--down, you know, inquired what had happened to distress me. on which, for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, i told him. i am heartily sorry for it, mr. cratchit, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. by-the-bye, how he ever knew _that_, i don't know. _mrs. c._ knew what, my dear? _bob._ why, that you were a good wife. _peter._ everybody knows that! _bob._ very well observed, my boy. i hope they do. heartily sorry, he said, for your good wife. if i can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card, that's where i live; pray come to me. now, it wasn't for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. it really seemed as if he had known our tiny tim, and felt with us. _mrs. c._ i'm sure he's a good soul. _bob._ you would be sure of it, my dear, if you saw and spoke to him. i shouldn't be at all surprised--mark my words--if he got peter a better situation. _mrs. c._ only hear that, peter. _bel._ and then peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself. _peter._ (_grinning_.) get along with you! _bob._ it's just as likely as not, one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. but, however and whenever we part from one another, i am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny tim, shall we? _all._ never, father. _bob._ and i know, i know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was--although he was a little child--we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor tiny tim in doing it. _all._ no, never, father. (_all rise._) _bob._ i am very happy. i am very happy! (_kisses mrs c., belinda, young c. and shakes hands with peter._) spirit of tiny tim, thy childish essence is from above. curtain. stave five. scene i.--_scrooge's chamber. scrooge discovered on his knees at the easy chair._ _scro._ spirit! hear me! i am not the man i was. i will not be the man i must have been, but for this intercourse. why have shown me all that you have, if i am past all hope? good spirit, your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. assure me that i yet may change the shadows you have shown me, by an altered life. your hand trembles. i will honor christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. i will live in the past, the present and the future. the spirits of all three shall strive within me. i will not shut out the lessons that they teach. oh! tell me i may sponge away the shadows of the future. (_grasps the easy chair in his agony, as if struggling to detain it._) do not go, i entreat you. it shrinks, it has collapsed, it has dwindled down into an easy chair. yes! my own chair, my own room and best--and happiest of all--my own time before me to make amends in. oh, jacob marley, heaven and the christmas time be praised for this! i say it on my knees, old jacob; on my knees! (_rises and goes and opens door_ r., 2d e.) they are not torn down--the bed curtains are not torn down, rings and all. they are there--i am here--the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. they will be; i know they will! (_commences to dress himself, putting everything on wrong, etc._) i don't know what to do! (_laughing and crying._) i am as light as a feather; i am as happy as an angel; i am as merry as a school boy; i am as giddy as a drunken man. a merry christmas to every body! a happy new year to all the world! halloo here! waoop! halloo! (_dancing and capering around the room._) there's the saucepan that the gruel was in; there's the door by which the ghost of jacob marley entered; there's the corner (_pointing into adjoining room_) where the ghost of christmas past sat. it's all right; it's all true; it all happened. ha, ha, ha! (_laughing heartily._) i don't know what day of the month it is. i don't know how long i've been among the spirits. i don't know any thing. i'm quite a baby. never mind; i don't care. i'd rather be a baby. haloo! whoop! halloo here! (_bells or chimes commences to ring. goes to window and opens it._) no fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight, heavenly sky; sweet, fresh air; merry bells. oh, glorious! glorious! (_looking out of window_) hey! you boy in your sunday clothes, what's to-day? _voice outside._ eh? _scro._ what's to day my fine fellow? _voice outside._ to-day! why. christmas day. _scro._ it's christmas day; i haven't missed it. the spirits have done it all in one night. they can do any thing they like. of course they can. of course they can. (_returns to window._) halloo, my fine fellow! _voice outside._ halloo! _scro._ do you know the poulterers in the next street but one, at the corner? _voice outside._ i should hope i did. _scro._ an intelligent boy! a remarkable boy! do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? not the little prize turkey; the big one? _voice outside._ what the one as big as me? _scro._ what a delightful boy. it's a pleasure to talk to him. yes, my buck. _voice outside._ it's hanging there now. _scro._ is it? go and buy it. _voice outside._ what do you take me for? _scro._ no, no. i am in earnest. go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that i may give them the directions where to take it. come back with the man, and i'll give you a shilling. come back with him in less than five minutes, and i'll gave you half a crown. that boy's off like a shot. i'll send it to bob cratchit's. (_rubbing his hands and chuckling._) he shan't know who sent it. it's twice the size of tiny tim. joe miller never made such a joke as sending it to bob's will be. i must write the directions for that turkey. (_sits at table to write._) scene ii--_a street. exterior of scrooge's chambers._ _enter scrooge from the house._ _scro._ (_addressing the knocker on the door._) i shall love it as long as i live. (_patting the knocker._) i scarcely ever looked at it before. what an honest expression it has in its face. it's a wonderful knocker.--here's the turkey. _enter boy with large turkey._ _scro._ halloo! whoop! how are you! merry christmas! there's a turkey for you! this bird never could have stood upon his legs, he would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. here's your half-crown, boy. now take the monster to bob cratchit, camden-town; and tell him it's a present from his grandmother, who wishes him a merry christmas, and a happy new year. hold, that, turkey is too large for you to carry; take a cab, here's the money to pay for it. _enter mr. and mrs. badger_, r. _scro._ why, here comes james badger and wife, as sure as i live. good morning! _james._ good morning, sir! a merry christmas to you! _scro._ the same to you both, and many of them. _mrs. b._ he seems in a good humor, speak to him about it. _scro._ going to church, eh? _james._ we were going, sir, to hear the christmas carols, but mindful of the obligation resting upon us, which falls due to-morrow, and of our inability to meet the payment, we have called to beg your indulgence, and ask for a further extension of time. _scro._ why, james, how much do you owe me? _james._ twenty pounds, sir. _scro._ how long since you contracted the debt? _james._ ten years to morrow, sir. _scro._ then you have already paid me over half the amount in interest, which interest has been compounded, and i have, in fact, received more than the principal. my dear fellow, you owe me nothing, just consider the debt cancelled. _james._ surely, sir, you cannot mean it. _scro._ but i do. _mrs. b._ oh, sir, how can we ever sufficiently manifest our gratitude for such unexpected generosity? _scro._ by saying nothing about it. remember, james and wife, this is christmas day, and on this day, of all others, we should do unto others as we would have them do unto us. _james._ may heaven reward you, sir. you have lightened our hearts of a heavy burden. _scro._ there, there! go to church. _james._ we shall, sir, and remember our benefactor in our devotions. (_shaking hands._) i can say heartily a merry christmas. _mrs. b._ and a happy new year. [_exeunt_ l.] _scro._ i guess they are glad, now, that i am alive, and will be really sorry when i die. halloo! whoop! _enter mr. barnes_, l., _passes across stage; scrooge follows and stops him._ _scro._ my dear sir (_taking both, his hands_), how do you do? i hope you succeeded yesterday. it was very kind of you. a merry christmas to you, sir. _mr. b._ mr. scrooge? _scro._ yes. that is my name, and i fear it may not be pleasant to you. allow me to ask your pardon. and will you have the goodness--(_scrooge whispers in his ear._) _mr. b._ lord bless me--you take my breath away. my dear mr. scrooge, are you really serious? _scro._ if you please. not a farthing less. a great many back payments are included in it, i assure you. will you do me the favor? _mr. b._ my dear sir (_shaking hands with him_), i don't know what to say to such munifi-_scro._ don't say any thing, please. come and see me. will you come and see me? _mr. b._ i will--with great pleasure. [_exit_, r.] _scro._ thank'er. i am much obliged to you. i thank you fifty times. bless you! _enter bob cratchit_, r., _with tiny tim on his shoulder_. _scro._ halloo, bob cratchit! what do you mean by coming here? _bob._ i am very sorry, sir; i was not coming, i was only passing, sir, on my way to hear the christmas carols. _scro._ what right have you to be passing here to remind me that it is christmas? _bob._ it's only once a year, sir; it shall not be repeated. _scro._ now, i'll tell you what, my friend. i am not going to stand this any longer: and therefore i give you permission to pass my house fifty times a day, if you want to. i give you a week's vacation, without any deduction for lost time. i am about to raise your salary. (_giving him a dig in the waistcoat; bob staggers back, and scrooge follows him up._) a merry christmas, bob! (_slapping him on the back._) a merrier christmas, bob, my good fellow, than i have ever given you for many a year! i'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and i'll be tiny tim's godfather. come along, my good fellow, we'll go to church together, and discuss your affairs on the way. tiny tim, what do you say to that? _tiny tim._ i say god bless us, every one. _bob._ i would like to say something, sir, but you have deprived me of the power of speech. _scro._ come on, then, we'll talk it over as we go. come tiny tim, and go with your godfather. (_takes tim on his shoulder. exeunt_, l.) scene iii.--_drawing room in fred merry's house. fred, mrs. fred and mrs. kemper discovered seated at table, conversing._ _fred._ is it possible! you surprise me. i never had the least idea that you had ever met uncle scrooge, much less that he was an old admirer of yours. _mrs. m._ oh! do tell us all about it, dear mother; i'm dying to hear it. _mrs. k._ well, you must know, my dear children, that fanny scrooge--our mother, fred--was my earliest friend and schoolmate, and through her i became acquainted with her brother--your uncle; at that time a noble spirited boy, fresh from his studies. our friendship soon ripened into love, and a betrothal. i cannot describe to you how happy and light hearted i was, and how true and devoted your uncle continued. our marriage was deferred until such time as he should be in a position to provide us a suitable home. after he left mr. fezziwig's, where he had served his time, he entered the service of jacob marley, and subsequently became his partner. it was at this time i observed a change in him; he was not less ardent than before, but i soon discovered that avarice had become the guiding passion of his nature, and that our love was subservient to its influence. foreseeing that only misery could ensue from our union, i released him from the engagement. and now after the lapse of many years, with the exception of the day, five years ago, when he attended your father's funeral, we have not met or exchanged a word with each other. _mrs m._ but, mother, did you really love him? _mrs. k._ i did, my dear--previous to the discovery of the change in him. _mrs. m._ and did you not sacrifice your love in releasing him? _mrs. k._ i merely sacrificed my desires to common sense. love, to be lasting, must be mutual, and if it is not paramount to all other passions, it ends in misery or hate. hence, being guided by judgment, i soon found by experience that true love can again exist if worthily bestowed. _fred._ well, dear mother, i agree with your estimate of uncle scrooge. this is the sixth christmas day of our married life, and each christmas eve i have invited him to come and dine with us, but he has never yet honored us with his presence, and i suppose he never will. _scro._ (_gently opening the door and putting in his head._) fred! may i come in? (_all start and rise, and fred rushes toward the door with both hands extended._) _fred._ why, bless my soul! who's that? _scro._ it's i, your uncle scrooge. i have accepted your invitation. will you let me in? _fred._ let you in! (_shaking him heartily by both hands._) dear heart alive! why not! welcome! welcome! my wife, your niece--yes, you may. (_scrooge kisses her._) our mother. _scro._ belle! heavens! what shall i do? (_aside._) _mrs. k._ i fear that our meeting will be painful. i beg your permission, my son, to retire. _fred._ no, no, no. this is christmas day. everybody can be happy on this day that desires to be, and i know that your meeting can be made a pleasant and agreeable one if you both so will it. "peace on earth and good will to man," is the day's golden maxim. _scro._ although somewhat embarrassed, i concur most heartily in the wise and good-natured counsel of my dear nephew. never before have i experienced the joys common to this day, and never hereafter, while i am permitted to live, shall i miss them. in the past twenty-four hours i have undergone a complete revolution of ideas and desires, and have awakened unto a new life. instead of a sordid, avaricious old man, i trust you will find a cheerful, liberal christian, ever ready to extend to his fellow creatures a merry christmas, and a happy new year. _fred._ why! uncle, i wonder _you_ don't go into parliament. i could dance for joy. (_embracing him._) you dear old man! you shall ever find a hearty welcome here. _mrs. m._ i join with my husband in his earnest congratulations. _mrs. k._ i confess, mr. scrooge, that i am rejoiced to find your nephew's assertions so quickly verified, and that an opportunity is offered to renew an acquaintance which i hope will end in uninterrupted friendship. (_they shake hands._) _fred._ ah, here comes topper and the girls. _enter topper and julia kemper, snapper and sarah kemper._ _fred._ come, girls, hug and kiss your uncle scrooge, he has come to make merry with us. (_takes the girls to scrooge, and endeavors to make them hug, doing most of the hugging himself._) hug him hard! this is topper, and this is snapper, they are both sweet on the girls. (_all laugh._) _julia and sarah._ oh, you bad man. _fred._ come, let us lose no time. what do you say to a game? shall it be blind man's buff? _all._ agreed. _fred._ come, uncle scrooge, the oldest, first. _scro._ do with me as you please; it is christmas day. (_they play a lively game, falling over chairs, etc. scrooge catches each lady, and guesses wrong, until he gets mrs. merry, who, in turn, catches topper, who pulls the bandage down and goes for julia, and pretends that he tells who she is by the way the hair is fixed, etc. scrooge and mrs. kemper retire up stage, and converse._) _julia._ ah, that's not fair, you peeped. i won't play any more. (_goes up stage with topper._) _fred._ well, i could have guessed that catch, and it's nothing more than fair that he should peep before making it. it seems, my dear, that our company have divided into couples. ought we not demand an explanation? _mrs. m._ as master of the house, it is your duty. _fred._ mr. thomas topper and others, we have long suspected you of some horrible design against the peace and happiness of this family. what say you to the charge? _julia._ on behalf our clients, we plead guilty. _sarah._ and urge extenuating circumstances. _fred._ then nothing more remains, but for the court to pronounce sentence, which is, that you be placed under the bonds of matrimony, at such time and place as may suit your convenience. but, madam belle kemper and ebenezer scrooge, what have you to say in your defense. _mrs. k._ only this, that christmas works wonders. _scro._ in other words, mrs. kemper finds that christmas has restored me to a primitive condition, and leaves it to time to test the merits of the happy change. (_to audience._) we all have cause to bless christmas, and it shall always be my delight to wish you a merry christmas, and a happy new year, with tiny tim's addition of "god bless us every one." _curtain._ * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. corrections were made in the text where part of a phrase or name was only partially italic. for example, on page 34, the "f." of _mr. f._ on one part of dialogue had been printed as "_mr._ f." these things were repaired. page iii, "peice" changed to "piece" (piece can be performed) page vi, "past" changed to "past" (hearth for the spirit of christmas past) page vii, "suit" changed to "suite" (fireplace l. suite of) page vii, "dressar" changed to "dresser" (oranges on dresser) page viii, "windew" changed to "window" (g. window l. c.) page viii, "cratchet's" changed to "cratchit's" (scene v.--bob cratchit's) page 10, "calender" changed to "calendar" (the long calendar of) page 12, "sch." changed to "scro." (_scro._. oh! i was afraid) page 15, "make" changed to "made" (i made it link) page 16, "invisable" changed to "invisible" (sat invisible beside) page 19, "use" changed to "used" (than he used to be) page 19, "gho." changed to "scro." (_scro._ know it!) page 20, "to" changed to "too" (the world too much) page 21, "chosing" changed to "choosing" (or choosing her) page 23, "mistleto" changed to "mistletoe" (also holly, mistletoe) page 25, "hurrrh" changed to "hurrah" (hurrah! hurrah! here's) page 26, "ahd" changed to "and" (than before, and tiny) page 28, "scro." changed to "spir." (_spir._ begone! hideous) page 28, "desert" changed to "dessert" (around the dessert table) page 29, "househeepers" changed to "housekeepers" (these young housekeepers) page 29, "vain" changed to "vein" (puts him in the vein) page 31, "prepered" changed to "prepared" (i am prepared to) page 31, "be ore" changed to "before" (before us. lead) page 32, "that" changed to "that's" (that's all i know) page 33, "skrieks" changed to "shrieks" (how it shrieks!) page 34, "mysel" changed to "myself" (i ruin myself) page 45, "suapper" changed to "snapper" (and this is snapper) the giant scissors contents chapter i. in the pear-tree. ii. a new fairy tale. iii. behind the great gate. iv. a letter and a meeting. v. a thanksgiving barbecue. vi. joyce plays ghost. vii. old "number thirty-one". viii. christmas plans and an accident. ix. a great discovery. x. christmas. [illustration: jules] the gate of the giant scissors. chapter i. in the pear-tree. joyce was crying, up in old monsieur gréville's tallest pear-tree. she had gone down to the farthest corner of the garden, out of sight of the house, for she did not want any one to know that she was miserable enough to cry. she was tired of the garden with the high stone wall around it, that made her feel like a prisoner; she was tired of french verbs and foreign faces; she was tired of france, and so homesick for her mother and jack and holland and the baby, that she couldn't help crying. no wonder, for she was only twelve years old, and she had never been out of the little western village where she was born, until the day she started abroad with her cousin kate. now she sat perched up on a limb in a dismal bunch, her chin in her hands and her elbows on her knees. it was a gray afternoon in november; the air was frosty, although the laurel-bushes in the garden were all in bloom. "i s'pect there is snow on the ground at home," thought joyce, "and there's a big, cheerful fire in the sitting-room grate. "holland and the baby are shelling corn, and mary is popping it. dear me! i can smell it just as plain! jack will be coming in from the post-office pretty soon, and maybe he'll have one of my letters. mother will read it out loud, and there they'll all be, thinking that i am having such a fine time; that it is such a grand thing for me to be abroad studying, and having dinner served at night in so many courses, and all that sort of thing. they don't know that i am sitting up here in this pear-tree, lonesome enough to die. oh, if i could only go back home and see them for even five minutes," she sobbed, "but i can't! i can't! there's a whole wide ocean between us!" she shut her eyes, and leaned back against the tree as that desolate feeling of homesickness settled over her like a great miserable ache. then she found that shutting her eyes, and thinking very hard about the little brown house at home, seemed to bring it into plain sight. it was like opening a book, and seeing picture after picture as she turned the pages. there they were in the kitchen, washing dishes, she and mary; and mary was standing on a soap-box to make her tall enough to handle the dishes easily. how her funny little braid of yellow hair bobbed up and down as she worked, and how her dear little freckled face beamed, as they told stories to each other to make the work seem easier. mary's stories all began the same way: "if i had a witch with a wand, this is what we would do." the witch with a wand had come to joyce in the shape of cousin kate ware, and that coming was one of the pictures that joyce could see now, as she thought about it with her eyes closed. there was holland swinging on the gate, waiting for her to come home from school, and trying to tell her by excited gestures, long before she was within speaking distance, that some one was in the parlor. the baby had on his best plaid kilt and new tie, and the tired little mother was sitting talking in the parlor, an unusual thing for her. joyce could see herself going up the path, swinging her sun-bonnet by the strings and taking hurried little bites of a big june apple in order to finish it before going into the house. now she was sitting on the sofa beside cousin kate, feeling very awkward and shy with her little brown fingers clasped in this stranger's soft white hand. she had heard that cousin kate was a very rich old maid, who had spent years abroad, studying music and languages, and she had expected to see a stout, homely woman with bushy eyebrows, like miss teckla schaum, who played the church organ, and taught german in the high school. but cousin kate was altogether unlike miss teckla. she was tall and slender, she was young-looking and pretty, and there was a stylish air about her, from the waves of her soft golden brown hair to the bottom of her tailor-made gown, that was not often seen in this little western village. joyce saw herself glancing admiringly at cousin kate, and then pulling down her dress as far as possible, painfully conscious that her shoes were untied, and white with dust. the next picture was several days later. she and jack were playing mumble-peg outside under the window by the lilac-bushes, and the little mother was just inside the door, bending over a pile of photographs that cousin kate had dropped in her lap. cousin kate was saying, "this beautiful old french villa is where i expect to spend the winter, aunt emily. these are views of tours, the town that lies across the river loire from it, and these are some of the châteaux near by that i intend to visit. they say the purest french in the world is spoken there. i have prevailed on one of the dearest old ladies that ever lived to give me rooms with her. she and her husband live all alone in this big country place, so i shall have to provide against loneliness by taking my company with me. will you let me have joyce for a year?" jack and she stopped playing in sheer astonishment, while cousin kate went on to explain how many advantages she could give the little girl to whom she had taken such a strong fancy. looking through the lilac-bushes, joyce could see her mother wipe her eyes and say, "it seems like pure providence, kate, and i can't stand in the child's way. she'll have to support herself soon, and ought to be prepared for it; but she's the oldest of the five, you know, and she has been like my right hand ever since her father died. there'll not be a minute while she is gone, that i shall not miss her and wish her back. she's the life and sunshine of the whole home." then joyce could see the little brown house turned all topsy-turvy in the whirl of preparation that followed, and the next thing, she was standing on the platform at the station, with her new steamer trunk beside her. half the town was there to bid her good-by. in the excitement of finding herself a person of such importance she forgot how much she was leaving behind her, until looking up, she saw a tender, wistful smile on her mother's face, sadder than any tears. [illustration: where joyce lived] luckily the locomotive whistled just then, and the novelty of getting aboard a train for the first time, helped her to be brave at the parting. she stood on the rear platform of the last car, waving her handkerchief to the group at the station as long as it was in sight, so that the last glimpse her mother should have of her, was with her bright little face all ashine. all these pictures passed so rapidly through joyce's mind, that she had retraced the experiences of the last three months in as many minutes. then, somehow, she felt better. the tears had washed away the ache in her throat. she wiped her eyes and climbed liked a squirrel to the highest limb that could bear her weight. this was not the first time that the old pear-tree had been shaken by joyce's grief, and it knew that her spells of homesickness always ended in this way. there she sat, swinging her plump legs back and forth, her long light hair blowing over the shoulders of her blue jacket, and her saucy little mouth puckered into a soft whistle. she could see over the high wall now. the sun was going down behind the tall lombardy poplars that lined the road, and in a distant field two peasants still at work reminded her of the picture of "the angelus." they seemed like acquaintances on account of the resemblance, for there was a copy of the picture in her little bedroom at home. all around her stretched quiet fields, sloping down to the ancient village of st. symphorien and the river loire. just across the river, so near that she could hear the ringing of the cathedral bell, lay the famous old town of tours. there was something in these country sights and sounds that soothed her with their homely cheerfulness. the crowing of a rooster and the barking of a dog fell on her ear like familiar music. "it's a comfort to hear something speak english," she sighed, "even if it's nothing but a chicken. i do wish that cousin kate wouldn't be so particular about my using french all day long. the one little half-hour at bedtime when she allows me to speak english isn't a drop in the bucket. it's a mercy that i had studied french some before i came, or i would have a lonesome time. i wouldn't be able to ever talk at all." it was getting cold up in the pear-tree. joyce shivered and stepped down to the limb below, but paused in her descent to watch a peddler going down the road with a pack on his back. "oh, he is stopping at the gate with the big scissors!" she cried, so interested that she spoke aloud. "i must wait to see if it opens." there was something mysterious about that gate across the road. like monsieur gréville's, it was plain and solid, reaching as high as the wall. only the lime-trees and the second story windows of the house could be seen above it. on the top it bore an iron medallion, on which was fastened a huge pair of scissors. there was a smaller pair on each gable of the house, also. during the three months that joyce had been in monsieur gréville's home, she had watched every day to see it open; but if any one ever entered or left the place, it was certainly by some other way than this queer gate. what lay beyond it, no one could tell. she had questioned gabriel the coachman, and berthé the maid, in vain. madame gréville said that she remembered having heard, when a child, that the man who built it was named _ciseaux_, and that was why the symbol of this name was hung over the gate and on the gables. he had been regarded as half crazy by his neighbors. the place was still owned by a descendant of his, who had gone to algiers, and left it in charge of two servants. the peddler rang the bell of the gate several times, but failing to arouse any one, shouldered his pack and went off grumbling. then joyce climbed down and walked slowly up the gravelled path to the house. cousin kate had just come back from tours in the pony cart, and was waiting in the door to see if gabriel had all the bundles that she had brought out with her. joyce followed her admiringly into the house. she wished that she could grow up to look exactly like cousin kate, and wondered if she would ever wear such stylish silk-lined skirts, and catch them up in such an airy, graceful way when she ran up-stairs; and if she would ever have a paris hat with long black feathers, and always wear a bunch of sweet violets on her coat. she looked at herself in cousin kate's mirror as she passed it, and sighed. "well, i am better-looking than when i left home," she thought. "that's one comfort. my face isn't freckled now, and my hair is more becoming this way than in tight little pigtails, the way i used to wear it." cousin kate, coming up behind her, looked over her head and smiled at the attractive reflection of joyce's rosy cheeks and straightforward gray eyes. then she stopped suddenly and put her arms around her, saying, "what's the matter, dear? you have been crying." "nothing," answered joyce, but there was a quaver in her voice, and she turned her head aside. cousin kate put her hand under the resolute little chin, and tilted it until she could look into the eyes that dropped under her gaze "you have been crying," she said again, this time in english, "crying because you are homesick. i wonder if it would not be a good occupation for you to open all the bundles that i got this afternoon. there is a saucepan in one, and a big spoon in the other, and all sorts of good things in the others, so that we can make some molasses candy here in my room, over the open fire. while it cooks you can curl up in the big armchair and listen to a fairy tale in the firelight. would you like that, little one?" "oh, yes!" cried joyce, ecstatically. "that's what they are doing at home this minute, i am sure. we always make candy every afternoon in the winter time." presently the saucepan was sitting on the coals, and joyce's little pug nose was rapturously sniffing the odor of bubbling molasses. "i know what i'd like the story to be about," she said, as she stirred the delicious mixture with the new spoon. "make up something about the big gate across the road, with the scissors on it." cousin kate crossed the room, and sat down by the window, where she could look out and see the top of it. "let me think for a few minutes," she said. "i have been very much interested in that old gate myself." she thought so long that the candy was done before she was ready to tell the story; but while it cooled in plates outside on the window-sill, she drew joyce to a seat beside her in the chimney-corner. with her feet on the fender, and the child's head on her shoulder, she began this story, and the firelight dancing on the walls, showed a smile on joyce's contented little face. chapter ii. a new fairy tale. once upon a time, on a far island of the sea, there lived a king with seven sons. the three eldest were tall and dark, with eyes like eagles, and hair like a crow's wing for blackness, and no princes in all the land were so strong and fearless as they. the three youngest sons were tall and fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers, and locks like the summer sun for brightness, and no princes in all the land were so brave and beautiful as they. but the middle son was little and lorn; he was neither dark nor fair; he was neither handsome nor strong. so when the king saw that he never won in the tournaments nor led in the boar hunts, nor sang to his lute among the ladies of the court, he drew his royal robes around him, and henceforth frowned on ethelried. to each of his other sons he gave a portion of his kingdom, armor and plumes, a prancing charger, and a trusty sword; but to ethelried he gave nothing. when the poor prince saw his brothers riding out into the world to win their fortunes, he fain would have followed. throwing himself on his knees before the king, he cried, "oh, royal sire, bestow upon me also a sword and a steed, that i may up and away to follow my brethren." but the king laughed him to scorn. "thou a sword!" he quoth. "thou who hast never done a deed of valor in all thy life! in sooth thou shalt have one, but it shall be one befitting thy maiden size and courage, if so small a weapon can be found in all my kingdom!" now just at that moment it happened that the court tailor came into the room to measure the king for a new mantle of ermine. forthwith the grinning jester began shrieking with laughter, so that the bells upon his motley cap were all set a-jangling. "what now, fool?" demanded the king. "i did but laugh to think the sword of ethelried had been so quickly found," responded the jester, and he pointed to the scissors hanging from the tailor's girdle. "by my troth," exclaimed the king, "it shall be even as thou sayest!" and he commanded that the scissors be taken from the tailor, and buckled to the belt of ethelried. "not until thou hast proved thyself a prince with these, shalt thou come into thy kingdom," he swore with a mighty oath. "until that far day, now get thee gone!" so ethelried left the palace, and wandered away over mountain and moor with a heavy heart. no one knew that he was a prince; no fireside offered him welcome; no lips gave him a friendly greeting. the scissors hung useless and rusting by his side. one night as he lay in a deep forest, too unhappy to sleep, he heard a noise near at hand in the bushes. by the light of the moon he saw that a ferocious wild beast had been caught in a hunter's snare, and was struggling to free itself from the heavy net. his first thought was to slay the animal, for he had had no meat for many days. then he bethought himself that he had no weapon large enough. while he stood gazing at the struggling beast, it turned to him with such a beseeching look in its wild eyes, that he was moved to pity. "thou shalt have thy liberty," he cried, "even though thou shouldst rend me in pieces the moment thou art free. better dead than this craven life to which my father hath doomed me!" so he set to work with the little scissors to cut the great ropes of the net in twain. at first each strand seemed as hard as steel, and the blades of the scissors were so rusty and dull that he could scarcely move them. great beads of sweat stood out on his brow as he bent himself to the task. presently, as he worked, the blades began to grow sharper and sharper, and brighter and brighter, and longer and longer. by the time that the last rope was cut the scissors were as sharp as a broadsword, and half as long as his body. at last he raised the net to let the beast go free. then he sank on his knees in astonishment. it had suddenly disappeared, and in its place stood a beautiful fairy with filmy wings, which shone like rainbows in the moonlight. "prince ethelried," she said in a voice that was like a crystal bell's for sweetness, "dost thou not know that thou art in the domain of a frightful ogre? it was he who changed me into the form of a wild beast, and set the snare to capture me. but for thy fearlessness and faithful perseverance in the task which thou didst in pity undertake, i must have perished at dawn." at this moment there was a distant rumbling as of thunder. "'tis the ogre!" cried the fairy. "we must hasten." seizing the scissors that lay on the ground where ethelried had dropped them, she opened and shut them several times, exclaiming: "scissors, grow a giant's height and save us from the ogre's might!" immediately they grew to an enormous size, and, with blades extended, shot through the tangled thicket ahead of them, cutting down everything that stood in their way,--bushes, stumps, trees, vines; nothing could stand before the fierce onslaught of those mighty blades. the fairy darted down the path thus opened up, and ethelried followed as fast as he could, for the horrible roaring was rapidly coming nearer. at last they reached a wide chasm that bounded the ogre's domain. once across that, they would be out of his power, but it seemed impossible to cross. again the fairy touched the scissors, saying: "giant scissors, bridge the path, and save us from the ogre's wrath." again the scissors grew longer and longer, until they lay across the chasm like a shining bridge. ethelried hurried across after the fairy, trembling and dizzy, for the ogre was now almost upon them. as soon as they were safe on the other side, the fairy blew upon the scissors, and, presto, they became shorter and shorter until they were only the length of an ordinary sword. "here," she said, giving them into his hands; "because thou wast persevering and fearless in setting me free, these shall win for thee thy heart's desire. but remember that thou canst not keep them sharp and shining, unless they are used at least once each day in some unselfish service." before he could thank her she had vanished, and he was left in the forest alone. he could see the ogre standing powerless to hurt him, on the other side of the chasm, and gnashing his teeth, each one of which was as big as a millston. the sight was so terrible, that he turned on his heel, and fled away as fast as his feet could carry him. by the time he reached the edge of the forest he was very tired, and ready to faint from hunger. his heart's greatest desire being for food, he wondered if the scissors could obtain it for him as the fairy had promised. he had spent his last coin and knew not where to go for another. just then he spied a tree, hanging full of great, yellow apples. by standing on tiptoe he could barely reach the lowest one with his scissors. he cut off an apple, and was about to take a bite, when an old witch sprang out of a hollow tree across the road. "so you are the thief who has been stealing my gold apples all this last fortnight!" she exclaimed. "well, you shall never steal again, that i promise you. ho, frog-eye fearsome, seize on him and drag him into your darkest dungeon!" at that, a hideous-looking fellow, with eyes like a frog's, green hair, and horrid clammy webbed fingers, clutched him before he could turn to defend himself. he was thrust into the dungeon and left there all day. at sunset, frog-eye fearsome opened the door to slide in a crust and a cup of water, saying in a croaking voice, "you shall be hanged in the morning, hanged by the neck until you are quite dead." then he stopped to run his webbed fingers through his damp green hair, and grin at the poor captive prince, as if he enjoyed his suffering. but the next morning no one came to take him to the gallows, and he sat all day in total darkness. at sunset frog-eye fearsome opened the door again to thrust in another crust and some water and say, "in the morning you shall be drowned; drowned in the witch's mill-pond with a great stone tied to your heels." again the croaking creature stood and gloated over his victim, then left him to the silence of another long day in the dungeon. the third day he opened the door and hopped in, rubbing his webbed hands together with fiendish pleasure, saying, "you are to have no food and drink to-night, for the witch has thought of a far more horrible punishment for you. in the morning i shall surely come again, and then--beware!" now as he stopped to grin once more at the poor prince, a fly darted in, and, blinded by the darkness of the dungeon, flew straight into a spider's web, above the head of ethelried. "poor creature!" thought ethelried. "thou shalt not be left a prisoner in this dismal spot while i have the power to help thee." he lifted the scissors and with one stroke destroyed the web, and gave the fly its freedom. as soon as the dungeon had ceased to echo with the noise that frog-eye fearsome made in banging shut the heavy door, ethelried heard a low buzzing near his ear. it was the fly, which had alighted on his shoulder. "let an insect in its gratitude teach you this," buzzed the fly. "to-morrow, if you remain here, you must certainly meet your doom, for the witch never keeps a prisoner past the third night. but escape is possible. your prison door is of iron, but the shutter which bars the window is only of wood. cut your way out at midnight, and i will have a friend in waiting to guide you to a place of safety. a faint glimmer of light on the opposite wall shows me the keyhole. i shall make my escape thereat and go to repay thy unselfish service to me. but know that the scissors move only when bidden in rhyme. farewell." the prince spent all the following time until midnight, trying to think of a suitable verse to say to the scissors. the art of rhyming had been neglected in his early education, and it was not until the first cock-crowing began that he succeeded in making this one: "giant scissors, serve me well, and save me from the witch's spell!" as he uttered the words the scissors leaped out of his hand, and began to cut through the wooden shutters as easily as through a cheese. in a very short time the prince had crawled through the opening. there he stood, outside the dungeon, but it was a dark night and he knew not which way to turn. he could hear frog-eye fearsome snoring like a tempest up in the watch-tower, and the old witch was talking in her sleep in seven languages. while he stood looking around him in bewilderment, a firefly alighted on his arm. flashing its little lantern in the prince's face, it cried, "this way! my friend, the fly, sent me to guide you to a place of safety. follow me and trust entirely to my guidance." the prince flung his mantle over his shoulder, and followed on with all possible speed. they stopped first in the witch's orchard, and the firefly held its lantern up while the prince filled his pockets with the fruit. the apples were gold with emerald leaves, and the cherries were rubies, and the grapes were great bunches of amethyst. when the prince had filled his pockets he had enough wealth to provide for all his wants for at least a twelvemonth. the firefly led him on until they came to a town where was a fine inn. there he left him, and flew off to report the prince's safety to the fly and receive the promised reward. here ethelried stayed for many weeks, living like a king on the money that the fruit jewels brought him. all this time the scissors were becoming little and rusty, because he never once used them, as the fairy bade him, in unselfish service for others. but one day he bethought himself of her command, and started out to seek some opportunity to help somebody. soon he came to a tiny hut where a sick man lay moaning, while his wife and children wept beside him. "what is to become of me?" cried the poor peasant. "my grain must fall and rot in the field from overripeness because i have not the strength to rise and harvest it; then indeed must we all starve." ethelried heard him, and that night, when the moon rose, he stole into the field to cut it down with the giant scissors. they were so rusty from long idleness that he could scarcely move them. he tried to think of some rhyme with which to command them; but it had been so long since he had done any thinking, except for his own selfish pleasure, that his brain refused to work. however, he toiled on all night, slowly cutting down the grain stalk by stalk. towards morning the scissors became brighter and sharper, until they finally began to open and shut of their own accord. the whole field was cut by sunrise. now the peasant's wife had risen very early to go down to the spring and dip up some cool water for her husband to drink. she came upon ethelried as he was cutting the last row of the grain, and fell on her knees to thank him. from that day the peasant and all his family were firm friends of ethelried's, and would have gone through fire and water to serve him. after that he had many adventures, and he was very busy, for he never again forgot what the fairy had said, that only unselfish service each day could keep the scissors sharp and shining. when the shepherd lost a little lamb one day on the mountain, it was ethelried who found it caught by the fleece in a tangle of cruel thorns. when he had cut it loose and carried it home, the shepherd also became his firm friend, and would have gone through fire and water to serve him. the grandame whom he supplied with fagots, the merchant whom he rescued from robbers, the king's councillor to whom he gave aid, all became his friends. up and down the land, to beggar or lord, homeless wanderer or high-born dame, he gladly gave unselfish service all unsought, and such as he helped straightway became his friends. day by day the scissors grew sharper and sharper and ever more quick to spring forward at his bidding. one day a herald dashed down the highway, shouting through his silver trumpet that a beautiful princess had been carried away by the ogre. she was the only child of the king of this country, and the knights and nobles of all other realms and all the royal potentates were prayed to come to her rescue. to him who could bring her back to her father's castle should be given the throne and kingdom, as well as the princess herself. so from far and near, indeed from almost every country under the sun, came knights and princes to fight the ogre. one by one their brave heads were cut off and stuck on poles along the moat that surrounded the castle. still the beautiful princess languished in her prison. every night at sunset she was taken up to the roof for a glimpse of the sky, and told to bid good-by to the sun, for the next morning would surely be her last. then she would wring her lily-white hands and wave a sad farewell to her home, lying far to the westward. when the knights saw this they would rush down to the chasm and sound a challenge to the ogre. they were brave men, and they would not have feared to meet the fiercest wild beasts, but many shrunk back when the ogre came rushing out. they dared not meet in single combat, this monster with the gnashing teeth, each one of which was as big as a millston. among those who drew back were ethelried's brothers (the three that were dark and the three that were fair). they would not acknowledge their fear. they said, "we are only waiting to lay some wily plan to capture the ogre." [illustration: the princess.] after several days ethelried reached the place on foot. "see him," laughed one of the brothers that was dark to one that was fair. "he comes afoot; no prancing steed, no waving plumes, no trusty sword; little and lorn, he is not fit to be called a brother to princes." but ethelried heeded not their taunts. he dashed across the drawbridge, and, opening his scissors, cried: "giant scissors, rise in power! grant me my heart's desire this hour!" the crowds on the other side held their breath as the ogre rushed out, brandishing a club as big as a church steeple. then whack! bang! the blows of the scissors, warding off the blows of the mighty club, could be heard for miles around. at last ethelried became so exhausted that he could scarcely raise his hand, and it was plain to be seen that the scissors could not do battle much longer. by this time a great many people, attracted by the terrific noise, had come running up to the moat. the news had spread far and wide that ethelried was in danger; so every one whom he had ever served dropped whatever he was doing, and ran to the scene of the battle. the peasant was there, and the shepherd, and the lords and beggars and high-born dames, all those whom ethelried had ever befriended. as they saw that the poor prince was about to be vanquished, they all began a great lamentation, and cried out bitterly. "he saved my harvest," cried one. "he found my lamb," cried another. "he showed me a greater kindness still," shouted a third. and so they went on, each telling of some unselfish service that the prince had rendered him. their voices all joined at last into such a roar of gratitude that the scissors were given fresh strength on account of it. they grew longer and longer, and stronger and stronger, until with one great swoop they sprang forward and cut the ugly old ogre's head from his shoulders. every cap was thrown up, and such cheering rent the air as has never been heard since. they did not know his name, they did not know that he was prince ethelried, but they knew by his valor that there was royal blood in his veins. so they all cried out long and loud: "_long live the prince! prince ciseaux!_" then the king stepped down from his throne and took off his crown to give to the conqueror, but ethelried put it aside. "nay," he said. "the only kingdom that i crave is the kingdom of a loving heart and a happy fireside. keep all but the princess." so the ogre was killed, and the prince came into his kingdom that was his heart's desire. he married the princess, and there was feasting and merrymaking for seventy days and seventy nights, and they all lived happily ever after. when the feasting was over, and the guests had all gone to their homes, the prince pulled down the house of the ogre and built a new one. on every gable he fastened a pair of shining scissors to remind himself that only through unselfish service to others comes the happiness that is highest and best. over the great entrance gate he hung the ones that had served him so valiantly, saying, "only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts and happy homes can ever enter here." one day the old king, with the brothers of ethelried (the three that were dark and the three that were fair), came riding up to the portal. they thought to share in ethelried's fame and splendor. but the scissors leaped from their place and snapped so angrily in their faces that they turned their horses and fled. then the scissors sprang back to their place again to guard the portal of ethelried, and, to this day, only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts may enter the gate of the giant scissors. chapter iii. behind the great gate. that was the tale of the giant scissors as it was told to joyce in the pleasant fire-lighted room; but behind the great gates the true story went on in a far different way. back of the ciseaux house was a dreary field, growing drearier and browner every moment as the twilight deepened; and across its rough furrows a tired boy was stumbling wearily homeward. he was not more than nine years old, but the careworn expression of his thin white face might have belonged to a little old man of ninety. he was driving two unruly goats towards the house. the chase they led him would have been a laughable sight, had he not looked so small and forlorn plodding along in his clumsy wooden shoes, and a peasant's blouse of blue cotton, several sizes too large for his thin little body. the anxious look in his eyes changed to one of fear as he drew nearer the house. at the sound of a gruff voice bellowing at him from the end of the lane, he winced as if he had been struck. "ha, there, jules! thou lazy vagabond! late again! canst thou never learn that i am not to be kept waiting?" "but, brossard," quavered the boy in his shrill, anxious voice, "it was not my fault, indeed it was not. the goats were so stubborn to-night. they broke through the hedge, and i had to chase them over three fields." "have done with thy lying excuses," was the rough answer. "thou shalt have no supper to-night. maybe an empty stomach will teach thee when my commands fail. hasten and drive the goats into the pen." there was a scowl on brossard's burly red face that made jules's heart bump up in his throat. brossard was only the caretaker of the ciseaux place, but he had been there for twenty years,--so long that he felt himself the master. the real master was in algiers nearly all the time. during his absence the great house was closed, excepting the kitchen and two rooms above it. of these brossard had one and henri the other. henri was the cook; a slow, stupid old man, not to be jogged out of either his good-nature or his slow gait by anything that brossard might say. henri cooked and washed and mended, and hoed in the garden. brossard worked in the fields and shaved down the expenses of their living closer and closer. all that was thus saved fell to his share, or he might not have watched the expenses so carefully. much saving had made him miserly. old therese, the woman with the fish-cart, used to say that he was the stingiest man in all tourraine. she ought to know, for she had sold him a fish every friday during all those twenty years, and he had never once failed to quarrel about the price. five years had gone by since the master's last visit. brossard and henri were not likely to forget that time, for they had been awakened in the dead of night by a loud knocking at the side gate. when they opened it the sight that greeted them made them rub their sleepy eyes to be sure that they saw aright. there stood the master, old martin ciseaux. his hair and fiercely bristling mustache had turned entirely white since they had last seen him. in his arms he carried a child. brossard almost dropped his candle in his first surprise, and his wonder grew until he could hardly contain it, when the curly head raised itself from monsieur's shoulder, and the sleepy baby voice lisped something in a foreign tongue. "by all the saints!" muttered brossard, as he stood aside for his master to pass. "it's my brother jules's grandson," was the curt explanation that monsieur offered. "jules is dead, and so is his son and all the family,--died in america. this is his son's son, jules, the last of the name. if i choose to take him from a foreign poorhouse and give him shelter, it's nobody's business, louis brossard, but my own." with that he strode on up the stairs to his room, the boy still in his arms. this sudden coming of a four-year-old child into their daily life made as little difference to brossard and henri as the presence of the four-months-old puppy. they spread a cot for him in henri's room when the master went back to algiers. they gave him something to eat three times a day when they stopped for their own meals, and then went on with their work as usual. it made no difference to them that he sobbed in the dark for his mother to come and sing him to sleep,--the happy young mother who had petted and humored him in her own fond american fashion. they could not understand his speech; more than that, they could not understand him. why should he mope alone in the garden with that beseeching look of a lost dog in his big, mournful eyes? why should he not play and be happy, like the neighbor's children or the kittens or any other young thing that had life and sunshine? brossard snapped his fingers at him sometimes at first, as he would have done to a playful animal; but when jules drew back, frightened by his foreign speech and rough voice, he began to dislike the timid child. after awhile he never noticed him except to push him aside or to find fault. it was from henri that jules picked up whatever french he learned, and it was from henri also that he had received the one awkward caress, and the only one, that his desolate little heart had known in all the five loveless years that he had been with them. a few months ago brossard had put him out in the field to keep the goats from straying away from their pasture, two stubborn creatures, whose self-willed wanderings had brought many a scolding down on poor jules's head. to-night he was unusually unfortunate, for added to the weary chase they had led him was this stern command that he should go to bed without his supper. he was about to pass into the house, shivering and hungry, when henri put his head out at the window. "brossard," he called, "there isn't enough bread for supper; there's just this dry end of a loaf. you should have bought as i told you, when the baker's cart stopped here this morning." brossard slowly measured the bit of hard, black bread with his eye, and, seeing that there was not half enough to satisfy the appetites of two hungry men, he grudgingly drew a franc from his pocket. "here, jules," he called. "go down to the bakery, and see to it that thou art back by the time that i have milked the goats, or thou shalt go to bed with a beating, as well as supperless. stay!" he added, as jules turned to go. "i have a mind to eat white bread to-night instead of black. it will cost an extra son, so be careful to count the change. it is only once or so in a twelvemonth," he muttered to himself as an excuse for his extravagance. it was half a mile to the village, but down hill all the way, so that jules reached the bakery in a very short time. several customers were ahead of him, however, and he awaited his turn nervously. when he left the shop an old lamplighter was going down the street with torch and ladder, leaving a double line of twinkling lights in his wake, as he disappeared down the wide "paris road." jules watched him a moment, and then ran rapidly on. for many centuries the old village of st. symphorien had echoed with the clatter of wooden shoes on its ancient cobblestones; but never had foot-falls in its narrow, crooked streets kept time to the beating of a lonelier little heart. the officer of customs, at his window beside the gate that shuts in the old town at night, nodded in a surly way as the boy hurried past. once outside the gate, jules walked more slowly, for the road began to wind up-hill. now he was out again in the open country, where a faint light lying over the frosty fields showed that the moon was rising. here and there lamps shone from the windows of houses along the road; across the field came the bark of a dog, welcoming his master; two old peasant women passed him in a creaking cart on their glad way home. at the top of the hill jules stopped to take breath, leaning for a moment against the stone wall. he was faint from hunger, for he had been in the fields since early morning, with nothing for his midday lunch but a handful of boiled chestnuts. the smell of the fresh bread tantalized him beyond endurance. oh, to be able to take a mouthful,--just one little mouthful of that brown, sweet crust! he put his face down close, and shut his eyes, drawing in the delicious odor with long, deep breaths. what bliss it would be to have that whole loaf for his own,--he, little jules, who was to have no supper that night! he held it up in the moonlight, hungrily looking at it on every side. there was not a broken place to be found anywhere on its surface; not one crack in all that hard, brown glaze of crust, from which he might pinch the tiniest crumb. for a moment a mad impulse seized him to tear it in pieces, and eat every scrap, regardless of the reckoning with brossard afterwards. but it was only for a moment. the memory of his last beating stayed his hand. then, fearing to dally with temptation, lest it should master him, he thrust the bread under his arm, and ran every remaining step of the way home. brossard took the loaf from him, and pointed with it to the stairway,--a mute command for jules to go to bed at once. tingling with a sense of injustice, the little fellow wanted to shriek out in all his hunger and misery, defying this monster of a man; but a struggling sparrow might as well have tried to turn on the hawk that held it. he clenched his hands to keep from snatching something from the table, set out so temptingly in the kitchen, but he dared not linger even to look at it. with a feeling of utter helplessness he passed it in silence, his face white and set. dragging his tired feet slowly up the stairs, he went over to the casement window, and swung it open; then, kneeling down, he laid his head on the sill, in the moonlight. was it his dream that came back to him then, or only a memory? he could never be sure, for if it were a memory, it was certainly as strange as any dream, unlike anything he had ever known in his life with henri and brossard. night after night he had comforted himself with the picture that it brought before him. he could see a little white house in the middle of a big lawn. there were vines on the porches, and it must have been early in the evening, for the fireflies were beginning to twinkle over the lawn. and the grass had just been cut, for the air was sweet with the smell of it. a woman, standing on the steps under the vines, was calling "jules, jules, it is time to come in, little son!" but jules, in his white dress and shoulder-knots of blue ribbon, was toddling across the lawn after a firefly. then she began to call him another way. jules had a vague idea that it was a part of some game that they sometimes played together. it sounded like a song, and the words were not like any that he had ever heard since he came to live with henri and brossard. he could not forget them, though, for had they not sung themselves through that beautiful dream every time he had it? "little boy blue, oh, where are you? o, where are you-u-u-u?" he only laughed in the dream picture and ran on after the firefly. then a man came running after him, and, catching him, tossed him up laughingly, and carried him to the house on his shoulder. somebody held a glass of cool, creamy milk for him to drink, and by and by he was in a little white night-gown in the woman's lap. his head was nestled against her shoulder, and he could feel her soft lips touching him on cheeks and eyelids and mouth, before she began to sing: "oh, little boy blue, lay by your horn, and mother will sing of the cows and the corn, till the stars and the angels come to keep their watch, where my baby lies fast asleep." now all of a sudden jules knew that there was another kind of hunger worse than the longing for bread. he wanted the soft touch of those lips again on his mouth and eyelids, the loving pressure of those restful arms, a thousand times more than he had wished for the loaf that he had just brought home. two hot tears, that made his eyes ache in their slow gathering, splashed down on the window-sill. down below henri opened the kitchen door and snapped his fingers to call the dog. looking out, jules saw him set a plate of bones on the step. for a moment he listened to the animal's contented crunching, and then crept across the room to his cot, with a little moan. "o-o-oh--o-oh!" he sobbed. "even the dog has more than i have, and i'm _so_ hungry!" he hid his head awhile in the old quilt; then he raised it again, and, with the tears streaming down his thin little face, sobbed in a heartbroken whisper: "mother! mother! do you know how hungry i am?" a clatter of knives and forks from the kitchen below was the only answer, and he dropped despairingly down again. "she's so far away she can't even hear me!" he moaned. "oh, if i could only be dead, too!" he lay there, crying, till henri had finished washing the supper dishes and had put them clumsily away. the rank odor of tobacco, stealing up the stairs, told him that brossard had settled down to enjoy his evening pipe. through the casement window that was still ajar came the faint notes of an accordeon from monsieur gréville's garden, across the way. gabriel, the coachman, was walking up and down in the moonlight, playing a wheezy accompaniment to the only song he knew. jules did not notice it at first, but after awhile, when he had cried himself quiet, the faint melody began to steal soothingly into his consciousness. his eyelids closed drowsily, and then the accordeon seemed to be singing something to him. he could not understand at first, but just as he was dropping off to sleep he heard it quite clearly: "till the stars and the angels come to keep their watch, where my baby lies fast asleep." late in the night jules awoke with a start, and sat up, wondering what had aroused him. he knew that it must be after midnight, for the moon was nearly down. henri was snoring. suddenly such a strong feeling of hunger came over him, that he could think of nothing else. it was like a gnawing pain. as if he were being led by some power outside of his own will, he slipped to the door of the room. the little bare feet made no noise on the carpetless floor. no mouse could have stolen down the stairs more silently than timid little jules. the latch of the kitchen door gave a loud click that made him draw back with a shiver of alarm; but that was all. after waiting one breathless minute, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, he went on into the pantry. the moon was so far down now, that only a white glimmer of light showed him the faint outline of things; but his keen little nose guided him. there was half a cheese on the swinging shelf, with all the bread that had been left from supper. he broke off great pieces of each in eager haste. then he found a crock of goat's milk. lifting it to his mouth, he drank with big, quick gulps until he had to stop for breath. just as he was about to raise it to his lips again, some instinct of danger made him look up. there in the doorway stood brossard, bigger and darker and more threatening than he had ever seemed before. [illustration: "it fell to the floor with a crash."] a frightened little gasp was all that the child had strength to give. he turned so sick and faint that his nerveless fingers could no longer hold the crock. it fell to the floor with a crash, and the milk spattered all over the pantry. jules was too terrified to utter a sound. it was brossard who made the outcry. jules could only shut his eyes and crouch down trembling, under the shelf. the next instant he was dragged out, and brossard's merciless strap fell again and again on the poor shrinking little body, that writhed under the cruel blows. once more jules dragged himself up-stairs to his cot, this time bruised and sore, too exhausted for tears, too hopeless to think of possible to-morrows. poor little prince in the clutches of the ogre! if only fairy tales might be true! if only some gracious spirit of elfin lore might really come at such a time with its magic wand of healing! then there would be no more little desolate hearts, no more grieved little faces with undried tears upon them in all the earth. over every threshold where a child's wee feet had pattered in and found a home, it would hang its guardian scissors of avenging, so that only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts and gentle hands would ever dare to enter. chapter iv. a letter and a meeting. nearly a week later joyce sat at her desk, hurrying to finish a letter before the postman's arrival. "dear jack," it began. "you and mary will each get a letter this week. hers is the fairy tale that cousin kate told me, about an old gate near here. i wrote it down as well as i could remember. i wish you could see that gate. it gets more interesting every day, and i'd give most anything to see what lies on the other side. maybe i shall soon, for marie has a way of finding out anything she wants to know. marie is my new maid. cousin kate went to paris last week, to be gone until nearly christmas, so she got marie to take care of me. "it seems so odd to have somebody button my boots and brush my hair, and take me out to walk as if i were a big doll. i have to be very dignified and act as if i had always been used to such things. i believe marie would be shocked to death if she knew that i had ever washed dishes, or pulled weeds out of the pavement, or romped with you in the barn. "yesterday when we were out walking i got so tired of acting as if i were a hundred years old, that i felt as if i should scream. 'marie,' i said, 'i've a mind to throw my muff in the fence-corner and run and hang on behind that wagon that's going down-hill.' she had no idea that i was in earnest. she just smiled very politely and said, 'oh, mademoiselle, impossible! how you americans do love to jest.' but it was no joke. you can't imagine how stupid it is to be with nobody but grown people all the time. i'm fairly aching for a good old game of hi spy or prisoner's base with you. there is nothing at all to do, but to take poky walks. "yesterday afternoon we walked down to the river. there's a double row of trees along it on this side, and several benches where people can wait for the tram-cars that pass down this street and then across the bridge into tours. marie found an old friend of hers sitting on one of the benches,--such a big fat woman, and oh, such a gossip! marie said she was tired, so we sat there a long time. her friend's name is clotilde robard. they talked about everybody in st. symphorien. "then i gossiped, too. i asked clotilde robard if she knew why the gate with the big scissors was never opened any more. she told me that she used to be one of the maids there, before she married the spice-monger and was madame robard. years before she went to live there, when the old monsieur ciseaux died, there was a dreadful quarrel about some money. the son that got the property told his brother and sister never to darken his doors again. [illustration: out with marie.] "they went off to america, and that big front gate has never been opened since they passed out of it. clotilde says that some people say that they put a curse on it, and something awful will happen to the first one who dares to go through. isn't that interesting? "the oldest son, mr. martin ciseaux, kept up the place for a long time, just as his father had done, but he never married. all of a sudden he shut up the house, sent away all the servants but the two who take care of it, and went off to algiers to live. five years ago he came back to bring his little grand-nephew, but nobody has seen him since that time. "clotilde says that an orphan asylum would have been a far better home for jules (that is the boy's name), for brossard, the caretaker, is so mean to him. doesn't that make you think of prince ethelried in the fairy tale? 'little and lorn; no fireside welcomed him and no lips gave him a friendly greeting.' "marie says that she has often seen jules down in the field, back of his uncle's house, tending the goats. i hope that i may see him sometime. "oh, dear, the postman has come sooner than i expected. he is talking down in the hall now, and if i do not post this letter now it will miss the evening train and be too late for the next mail steamer. tell mamma that i will answer all her questions about my lessons and clothes next week. oceans of love to everybody in the dear little brown house." hastily scrawling her name, joyce ran out into the hall with her letter. "anything for me?" she asked, anxiously, leaning over the banister to drop the letter into marie's hand. "one, mademoiselle," was the answer. "but it has not a foreign stamp." "oh, from cousin kate!" exclaimed joyce, tearing it open as she went back to her room. at the door she stooped to pick up a piece of paper that had dropped from the envelope. it crackled stiffly as she unfolded it. "money!" she exclaimed in surprise. "a whole twenty franc note. what could cousin kate have sent it for?" the last page of the letter explained. "i have just remembered that december is not very far off, and that whatever little christmas gifts we send home should soon be started on their way. enclosed you will find twenty francs for your christmas shopping. it is not much, but we are too far away to send anything but the simplest little remembrances, things that will not be spoiled in the mail, and on which little or no duty need be paid. you might buy one article each day, so that there will be some purpose in your walks into tours. "i am sorry that i can not be with you on thanksgiving day. we will have to drop it from our calendar this year; not the thanksgiving itself, but the turkey and mince pie part. suppose you take a few francs to give yourself some little treat to mark the day. i hope my dear little girl will not be homesick all by herself. i never should have left just at this time if it had not been very necessary." joyce smoothed out the bank-note and looked at it with sparkling eyes. twenty whole francs! the same as four dollars! all the money that she had ever had in her whole life put together would not have amounted to that much. dimes were scarce in the little brown house, and even pennies seldom found their way into the children's hands when five pairs of little feet were always needing shoes, and five healthy appetites must be satisfied daily. all the time that joyce was pinning her treasure securely in her pocket and putting on her hat and jacket, all the time that she was walking demurely down the road with marie, she was planning different ways in which to spend her fortune. "mademoiselle is very quiet," ventured marie, remembering that one of her duties was to keep up an improving conversation with her little mistress. "yes," answered joyce, half impatiently; "i've got something so lovely to think about, that i'd like to go back and sit down in the garden and just think and think until dark, without being interrupted by anybody." this was marie's opportunity. "then mademoiselle might not object to stopping in the garden of the villa which we are now approaching," she said. "my friend, clotilde robard, is housekeeper there, and i have a very important message to deliver to her." joyce had no objection. "but, marie," she said, as she paused at the gate, "i think i'll not go in. it is so lovely and warm out here in the sun that i'll just sit here on the steps and wait for you." five minutes went by and then ten. by that time joyce had decided how to spend every centime in the whole twenty francs, and marie had not returned. another five minutes went by. it was dull, sitting there facing the lonely highway, down which no one ever seemed to pass. joyce stood up, looked all around, and then slowly sauntered down the road a short distance. here and there in the crevices of the wall blossomed a few hardy wild flowers, which joyce began to gather as she walked. "i'll go around this bend in the road and see what's there," she said to herself. "by that time marie will surely be done with her messages." no one was in sight in any direction, and feeling that no one could be in hearing distance, either, in such a deserted place, she began to sing. it was an old mother goose rhyme that she hummed over and over, in a low voice at first, but louder as she walked on. around the bend in the road there was nothing to be seen but a lonely field where two goats were grazing. on one side of it was a stone wall, on two others a tall hedge, but the side next her sloped down to the road, unfenced. joyce, with her hands filled with the yellow wild flowers, stood looking around her, singing the old rhyme, the song that she had taught the baby to sing before he could talk plainly: "little boy blue, come blow your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn. little blue blue, oh, where are you? oh, where are you-u-u-u?" the gay little voice that had been rising higher and higher, sweet as any bird's, stopped suddenly in mid-air; for, as if in answer to her call, there was a rustling just ahead of her, and a boy who had been lying on his back, looking at the sky, slowly raised himself out of the grass. for an instant joyce was startled; then seeing by his wooden shoes and old blue cotton blouse that he was only a little peasant watching the goats, she smiled at him with a pleasant good morning. he did not answer, but came towards her with a dazed expression on his face, as if he were groping his way through some strange dream. "it is time to go in!" he exclaimed, as if repeating some lesson learned long ago, and half forgotten. joyce stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. the little fellow had spoken in english. "oh, you must be jules," she cried. "aren't you? i've been wanting to find you for ever so long." [illustration: "he came towards her with a dazed expression on his face."] the boy seemed frightened, and did not answer, only looked at her with big, troubled eyes. thinking that she had made a mistake, that she had not heard aright, joyce spoke in french. he answered her timidly. she had not been mistaken; he was jules; he had been asleep, he told her, and when he heard her singing, he thought it was his mother calling him as she used to do, and had started up expecting to see her at last. where was she? did mademoiselle know her? surely she must if she knew the song. it was on the tip of joyce's tongue to tell him that everybody knew that song; that it was as familiar to the children at home as the chirping of crickets on the hearth or the sight of dandelions in the spring-time. but some instinct warned her not to say it. she was glad afterwards, when she found that it was sacred to him, woven in as it was with his one beautiful memory of a home. it was all he had, and the few words that joyce's singing had startled from him were all that he remembered of his mother's speech. if joyce had happened upon him in any other way, it is doubtful if their acquaintance would have grown very rapidly. he was afraid of strangers; but coming as she did with the familiar song that was like an old friend, he felt that he must have known her sometime,--that other time when there was always a sweet voice calling, and fireflies twinkled across a dusky lawn. joyce was not in a hurry for marie to come now. she had a hundred questions to ask, and made the most of her time by talking very fast. "marie will be frightened," she told jules, "if she does not find me at the gate, and will think that the gypsies have stolen me. then she will begin to hunt up and down the road, and i don't know what she would say if she came and found me talking to a strange child out in the fields, so i must hurry back. i am glad that i found you. i have been wishing so long for somebody to play with, and you seem like an old friend because you were born in america. i'm going to ask madame to ask brossard to let you come over sometime." jules watched her as she hurried away, running lightly down the road, her fair hair flying over her shoulders and her short blue skirt fluttering. once she looked back to wave her hand. long after she was out of sight he still stood looking after her, as one might gaze longingly after some visitant from another world. nothing like her had ever dropped into his life before, and he wondered if he should ever see her again. chapter v. a thanksgiving barbecue. "this doesn't seem a bit like thanksgiving day, marie," said joyce, plaintively, as she sat up in bed to take the early breakfast that her maid brought in,--a cup of chocolate and a roll. "in our country the very minute you wake up you can _feel_ that it is a holiday. outdoors it's nearly always cold and gray, with everything covered with snow. inside you can smell turkey and pies and all sorts of good spicy things. here it is so warm that the windows are open and flowers blooming in the garden, and there isn't a thing to make it seem different from any other old day." here her grumbling was interrupted by a knock at the door, and madame gréville's maid, berthé, came in with a message. "madame and monsieur intend spending the day in tours, and since mademoiselle ware has written that mademoiselle joyce is to have no lessons on this american holiday, they will be pleased to have her accompany them in the carriage. she can spend the morning with them there or return immediately with gabriel." "of course i want to go," cried joyce. "i love to drive. but i'd rather come back here to lunch and have it by myself in the garden. berthé, ask madame if i can't have it served in the little kiosk at the end of the arbor." as soon as she had received a most gracious permission, joyce began to make a little plan. it troubled her conscience somewhat, for she felt that she ought to mention it to madame, but she was almost certain that madame would object, and she had set her heart on carrying it out. "i won't speak about it now," she said to herself, "because i am not _sure_ that i am going to do it. mamma would think it was all right, but foreigners are so queer about some things." uncertain as joyce may have been about her future actions, as they drove towards town, no sooner had madame and monsieur stepped from the carriage, on the rue nationale, than she was perfectly sure. "stop at the baker's, gabriel," she ordered as they turned homeward, then at the big grocery on the corner. "cousin kate told me to treat myself to something nice," she said apologetically to her conscience, as she gave up the twenty francs to the clerk to be changed. if gabriel wondered what was in the little parcels which she brought back to the carriage, he made no sign. he only touched his hat respectfully, as she gave the next order: "stop where the road turns by the cemetery, gabriel; at the house with the steps going up to an iron-barred gate. i'll be back in two or three minutes," she said, when she had reached it, and climbed from the carriage. to his surprise, instead of entering the gate, she hurried on past it, around the bend in the road. in a little while she came running back, her shoes covered with damp earth, as if she had been walking in a freshly ploughed field. if gabriel's eyes could have followed her around that bend in the road, he would have seen a sight past his understanding: mademoiselle joyce running at the top of her speed to meet a little goatherd in wooden shoes and blue cotton blouse,--a common little peasant goatherd. "it's thanksgiving day. jules," she announced, gasping, as she sank down on the ground beside him. "we're the only americans here, and everybody has gone off; and cousin kate said to celebrate in some way. i'm going to have a dinner in the garden. i've bought a rabbit, and we'll dig a hole, and make a fire, and barbecue it the way jack and i used to do at home. and we'll roast eggs in the ashes, and have a fine time. i've got a lemon tart and a little iced fruit-cake, too." all this was poured out in such breathless haste, and in such a confusion of tongues, first a sentence of english and then a word of french, that it is no wonder that jules grew bewildered in trying to follow her. she had to begin again at the beginning, and speak very slowly, in order to make him understand that it was a feast day of some kind, and that he, jules, was invited to some sort of a strange, wonderful entertainment in monsieur gréville's garden. "but brossard is away from home," said jules, "and there is no one to watch the goats, and keep them from straying down the road. still it would be just the same if he were home," he added, sadly. "he would not let me go, i am sure. i have never been out of sight of that roof since i first came here, except on errands to the village, when i had to run all the way back." he pointed to the peaked gables, adorned by the scissors of his crazy old ancestor. "brossard isn't your father," cried joyce, indignantly, "nor your uncle, nor your cousin, nor anything else that has a right to shut you up that way. isn't there a field with a fence all around it, that you could drive the goats into for a few hours?" jules shook his head. "well, i can't have my thanksgiving spoiled for just a couple of old goats," exclaimed joyce. "you'll have to bring them along, and we'll shut them up in the carriage-house. you come over in about an hour, and i'll be at the side gate waiting for you." joyce had always been a general in her small way. she made her plans and issued her orders both at home and at school, and the children accepted her leadership as a matter of course. even if jules had not been willing and anxious to go, it is doubtful if he could have mustered courage to oppose the arrangements that she made in such a masterful way; but jules had not the slightest wish to object to anything whatsoever that joyce might propose. it is safe to say that the old garden had never before even dreamed of such a celebration as the one that took place that afternoon behind its moss-coated walls. the time-stained statue of eve, which stood on one side of the fountain, looked across at the weather-beaten figure of adam, on the other side, in stony-eyed surprise. the little marble satyr in the middle of the fountain, which had been grinning ever since its endless shower-bath began, seemed to grin wider than ever, as it watched the children's strange sport. jules dug the little trench according to joyce's directions, and laid the iron grating which she had borrowed from the cook across it, and built the fire underneath. "we ought to have something especially patriotic and thanksgivingey," said joyce, standing on one foot to consider. "oh, now i know," she cried, after a moment's thought. "cousin kate has a lovely big silk flag in the top of her trunk. i'll run and get that, and then i'll recite the 'landing of the pilgrims' to you while the rabbit cooks." presently a savory odor began to steal along the winding paths of the garden, between the laurel-bushes,--a smell of barbecued meat sputtering over the fire. above the door of the little kiosk, with many a soft swish of silken stirrings, hung the beautiful old flag. then a clear little voice floated up through the pine-trees: "my country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee i sing!" all the time that joyce sang, she was moving around the table, setting out the plates and rattling cups and saucers. she could not keep a little quaver out of her voice, for, as she went on, all the scenes of all the times that she had sung that song before came crowding up in her memory. there were the thanksgiving days in the church at home, and the washington's birthdays at school, and two decoration days, when, as a granddaughter of a veteran, she had helped scatter flowers over the soldiers' graves. somehow it made her feel so hopelessly far away from all that made life dear to be singing of that "sweet land of liberty" in a foreign country, with only poor little alien jules for company. maybe that is why the boy's first lesson in patriotism was given so earnestly by his homesick little teacher. something that could not be put into words stirred within him, as, looking up at the soft silken flutterings of the old flag, he listened for the first time to the story of the pilgrim fathers. the rabbit cooked slowly, so slowly that there was time for jules to learn how to play mumble-peg while they waited. at last it was done, and joyce proudly plumped it into the platter that had been waiting for it. marie had already brought out a bountiful lunch, cold meats and salad and a dainty pudding. by the time that joyce had added her contribution to the feast, there was scarcely an inch of the table left uncovered. jules did not know the names of half the dishes. not many miles away from that old garden, scattered up and down the loire throughout all the region of fair tourraine, rise the turrets of many an old château. great banquet halls, where kings and queens once feasted, still stand as silent witnesses of a gay bygone court life; but never in any château or palace among them all was feast more thoroughly enjoyed than this impromptu dinner in the garden, where a little goatherd was the only guest. it was an enchanted spot to jules, made so by the magic of joyce's wonderful gift of story-telling. for the first time in his life that he could remember, he heard of santa claus and christmas trees, of bluebeard and aladdin's lamp, and all the dear old fairy tales that were so entrancing he almost forgot to eat. then they played that he was the prince, prince ethelried, and that the goats in the carriage-house were his royal steeds, and that joyce was a queen whom he had come to visit. [illustration: a lesson in patriotism.] but it came to an end, as all beautiful things must do. the bells in the village rang four, and prince ethelried started up as cinderella must have done when the pumpkin coach disappeared. he was no longer a king's son; he was only jules, the little goatherd, who must hurry back to the field before the coming of brossard. joyce went with him to the carriage-house. together they swung open the great door. then an exclamation of dismay fell from joyce's lips. all over the floor were scattered scraps of leather and cloth and hair, the kind used in upholstering. the goats had whiled away the hours of their imprisonment by chewing up the cushions of the pony cart. jules turned pale with fright. knowing so little of the world, he judged all grown people by his knowledge of henri and brossard. "oh, what will they do to us?" he gasped. "nothing at all," answered joyce, bravely, although her heart beat twice as fast as usual as monsieur's accusing face rose up before her. "it was all my fault," said jules, ready to cry. "what must i do?" joyce saw his distress, and with quick womanly tact recognized her duty as hostess. it would never do to let this, his first thanksgiving day, be clouded by a single unhappy remembrance. she would pretend that it was a part of their last game; so she waved her hand, and said, in a theatrical voice, "you forget, prince ethelried, that in the castle of irmingarde she rules supreme. if it is the pleasure of your royal steeds to feed upon cushions they shall not be denied, even though they choose my own coach pillows, of gold-cloth and velour." "but what if gabriel should tell brossard?" questioned jules, his teeth almost chattering at the mere thought. "oh, never mind, jules," she answered, laughingly. "don't worry about a little thing like that. i'll make it all right with madame as soon as she gets home." jules, with utmost faith in joyce's power to do anything that she might undertake, drew a long breath of relief. half a dozen times between the gate and the lane that led into the ciseaux field, he turned around to wave his old cap in answer to the hopeful flutter of her little white handkerchief; but when he was out of sight she went back to the carriage-house and looked at the wreck of the cushions with a sinking heart. after that second look, she was not so sure of making it all right with madame. going slowly up to her room, she curled up in the window-seat to wait for the sound of the carriage wheels. the blue parrots on the wall-paper sat in their blue hoops in straight rows from floor to ceiling, and hung all their dismal heads. it seemed to joyce as if there were thousands of them, and that each one was more unhappy than any of the others. the blue roses on the bed-curtains, that had been in such gay blossom a few hours before, looked ugly and unnatural now. over the mantel hung a picture that had been a pleasure to joyce ever since she had taken up her abode in this quaint blue room. it was called "a message from noël," and showed an angel flying down with gifts to fill a pair of little wooden shoes that some child had put out on a window-sill below. when madame had explained that the little french children put out their shoes for saint noël to fill, instead of hanging stockings for santa claus, joyce had been so charmed with the picture that she declared that she intended to follow the french custom herself, this year. now, even the picture looked different, since she had lost her joyful anticipations of christmas. "it is all no-el to me now," she sobbed. "no tree, no santa claus, and now, since the money must go to pay for the goats' mischief, no presents for anybody in the dear little brown house at home,--not even mamma and the baby!" a big salty tear trickled down the side of joyce's nose and splashed on her hand; then another one. it was such a gloomy ending for her happy thanksgiving day. one consoling thought came to her in time to stop the deluge that threatened. "anyway, jules has had a good time for once in his life." the thought cheered her so much that, when marie came in to light the lamps, joyce was walking up and down the room with her hands behind her back, singing. as soon as she was dressed for dinner she went down-stairs, but found no one in the drawing-room. a small fire burned cozily on the hearth, for the november nights were growing chilly. joyce picked up a book and tried to read, but found herself looking towards the door fully as often as at the page before her. presently she set her teeth together and swallowed hard, for there was a rustling in the hall. the portière was pushed aside and madame swept into the room in a dinner-gown of dark red velvet. to joyce's waiting eyes she seemed more imposing, more elegant, and more unapproachable than she had ever been before. at madame's entrance joyce rose as usual, but when the red velvet train had swept on to a seat beside the fire, she still remained standing. her lips seemed glued together after those first words of greeting. "be seated, mademoiselle," said the lady, with a graceful motion of her hand towards a chair. "how have you enjoyed your holiday?" joyce gave a final swallow of the choking lump in her throat, and began her humble confession that she had framed up-stairs among the rows of dismal blue wall-paper parrots. she started with clotilde robard's story of jules, told of her accidental meeting with him, of all that she knew of his hard life with brossard, and of her longing for some one to play with. then she acknowledged that she had planned the barbecue secretly, fearing that madame would not allow her to invite the little goatherd. at the conclusion, she opened the handkerchief which she had been holding tightly clenched in her hand, and poured its contents in the red velvet lap. "there's all that is left of my christmas money," she said, sadly, "seventeen francs and two sous. if it isn't enough to pay for the cushions, i'll write to cousin kate, and maybe she will lend me the rest." madame gathered up the handful of coin, and slowly rose. "it is only a step to the carriage-house," she said. "if you will kindly ring for berthé to bring a lamp we will look to see how much damage has been done." it was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a few minutes later. first came berthé, in her black dress and white cap, holding a lamp high above her head, and screwing her forehead into a mass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness. after her came madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in her high-heeled little slippers. joyce brought up the rear, stumbling along in the darkness of madame's large shadow, so absorbed in her troubles that she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinning satyr in the fountain. eve, looking across at adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes, as much as to say, "humph! somebody else has been getting into trouble. there's more kinds of forbidden fruit than one; pony-cart cushions, for instance." berthé opened the door, and madame stepped inside the carriage-house. with her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among the wreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slipper now and then. madame wore velvet dinner-gowns, it is true, and her house was elegant in its fine old furnishings bought generations ago; but only her dressmaker and herself knew how many times those gowns had been ripped and cleaned and remodelled. it was only constant housewifely skill that kept the antique furniture repaired and the ancient brocade hangings from falling into holes. none but a french woman, trained in petty economies, could have guessed how little money and how much thought was spent in keeping her table up to its high standard of excellence. now as she looked and estimated, counting the fingers of one hand with the thumb of the other, a wish stirred in her kind old heart that she need not take the child's money; but new cushions must be bought, and she must be just to herself before she could be generous to others. so she went on with her estimating and counting, and then called gabriel to consult with him. "much of the same hair can be used again," she said, finally, "and the cushions were partly worn, so that it would not be right for you to have to bear the whole expense of new ones. i shall keep sixteen,--no, i shall keep only fifteen francs of your money, mademoiselle. i am sorry to take any of it, since you have been so frank with me; but you must see that it would not be justice for me to have to suffer in consequence of your fault. in france, children do nothing without the permission of their elders, and it would be well for you to adopt the same rule, my dear mademoiselle." here she dropped two francs and two sous into joyce's hand. it was more than she had dared to hope for. now there would be at least a little picture-book apiece for the children at home. this time joyce saw the grin on the satyr's face when they passed the fountain. she was smiling herself when they entered the house, where monsieur was waiting to escort them politely in to dinner. chapter vi. joyce plays ghost. monsieur ciseaux was coming home to live. gabriel brought the news when he came back from market. he had met henri on the road and heard it from him. monsieur was coming home. that was all they knew; as to the day or the hour, no one could guess. that was the way with monsieur, henri said. he was so peculiar one never knew what to expect. although the work of opening the great house was begun immediately, and a thorough cleaning was in progress from garret to cellar, brossard did not believe that his master would really be at home before the end of the week. he made his own plans accordingly, although he hurried henri relentlessly with the cleaning. as soon as joyce heard the news she made an excuse to slip away, and ran down to the field to jules. she found him paler than usual, and there was a swollen look about his eyes that made her think that maybe he had been crying. "what's the matter?" she asked. "aren't you glad that your uncle is coming home?" jules gave a cautious glance over his shoulder towards the house, and then looked up at joyce. heretofore, some inward monitor of pride had closed his lips about himself whenever he had been with her, but, since the thanksgiving day that had made them such firm friends, he had wished every hour that he could tell her of his troubles. he felt that she was the only person in the world who took any interest in him. although she was only three years older than himself, she had that motherly little way with her that eldest daughters are apt to acquire when there is a whole brood of little brothers and sisters constantly claiming attention. so when joyce asked again, "what's the matter, jules?" with so much anxious sympathy in her face and voice, the child found himself blurting out the truth. "brossard beat me again last night," he exclaimed. then, in response to her indignant exclamation, he poured out the whole story of his ill-treatment. "see here!" he cried, in conclusion, unbuttoning his blouse and baring his thin little shoulders. great red welts lay across them, and one arm was blue with a big mottled bruise. joyce shivered and closed her eyes an instant to shut out the sight that brought the quick tears of sympathy. "oh, you poor little thing!" she cried. "i'm going to tell madame." "no, don't!" begged jules. "if brossard ever found out that i had told anybody, i believe that he would half kill me. he punishes me for the least thing. i had no breakfast this morning because i dropped an old plate and broke it." "do you mean to say," cried joyce, "that you have been out here in the field since sunrise without a bite to eat?" jules nodded. "then i'm going straight home to get you something." before he could answer she was darting over the fields like a little flying squirrel. "oh, what if it were jack!" she kept repeating as she ran. "dear old jack, beaten and starved, without anybody to love him or say a kind word to him." the mere thought of such misfortune brought a sob. in a very few minutes jules saw her coming across the field again, more slowly this time, for both hands were full, and without their aid she had no way to steady the big hat that flapped forward into her eyes at every step. jules eyed the food ravenously. he had not known how weak and hungry he was until then. "it will not be like this when your uncle comes home," said joyce, as she watched the big mouthfuls disappear down the grateful little throat. jules shrugged his shoulders, answering tremulously, "oh, yes, it will be lots worse. brossard says that my uncle martin has a terrible temper, and that he turned his poor sister and my grandfather out of the house one stormy might. brossard says he shall tell him how troublesome i am, and likely he will turn me out, too. or, if he doesn't do that, they will both whip me every day." joyce stamped her foot. "i don't believe it," she cried, indignantly. "brossard is only trying to scare you. your uncle is an old man now, so old that he must be sorry for the way he acted when he was young. why, of course he must be," she repeated, "or he never would have brought you here when you were left a homeless baby. more than that, i believe he will be angry when he finds how you have been treated. maybe he will send brossard away when you tell him." "i would not dare to tell him," said jules, shrinking back at the bare suggestion. "then _i_ dare," cried joyce with flashing eyes. "i am not afraid of brossard or henri or your uncle, or any man that i ever knew. what's more, i intend to march over here just as soon as your uncle comes home, and tell him right before brossard how you have been treated." jules gasped in admiration of such reckless courage. "seems to me brossard himself would be afraid of you if you looked at him that way." then his voice sank to a whisper. "brossard is afraid of one thing, i've heard him tell henri so, and that is _ghosts_. they talk about them every night when the wind blows hard and makes queer noises in the chimney. sometimes they are afraid to put out their candles for fear some evil spirit might be in the room." "i'm glad he is afraid of something, the mean old thing!" exclaimed joyce. for a few moments nothing more was said, but jules felt comforted now that he had unburdened his long pent up little heart. he reached out for several blades of grass and began idly twisting them around his finger. joyce sat with her hands clasped over her knees, and a wicked little gleam in her eyes that boded mischief. presently she giggled as if some amusing thought had occurred to her, and when jules looked up inquiringly she began noiselessly clapping her hands together. "i've thought of the best thing," she said. "i'll fix old brossard now. jack and i have played ghost many a time, and have even scared each other while we were doing it, because we were so frightful-looking. we put long sheets all over us and went about with pumpkin jack-o'-lanterns on our heads. oh, we looked awful, all in white, with fire shining out of those hideous eyes and mouths. if i knew when brossard was likely to whip you again, i'd suddenly appear on the scene and shriek out like a banshee and make him stop. wouldn't it be lovely?" she cried, more carried away with the idea the longer she thought of it. "why, it would be like acting our fairy story. you are the prince, and i will be the giant scissors and rescue you from the ogre. now let me see if i can think of a rhyme for you to say whenever you need me." joyce put her hands over her ears and began to mumble something that had no meaning whatever for jules: "ghost--post--roast--toast,--no that will never do; need--speed deed,--no! help--yelp (i wish i could make him yelp),--friend--spend--lend,--that's it. i shall try that." there was a long silence, during which joyce whispered to herself with closed eyes. "now i've got it," she announced, triumphantly, "and it's every bit as good as cousin kate's: "giant scissors, fearless friend, hasten, pray, thy aid to lend. "if you could just say that loud enough for me to hear i'd come rushing in and save you." jules repeated the rhyme several times, until he was sure that he could remember it, and then joyce stood up to go. "good-by, fearless friend," said jules. "i wish i were brave like you." joyce smiled in a superior sort of way, much flattered by the new title. going home across the field she held her head a trifle higher than usual, and carried on an imaginary conversation with brossard, in which she made him quail before her scathing rebukes. joyce did not take her usual walk that afternoon. she spent the time behind locked doors busy with paste, scissors, and a big muff-box, the best foundation she could find for a jack-o'-lantern. first she covered the box with white paper and cut a hideous face in one side,--great staring eyes, and a frightful grinning mouth. with a bit of wire she fastened a candle inside and shut down the lid. "looks too much like a box yet," she said, after a critical examination. "it needs some hair and a beard. wonder what i can make it of." she glanced all around the room for a suggestion, and then closed her eyes to think. finally she went over to her bed, and, turning the covers back from one corner, began ripping a seam in the mattress. when the opening was wide enough she put in her thumb and finger and pulled out a handful of the curled hair. "i can easily put it back when i have used it, and sew up the hole in the mattress," she said to her conscience. "my! this is exactly what i needed." the hair was mixed, white and black, coarse and curly as a negro's wool. she covered the top of the pasteboard head with it, and was so pleased that she added long beard and fierce mustache to the already hideous mouth. when that was all done she took it into a dark closet and lighted the candle. the monster's head glared at her from the depth of the closet, and she skipped back and forth in front of it, wringing her hands in delight. "oh, if jack could only see it! if he could only see it!" she kept exclaiming. "it is better than any pumpkin head we ever made, and scary enough to throw old brossard into a fit. i can hardly wait until it is dark enough to go over." meanwhile the short winter day drew on towards the close. jules, out in the field with the goats, walked back and forth, back and forth, trying to keep warm. brossard, who had gone five miles down the paris road to bargain about some grain, sat comfortably in a little tobacco shop, with a pipe in his mouth and a glass and bottle on the table at his elbow. henri was at home, still scrubbing and cleaning. the front of the great house was in order, with even the fires laid on all the hearths ready for lighting. now he was scrubbing the back stairs. his brush bumped noisily against the steps, and the sound of its scouring was nearly drowned by the jerky tune which the old fellow sung through his nose as he worked. a carriage drove slowly down the road and stopped at the gate with the scissors; then, in obedience to some command from within, the vehicle drove on to the smaller gate beyond. an old man with white hair and bristling mustache slowly alighted. the master had come home. he put out his hand as if to ring the bell, then on second thought drew a key from his pocket and fitted it in the lock. the gate swung back and he passed inside. the old house looked gray and forbidding in the dull light of the late afternoon. he frowned up at it, and it frowned down on him, standing there as cold and grim as itself. that was his only welcome. the doors and windows were all shut, so that he caught only a faint sound of the bump, thump of the scrubbing-brush as it accompanied henri's high-pitched tune down the back stairs. without giving any warning of his arrival, he motioned the man beside the coachman to follow with his trunk, and silently led the way up-stairs. when the trunk had been unstrapped and the man had departed, monsieur gave one slow glance all around the room. it was in perfect readiness for him. he set a match to the kindling laid in the grate, and then closed the door into the hall. the master had come home again, more silent, more mysterious in his movements than before. henri finished his scrubbing and his song, and, going down into the kitchen, began preparations for supper. a long time after, jules came up from the field, put the goats in their place, and crept in behind the kitchen stove. then it was that joyce, from her watch-tower of her window, saw brossard driving home in the market-cart. "maybe i'll have a chance to scare him while he is putting the horse up and feeding it," she thought. it was in the dim gloaming when she could easily slip along by the hedges without attracting attention. bareheaded, and in breathless haste to reach the barn before brossard, she ran down the road, keeping close to the hedge, along which the wind raced also, blowing the dead leaves almost as high as her head. slipping through a hole in the hedge, just as brossard drove in at the gate, she ran into the barn and crouched down behind the door. there she wrapped herself in the sheet that she had brought with her for the purpose, and proceeded to strike a match to light the lantern. the first one flickered and went out. the second did the same. brossard was calling angrily for jules now, and she struck another match in nervous haste, this time touching the wick with it before the wind could interfere. then she drew her dress over the lantern to hide the light. "wouldn't jack enjoy this," she thought, with a daring little giggle that almost betrayed her hiding-place. "i tell thee it is thy fault," cried brossard's angry voice, drawing nearer the barn. "but i tried," began jules, timidly. his trembling excuse was interrupted by brossard, who had seized him by the arm. they were now on the threshold of the barn, which was as dark as a pocket inside. joyce, peeping through the crack of the door, saw the man's arm raised in the dim twilight outside. "oh, he is really going to beat him," she thought, turning faint at the prospect. then her indignation overcame every other feeling as she heard a heavy halter-strap whiz through the air and fall with a sickening blow across jules's shoulders. she had planned a scene something like this while she worked away at the lantern that afternoon. now she felt as if she were acting a part in some private theatrical performance. jules's cry gave her the cue, and the courage to appear. as the second blow fell across jules's smarting shoulders, a low, blood-curdling wail came from the dark depths of the barn. joyce had not practised that dismal moan of a banshee to no purpose in her ghost dances at home with jack. it rose and fell and quivered and rose again in cadences of horror. there was something awful, something inhuman, in that fiendish, long-drawn shriek. brossard's arm fell to his side paralyzed with fear, as that same hoarse voice cried, solemnly: "brossard, beware! beware!" but worse than that voice of sepulchral warning was the white-sheeted figure, coming towards him with a wavering, ghostly motion, fire shooting from the demon-like eyes, and flaming from the hideous mouth. brossard sank on his knees in a shivering heap, and began crossing himself. his hair was upright with horror, and his tongue stiff. jules knew who it was that danced around them in such giddy circles, first darting towards them with threatening gestures, and then gliding back to utter one of those awful, sickening wails. he knew that under that fiery head and wrapped in that spectral dress was his "fearless friend," who, according to promise, had hastened her aid to lend; nevertheless, he was afraid of her himself. he had never imagined that anything could look so terrifying. the wail reached henri's ears and aroused his curiosity. cautiously opening the kitchen door, he thrust out his head, and then nearly fell backward in his haste to draw it in again and slam the door. one glimpse of the ghost in the barnyard was quite enough for henri. altogether the performance probably did not last longer than a minute, but each of the sixty seconds seemed endless to brossard. with a final die-away moan joyce glided towards the gate, delighted beyond measure with her success; but her delight did not last long. just as she turned the corner of the house, some one standing in the shadow of it clutched her. a strong arm was thrown around her, and a firm hand snatched the lantern, and tore the sheet away from her face. [illustration: "brossard, beware! beware!"] it was joyce's turn to be terrified. "let me go!" she shrieked, in english. with one desperate wrench she broke away, and by the light of the grinning jack-o'-lantern saw who was her captor. she was face to face with monsieur ciseaux. "what does this mean?" he asked, severely. "why do you come masquerading here to frighten my servants in this manner?" for an instant joyce stood speechless. her boasted courage had forsaken her. it was only for an instant, however, for the rhyme that she had made seemed to sound in her ears as distinctly as if jules were calling to her: "giant scissors, fearless friend, hasten, pray, thy aid to lend." "i will be a fearless friend," she thought. looking defiantly up into the angry face she demanded: "then why do you keep such servants? i came because they needed to be frightened, and i'm glad you caught me, for i told jules that i should tell you about them as soon as you got home. brossard has starved and beaten him like a dog ever since he has been here. i just hope that you will look at the stripes and bruises on his poor little back. he begged me not to tell, for brossard said you would likely drive him away, as you did your brother and sister. but even if you do, the neighbors say that an orphan asylum would be a far better home for jules than this has been. i hope you'll excuse me, monsieur, i truly do, but i'm an american, and i can't stand by and keep still when i see anybody being abused, even if i am a girl, and it isn't polite for me to talk so to older people." joyce fired out the words as if they had been bullets, and so rapidly that monsieur could scarcely follow her meaning. then, having relieved her mind, and fearing that maybe she had been rude in speaking so forcibly to such an old gentleman, she very humbly begged his pardon. before he could recover from her rapid change in manner and her torrent of words, she reached out her hand, saying, in the meekest of little voices, "and will you please give me back those things, monsieur? the sheet is madame gréville's, and i've got to stuff that hair back in the mattress to-night." monsieur gave them to her, still too astonished for words. he had never before heard any child speak in such a way. this one seemed more like a wild, uncanny little sprite than like any of the little girls he had known heretofore. before he could recover from his bewilderment, joyce had gone. "good night, monsieur," she called, as the gate clanged behind her. chapter vii. old "number thirty-one." no sooner had the gate closed upon the subdued little ghost, shorn now of its terrors, than the old man strode forward to the place where brossard crouched in the straw, still crossing himself. this sudden appearance of his master at such a time only added to brossard's fright. as for jules, his knees shook until he could scarcely stand. henri, his curiosity lending him courage, cautiously opened the kitchen door to peer out again. emboldened by the silence, he flung the door wide open, sending a broad stream of lamplight across the little group in the barnyard. without a word of greeting monsieur laid hold of the trembling jules and drew him nearer the door. throwing open the child's blouse, he examined the thin little shoulders, which shrank away as if to dodge some expected blow. "go to my room," was all the old man said to him. then he turned fiercely towards brossard. his angry tones reached jules even after he had mounted the stairs and closed the door. the child crept close to the cheerful fire, and, crouching down on the rug, waited in a shiver of nervousness for his uncle's step on the stair. meanwhile, joyce, hurrying home all a-tingle with the excitement of her adventure, wondered anxiously what would be the result of it. under cover of the dusk she slipped into the house unobserved. there was barely time to dress for dinner. when she made her appearance monsieur complimented her unusually red cheeks. "doubtless mademoiselle has had a fine promenade," he said. "no," answered joyce, with a blush that made them redder still, and that caused madame to look at her so keenly that she felt those sharp eyes must be reading her inmost thoughts. it disturbed her so that she upset the salt, spilled a glass of water, and started to eat her soup with a fork. she glanced in an embarrassed way from madame to monsieur, and gave a nervous little laugh. "the little mademoiselle has been in mischief again," remarked monsieur, with a smile. "what is it this time?" the smile was so encouraging that joyce's determination not to tell melted away, and she began a laughable account of the afternoon's adventure. at first both the old people looked shocked. monsieur shrugged his shoulders and pulled his gray beard thoughtfully. madame threw up her hands at the end of each sentence like horrified little exclamation points. but when joyce had told the entire story neither of them had a word of blame, because their sympathies were so thoroughly aroused for jules. "i shall ask monsieur ciseaux to allow the child to visit here sometimes," said madame, her kind old heart full of pity for the motherless little fellow; "and i shall also explain that it was only your desire to save jules from ill treatment that caused you to do such an unusual thing. otherwise he might think you too bold and too--well, peculiar, to be a fit playmate for his little nephew." "oh, was it really so improper and horrid of me, madame?" asked joyce, anxiously. madame hesitated. "the circumstances were some excuse," she finally admitted. "but i certainly should not want a little daughter of mine to be out after dark by herself on such a wild errand. in this country a little girl would not think it possible to do such a thing." joyce's face was very sober as she arose to leave the room. "i do wish that i could be proper like little french girls," she said, with a sigh. madame drew her towards her, kissing her on both cheeks. it was such an unusual thing for madame to do that joyce could scarcely help showing some surprise. feeling that the caress was an assurance that she was not in disgrace, as she had feared, she ran up-stairs, so light-hearted that she sang on the way. as the door closed behind her, monsieur reached for his pipe, saying, as he did so, "she has a heart of gold, the little mademoiselle." "yes," assented madame; "but she is a strange little body, so untamed and original. i am glad that her cousin returns soon, for the responsibility is too great for my old shoulders. one never knows what she will do next." perhaps it was for this reason that madame took joyce with her when she went to tours next day. she felt safer when the child was in her sight. "it is so much nicer going around with you than marie," said joyce, giving madame an affectionate little pat, as they stood before the entrance of a great square building, awaiting admission. "you take me to places that i have never seen before. what place is this?" she stooped to read the inscription on the door-plate: "little sisters of the poor." before her question could be answered, the door was opened by a wrinkled old woman, in a nodding white cap, who led them into a reception-room at the end of the hall. "ask for sister denisa," said madame, "and give her my name." the old woman shuffled out of the room, and madame, taking a small memorandum book from her pocket, began to study it. joyce sat looking about her with sharp, curious glances. she wondered if these little sisters of the poor were barefoot beggar girls, who went about the streets with ragged shawls over their heads, and with baskets in their hands. in her lively imagination she pictured row after row of such unfortunate children, marching out in the morning, empty-handed, and creeping back at night with the results of the day's begging. she did not like to ask about them, however, and, in a few minutes, her curiosity was satisfied without the use of questions. sister denisa entered the room. she was a beautiful woman, in the plain black habit and white head-dress of a sister of charity. "oh, they're nuns!" exclaimed joyce, in a disappointed whisper. she had been hoping to see the beggar girls. she had often passed the convent in st. symphorien, and caught glimpses of the nuns, through the high barred gate. she had wondered how it must feel to be shut away from the world; to see only the patient white faces of the other sisters, and to walk with meekly folded hands and downcast eyes always in the same old paths. but sister denisa was different from the nuns that she had seen before. some inward joy seemed to shine through her beautiful face and make it radiant. she laughed often, and there was a happy twinkle in her clear, gray eyes. when she came into the room, she seemed to bring the outdoors with her, there was such sunshine and fresh air in the cheeriness of her greeting. madame had come to visit an old pensioner of hers who was in the home. after a short conversation, sister denisa rose to lead the way to her. "would the little mademoiselle like to go through the house while madame is engaged?" asked the nun. [illustration: joyce and sister denisa.] "oh, yes, thank you," answered joyce, who had found by this time that this home was not for little beggar girls, but for old men and women. joyce had known very few old people in her short life, except her grandmother ware; and this grandmother was one of those dear, sunny old souls, whom everybody loves to claim, whether they are in the family or not. some of joyce's happiest days had been spent in her grandmother's country home, and the host of happy memories that she had stored up during those visits served to sweeten all her after life. old age, to joyce, was associated with the most beautiful things that she had ever known: the warmest hospitality, the tenderest love, the cheeriest home-life. strangers were in the old place now, and grandmother ware was no longer living, but, for her sake, joyce held sacred every wrinkled face set round with snow-white hair, just as she looked tenderly on all old-fashioned flowers, because she had seen them first in her grandmother's garden. sister denisa led the way into a large, sunny room, and joyce looked around eagerly. it was crowded with old men. some were sitting idly on the benches around the walls, or dozing in chairs near the stove. some smoked, some gathered around the tables where games of checkers and chess were going on; some gazed listlessly out of the windows. it was good to see how dull faces brightened, as sister denisa passed by with a smile for this group, a cheery word for the next. she stopped to brush the hair back from the forehead of an old paralytic, and pushed another man gently aside, when he blocked the way, with such a sweet-voiced "pardon, little father," that it was like a caress. one white-haired old fellow, in his second childhood, reached out and caught at her dress, as she passed by. crossing a porch where were more old men sitting sadly alone, or walking sociably up and down in the sunshine, sister denisa passed along a court and held the door open for joyce to enter another large room. "here is the rest of our family," she said. "a large one, is it not? two hundred poor old people that nobody wants, and nobody cares what becomes of." joyce looked around the room and saw on every hand old age that had nothing beautiful, nothing attractive. "were they beggars when they were little?" she asked. "no, indeed," answered the nun. "that is the saddest part of it to me. nearly all these poor creatures you see here once had happy homes of their own. that pitiful old body over by the stove, shaking with palsy, was once a gay, rich countess; the invalid whom madame visits was a marquise. it would break your heart, mademoiselle, to hear the stories of some of these people, especially those who have been cast aside by ungrateful children, to whom their support has become a burden. several of these women have prosperous grandchildren, to whom we have appealed in vain. there is no cruelty that hurts me like such cruelty to old age." just then another nun came into the room, said something to sister denisa in a low voice, and glided out like a silent shadow, her rosary swaying back and forth with every movement of her clinging black skirts. "i am needed up-stairs," said sister denisa, turning to joyce. "will you come up and see the sleeping-rooms?" they went up the freshly scrubbed steps to a great dormitory, where, against the bare walls, stood long rows of narrow cots. they were all empty, except one at the farthest end, where an old woman lay with her handkerchief across her eyes. "poor old number thirty-one!" said sister denisa. "she seems to feel her unhappy position more than any one in the house. the most of them are thankful for mere bodily comfort,--satisfied with food and shelter and warmth; but she is continually pining for her old home surroundings. will you not come and speak to her in english? she married a countryman of yours, and lived over thirty years in america. she speaks of that time as the happiest in her life. i am sure that you can give her a great deal of pleasure." "is she ill?" said joyce, timidly drawing back as the nun started across the room. "no, i think not," was the answer. "she says she can't bear to be herded in one room with all those poor creatures, like a flock of sheep, with nothing to do but wait for death. she has always been accustomed to having a room of her own, so that her greatest trial is in having no privacy. she must eat, sleep, and live with a hundred other old women always around her. she comes up here to bed whenever she can find the slightest ache for an excuse, just to be by herself. i wish that we could give her a little spot that she could call her own, and shut the door on, and feel alone. but it cannot be," she added, with a sigh. "it taxes our strength to the utmost to give them all even a bare home." by this time they had reached the cot, over the head of which hung a card, bearing the number "thirty-one." "here is a little friend to see you, grandmother," said sister denisa, placing a chair by the bedside, and stooping to smooth back the locks of silvery hair that had strayed out from under the coarse white night-cap. then she passed quickly on to her other duties, leaving joyce to begin the conversation as best she could. the old woman looked at her sharply with piercing dark eyes, which must have been beautiful in their youth. the intense gaze embarrassed joyce, and to break the silence she hurriedly stammered out the first thing that came to her mind. "are you ill, to-day?" the simple question had a startling effect on the old woman. she raised herself on one elbow, and reached out for joyce's hand, drawing her eagerly nearer. "ah," she cried, "you speak the language that my husband taught me to love, and the tongue my little children lisped; but they are all dead now, and i've come back to my native land to find no home but the one that charity provides." her words ended in a wail, and she sank back on her pillow. "and this is my birthday," she went on. "seventy-three years old, and a pauper, cast out to the care of strangers." the tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks, and her mouth trembled pitifully. joyce was distressed; she looked around for sister denisa, but saw that they were alone, they two, in the great bare dormitory, with its long rows of narrow white cots. the child felt utterly helpless to speak a word of comfort, although she was so sorry for the poor lonely old creature that she began to cry softly to herself. she leaned over, and taking one of the thin, blue-veined hands in hers, patted it tenderly with her plump little fingers. "i ought not to complain," said the trembling voice, still broken by sobs. "we have food and shelter and sunshine and the sisters. ah, that little sister denisa, she is indeed a smile of god to us all. but at seventy-three one wants more than a cup of coffee and a clean handkerchief. one wants something besides a bed and being just number thirty-one among two hundred other paupers." "i am _so_ sorry!" exclaimed joyce, with such heartfelt earnestness that the sobbing woman felt the warmth of her sympathy, and looked up with a brighter face. "talk to me," she exclaimed. "it has been so long since i have heard your language." while she obeyed joyce kept thinking of her grandmother ware. she could see her outdoors among her flowers, the dahlias and touch-me-nots, the four-o'clocks and the cinnamon roses, taking such pride and pleasure in her sweet posy beds. she could see her beside the little table on the shady porch, making tea for some old neighbor who had dropped in to spend the afternoon with her. or she was asleep in her armchair by the western window, her bible in her lap and a smile on her sweet, kindly face. how dreary and empty the days must seem to poor old number thirty-one, with none of these things to brighten them. joyce could scarcely keep the tears out of her voice while she talked. later, when sister denisa came back, joyce was softly humming a lullaby, and number thirty-one, with a smile on her pitiful old face, was sleeping like a little child. "you will come again, dear mademoiselle," said sister denisa, as she kissed the child good-by at the door. "you have brought a blessing, may you carry one away as well!" joyce looked inquiringly at madame. "you may come whenever you like," was the answer. "marie can bring you whenever you are in town." joyce was so quiet on the way home that madame feared the day had been too fatiguing for her. "no," said joyce, soberly. "i was only thinking about poor old number thirty-one. i am sorrier for her than i was for jules. i used to think that there was nothing so sad as being a little child without any father or mother, and having to live in an asylum. i've often thought how lovely it would be to go around and find a beautiful home for every little orphan in the world. but i believe, now, that it is worse to be old that way. old people can't play together, and they haven't anything to look forward to, and it makes them so miserable to remember all the things they have had and lost. if i had enough money to adopt anybody, i would adopt some poor old grandfather or grandmother and make'm happy all the rest of their days." chapter viii. christmas plans and an accident. that night, when marie came in to light the lamps and brush joyce's hair before dinner, she had some news to tell. "brossard has been sent away from the ciseaux place," she said. "a new man is coming to-morrow, and my friend, clotilde robard, has already taken the position of housekeeper. she says that a very different life has begun for little monsieur jules, and that in his fine new clothes one could never recognize the little goatherd. he looks now like what he is, a gentleman's son. he has the room next to monsieur's, all freshly furnished, and after new year a tutor is coming from paris. "but they say that it is pitiful to see how greatly the child fears his uncle. he does not understand the old man's cold, forbidding manner, and it provokes monsieur to have the little one tremble and grow pale whenever he speaks. clotilde says that madame gréville told monsieur that the boy needed games and young companions to make him more like other children, and he promised her that monsieur jules should come over here to-morrow afternoon to play with you." "oh, good!" cried joyce. "we'll have another barbecue if the day is fine. i am so glad that we do not have to be bothered any more by those tiresome old goats." by the time the next afternoon arrived, however, joyce was far too much interested in something else to think of a barbecue. cousin kate had come back from paris with a trunk full of pretty things, and a plan for the coming christmas. at first she thought of taking only madame into her confidence, and preparing a small christmas tree for joyce; but afterwards she concluded that it would give the child more pleasure if she were allowed to take part in the preparations. it would keep her from being homesick by giving her something else to think about. then madame proposed inviting a few of the little peasant children who had never seen a christmas tree. the more they discussed the plan the larger it grew, like a rolling snowball. by lunch-time madame had a list of thirty children, who were to be bidden to the noël fête, and cousin kate had decided to order a tree tall enough to touch the ceiling. when jules came over, awkward and shy with the consciousness of his new clothes, he found joyce sitting in the midst of yards of gaily colored tarletan. it was heaped up around her in bright masses of purple and orange and scarlet and green, and she was making it into candy-bags for the tree. in a few minutes jules had forgotten all about himself, and was as busy as she, pinning the little stocking-shaped patterns in place, and carefully cutting out those fascinating bags. "you would be lots of help," said joyce, "if you could come over every day, for there's all the ornaments to unpack, and the corn to shell, and pop, and string. it will take most of my time to dress the dolls, and there's such a short time to do everything in." "you never saw any pop-corn, did you, jules?" asked cousin kate. "when i was here last time, i couldn't find it anywhere in france; but the other day a friend told me of a grocer in paris, who imports it for his american customers every winter. so i went there. joyce, suppose you get the popper and show jules what the corn is like." madame was interested also, as she watched the little brown kernels shaken back and forth in their wire cage over the glowing coals. when they began popping open, the little seeds suddenly turning into big white blossoms, she sent rosalie running to bring monsieur to see the novel sight. "we can eat and work at the same time," said joyce, as she filled a dish with the corn, and called jules back to the table, where he had been cutting tarletan. "there's no time to lose. see what a funny grain this is!" she cried, picking up one that lay on the top of the dish. "it looks like therese, the fish woman, in her white cap." "and here is a goat's head," said jules, picking up another grain. "and this one looks like a fat pigeon." he had forgotten his shyness entirely now, and was laughing and talking as easily as jack could have done. "jules," said joyce, suddenly, looking around to see that the older people were too busy with their own conversation to notice hers. "jules, why don't you talk to your uncle martin the way you do to me? he would like you lots better if you would. robard says that you get pale and frightened every time he speaks to you, and it provokes him for you to be so timid." jules dropped his eyes. "i cannot help it," he exclaimed. "he looks so grim and cross that my voice just won't come out of my throat when i open my mouth." joyce studied him critically, with her head tipped a little to one side. "well, i must say," she exclaimed, finally, "that, for a boy born in america, you have the least dare about you of anybody i ever saw. your uncle martin isn't any grimmer or crosser than a man i know at home. there's judge ward, so big and solemn and dignified that everybody is half way afraid of him. even grown people have always been particular about what they said to him. "last summer his little nephew, charley ward, came to visit him. charley's just a little thing, still in dresses, and he calls his uncle, bill. think of anybody daring to call judge ward, _bill!_ no matter what the judge was doing, or how glum he looked, if charley took a notion, he would go up and stand in front of him, and say, 'laugh, bill, laugh!' if the judge happened to be reading, he'd have to put down his book, and no matter whether he felt funny or not, or whether there was anything to laugh at or not, he would have to throw his head back and just roar. charley liked to see his fat sides shake, and his white teeth shine. i've heard people say that the judge likes charley better than anybody else in the world, because he's the only person who acts as if he wasn't afraid of him." jules sat still a minute, considering, and then asked, anxiously, "but what do you suppose would happen if i should say 'laugh, martin, laugh,' to my uncle?" joyce shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "mercy, jules, i did not mean that you should act like a three-year-old baby. i meant that you ought to talk up to your uncle some. now this is the way you are." she picked up a kernel of the unpopped corn, and held it out for him to see. "you shut yourself up in a little hard ball like this, so that your uncle can't get acquainted with you. how can he know what is inside of your head if you always shut up like a clam whenever he comes near you? this is the way that you ought to be." she shot one of the great white grains towards him with a deft flip of her thumb and finger. "be free and open with him." jules put the tender morsel in his mouth and ate it thoughtfully. "i'll try," he promised, "if you really think that it would please him, and i can think of anything to say. you don't know how i dread going to the table when everything is always so still that we can hear the clock tick." "well, you take my advice," said joyce. "talk about anything. tell him about our thanksgiving feast and the christmas tree, and ask him if you can't come over every day to help. i wouldn't let anybody think that i was a coward." joyce's little lecture had a good effect, and monsieur saw the wisdom of madame gréville's advice when jules came to the table that night. he had brought a handful of the wonderful corn to show his uncle, and in the conversation that it brought about he unconsciously showed something else,--something of his sensitive inner self that aroused his uncle's interest. every afternoon of the week that followed found jules hurrying over to madame gréville's to help with the christmas preparations. he strung yards of corn, and measured out the nuts and candy for each of the gay bags. twice he went in the carriage to tours with cousin kate and joyce, to help buy presents for the thirty little guests. he was jostled by the holiday shoppers in crowded aisles. he stood enraptured in front of wonderful show windows, and he had the joy of choosing fifteen things from piles of bright tin trumpets, drums, jumping-jacks, and picture-books. joyce chose the presents for the girls. the tree was bought and set up in a large unused room back of the library, and as soon as each article was in readiness it was carried in and laid on a table beside it. jules used to steal in sometimes and look at the tapers, the beautiful colored glass balls, the gilt stars and glittering tinsel, and wonder how the stately cedar would look in all that array of loveliness. everything belonging to it seemed sacred, even the unused scraps of bright tarletan and the bits of broken candles. he would not let marie sweep them up to be burned, but gathered them carefully into a box and carried them home. there were several things that he had rescued from her broom,--one of those beautiful red balls, cracked on one side it is true, but gleaming like a mammoth red cherry on the other. there were scraps of tinsel and odds and ends of ornaments that had been broken or damaged by careless handling. these he hid away in a chest in his room, as carefully as a miser would have hoarded a bag of gold. clotilde robard, the housekeeper, wondered why she found his candle burned so low several mornings. she would have wondered still more if she had gone into his room a while before daybreak. he had awakened early, and, sitting up in bed with the quilts wrapped around him, spread the scraps of tarletan on his knees. he was piecing together with his awkward little fingers enough to make several tiny bags. henri missed his spade one morning, and hunted for it until he was out of patience. it was nowhere to be seen. half an hour later, coming back to the house, he found it hanging in its usual place, where he had looked for it a dozen times at least. jules had taken it down to the woods to dig up a little cedar-tree, so little that it was not over a foot high when it was planted in a box. clotilde had to be taken into the secret, for he could not hide it from her. "it is for my uncle martin," he said, timidly. "do you think he will like it?" the motherly housekeeper looked at the poor little tree, decked out in its scraps of cast-off finery, and felt a sob rising in her throat, but she held up her hands with many admiring exclamations that made jules glow with pride. [illustration: "sitting up in bed with the quilts wrapped around him."] "i have no beautiful white strings of pop-corn to hang over it like wreaths of snow," he said, "so i am going down the lane for some mistletoe that grows in one of the highest trees. the berries are like lovely white wax beads." "you are a good little lad," said the housekeeper, kindly, as she gave his head an affectionate pat. "i shall have to make something to hang on that tree myself; some gingerbread figures, maybe. i used to know how to cut out men and horses and pigs,--nearly all the animals. i must try it again some day soon." a happy smile spread all over jules's face as he thanked her. the words, "you are a good little lad," sent a warm glow of pleasure through him, and rang like music in his ears all the way down the lane. how bright the world looked this frosty december morning! what cheeriness there was in the ring of henri's axe as he chopped away at the stove-wood! what friendliness in the baker's whistle, as he rattled by in his big cart! jules found himself whistling, too, for sheer gladness, and all because of no more kindness than might have been thrown to a dog; a pat on the head and the words, "you are a good little lad." * * * * * sometime after, it may have been two hours or more, madame gréville was startled by a wild, continuous ringing of the bell at her front gate. somebody was sending peal after peal echoing through the garden, with quick, impatient jerks of the bell-wire. she hurried out herself to answer the summons. berthé had already shot back the bolt and showed clotilde leaning against the stone post, holding her fat sides and completely exhausted by her short run from the ciseaux house. "will madame send gabriel for the doctor?" she cried, gasping for breath at every word. "the little monsieur jules has fallen from a tree and is badly hurt. we do not know how much, for he is still unconscious and his uncle is away from home. henri found him lying under a tree with a big bunch of mistletoe in his arms. he carried him up-stairs while i ran over to ask you to send gabriel quickly on a horse for the doctor." "gabriel shall go immediately," said madame gréville, "and i shall follow you as soon as i have given the order." clotilde started back in as great haste as her weight would allow, puffing and blowing and wiping her eyes on her apron at every step. madame overtook her before she had gone many rods. always calm and self-possessed in every emergency, madame took command now; sent the weeping clotilde to look for old linen, henri to the village for monsieur ciseaux, and then turned her attention to jules. "to think," said clotilde, coming into the room, "that the last thing the poor little lamb did was to show me his christmas tree that he was making ready for his uncle!" she pointed to the corner where it stood, decked by awkward boyish hands in its pitiful collection of scraps. "poor little fellow!" said madame, with tears in her own eyes. "he has done the best he could. put it in the closet, clotilde. jules would not want it to be seen before christmas." madame stayed until the doctor had made his visit; then the report that she carried home was that jules had regained consciousness, and that, as far as could be discovered, his only injury was a broken leg. joyce took refuge in the pear-tree. it was not alone because jules was hurt that she wanted to cry, but because they must have the noël fête without him. she knew how bitterly he would be disappointed. chapter ix. a great discovery. "only two more nights till christmas eve, two more nights, two more nights," sang joyce to jules in a sort of chant. she was sitting beside his bed with a box in her lap, full of little dolls, which she was dressing. every day since his accident she had been allowed to make him two visits,--one in the morning, and one in the afternoon. they helped wonderfully in shortening the long, tedious days for jules. true, madame gréville came often with broths and jellies, cousin kate made flying visits to leave rare hothouse grapes and big bunches of violets; clotilde hung over him with motherly tenderness, and his uncle looked into the room many times a day to see that he wanted nothing. jules's famished little heart drank in all this unusual kindness and attention as greedily as the parched earth drinks in the rain. still, he would have passed many a long, restless hour, had it not been for joyce's visits. she brought over a photograph of the house at home, with the family seated in a group on the front porch. jules held it close while she introduced each one of them. by the time he had heard all about holland's getting lost the day the circus came to town, and jack's taking the prize in a skating contest, and mary's setting her apron on fire, and the baby's sweet little ways when he said his prayers, or played peek-a-boo, he felt very well acquainted with the entire ware family. afterward, when joyce had gone, he felt his loneliness more than ever. he lay there, trying to imagine how it must feel to have a mother and sisters and brothers all as fond of each other as joyce's were, and to live in the midst of such good times as always went on in the little brown house. monsieur ciseaux, sitting by his fire with the door open between the two rooms, listened to joyce's merry chatter with almost as much interest as jules. he would have been ashamed to admit how eagerly he listened for her step on the stairs every day, or what longings wakened in his lonely old heart, when he sat by his loveless fireside after she had gone home, and there was no more sound of children's voices in the next room. there had been good times in the old ciseaux house also, once, and two little brothers and a sister had played in that very room; but they had grown up long ago, and the ogre of selfishness and misunderstanding had stolen in and killed all their happiness. ah, well, there was much that the world would never know about that misunderstanding. there was much to forgive and forget on both sides. joyce had a different story for each visit. to-day she had just finished telling jules the fairy tale of which he never tired, the tale of the giant scissors. "i never look at those scissors over the gate without thinking of you," said jules, "and the night when you played that i was the prince, and you came to rescue me." "i wish i could play scissors again, and rescue somebody else that i know," answered joyce. "i'd take poor old number thirty-one away from the home of the little sisters of the poor." "what's number thirty-one?" asked jules. "you never told me about that." "didn't i?" asked joyce, in surprise. "she is a lonely old woman that the sisters take care of. i have talked about her so often, and written home so much, that i thought i had told everybody. i can hardly keep from crying whenever i think of her. marie and i stop every day we go into town and take her flowers. i have been there four times since my first visit with madame. sometimes she tells me things that happened when she was a little girl here in france, but she talks to me oftenest in english about the time when she lived in america. i can hardly imagine that she was ever as young as i am, and that she romped with her brothers as i did with jack." "tell some of the things that she told you," urged jules; so joyce began repeating all that she knew about number thirty-one. it was a pathetic little tale that brought tears to jules's eyes, and a dull pain to the heart of the old man who listened in the next room. "i wish i were rich," exclaimed joyce, impulsively, as she finished. "i wish i had a beautiful big home, and i would adopt her for my grandmother. she should have a great lovely room, where the sun shines in all day long, and it should be furnished in rose-color like the one that she had when she was a girl. i'd dress her in gray satin and soft white lace. she has the prettiest silvery hair, and beautiful dark eyes. she would make a lovely grandmother. and i would have a maid to wait on her, and there'd be mignonette always growing in boxes on the window-sill. every time i came back from town, i'd bring her a present just for a nice little surprise; and i'd read to her, and sing to her, and make her feel that she belonged to somebody, so that she'd be happy all the rest of her days. "yesterday while i was there she was holding a little cut glass vinaigrette. it had a big d engraved on the silver top. she said that it was the only thing that she had left except her wedding ring, and that it was to be sister denisa's when she was gone. the d stands for both their names. hers is désiré. she said the vinaigrette was too precious to part with as long as she lives, because her oldest brother gave it to her on her twelfth birthday, when she was exactly as old as i am. isn't désiré a pretty name?" "mademoiselle," called monsieur ciseaux from the next room, "mademoiselle, will you come--will you tell me--what name was that? désiré, did you say?" there was something so strange in the way he called that name désiré, almost like a cry, that joyce sprang up, startled, and ran into the next room. she had never ventured inside before. "tell me again what you were telling jules," said the old man. "seventy-three years, did you say? and how long has she been back in france?" joyce began to answer his rapid questions, but stopped with a frightened cry as her glance fell on a large portrait hanging over the mantel. "there she is!" she cried, excitedly dancing up and down as she pointed to the portrait. "there she is! that's number thirty-one, her very own self." "you are mistaken!" cried the old man, attempting to rise from his chair, but trembling so that he could scarcely pull himself up on his feet. "that is a picture of my mother, and désiré is dead; long dead." [illustration: "'that's number thirty-one.'"] "but it is _exactly_ like number thirty-one,--i mean madame désiré," persisted joyce. monsieur looked at her wildly from under his shaggy brows, and then, turning away, began to pace up and down the room. "i had a sister once," he began. "she would have been seventy-three this month, and her name was désiré." joyce stood motionless in the middle of the room, wondering what was coming next. suddenly turning with a violence that made her start, he cried, "no, i never can forgive! she has been dead to me nearly a lifetime. why did you tell me this, child? out of my sight! what is it to me if she is homeless and alone? go! go!" he waved his hands so wildly in motioning her away, that joyce ran out of the room and banged the door behind her. "what do you suppose is the matter with him?" asked jules, in a frightened whisper, as they listened to his heavy tread, back and forth, back and forth, in the next room. joyce shook her head. "i don't know for sure," she answered, hesitatingly, "but i believe that he is going crazy." jules's eyes opened so wide that joyce wished she had not frightened him. "oh, you know that i didn't mean it," she said, reassuringly. the heavy tread stopped, and the children looked at each other. "what can he be doing now?" jules asked, anxiously. joyce tiptoed across the room, and peeped through the keyhole. "he is sitting down now, by the table, with his head on his arms. he looks as if he might be crying about something." "i wish he didn't feel bad," said jules, with a swift rush of pity. "he has been so good to me ever since he sent brossard away. sometimes i think that he must feel as much alone in the world as i do, because all his family are dead, too. before i broke my leg i was making him a little christmas tree, so that he need not feel left out when we had the big one. i was getting mistletoe for it when i fell. i can't finish it now, but there's five pieces of candle on it, and i'll get clotilde to light them while the fête is going on, so that i'll not miss the big tree so much. oh, nobody knows how much i want to go to that fête! sometimes it seems more than i can bear to have to stay away." "where is your tree?" asked joyce. "may i see it?" jules pointed to the closet. "it's in there," he said, proudly. "i trimmed it with pieces that marie swept up to burn. oh, shut the door! quick!" he cried, excitedly, as a step was heard in the hall. "i don't want anybody to see it before the time comes." the step was henri's. he had come to say that marie was waiting to take mademoiselle home. joyce was glad of the interruption. she could not say anything in praise of the poor little tree, and she knew that jules expected her to. she felt relieved that henri's presence made it impossible for her to express any opinion. she bade jules good-by gaily, but went home with such a sober little face that cousin kate began to question her about her visit. madame, sitting by the window with her embroidery-frame, heard the account also. several times she looked significantly across at cousin kate, over the child's head. "joyce," said cousin kate, "you have had so little outdoor exercise since jules's accident that it would be a good thing for you to run around in the garden awhile before dark." joyce had not seen madame's glances, but she felt vaguely that cousin kate was making an excuse to get rid of her. she was disappointed, for she thought that her account of monsieur's queer actions and jules's little tree would have made a greater impression on her audience. she went out obediently, walking up and down the paths with her hands in her jacket pockets, and her red tam-o'shanter pulled down over her eyes. the big white cat followed her, ran on ahead, and then stopped, arching its back as if waiting for her to stroke it. taking no notice of it, joyce turned aside to the pear-tree and climbed up among the highest branches. the cat rubbed against the tree, mewing and purring by turns, then sprang up in the tree after her. she took the warm, furry creature in her arms and began talking to it. "oh, solomon," she said, "what do you suppose is the matter over there? my poor old lady must be monsieur's sister, or she couldn't have looked exactly like that picture, and he would not have acted so queerly. what do you suppose it is that he can never forgive? why did he call me in there and then drive me out in such a crazy way, and tramp around the room, and put his head down on his arms as if he were crying?" solomon purred louder and closed his eyes. "oh, you dear, comfortable old thing," exclaimed joyce, giving the cat a shake. "wake up and take some interest in what i am saying. i wish you were as smart as puss in boots; then maybe you could find out what is the matter. how i wish fairy tales could be true! i'd say 'giant scissors, right the wrong and open the gate that's been shut so long,' there! did you hear that, solomon gréville? i said a rhyme right off without waiting to make it up. then the scissors would leap down and cut the misunderstanding or trouble or whatever it is, and the gate would fly open, and there the brother and sister would meet each other. all the unhappy years would be forgotten, and they'd take each other by the hand, just as they did when they were little children, martin and désiré, and go into the old home together,--on christmas day, in the morning." joyce was half singing her words now, as she rocked the cat back and forth in her arms. "and then the scissors would bring jules a magnificent big tree, and he'd never be afraid of his uncle any more. oh, they'd all have such a happy time on christmas day, in the morning!" joyce had fully expected to be homesick all during the holidays; but now she was so absorbed in other people's troubles, and her day-dreams to make everybody happy, that she forgot all about herself. she fairly bubbled over with the peace and good-will of the approaching christmas-tide, and rocked the cat back and forth in the pear-tree to the tune of a happy old-time carol. a star or two twinkled out through the gloaming, and, looking up beyond them through the infinite stretches of space, joyce thought of a verse that she and jack had once learned together, one rainy sunday at her grandmother ware's, sitting on a little stool at the old lady's feet: "behold thou hast made the heaven and the earth by thy great power and outstretched arm, and _there is nothing too hard for thee._" her heart gave a bound at the thought. why should she be sitting there longing for fairy tales to be true, when the great hand that had set the stars to swinging could bring anything to pass; could even open that long-closed gate and bring the brother and sister together again, and send happiness to little jules? joyce lifted her eyes again and looked up, out past the stars. "oh, if you please, god," she whispered, "for the little christ-child's sake." when joyce went back to the house, cousin kate sat in the drawing-room alone. madame had gone over to see jules, and did not return until long after dark. berthé had been in three times to ask monsieur if dinner should be served, before they heard her ring at the gate. when she finally came, there was such an air of mystery about her that joyce was puzzled. all that next morning, too, the day before christmas, it seemed to joyce as if something unusual were afloat. everybody in the house was acting strangely. madame and cousin kate did not come home to lunch. she had been told that she must not go to see jules until afternoon, and the doors of the room where the christmas tree was kept had all been carefully locked. she thought that the morning never would pass. it was nearly three o'clock when she started over to see jules. to her great surprise, as she ran lightly up the stairs to his room, she saw her cousin kate hurrying across the upper hall, with a pile of rose-colored silk curtains in her arms. jules tried to raise himself up in bed as joyce entered, forgetting all about his broken leg in his eagerness to tell the news. "oh, what do you think!" he cried. "they said that i might be the one to tell you. she _is_ uncle martin's sister, the old woman you told about yesterday, and he is going to bring her home to-morrow." joyce sank into a chair with a little gasp at the suddenness of his news. she had not expected this beautiful ending of her day-dreams to be brought about so soon, although she had hoped that it would be sometime. "how did it all happen?" she cried, with a beaming face. "tell me about it! quick!" "yesterday afternoon madame came over soon after you left. she gave me my wine jelly, and then went into uncle martin's room, and talked and talked for the longest time. after she had gone he did not eat any dinner, and i think that he must have sat up all night, for i heard him walking around every time that i waked up. very early this morning, madame came back again, and m. gréville was with her. they drove with uncle martin to the little sisters of the poor. i don't know what happened out there, only that aunt désiré is to be brought home to-morrow. "your cousin kate was with them when they came back, and they had brought all sorts of things with them from tours. she is in there now, making aunt désiré's room look like it did when she was a girl." "oh, isn't it lovely!" exclaimed joyce. "it is better than all the fairy tales that i have ever read or heard,--almost too good to be true!" just then cousin kate called her, and she ran across the hall. standing in the doorway, she looked all around the freshly furnished room, that glowed with the same soft, warm pink that colors the heart of a shell. "how beautiful!" cried joyce, glancing from the rose on the dressing-table to the soft curtains of the windows, which all opened towards the morning sun. "what a change it will be from that big bare dormitory with its rows of narrow little cots." she tiptoed around the room, admiring everything, and smiling over the happiness in store for poor old number thirty-one, when she should find herself in the midst of such loveliness. joyce's cup of pleasure was so full, that it brimmed over when they turned to leave the room. cousin kate slipped an arm around her, and kissed her softly on the forehead. "you dear little fairy tale lover," she said. "do you know that it is because of you that this desert has blossomed? if you had never made all those visits to the little sisters of the poor, and had never won old madame désiré's love and confidence by your sympathy, if you had never told jules the story of the giant scissors, and wished so loud that you could fly to her rescue, old monsieur would never have known that his sister is living. even then, i doubt if he would have taken this step, and brought her back home to live, if your stories of your mother and the children had not brought his own childhood back to him. he said that he used to sit there hour after hour, and hear you talk of your life at home, until some of its warmth and love crept into his own frozen old heart, and thawed out its selfishness and pride." joyce lifted her radiant face, and looked towards the half opened window, as she caught the sound of chimes. across the loire came the deep-toned voice of a cathedral bell, ringing for vespers. "listen!" she cried. "peace on earth,--good-will--oh, cousin kate! it really does seem to say it! my christmas has begun the day before." chapter x. christmas. long before the christmas dawn was bright enough to bring the blue parrots into plain view on the walls of joyce's room, she had climbed out of bed to look for her "messages from noël." the night before, following the old french custom, she had set her little slippers just outside the threshold. now, candle in hand, she softly slipped to the door and peeped out into the hall. her first eager glance showed that they were full. climbing back into her warm bed, she put the candle on the table beside it, and began emptying the slippers. they were filled with bonbons and all sorts of little trifles, such as she and jules had admired in the gay shop windows. on the top of one madame had laid a slender silver pencil, and monsieur a pretty purse. in the other was a pair of little wooden shoes, fashioned like the ones that jules had worn when she first knew him. they were only half as long as her thumb, and wrapped in a paper on which was written that jules himself had whittled them out for her, with henri's help and instructions. "what little darlings!" exclaimed joyce. "i hope he will think as much of the scrap-book that i made for him as i do of these. i know that he will be pleased with the big microscope that cousin kate bought for him." she spread all the things out on the table, and gave the slippers a final shake. a red morocco case, no larger than half a dollar, fell out of the toe of one of them. inside the case was a tiny buttonhole watch, with its wee hands pointing to six o'clock. it was the smallest watch that joyce had ever seen, cousin kate's gift. joyce could hardly keep back a little squeal of delight. she wanted to wake up everybody on the place and show it. then she wished that she could be back in the brown house, showing it to her mother and the children. for a moment, as she thought of them, sharing the pleasure of their christmas stockings without her, a great wave of homesickness swept over her, and she lay back on the pillow with that miserable, far-away feeling that, of all things, makes one most desolate. then she heard the rapid "tick, tick, tick, tick," of the little watch, and was comforted. she had not realized before that time could go so fast. now thirty seconds were gone; then sixty. at this rate it could not be such a very long time before they would be packing their trunks to start home; so joyce concluded not to make herself unhappy by longing for the family, but to get as much pleasure as possible out of this strange christmas abroad. that little watch seemed to make the morning fly. she looked at it at least twenty times an hour. she had shown it to every one in the house, and was wishing that she could take it over to jules for him to see, when monsieur ciseaux's carriage stopped at the gate. he was on his way to the little sisters of the poor, and had come to ask joyce to drive with him to bring his sister home. he handed her into the carriage as if she had been a duchess, and then seemed to forget that she was beside him; for nothing was said all the way. as the horses spun along the road in the keen morning air, the old man was busy with his memories, his head dropped forward on his breast. the child watched him, entering into this little drama as sympathetically as if she herself were the forlorn old woman, and this silent, white-haired man at her side were jack. sister denisa came running out to meet them, her face shining and her eyes glistening with tears. "it is for joy that i weep," she exclaimed, "that poor madame should have come to her own again. see the change that has already been made in her by the blessed news." joyce looked down the corridor as monsieur hurried forward to meet the old lady coming towards them, and to offer his arm. hope had straightened the bowed figure; joy had put lustre into her dark eyes and strength into her weak frame. she walked with such proud stateliness that the other inmates of the home looked up at her in surprise as she passed. she was no more like the tearful, broken-spirited woman who had lived among them so long, than her threadbare dress was like the elegant mantle which monsieur had brought to fold around her. joyce had brought a handful of roses to sister denisa, who caught them up with a cry of pleasure, and held them against her face as if they carried with them some sweetness of another world. madame came up then, and, taking the nun in her arms, tried to thank her for all that she had done, but could find no words for a gratitude so deep, and turned away, sobbing. they said good-by to sister denisa,--brave little sister of the poor, whose only joy was the pleasure of unselfish service; who had no time to even stand at the gate and be a glad witness of other people's christmas happiness, but must hurry back to her morning task of dealing out coffee and clean handkerchiefs to two hundred old paupers. no, there were only a hundred and ninety-nine now. down the streets, across the loire, into the old village and out again, along the wide paris road, one of them was going home. the carriage turned and went for a little space between brown fields and closely clipped hedgerows, and then madame saw the windows of her old home flashing back the morning sunlight over the high stone wall. again the carriage turned, into the lane this time, and now the sunlight was caught up by the scissors over the gate, and thrown dazzlingly down into their faces. monsieur smiled as he looked at joyce, a tender, gentle smile that one would have supposed never could have been seen on those harsh lips. she was almost standing up in the carriage, in her excitement. "oh, it has come true!" she cried, clasping her hands together, "the gates are really opening at last!" yes, the ogre, whatever may have been its name, no longer lived. its spell was broken, for now the giant scissors no longer barred the way. slowly the great gate swung open, and the carriage passed through. joyce sprang out and ran on ahead to open the door. hand in hand, just as when they were little children, martin and désiré, this white-haired brother and sister went back to the old home together; and it was christmas day, in the morning. * * * * * at five o'clock that evening the sound of gabriel's accordeon went echoing up and down the garden, and thirty little children were marching to its music along the paths, between the rows of blooming laurel. joyce understood, now, why the room where the christmas tree stood had been kept so carefully locked. for two days that room had been empty and the tree had been standing in monsieur ciseaux's parlor. cousin kate and madame and berthé and marie and gabriel had all been over there, busily at work, and neither she nor jules had suspected what was going on down-stairs. now she marched with the others, out of the garden and across the road, keeping time to the music of the wheezy old accordion that gabriel played so proudly. surely every soul, in all that long procession filing through the gate of the giant scissors, belonged to the kingdom of loving hearts and gentle hands; for they were all children who passed through, or else mothers who carried in their arms the little ones who, but for these faithful arms, must have missed this noël fête. jules had been carried down-stairs and laid on a couch in the corner of the room where he could see the tree to its best advantage. beside him sat his great-aunt, désiré, dressed in a satin gown of silvery gray that had been her mother's, and looking as if she had just stepped out from the frame of the portrait up-stairs. she held jules's hand in hers, as if with it she grasped the other jules, the little brother of the olden days for whom this child had been named. and she told him stories of his grandfather and his father. then jules found that this aunt désiré had known his mother; had once sat on the vine-covered porch while he ran after fireflies on the lawn in his little white dress; had heard the song the voice still sang to him in his dreams: "till the stars and the angels come to keep their watch where my baby lies fast asleep." when she told him this, with her hand stroking his and folding it tight with many tender little claspings, he felt that he had found a part of his old home, too, as well as aunt désiré. one by one the tapers began to glow on the great tree, and when it was all ablaze the doors were opened for the children to flock in. they stood about the room, bewildered at first, for not one of them had ever seen such a sight before; a tree that glittered and sparkled and shone, that bore stars and rainbows and snow wreaths and gay toys. at first they only drew deep, wondering breaths, and looked at each other with shining eyes. it was all so beautiful and so strange. joyce flew here and there, helping to distribute the gifts, feeling her heart grow warmer and warmer as she watched the happy children. "my little daughter never had anything like that in all her life," said one grateful mother as joyce laid a doll in the child's outstretched arms. "she'll never forget this to her dying day, nor will any of us, dear mademoiselle! we knew not what it was to have so beautiful a noël!" when the last toy had been stripped from the branches, it was cousin kate's turn to be surprised. at a signal from madame, the children began circling around the tree, singing a song that the sisters at the village school had taught them for the occasion. it was a happy little song about the green pine-tree, king of all trees and monarch of the woods, because of the crown he yearly wears at noël. at the close every child came up to madame and cousin kate and joyce, to say "thank you, madame," and "good night," in the politest way possible. gabriel's accordion led them out again, and the music, growing fainter and fainter, died away in the distance; but in every heart that heard it had been born a memory whose music could never be lost,--the memory of one happy christmas. joyce drew a long breath when it was all over, and, with her arm around madame désiré's shoulder, smiled down at jules. "how beautifully it has all ended!" she exclaimed. "i am sorry that we have come to the place to say 'and they all lived happily ever after,' for that means that it is time to shut the book." "dear heart," murmured madame désiré, drawing the child closer to her, "it means that a far sweeter story is just beginning, and it is you who have opened the book for me." joyce flushed with pleasure, saying, "i thought this christmas would be so lonely; but it has been the happiest of my life." [illustration: "he took the little fellow's hand in his."] "and mine, too," said monsieur ciseaux from the other side of jules's couch. he took the little fellow's hand in his. "they told me about the tree that you prepared for me. i have been up to look at it, and now i have come to thank you." to the surprise of every one in the room, monsieur bent over and kissed the flushed little face on the pillow. jules reached up, and, putting his arms around his uncle's neck, laid his cheek a moment against the face of his stern old kinsman. not a word was said, but in that silent caress every barrier of coldness and reserve was forever broken down between them. so the little prince came into his kingdom,--the kingdom of love and real home happiness. * * * * * it is summer now, and far away in the little brown house across the seas joyce thinks of her happy winter in france and the friends that she found through the gate of the giant scissors. and still those scissors hang over the gate, and may be seen to this day, by any one who takes the trouble to walk up the hill from the little village that lies just across the river loire, from the old town of tours. the end. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net a christmas carol the original manuscript charles dickens [illustration] _a facsimile of the manuscript in the pierpont morgan library_ with a transcript of the first edition and john leech's illustrations [illustration: _mr. fezziwig's ball._] [illustration: a christmas carol by charles dickens] a christmas carol the original manuscript _by_ _charles dickens_ [illustration] a facsimile of the manuscript in the pierpont morgan library _with the illustrations of john leech and the text from the first edition_. [illustration: mr. fezziwig's ball. _london · chapman & hall, 186 strand._] [_this illustration is reproduced in full color on the inside front cover._] a christmas carol note to reader all inconsistencies of spelling and punctuation in the first edition have been retained by the publishers. the portions of manuscript reproduced on pages 38, 42, 56, 58, 70, 92 and 136 appeared originally on the verso of the facing manuscript page. /title/ a christmas carol in prose being a ghost story of christmas by charles dickens ------------------------------the illustrations by john leech ------------------------------chapman and hall 186 strand mdcccxliii /my own, and only, ms of the book/ charles dickens [illustration: original manuscript of the title page.] preface i have endeavoured in this ghostly little book, to raise the ghost of an idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. may it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it. their faithful friend and servant, c. d. december, 1843. [illustration: original manuscript of the preface.] stave i. marley's ghost. marley was dead: to begin with. there is no doubt whatever about that. the register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. scrooge signed it: and scrooge's name was good upon 'change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. old marley was as dead as a door-nail. mind! i don't mean to say that i know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. i might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. but the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the country's done for. you will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that marley was as dead as a door-nail. scrooge knew he was dead? of course he did. how could it be otherwise? scrooge and he were partners for i don't know how many years. scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. and even scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. the mention of marley's funeral brings me back to the point i started from. there is no doubt that marley was dead. this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story i am going to relate. if we were not perfectly convinced that hamlet's father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot--say saint paul's churchyard for instance--literally to astonish his son's weak mind. scrooge never painted out old marley's name. there it [illustration: original manuscript of page 1.] stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: scrooge and marley. the firm was known as scrooge and marley. sometimes people new to the business called scrooge scrooge, and sometimes marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him. oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. the cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. a frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. he carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at christmas. external heat and cold had little influence on scrooge. no warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. no wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. foul weather didn't know where to have him. the heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. they often "came down" handsomely, and scrooge never did. nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "my dear scrooge, how are you? when will you come to see me?" no beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of scrooge. even the blindmen's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "no eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!" but what did scrooge care? it was the very thing he liked. to edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to scrooge. once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on christmas eve--old scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. it was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the [illustration: original manuscript of page 2.] people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement-stones to warm them. the city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already: it had not been light all day: and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. the fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. to see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale. the door of scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. but he couldn't replenish it, for scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed. "a merry christmas, uncle! god save you!" cried a cheerful voice. it was the voice of scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. "bah!" said scrooge, "humbug!" he had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. "christmas a humbug, uncle!" said scrooge's nephew. "you don't mean that, i am sure." "i do," said scrooge. "merry christmas! what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? you're poor enough." "come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "what right have you to be dismal? what reason have you to be morose? you're rich enough." scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "bah!" again; and followed it up with "humbug." "don't be cross, uncle," said the nephew. "what else can i be" returned the uncle, "when i live in such [illustration: original manuscript of page 3.] a world of fools as this? merry christmas! out upon merry christmas! what's christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? if i could work my will," said scrooge, indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'merry christmas,' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. he should!" "uncle!" pleaded the nephew. "nephew!" returned the uncle, sternly, "keep christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine." "keep it!" repeated scrooge's nephew. "but you don't keep it." "let me leave it alone, then," said scrooge. "much good may it do you! much good it has ever done you!" "there are many things from which i might have derived good, by which i have not profited, i dare say," returned the nephew: "christmas among the rest. but i am sure i have always thought of christmas time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time i know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. and therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, i believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and i say, god bless it!" the clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded: becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever. "let me hear another sound from _you_" said scrooge, "and you'll keep your christmas by losing your situation. you're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "i wonder you don't go into parliament." "don't be angry, uncle. come! dine with us to-morrow." scrooge said that he would see him--yes, indeed he did. he went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first. [illustration: original manuscript of page 4.] "but why?" cried scrooge's nephew. "why?" "why did you get married?" said scrooge. "because i fell in love." "because you fell in love!" growled scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry christmas. "good afternoon!" "nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. why give it as a reason for not coming now?" "good afternoon," said scrooge. "i want nothing from you; i ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?" "good afternoon," said scrooge. "i am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. we have never had any quarrel, to which i have been a party. but i have made the trial in homage to christmas, and i'll keep my christmas humour to the last. so a merry christmas, uncle!" "good afternoon!" said scrooge. "and a happy new year!" "good afternoon!" said scrooge. his nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. he stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than scrooge; for he returned them cordially. "there's another fellow," muttered scrooge; who overheard him: "my clerk, with fifteen shillings a-week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry christmas. i'll retire to bedlam." this lunatic, in letting scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. they were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in scrooge's office. they had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. "scrooge and marley's, i believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "have i the pleasure of addressing mr. scrooge, or mr. marley?" "mr. marley has been dead these seven years," scrooge replied. "he died seven years ago, this very night." "we have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials. it certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. at the ominous word "liberality," scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back. [illustration: original manuscript of page 5.] "at this festive season of the year, mr. scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir." "are there no prisons?" asked scrooge. "plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. "and the union workhouses?" demanded scrooge. "are they still in operation?" "they are. still," returned the gentleman, "i wish i could say they were not." "the treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour, then?" said scrooge. "both very busy, sir." "oh! i was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said scrooge. "i'm very glad to hear it." "under the impression that they scarcely furnish christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. we choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. what shall i put you down for?" "nothing!" scrooge replied. "you wish to be anonymous?" "i wish to be left alone," said scrooge. "since you ask me what i wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. i don't make merry myself at christmas, and i can't afford to make idle people merry. i help to support the establishments i have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there." "many can't go there; and many would rather die." "if they would rather die," said scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. besides--excuse me--i don't know that." "but you might know it," observed the gentleman. "it's not my business," scrooge returned. "it's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. mine occupies me constantly. good afternoon, gentlemen!" seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him. [illustration: original manuscript of page 6.] meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. the ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at scrooge out of a gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. the cold became intense. in the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. the waterplug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. the brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp-heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. the lord mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty mansion house, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep christmas as a lord mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef. foggier yet, and colder! piercing, searching, biting cold. if the good saint dunstan had but nipped the evil spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. the owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a christmas carol: but at the first sound of- "god bless you merry gentleman! may nothing you dismay!" scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost. at length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. with an ill-will scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat. "you'll want all day to-morrow, i suppose?" said scrooge. [illustration: original manuscript of page 7.] "if quite convenient, sir." "it's not convenient," said scrooge, "and it's not fair. if i was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill used, i'll be bound?" the clerk smiled faintly. "and yet," said scrooge, "you don't think _me_ ill-used, when i pay a day's wages for no work." the clerk observed that it was only once a year. "a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of december!" said scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. "but i suppose you must have the whole day. be here all the earlier next morning!" the clerk promised that he would; and scrooge walked out with a growl. the office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being christmas-eve, and then ran home to camden town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's-buff. scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the news-papers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. he lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. they were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way out again. it was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. the yard was so dark that even scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. the fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the genius of the weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold. now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. it is also a fact, that scrooge had seen it night and morning during his whole residence in that place; also that scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of london, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. let it also be borne in mind that scrooge had not bestowed one thought on marley, since his last mention of his seven-years' dead partner that afternoon. and then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change: not a knocker, but [illustration: original manuscript of page 8.] marley's face. marley's face. it was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. it was not angry or ferocious, but looked at scrooge as marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up upon its ghostly forehead. the hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot-air; and though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. that, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be, in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression. as scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again. to say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. but he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle. he _did_ pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he _did_ look cautiously behind it first, as if he half-expected to be terrified with the sight of marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. but there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on; so he said "pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang. the sound resounded through the house like thunder. every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. he fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs: slowly too: trimming his candle as he went. you may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young act of parliament; but i mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall, and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. there was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. half a dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with scrooge's dip. up scrooge went, not caring a button for that: darkness is cheap, and scrooge liked it. but before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. he had just enough recollection [illustration: original manuscript of page 9.] of the face to desire to do that. sitting room, bed-room, lumber-room. all as they should be. nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. lumber-room as usual. old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his night-cap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. it was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. he was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. the fire-place was an old one, built by some dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the scriptures. there were cains and abels; pharaoh's daughters, queens of sheba, angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, abrahams, belshazzars, apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures, to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. if each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old marley's head on every one. "humbug!" said scrooge; and walked across the room. after several turns, he sat down again. as he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. it was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. it swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. this might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. the bells ceased as they had begun, together. they were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging [illustration: original manuscript of page 10.] a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant's cellar. scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. the cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. "it's humbug still!" said scrooge. "i won't believe it." his colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried "i know him! marley's ghost!" and fell again. the same face: the very same. marley in his pig-tail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. the chain he drew was clasped about his middle. it was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for scrooge observed it closely) of cashboxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. his body was transparent: so that scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. scrooge had often heard it said that marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now. no, nor did he believe it even now. though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before: he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses. "how now!" said scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "what do you want with me?" "much!"--marley's voice, no doubt about it. "who are you?" "ask me who i _was_." "who _were_ you then?" said scrooge, raising his voice. "you're particular--for a shade." he was going to say "_to_ a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate. "in life i was your partner, jacob marley." "can you--can you sit down?" asked scrooge, looking doubtfully at him. "i can." "do it then." scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so [illustration: original manuscript of page 11.] [illustration] [illustration: _marley's ghost._] _london · chapman & hall, 186 strand._ [_this illustration is reproduced in full color on the front cover._] transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. but the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it. "you don't believe in me," observed the ghost. "i don't," said scrooge. "what evidence would you have of my reality, beyond that of your senses?" "i don't know," said scrooge. "why do you doubt your senses?" "because," said scrooge, "a little thing affects them. a slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. you may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. there's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. the truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones. to sit, staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. there was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own. scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven. "you see this toothpick?" said scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself. "i do," replied the ghost. "you are not looking at it," said scrooge. "but i see it," said the ghost, "notwithstanding." "well!" returned scrooge. "i have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. humbug, i tell you--humbug!" at this, the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. but how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if it were too [illustration: original manuscript of page 12.] warm to wear in-doors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast! scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face. "mercy!" he said. "dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" "man of the worldly mind!" replied the ghost, "do you believe in me or not?" "i do," said scrooge. "i must. but why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?" "it is required of every man," the ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. it is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain, and wrung its shadowy hands. "you are fettered," said scrooge, trembling. "tell me why?" "i wear the chain i forged in life," replied the ghost. "i made it link by link, and yard by yard; i girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will i wore it. is its pattern strange to _you_?" scrooge trembled more and more. "or would you know," pursued the ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? it was full as heavy and as long as this, seven christmas eves ago. you have laboured on it, since. it is a ponderous chain!" scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing. "jacob," he said, imploringly. "old jacob marley, tell me more. speak comfort to me, jacob." "i have none to give," the ghost replied. "it comes from other regions, ebenezer scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. nor can i tell you what i would. a very little more, is all permitted to me. i cannot rest, i cannot stay, i cannot linger anywhere. my spirit never walked beyond our counting-house--mark me!--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!" it was a habit with scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, [illustration: original manuscript of page 13.] to put his hands in his breeches pockets. pondering on what the ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees. "you must have been very slow about it, jacob," scrooge observed, in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference. "slow!" the ghost repeated. "seven years dead," mused scrooge. "and travelling all the time?" "the whole time," said the ghost. "no rest, no peace. incessant torture of remorse." "you travel fast?" said scrooge. "on the wings of the wind," replied the ghost. "you might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said scrooge. the ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance. "oh, captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know, that ages of incessant labour by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. not to know that any christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! yet such was i! oh! such was i!" "but you were always a good man of business, jacob," faultered scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. "business!" cried the ghost, wringing its hands again. "mankind was my business. the common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. the dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!" it held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. "at this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "i suffer most. why did i walk through the crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed star which led the wise men to a poor abode? were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted _me_!" scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at [illustration: original manuscript of page 14.] this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "hear me!" cried the ghost. "my time is nearly gone." "i will," said scrooge. "but don't be hard upon me! don't be flowery, jacob! pray!" "how it is that i appear before you in a shape that you can see, i may not tell. i have sat invisible beside you many and many a day." it was not an agreeable idea. scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "that is no light part of my penance," pursued the ghost. "i am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. a chance and hope of my procuring, ebenezer." "you were always a good friend to me," said scrooge. "thank'ee!" "you will be haunted," resumed the ghost, "by three spirits." scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the ghost's had done. "is that the chance and hope you mentioned, jacob?" he demanded, in a faultering voice. "it is." "i--i think i'd rather not," said scrooge. "without their visits," said the ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path i tread. expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls one." "couldn't i take 'em all at once, and have it over, jacob?" hinted scrooge. "expect the second on the next night at the same hour. the third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" when it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head, as before. scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. he ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm. the apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. it beckoned scrooge to approach, which he did. when they were within two paces of each other, marley's ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. scrooge stopped. not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the [illustration: original manuscript of page 15.] [illustration: verso of original manuscript page 16.] air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. the spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night. scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. he looked out. the air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. every one of them wore chains like marley's ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. many had been personally known to scrooge in their lives. he had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ancle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. the misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. but they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home. scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the ghost had entered. it was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. he tried to say "hum-bug!" but stopped at the first syllable. and being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the invisible world, or the dull conversation of the ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant. [illustration: original manuscript of page 16.] stave ii. the first of the three spirits. when scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. he was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters. so he listened for the hour. to his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. twelve! it was past two when he went to bed. the clock was wrong. an icicle must have got into the works. twelve! he touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most preposterous clock. its rapid little pulse beat twelve; and stopped. "why, it isn't possible," said scrooge, "that i can have slept through a whole day and far into another night. it isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon!" the idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. he was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very little then. all he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world. this was a great relief, because "three days after sight of this first of exchange pay to mr. ebenezer scrooge or his order," and so forth, would have become a mere united states' security if there were no days to count by. scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it. the more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought. marley's ghost bothered him exceedingly. every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "was it a dream or not?" scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the ghost had [illustration: original manuscript of page 17.] [illustration: verso of original manuscript of page 18.] warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. he resolved to lie awake until the hour was past; and considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power. the quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. at length it broke upon his listening ear. "ding, dong!" "a quarter past," said scrooge, counting. "ding, dong!" "half past!" said scrooge. "ding, dong!" "a quarter to it," said scrooge. "ding, dong!" "the hour itself," said scrooge, triumphantly, "and nothing else!" he spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy one. light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn. the curtains of his bed were drawn aside, i tell you, by a hand. not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. the curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as i am now to you, and i am standing in the spirit at your elbow. it was a strange figure--like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. the arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. it wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. it held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. but the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for [illustration: original manuscript of page 18.] a cap, which it now held under its arm. even this, though, when scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was _not_ its strangest quality. for as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. and in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. "are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked scrooge. "i am!" the voice was soft and gentle. singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance. "who, and what are you?" scrooge demanded. "i am the ghost of christmas past." "long past?" inquired scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature. "no. your past." perhaps, scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered. "what" exclaimed the ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light i give? is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!" scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend, or any knowledge of having wilfully "bonneted" the spirit at any period of his life. he then made bold to inquire what business brought him there. "your welfare!" said the ghost. scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. the spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately: "your reclamation, then. take heed!" it put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm. "rise! and walk with me!" it would have been in vain for scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, [illustration: original manuscript of page 19.] dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. the grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. he rose: but finding that the spirit made towards the window, clasped its robe in supplication. "i am a mortal," scrooge remonstrated, "and liable to fall." "bear but a touch of my hand _there_," said the spirit, laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this!" as the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. the city had entirely vanished. not a vestige of it was to be seen. the darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground. "good heaven!" said scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. "i was bred in this place. i was a boy here!" the spirit gazed upon him mildly. its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. he was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten! "your lip is trembling," said the ghost. "and what is that upon your cheek?" scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the ghost to lead him where he would. "you recollect the way?" inquired the spirit. "remember it!" cried scrooge with fervour--"i could walk it blindfold." "strange to have forgotten it for so many years!" observed the ghost. "let us go on." they walked along the road; scrooge recognising every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. all these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it. "these are but shadows of the things that have been," said the ghost. "they have no consciousness of us." the jocund travellers came on; and as they came, scrooge knew and named them every one. why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them! why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart [illustration: original manuscript of page 20.] leap up as they went past! why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other merry christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes! what was merry christmas to scrooge? out upon merry christmas! what good had it ever done to him? "the school is not quite deserted," said the ghost. "a solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still." scrooge said he knew it. and he sobbed. they left the high-road, by a well remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. it was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were overrun with grass. nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. there was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat. they went, the ghost and scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. it opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. at one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he had used to be. not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panneling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of scrooge with softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears. the spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his young self, intent upon his reading. suddenly a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading an ass laden with wood by the bridle. "why, it's ali baba!" scrooge exclaimed in ecstacy. "it's dear old honest ali baba! yes, yes, i know! one christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he _did_ come, for the first [illustration: original manuscript of page 21.] time, just like that. poor boy! and valentine," said scrooge, "and his wild brother, orson; there they go! and what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the gate of damascus; don't you see him! and the sultan's groom turned upside-down by the genii; there he is upon his head! serve him right. i'm glad of it. what business had _he_ to be married to the princess!" to hear scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed. "there's the parrot!" cried scrooge. "green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! poor robin crusoe, he called him, when he came home again after sailing round the island. 'poor robin crusoe, where have you been, robin crusoe?' the man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. it was the parrot, you know. there goes friday, running for his life to the little creek! halloa! hoop! halloo!" then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, "poor boy!" and cried again. "i wish," scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: "but it's too late now." "what is the matter?" asked the spirit. "nothing," said scrooge. "nothing. there was a boy singing a christmas carol at my door last night. i should like to have given him something: that's all." the ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, "let us see another christmas!" scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. the panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about, scrooge knew no more than you do. he only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays. he was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. scrooge looked at the ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door. it opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her "dear, dear brother." [illustration: original manuscript of page 22.] "i have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said the child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. "to bring you home, home, home!" "home, little fan?" returned the boy. "yes!" said the child, brimful of glee. "home, for good and all. home, for ever and ever. father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like heaven! he spoke so gently to me one dear night when i was going to bed, that i was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. and you're to be a man!" said the child, opening her eyes, "and are never to come back here; but first, we're to be together all the christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world." "you are quite a woman, little fan!" exclaimed the boy. she clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied her. a terrible voice in the hall cried, "bring down master scrooge's box, there!" and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on master scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. he then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of "something" to the postboy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. master scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep; the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray. "always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the ghost. "but she had a large heart!" "so she had," cried scrooge. "you're right. i'll not gainsay it, spirit. god forbid!" "she died a woman," said the ghost, "and had, as i [illustration: original manuscript of page 23.] think, children." "one child," scrooge returned. "true," said the ghost. "your nephew!" scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, "yes." although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. it was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up. the ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked scrooge if he knew it. "know it!" said scrooge. "was i apprenticed here?" they went in. at sight of an old gentleman in a welch wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, scrooge cried in great excitement: "why, it's old fezziwig! bless his heart; it's fezziwig alive again!" old fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. he rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: "yo ho, there! ebenezer! dick!" scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice. "dick wilkins, to be sure!" said scrooge to the ghost. "bless me, yes. there he is. he was very much attached to me, was dick. poor dick! dear, dear!" "yo ho, my boys!" said fezziwig. "no more work to-night. christmas eve, dick. christmas, ebenezer! let's have the shutters up," cried old fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say, jack robinson!" you wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! they charged into the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had 'em up in their places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight, nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses. "hilli-ho!" cried old fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. "clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! hilli-ho, dick! chirrup, ebenezer!" clear away! there was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old fezziwig looking on. it was [illustration: original manuscript of page 24.] [illustration: verso of original manuscript page 25.] done in a minute. every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for ever-more; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. in came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. in came mrs. fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. in came the three miss fezziwigs, beaming and loveable. in came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. in came all the young men and women employed in the business. in came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. in came the cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. in came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. in they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. away they all went, twenty couple at once, hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. when this result was brought about, old fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "well down!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. but scorning rest upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter; and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish. there were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of cold roast, and there was a great piece of cold boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. but the great effect of the evening came after the roast and boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! the sort of man who knew his business better than you or i could have told it him!) struck up "sir roger de coverley." then old fezziwig stood out to dance with mrs. fezziwig. top couple too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who _would_ dance, and had no notion of walking. but if they had been twice as many: ah, four times: old fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would mrs. fezziwig. as [illustration: original manuscript of page 25.] [illustration: verso of original manuscript page 26.] to _her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. if that's not high praise, tell me higher, and i'll use it. a positive light appeared to issue from fezziwig's calves. they shone in every part of the dance like moons. you couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would become of 'em next. and when old fezziwig and mrs. fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, hold hands with your partner; bow and curtsey; corkscrew; thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; fezziwig "cut"--cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger. when the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. mr. and mrs. fezziwig took their stations, one on either side the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a merry christmas. when everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop. during the whole of this time, scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. his heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. he corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. it was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and dick were turned from them, that he remembered the ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear. "a small matter," said the ghost, "to make these silly folks so full of gratitude." "small!" echoed scrooge. the spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of fezziwig: and when he had done so, said, "why! is it not? he has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four, perhaps. is that so much that he deserves this praise?" "it isn't that," said scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. "it isn't that, spirit. he has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? the happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune." he felt the spirit's glance, and stopped. "what is the matter?" asked the ghost. "nothing particular," said scrooge. "something, i think?" the ghost insisted. "no," said scrooge, "no. i should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now! that's all." [illustration: original manuscript of page 26.] his former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and scrooge and the ghost again stood side by side in the open air. "my time grows short," observed the spirit. "quick!" this was not addressed to scrooge, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. for again scrooge saw himself. he was older now; a man in the prime of life. his face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. there was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall. he was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the ghost of christmas past. "it matters little," she said, softly. "to you, very little. another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as i would have tried to do, i have no just cause to grieve." "what idol has displaced you?" he rejoined. "a golden one." "this is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "there is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!" "you fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "all your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. i have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, gain, engrosses you. have i not?" "what then?" he retorted. "even if i have grown so much wiser, what then? i am not changed towards you." she shook her head. "am i?" "our contract is an old one. it was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. you _are_ changed. when it was made, you were another man." "i was a boy," he said impatiently. "your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "i am. that which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. how often and how keenly i have thought of this, i will not say. it is enough that i _have_ thought of it, and can release you." "have i ever sought release?" [illustration: original manuscript of page 27.] "in words. no. never." "in what, then?" "in a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another hope as its great end. in everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. if this had never been between us," said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him; "tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? ah, no!" he seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of himself. but he said, with a struggle, "you think not." "i would gladly think otherwise if i could," she answered, "heaven knows! when _i_ have learned a truth like this, i know how strong and irresistible it must be. but if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even i believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do i not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? i do; and i release you. with a full heart, for the love of him you once were." he was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she resumed. "you may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. a very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. may you be happy in the life you have chosen!" she left him; and they parted. "spirit!" said scrooge, "show me no more! conduct me home. why do you delight to torture me?" "one shadow more!" exclaimed the ghost. "no more!" cried scrooge. "no more. i don't wish to see it. show me no more!" but the relentless ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next. they were in another scene and place: a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like the last that scrooge believed it was the same, until he saw _her_, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. the noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there, than scrooge in his agitated state of mind could [illustration: original manuscript of page 28.] count; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. the consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands most ruthlessly. what would i not have given to be one of them! though i never could have been so rude, no, no! i wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it down; and for the precious little shoe, i wouldn't have plucked it off, god bless my soul! to save my life. as to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, i couldn't have done it; i should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. and yet i should have dearly liked, i own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, i should have liked, i do confess, to have had the lightest license of a child, and yet been man enough to know its value. but now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she with laughing face and plundered dress was borne towards it the centre of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who, came home attended by a man laden with christmas toys and presents. then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter! the scaling him, with chairs for ladders, to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round the neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection! the shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received! the terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter! the immense relief of finding this a false alarm! the joy, and gratitude, and ecstacy! they are all indescribable alike. it is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlour and by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided. and now scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he thought that such another [illustration: original manuscript of page 29.] creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed. "belle," said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, "i saw an old friend of yours this afternoon." "who was it?" "guess!" "how can i? tut, don't i know," she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed. "mr. scrooge." "mr. scrooge it was. i passed his office window; and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, i could scarcely help seeing him. his partner lies upon the point of death, i hear; and there he sat alone. quite alone in the world, i do believe." "spirit!" said scrooge in a broken voice, "remove me from this place." "i told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the ghost. "that they are what they are, do not blame me!" "remove me!" scrooge exclaimed. "i cannot bear it!" he turned upon the ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. "leave me! take me back. haunt me no longer!" in the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head. the spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form; but though scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light: which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground. he was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. he gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep. [illustration: original manuscript of page 30.] [illustration] [illustration: scrooge's third visitor. _london · chapman & hall, 186 strand._] [_this illustration is reproduced in full color on the back cover._] [illustration: verso of original manuscript page 31.] stave iii. the second of the three spirits. awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. he felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger despatched to him through jacob marley's intervention. but finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new spectre would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands; and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. for he wished to challenge the spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous. gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time-of-day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects. without venturing for scrooge quite as hardily as this, i don't mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would have astonished him very much. now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the bell struck one, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. all this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. at last, however, he began to think--as you or i would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too--at last, i say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room: from [illustration: original manuscript of page 31.] whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. this idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door. the moment scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. he obeyed. it was his own room. there was no doubt about that. but it had undergone a surprising transformation. the walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove, from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. the crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in scrooge's time, or marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. heaped up upon the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. in easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on scrooge, as he came peeping round the door. "come in!" exclaimed the ghost. "come in! and know me better, man!" scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this spirit. he was not the dogged scrooge he had been; and though its eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them. "i am the ghost of christmas present," said the spirit. "look upon me!" scrooge reverently did so. it was clothed in one simple deep green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. this garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath set here and there with shining icicles. its dark brown curls were long and free: free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust. "you have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed [illustration: original manuscript of page 32.] the spirit. "never," scrooge made answer to it. "have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for i am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the phantom. "i don't think i have," said scrooge. "i am afraid i have not. have you had many brothers, spirit?" "more than eighteen hundred," said the ghost. "a tremendous family to provide for!" muttered scrooge. the ghost of christmas present rose. "spirit," said scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will. i went forth last night on compulsion, and i learnt a lesson which is working now. to-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it." "touch my robe!" scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. so did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses: whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snowstorms. the house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and [illustration: original manuscript of page 33.] icy water. the sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in great britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content. there was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain. for the people who were shovelling away on the house-tops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. the poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. there were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. there were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like spanish friars; and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. there were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. the very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went grasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement. the grocers'! oh the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! it was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. nor was it that the figs were moist and [illustration: original manuscript of page 34.] pulpy, or that the french plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its christmas dress: but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes in the best humour possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for christmas daws to peck at if they chose. but soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. and at the same time there emerged from scores of bye streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. the sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the spirit very much, for he stood with scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. and it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled with each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humour was restored directly. for they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon christmas day. and so it was! god love it, so it was! in time the bells ceased, and the bakers' were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too. "is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked scrooge. "there is. my own." "would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked scrooge. "to any kindly given. to a poor one most." "why to a poor one most?" asked scrooge. "because it needs it most." "spirit," said scrooge, after a moment's thought, "i wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment." "i!" cried the spirit. "you would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all," said scrooge. "wouldn't you?" "i!" cried the spirit. [illustration: original manuscript of page 35.] "you seek to close these places on the seventh day?" said scrooge. "and it comes to the same thing." "_i_ seek!" exclaimed the spirit. "forgive me if i am wrong. it has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family," said scrooge. "there are some upon this earth of yours," returned the spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name; who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. it was a remarkable quality of the ghost (which scrooge had observed at the baker's) that notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall. and perhaps it was the pleasure the good spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the spirit smiled, and stopped to bless bob cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. think of that! bob had but fifteen "bob" a-week himself; he pocketed on saturdays but fifteen copies of his christian name; and yet the ghost of christmas present blessed his four-roomed house! then up rose mrs. cratchit, cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by belinda cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while master peter cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks. and now two smaller cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage-and-onion, these young cratchits danced about the table, and exalted master peter cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled. "what has ever got your precious father then," said mrs. cratchit. "and your brother, tiny tim; and martha warn't as late last christmas day by half-an-hour!" "here's martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke. [illustration: original manuscript of page 36.] "here's martha, mother!" cried the two young cratchits. "hurrah! there's _such_ a goose, martha!" "why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said mrs. cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her, with officious zeal. "we'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother!" "well! never mind so long as you are come," said mrs. cratchit. "sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, lord bless ye!" "no no! there's father coming," cried the two young cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "hide martha, hide!" so martha hid herself, and in came little bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his thread-bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and tiny tim upon his shoulder. alas for tiny tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! "why, where's our martha?" cried bob cratchit looking around. "not coming," said mrs. cratchit. "not coming!" said bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "not coming upon christmas day!" martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young cratchits hustled tiny tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "and how did little tim behave?" asked mrs. cratchit, when she had rallied bob on his credulity and bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. "as good as gold," said bob, "and better. somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that tiny tim was growing strong and hearty. his active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came tiny tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while bob, turning up his cuffs--as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer; master peter and the two ubiquitous young cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. [illustration: original manuscript of page 37.] such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course: and in truth it was something very like it in that house. mrs. cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; master peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; miss belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; martha dusted the hot plates; bob took tiny tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. at last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. it was succeeded by a breathless pause, as mrs. cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even tiny tim, excited by the two young cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried hurrah! there never was such a goose. bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as mrs. cratchit said with a great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! yet every one had had enough, and the youngest cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! but now, the plates being changed by miss belinda, mrs. cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in. suppose it should not be done enough! suppose it should break in turning out! suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose: a supposition at which the two young cratchits became livid! all sorts of horrors were supposed. hallo! a great deal of steam! the pudding was out of the copper. a smell like a washing-day! that was the cloth. a smell like an eating-house, and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! that was the pudding. in half a minute mrs. cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with christmas holly stuck into the top. oh, a wonderful pudding! bob cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by mrs. cratchit since their marriage. mrs. cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she [illustration: original manuscript of page 38.] had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. it would have been flat heresy to do so. any cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. at last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. the compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chesnuts on the fire. then all the cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what bob cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at bob cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass; two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle. these held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chesnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily. then bob proposed: "a merry christmas to us all, my dears. god bless us!" which all the family re-echoed. "god bless us every one!" said tiny tim, the last of all. he sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. "spirit," said scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before, "tell me if tiny tim will live." "i see a vacant seat," replied the ghost, "in the poor chimney corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die." "no, no," said scrooge. "oh no, kind spirit! say he will be spared." "if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race," returned the ghost, "will find him here. what then? if he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "man," said the ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? it may be, that in the sight of heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. oh god! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!" scrooge bent before the ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. but he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name. "mr. scrooge!" said bob; "i'll give you mr. scrooge, the founder of [illustration: original manuscript of page 39.] the feast!" "the founder of the feast indeed!" cried mrs. cratchit, reddening. "i wish i had him here. i'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and i hope he'd have a good appetite for it." "my dear," said bob, "the children; christmas day." "it should be christmas day, i am sure," said she, "on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as mr. scrooge. you know he is, robert! nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!" "my dear," was bob's mild answer, "christmas day." "i'll drink his health for your sake and the day's," said mrs. cratchit, "not for his. long life to him! a merry christmas and a happy new year!--he'll be very merry and very happy, i have no doubt!" the children drank the toast after her. it was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. tiny tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. scrooge was the ogre of the family. the mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes. after it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of scrooge the baleful being done with. bob cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for master peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. the two young cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of peter's being a man of business; and peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie a-bed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord "was much about as tall as peter;" at which peter pulled up his collars so high that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. all this time the chesnuts and the jug went round and round; and bye and bye they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from tiny tim; who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. there was nothing of high mark in this. they were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty; and peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. but they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright [illustration: original manuscript of page 40.] sprinklings of the spirit's torch at parting, scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on tiny tim, until the last. by this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as scrooge and the spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn, to shut out cold and darkness. there, all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's house; where, wo upon the single man who saw them enter--artful witches: well they knew it--in a glow! but if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. blessings on it, how the ghost exulted! how it bared its breadth of breast, and opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything within its reach! the very lamplighter, who ran on before dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the spirit passed: though little kenned the lamplighter that he had any company but christmas! and now, without a word of warning from the ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed--or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse, rank grass. down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night. "what place is this?" asked scrooge. "a place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth," returned the spirit. "but they know me. see!" a light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. an old, old man and woman, with their children and [illustration: original manuscript of page 41.] [illustration: verso of original manuscript page 42.] their children's children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. the old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. so surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigour sank again. the spirit did not tarry here, but bade scrooge hold his robe, and passing on above the moor, sped whither? not to sea? to sea. to scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled, and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth. built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. great heaps of sea-weed clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind one might suppose, as sea-weed of the water--rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed. but even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other merry christmas in their can of grog; and one of them: the elder, too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a gale in itself. again the ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. they stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a christmas tune, or had a christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone christmas day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. and every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him. it was a great surprise to scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as death: it was a great surprise to scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. it was a much greater surprise to scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability! [illustration: original manuscript of page 42.] "ha, ha!" laughed scrooge's nephew. "ha, ha, ha!" if you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blest in a laugh than scrooge's nephew, all i can say is, i should like to know him too. introduce him to me, and i'll cultivate his acquaintance. it is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour. when scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions: scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. and their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand, roared out, lustily. "ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha!" "he said that christmas was a humbug, as i live!" cried scrooge's nephew. "he believed it too!" "more shame for him, fred!" said scrooge's niece, indignantly. bless those women; they never do anything by halves. they are always in earnest. she was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. with a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed--as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. oh, perfectly satisfactory! "he's a comical old fellow," said scrooge's nephew, "that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be. however, his offences carry their own punishment, and i have nothing to say against him." "i am sure he is very rich, fred," hinted scrooge's niece. "at least you always tell _me_ so." "what of that, my dear!" said scrooge's nephew. "his wealth is of no use to him. he don't do any good with it. he don't make himself comfortable with it. he hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it." "i have no patience with him," observed scrooge's niece. scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the same opinion. "oh, i have!" said scrooge's nephew. "i am sorry for him; i couldn't be angry with him if i tried. who suffers by his ill whims? himself, always. here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. what's the consequence? he don't lose much of a dinner." "indeed, i think he loses a very good dinner," interrupted scrooge's niece. everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamplight. [illustration: original manuscript of page 43.] "well! i am very glad to hear it," said scrooge's nephew, "because i haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. what do _you_ say, topper?" topper had clearly got his eye upon one of scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. whereat scrooge's niece's sister--the plump one with the lace tucker: not the one with the roses--blushed. "do go on, fred," said scrooge's niece, clapping her hands. "he never finishes what he begins to say! he is such a ridiculous fellow!" scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and as it was impossible to keep the infection off; though the plump sister tried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar; his example was unanimously followed. "i was only going to say," said scrooge's nephew, "that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as i think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. i am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old office, or his dusty chambers. i mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for i pity him. he may rail at christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--i defy him--if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying uncle scrooge, how are you? if it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and i think i shook him, yesterday." it was their turn to laugh now, at the notion of his shaking scrooge. but being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle, joyously. after tea, they had some music. for they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sung a glee or catch, i can assure you: especially topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the ghost of christmas past. when this strain of music sounded, all the things that ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried jacob marley. but they didn't devote the whole evening to music. after a while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never [illustration: original manuscript of page 44.] better than at christmas, when its mighty founder was a child himself. stop! there was first a game at blindman's buff. of course there was. and i no more believe topper was really blind than i believe he had eyes in his boots. my opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and scrooge's nephew; and that the ghost of christmas present knew it. the way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went, there went he. he always knew where the plump sister was. he wouldn't catch anybody else. if you had fallen up against him, as some of them did, and stood there; he would have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding; and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. she often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. but when at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there was no escape; then his conduct was the most execrable. for his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her head-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain about her neck; was vile, monstrous! no doubt she told him her opinion of it, when, another blind-man being in office, they were so very confidential together, behind the curtains. scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner, where the ghost and scrooge were close behind her. but she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet. likewise at the game of how, when, and where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as topper could have told you. there might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did scrooge; for, wholly forgetting in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed right, too; for the sharpest needle, best whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than scrooge: blunt as he took it in his head to be. the ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. but this the spirit said could not be done. "here's a new game," said scrooge. "one half hour, spirit, only one!" [illustration: original manuscript of page 45.] it was a game called yes and no, where scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no as the case was. the brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in london, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. at every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. at last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out: "i have found it out! i know what it is, fred! i know what it is!" "what is it?" cried fred. "it's your uncle scro-o-o-o-oge!" which it certainly was. admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to "is it a bear?" ought to have been "yes;" inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from mr. scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way. "he has given us plenty of merriment, i am sure," said fred, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and i say 'uncle scrooge!'" "well! uncle scrooge!" they cried. "a merry christmas and a happy new year to the old man, whatever he is!" said scrooge's nephew. "he wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. uncle scrooge!" uncle scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the ghost had given him time. but the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the spirit were again upon their travels. much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. the spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. in almshouse, [illustration: original manuscript of page 46.] hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught scrooge his precepts. it was a long night, if it were only a night; but scrooge had his doubts of this, because the christmas holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. it was strange, too, that while scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the ghost grew older, clearly older. scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's twelfth night party, when, looking at the spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was gray. "are spirits' lives so short?" asked scrooge. "my life upon this globe, is very brief," replied the ghost. "it ends to-night." "to-night!" cried scrooge. "to-night at midnight. hark! the time is drawing near." the chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment. "forgive me if i am not justified in what i ask," said scrooge, looking intently at the spirit's robe, "but i see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. is it a foot or a claw!" "it might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," was the spirit's sorrowful reply. "look here." from the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. they knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. "oh, man! look here. look, look, down here!" exclaimed the ghost. they were a boy and girl. yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. no change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. scrooge started back, appalled. having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine [illustration: original manuscript of page 47.] children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. "spirit! are they yours?" scrooge could say no more. "they are man's," said the spirit, looking down upon them. "and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance. this girl is want. beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow i see that written which is doom, unless the writing be erased. deny it!" cried the spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. "slander those who tell it ye! admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! and bide the end!" "have they no refuge or resource?" cried scrooge. "are there no prisons?" said the spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "are there no workhouses?" the bell struck twelve. scrooge looked about him for the ghost, and saw it not. as the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old jacob marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him. [illustration: original manuscript of page 48.] [illustration] [illustration: the last of the spirits _london · chapman & hall, 186 strand._] [_this illustration is reproduced in full color on the inside back cover._] stave iv. the last of the spirits. the phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. when it came near him, scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. it was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. but for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. he felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. he knew no more, for the spirit neither spoke nor moved. "i am in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come?" said scrooge. the spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand. "you are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," scrooge pursued. "is that so, spirit?" the upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the spirit had inclined its head. that was the only answer he received. although well used to ghostly company by this time, scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. the spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover. but scrooge was all the worse for this. it thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. "ghost of the future!" he exclaimed, "i fear you more than any spectre i have seen. but, as i know your promise is to do me good, and as i hope to live to be another man from what i was, i am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. will you not speak to me?" it gave him no reply. the hand was pointed straight before them. "lead on!" said scrooge. "lead on! the night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, i know. lead on, spirit!" [illustration: original manuscript of page 49.] the phantom moved away as it had come towards him. scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. they scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. but there they were, in the heart of it; on 'change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, as scrooge had seen them often. the spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. observing that the hand was pointed to them, scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. "no," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, "i don't know much about it, either way. i only know he's dead." "when did he die?" inquired another. "last night, i believe." "why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. "i thought he'd never die." "god knows," said the first, with a yawn. "what has he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock. "i haven't heard," said the man with the large chin, yawning again. "left it to his company, perhaps. he hasn't left it to _me_. that's all _i_ know." this pleasantry was received with a general laugh. "it's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "for upon my life i don't know of anybody to go to it. suppose we make up a party and volunteer?" "i don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. "but i must be fed, if i make one." another laugh. "well, i am the most disinterested among you, after all," said the first speaker, "for i never wear black gloves, and i never eat lunch. but i'll offer to go, if anybody else will. when i come to think of it, i'm not at all sure that i wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. bye, bye!" speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the spirit for an explanation. the phantom glided on into a street. its finger pointed to two persons meeting. scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here. he knew these men, also, perfectly. they were men [illustration: original manuscript of page 50.] of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. he had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view. "how are you?" said one. "how are you?" returned the other. "well!" said the first. "old scratch has got his own at last, hey?" "so i am told," returned the second. "cold, isn't it?" "seasonable for christmas time. you're not a skaiter, i suppose?" "no. no. something else to think of. good morning!" not another word. that was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. they could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of jacob, his old partner, for that was past, and this ghost's province was the future. nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. but nothing doubting that to whomsoever they applied they had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. for he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy. he looked about in that very place for his own image; but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the porch. it gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this. quiet and dark, beside him stood the phantom, with its outstretched hand. when he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and its situation in reference to himself, that the unseen eyes were looking at him keenly. it made him shudder, and feel very cold. they left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute. the ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter [illustration: original manuscript of page 51.] reeked with crime, with filth, and misery. far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. secrets that few would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal-stove, made of old bricks, was a gray-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age; who had screened himself from the cold air without, by a frousy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement. scrooge and the phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. but she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each other. after a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh. "let the charwoman alone to be the first!" cried she who had entered first. "let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. look here, old joe, here's a chance! if we haven't all three met here without meaning it!" "you couldn't have met in a better place," said old joe, removing his pipe from his mouth. "come into the parlour. you were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two ain't strangers. stop till i shut the door of the shop. ah! how it skreeks! there an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, i believe; and i'm sure there's no such old bones here, as mine. ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. come into the parlour. come into the parlour." the parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. the old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night), with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again. while he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two. "what odds then! what odds, mrs. dilber?" said the woman. "every person has a right to take care of themselves. _he_ always did!" "that's true, indeed!" said the laundress. "no man more so." "why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? we're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, i suppose?" "no, indeed!" said mrs. dilber and the man together. "we should hope not." [illustration: original manuscript of page 52.] "very well, then!" cried the woman. "that's enough. who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? not a dead man, i suppose." "no, indeed," said mrs. dilber, laughing. "if he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw," pursued the woman, "why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? if he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself." "it's the truest word that ever was spoke," said mrs. dilber. "it's a judgment on him." "i wish it was a little heavier one," replied the woman; "and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if i could have laid my hands on anything else. open that bundle, old joe, and let me know the value of it. speak out plain. i'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. we knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, i believe. it's no sin. open the bundle, joe." but the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced _his plunder_. it was not extensive. a seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. they were severally examined and appraised by old joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found that there was nothing more to come. "that's your account," said joe, "and i wouldn't give another sixpence, if i was to be boiled for not doing it. who's next?" mrs. dilber was next. sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. her account was stated on the wall in the same manner. "i always give too much to ladies. it's a weakness of mine, and that's the way i ruin myself," said old joe. "that's your account. if you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, i'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half-a-crown." "and now undo _my_ bundle, joe," said the first woman. joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff. "what do you call this?" said joe. "bed-curtains!" "ah!" returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. "bed-curtains!" "you don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?" said joe. "yes i do," replied the woman. "why not?" "you were born to make your fortune," said joe, "and you'll certainly do it." "i certainly shan't hold my hand, when i can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, i promise you, joe," returned the woman coolly. "don't drop that oil [illustration: original manuscript of page 53.] upon the blankets, now." "his blankets?" asked joe. "whose else's do you think?" replied the woman. "he isn't likely to take cold without 'em, i dare say." "i hope he didn't die of anything catching? eh?" said old joe, stopping in his work, and looking up. "don't you be afraid of that," returned the woman. "i an't so fond of his company that i'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. ah! you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. it's the best he had, and a fine one too. they'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me." "what do you call wasting of it?" asked old joe. "putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied the woman with a laugh. "somebody was fool enough to do it, but i took it off again. if calico an't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. it's quite as becoming to the body. he can't look uglier than he did in that one." scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. as they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself. "ha, ha!" laughed the same woman, when old joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. "this is the end of it, you see! he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead! ha, ha, ha!" "spirit!" said scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "i see, i see. the case of this unhappy man might be my own. my life tends that way, now. merciful heaven, what is this!" he recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. the room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. a pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man. scrooge glanced towards the phantom. its steady hand was pointed to the head. the cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. he thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side. [illustration: original manuscript of page 54.] oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion! but of the loved, revered, and honoured head, thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. it is not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man's. strike, shadow, strike! and see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal! no voice pronounced these words in scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. he thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? avarice, hard dealing, griping cares? they have brought him to a rich end, truly! he lay, in the dark empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child, to say he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word i will be kind to him. a cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. what _they_ wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, scrooge did not dare to think. "spirit!" he said, "this is a fearful place. in leaving it, i shall not leave its lesson, trust me. let us go!" still the ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. "i understand you," scrooge returned, "and i would do it, if i could. but i have not the power, spirit. i have not the power." again it seemed to look upon him. "if there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man's death," said scrooge quite agonized, "show that person to me, spirit, i beseech you!" the phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her children were. she was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play. at length the long-expected knock was heard. she hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was care-worn and depressed, though he was young. there was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress. he sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what news [illustration: original manuscript of page 55.] (which was not until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer. "is it good," she said, "or bad?"--to help him. "bad," he answered. "we are quite ruined?" "no. there is hope yet, caroline." "if _he_ relents," she said, amazed, "there is! nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened." "he is past relenting," said her husband. "he is dead." she was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so, with clasped hands. she prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart. "what the half-drunken woman whom i told you of last night, said to me, when i tried to see him and obtain a week's delay; and what i thought was a mere excuse to avoid me; turns out to have been quite true. he was not only very ill, but dying, then." "to whom will our debt be transferred?" "i don't know. but before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. we may sleep to-night with light hearts, caroline!" yes. soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. the children's faces hushed, and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's death! the only emotion that the ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure. "let me see some tenderness connected with a death," said scrooge; "or that dark chamber, spirit, which we left just now, will be for ever present to me." the ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and as they went along, scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. they entered poor bob cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. quiet. very quiet. the noisy little cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at peter, who had a book before him. the mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. but surely they were very quiet! "'and he took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'" where had scrooge heard these words? he had not dreamed them. the boy must have read them out, as he and the spirit crossed the threshold. why did he not go on? the mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face. "the colour hurts my eyes," she said. the colour? ah, poor tiny tim! "they're better now again," said cratchit's wife. "it makes them [illustration: original manuscript of page 56.] weak by candle-light; and i wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. it must be near his time." "past it rather," peter answered, shutting up his book. "but i think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother." they were very quiet again. at last she said, and in a steady cheerful voice, that only faultered once: "i have known him walk with--i have known him walk with tiny tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed." "and so have i," cried peter. "often." "and so have i!" exclaimed another. so had all. "but he was very light to carry," she resumed, intent upon her work, "and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble--no trouble. and there is your father at the door!" she hurried out to meet him; and little bob in his comforter--he had need of it, poor fellow--came in. his tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. then the two young cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, as if they said, "don't mind it father. don't be grieved!" bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. he looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of mrs. cratchit and the girls. they would be done long before sunday he said. "sunday! you went to-day then, robert?" said his wife. "yes, my dear," returned bob. "i wish you could have gone. it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. but you'll see it often. i promised him that i would walk there on a sunday. my little, little child!" cried bob. "my little child!" he broke down all at once. he couldn't help it. if he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were. he left the room, and went up stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with christmas. there was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there, lately. poor bob sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. he was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy. they drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother working still. bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of mr. scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and [illustration: original manuscript of page 57.] seeing that he looked a little--"just a little down you know" said bob, enquired what had happened to distress him. "on which," said bob, "for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, i told him. 'i am heartily sorry for it, mr. cratchit,' he said, 'and heartily sorry for your good wife.' by the bye, how he ever knew _that_, i don't know." "knew what, my dear?" "why, that you were a good wife," replied bob. "everybody knows that!" said peter. "very well observed, my boy!" cried bob. "i hope they do. 'heartily sorry,' he said, 'for your good wife. if i can be of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me his card, 'that's where i live. pray come to me.' now, it wasn't," cried bob, "for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. it really seemed as if he had known our tiny tim, and felt with us." "i'm sure he's a good soul!" said mrs. cratchit. "you would be surer of it, my dear," returned bob, "if you saw and spoke to him. i shouldn't be at all surprised, mark what i say, if he got peter a better situation." "only hear that, peter," said mrs. cratchit. "and then," cried one of the girls, "peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself." "get along with you!" retorted peter, grinning. "it's just as likely as not," said bob, "one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. but however and whenever we part from one another, i am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny tim--shall we--or this first parting that there was among us?" "never, father!" cried they all. "and i know," said bob, "i know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor tiny tim in doing it." "no never, father!" they all cried again. "i am very happy," said little bob, "i am very happy!" mrs. cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young cratchits kissed him, and peter and himself shook hands. spirit of tiny tim, thy childish essence was from god! "spectre," said scrooge, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. i know it, but i know not how. tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?" the ghost of christmas yet to come conveyed him, as before--though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the future--into the resorts of business men, but showed him not himself. indeed, the spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to [illustration: original manuscript of page 58.] the end just now desired, until besought by scrooge to tarry for a moment. "this court," said scrooge, "through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length of time. i see the house. let me behold what i shall be, in days to come." the spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere. "the house is yonder," scrooge exclaimed. "why do you point away?" the inexorable finger underwent no change. scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked in. it was an office still, but not his. the furniture was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. the phantom pointed as before. he joined it once again, and wondering why and whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. he paused to look round before entering. a churchyard. here, then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. it was a worthy place. walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. a worthy place! the spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. he advanced towards it trembling. the phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. "before i draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said scrooge, "answer me one question. are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of the things that may be, only?" still the ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. "men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead," said scrooge. "but if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. say it is thus with what you show me!" the spirit was immovable as ever. scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, ebenezer scrooge. "am _i_ that man who lay upon the bed?" he cried, upon his knees. the finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. "no, spirit! oh no, no!" the finger still was there. "spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its robe, "hear me! i am not the man i was. i will not be the man i must have been but for this intercourse. why show me this, if i am past all hope?" [illustration: original manuscript of page 59.] for the first time the hand appeared to shake. "good spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: "your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. assure me that i yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!" the kind hand trembled. "i will honour christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. i will live in the past, the present, and the future. the spirits of all three shall strive within me. i will not shut out the lessons that they teach. oh, tell me i may sponge away the writing on this stone!" in his agony, he caught the spectral hand. it sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. the spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him. holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress. it shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. [illustration: original manuscript of page 60.] stave v. the end of it. yes! and the bedpost was his own. the bed was his own, the room was his own. best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in! "i will live in the past, the present, and the future!" scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "the spirits of all three shall strive within me. oh jacob marley! heaven, and the christmas time be praised for this! i say it on my knees, old jacob; on my knees!" he was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. he had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the spirit, and his face was wet with tears. "they are not torn down," cried scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. they are here: i am here: the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. they will be. i know they will!" his hands were busy with his garments all this time: turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance. "i don't know what to do!" cried scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect laocoön of himself with his stockings. "i am as light as a feather, i am as happy as an angel. i am as merry as a school-boy. i am as giddy as a drunken man. a merry christmas to everybody! a happy new year to all the world. hallo here! whoop! hallo!" he had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded. "there's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" cried scrooge, starting off again, and frisking round the fire-place. "there's the door, by which the ghost of jacob marley entered! there's the corner where the ghost of christmas present, sat! there's the window where i saw the wandering spirits! it's all right, it's all true, it all happened. ha ha ha!" really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. the father of a long, long, line of brilliant laughs! "i don't know what day of the month it is!" said scrooge. "i don't know how long i've been among the spirits. i don't know anything. i'm quite a baby. never mind. i don't care. i'd rather be a baby. hallo! whoop! hallo here!" [illustration: original manuscript of page 61.] he was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. clash, clang, hammer, ding, dong, bell. bell, dong, ding, hammer, clang, clash! oh, glorious, glorious! running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. no fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. oh, glorious. glorious! "what's to-day?" cried scrooge, calling downward to a boy in sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. "eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder. "what's to-day, my fine fellow?" said scrooge. "to-day!" replied the boy. "why, christmas day." "it's christmas day!" said scrooge to himself. "i haven't missed it. the spirits have done it all in one night. they can do anything they like. of course they can. of course they can. hallo, my fine fellow!" "hallo!" returned the boy. "do you know the poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner?" scrooge inquired. "i should hope i did," replied the lad. "an intelligent boy!" said scrooge. "a remarkable boy! do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? not the little prize turkey: the big one?" "what, the one as big as me?" returned the boy. "what a delightful boy!" said scrooge. "it's a pleasure to talk to him. yes, my buck!" "it's hanging there now," replied the boy. "is it?" said scrooge. "go and buy it." "walk-er!" exclaimed the boy. "no, no," said scrooge, "i am in earnest. go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that i may give them the direction where to take it. come back with the man, and i'll give you a shilling. come back with him in less than five minutes, and i'll give you half-a-crown!" the boy was off like a shot. he must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast. "i'll send it to bob cratchit's!" whispered scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. "he sha'n't know who sends it. it's twice the size of tiny tim. joe miller never made such a joke as sending it to bob's will be!" [illustration: original manuscript of page 62.] [illustration: verso of manuscript page 63.] the hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went down stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. as he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. "i shall love it, as long as i live!" cried scrooge, patting it with his hand. "i scarcely ever looked at it before. what an honest expression it has in its face! it's a wonderful knocker!--here's the turkey. hallo! whoop! how are you! merry christmas!" it _was_ a turkey! he never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. he would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. "why, it's impossible to carry that to camden town," said scrooge. "you must have a cab." the chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. but if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaister over it, and been quite satisfied. he dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the streets. the people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the ghost of christmas present; and walking with his hands behind him, scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. he looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, "good morning, sir! a merry christmas to you!" and scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears. he had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the portly gentleman, who had walked into his counting-house the day before and said, "scrooge and marley's, i believe?" it sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. "my dear sir," said scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. "how do you do? i hope you succeeded yesterday. it was very kind of you. a merry christmas to you, sir!" "mr. scrooge?" "yes," said scrooge. "that is my name, and i fear it may not be pleasant to you. allow me to ask your pardon. and will you have the goodness"--here scrooge whispered in his ear. "lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breath were gone. "my dear [illustration: original manuscript of page 63.] mr. scrooge, are you serious?" "if you please," said scrooge. "not a farthing less. a great many back-payments are included in it, i assure you. will you do me that favour?" "my dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him. "i don't know what to say to such munifi--" "don't say anything, please," retorted scrooge. "come and see me. will you come and see me?" "i will!" cried the old gentleman. and it was clear he meant to do it. "thank'ee," said scrooge. "i am much obliged to you. i thank you fifty times. bless you!" he went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. he had never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much happiness. in the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. he passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. but he made a dash, and did it: "is your master at home, my dear?" said scrooge to the girl. nice girl! very. "yes, sir." "where is he, my love?" said scrooge. "he's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. i'll show you up stairs, if you please." "thank'ee. he knows me," said scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. "i'll go in here, my dear." he turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. they were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right. "fred!" said scrooge. dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account. "why bless my soul!" cried fred, "who's that?" "it's i. your uncle scrooge. i have come to dinner. will you let me in, fred?" let him in! it is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. he was at home in five minutes. nothing could be heartier. his niece looked just the same. so did topper when _he_ came. so did the plump sister, when _she_ came. so did every one when _they_ came. wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful [illustration: original manuscript of page 64.] unanimity, won-der-ful happiness! but he was early at the office next morning. oh he was early there. if he could only be there first, and catch bob cratchit coming late! that was the thing he had set his heart upon. and he did it; yes he did! the clock struck nine. no bob. a quarter past. no bob. he was full eighteen minutes and a half, behind his time. scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the tank. his hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. he was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. "hallo!" growled scrooge, in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it. "what do you mean by coming here at this time of day?" "i'm very sorry, sir," said bob. "i _am_ behind my time." "you are?" repeated scrooge. "yes. i think you are. step this way, if you please." "it's only once a year, sir," pleaded bob, appearing from the tank. "it shall not be repeated. i was making rather merry yesterday, sir." "now, i'll tell you what, my friend," said scrooge, "i am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. and therefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again: "and therefore i am about to raise your salary!" bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. he had a momentary idea of knocking scrooge down with it; holding him; and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat. "a merry christmas, bob!" said scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "a merrier christmas, bob, my good fellow, than i have given you, for many a year! i'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a christmas bowl of smoking bishop, bob! make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, bob cratchit!" * * * * * scrooge was better than his word. he did it all, and infinitely more; and to tiny tim, who did not die, he was a second father. he became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing [illustration: original manuscript of page 65.] that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. his own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. he had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the total abstinence principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. may that be truly said of us, and all of us! and so, as tiny tim observed, god bless us, every one! the end. [illustration: original manuscript of page 66.] [illustration] [illustration: _the last of the spirits._] a christmas carol the original manuscript charles dickens [illustration: _scrooge's third visitor._] transcriber's note: this is a facsimile version of the original manuscript, hand-written by charles dickens. every effort has been made to preserve the appearance of the first edition--page breaks and labels have been kept, to match the original script, and spelling, grammar and typographical errors have been left unchanged. a christmas carol by charles dickens illustrated by george alfred williams new york the platt & peck co. _copyright, 1905, by_ the baker & taylor company [illustration: "he had been tim's blood horse all the way from church."] introduction the combined qualities of the realist and the idealist which dickens possessed to a remarkable degree, together with his naturally jovial attitude toward life in general, seem to have given him a remarkably happy feeling toward christmas, though the privations and hardships of his boyhood could have allowed him but little real experience with this day of days. dickens gave his first formal expression to his christmas thoughts in his series of small books, the first of which was the famous "christmas carol," the one perfect chrysolite. the success of the book was immediate. thackeray wrote of it: "who can listen to objections regarding such a book as this? it seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it, a personal kindness." this volume was put forth in a very attractive manner, with illustrations by john leech, who was the first artist to make these characters live, and his drawings were varied and spirited. there followed upon this four others: "the chimes," "the cricket on the hearth," "the battle of life," and "the haunted man," with illustrations on their first appearance by doyle, maclise, and others. the five are known to-day as the "christmas books." of them all the "carol" is the best known and loved, and "the cricket on the hearth," although third in the series, is perhaps next in point of popularity, and is especially familiar to americans through joseph jefferson's characterisation of caleb plummer. dickens seems to have put his whole self into these glowing little stories. whoever sees but a clever ghost story in the "christmas carol" misses its chief charm and lesson, for there is a different meaning in the movements of scrooge and his attendant spirits. a new life is brought to scrooge when he, "running to his window, opened it and put out his head. no fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sun-light; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. oh, glorious! glorious!" all this brightness has its attendant shadow, and deep from the childish heart comes that true note of pathos, the ever memorable toast of tiny tim, "god bless us, every one!" "the cricket on the hearth" strikes a different note. charmingly, poetically, the sweet chirping of the little cricket is associated with human feelings and actions, and at the crisis of the story decides the fate and fortune of the carrier and his wife. dickens's greatest gift was characterization, and no english writer, save shakespeare, has drawn so many and so varied characters. it would be as absurd to interpret all of these as caricatures as to deny dickens his great and varied powers of creation. dickens exaggerated many of his comic and satirical characters, as was his right, for caricature and satire are very closely related, while exaggeration is the very essence of comedy. but there remains a host of characters marked by humour and pathos. yet the pictorial presentation of dickens's characters has ever tended toward the grotesque. the interpretations in this volume aim to eliminate the grosser phases of the caricature in favour of the more human. if the interpretations seem novel, if scrooge be not as he has been pictured, it is because a more human scrooge was desired--a scrooge not wholly bad, a scrooge of a better heart, a scrooge to whom the resurrection described in this story was possible. it has been the illustrator's whole aim to make these people live in some form more fully consistent with their types. george alfred williams. _chatham, n.j._ contents a christmas carol stave page i _marley's ghost_ 11 ii _the first of the three spirits_ 32 iii _the second of the three spirits_ 51 iv _the last of the spirits_ 76 v _the end of it_ 93 illustrations a christmas carol _"he had been tim's blood horse all the way from church."_ frontispiece _"a merry christmas, uncle! god save you!" cried a cheerful voice._ 14 _to sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, scrooge felt, the very deuce with him._ 26 _"you recollect the way?" inquired the spirit. "remember it!" cried scrooge, with fervour; "i could walk it blindfold."_ 36 _"why, it's ali baba!" scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "it's dear old honest ali baba!"_ 38 a christmas carol in prose being a ghost story of christmas stave one marley's ghost marley was dead, to begin with. there is no doubt whatever about that. the register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. scrooge signed it. and scrooge's name was good upon 'change for anything he chose to put his hand to. old marley was as dead as a door-nail. mind! i don't mean to say that i know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. i might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. but the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the country's done for. you will, therefore, permit me to repeat, emphatically, that marley was as dead as a door-nail. scrooge knew he was dead? of course he did. how could it be otherwise? scrooge and he were partners for i don't know how many years. scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. and even scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. the mention of marley's funeral brings me back to the point i started from. there is no doubt that marley was dead. this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story i am going to relate. if we were not perfectly convinced that hamlet's father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot--say st. paul's church-yard, for instance--literally to astonish his son's weak mind. scrooge never painted out old marley's name. there it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: scrooge and marley. the firm was known as scrooge and marley. sometimes people new to the business called scrooge scrooge, and sometimes marley, but he answered to both names. it was all the same to him. oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. the cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. a frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. he carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at christmas. external heat and cold had little influence on scrooge. no warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. no wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. foul weather didn't know where to have him. the heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. they often "came down" handsomely and scrooge never did. nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "my dear scrooge, how are you? when will you come to see me?" no beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of scrooge. even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and, when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "no eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!" but what did scrooge care? it was the very thing he liked. to edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to scrooge. once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on christmas eve--old scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. it was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. the city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already--it had not been light all day--and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. the fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that, although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. to see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that nature lived hard by and was brewing on a large scale. the door of scrooge's counting-house was open, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. but he couldn't replenish it, for scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed. "a merry christmas, uncle! god save you!" cried a cheerful voice. it was the voice of scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. "bah!" said scrooge. "humbug!" he had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. "christmas a humbug, uncle!" said scrooge's nephew. "you don't mean that, i am sure?" "i do," said scrooge. "merry christmas! what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? you're poor enough." "come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "what right have you to be dismal? what reason have you to be morose? you're rich enough." scrooge, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "bah!" again; and followed it up with "humbug!" "don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew. [illustration: _"a merry christmas, uncle! god save you!" cried a cheerful voice._] "what else can i be," returned the uncle, "when i live in such a world of fools as this? merry christmas! out upon merry christmas! what's christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books, and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? if i could work my will," said scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'merry christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. he should!" "uncle!" pleaded the nephew. "nephew!" returned the uncle sternly, "keep christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine." "keep it!" repeated scrooge's nephew. "but you don't keep it." "let me leave it alone, then," said scrooge. "much good may it do you! much good it has ever done you!" "there are many things from which i might have derived good, by which i have not profited, i dare say," returned the nephew; "christmas among the rest. but i am sure i have always thought of christmas-time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time i know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. and therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, i believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and i say, god bless it!" the clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever. "let me hear another sound from _you_," said scrooge, "and you'll keep your christmas by losing your situation! you're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "i wonder you don't go into parliament." "don't be angry, uncle. come! dine with us to-morrow." scrooge said that he would see him----yes, indeed he did. he went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first. "but why?" cried scrooge's nephew. "why?" "why did you get married?" said scrooge. "because i fell in love." "because you fell in love!" growled scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry christmas. "good afternoon!" "nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. why give it as a reason for not coming now?" "good afternoon," said scrooge. "i want nothing from you; i ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?" "good afternoon!" said scrooge. "i am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. we have never had any quarrel to which i have been a party. but i have made the trial in homage to christmas, and i'll keep my christmas humour to the last. so a merry christmas, uncle!" "good afternoon," said scrooge. "and a happy new year!" "good afternoon!" said scrooge. his nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. he stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than scrooge; for he returned them cordially. "there's another fellow," muttered scrooge, who overheard him: "my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry christmas. i'll retire to bedlam." this lunatic, in letting scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. they were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in scrooge's office. they had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. "scrooge and marley's, i believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "have i the pleasure of addressing mr. scrooge, or mr. marley?" "mr. marley has been dead these seven years," scrooge replied. "he died seven years ago, this very night." "we have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials. it certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. at the ominous word "liberality" scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back. "at this festive season of the year, mr. scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir." "are there no prisons?" asked scrooge. "plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. "and the union workhouses?" demanded scrooge. "are they still in operation?" "they are. still," returned the gentleman, "i wish i could say they were not." "the treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour, then?" said scrooge. "both very busy, sir." "oh! i was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said scrooge. "i am very glad to hear it." "under the impression that they scarcely furnish christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. we choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. what shall i put you down for?" "nothing!" scrooge replied. "you wish to be anonymous?" "i wish to be left alone," said scrooge. "since you ask me what i wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. i don't make merry myself at christmas, and i can't afford to make idle people merry. i help to support the establishments i have mentioned--they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there." "many can't go there; and many would rather die." "if they would rather die," said scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. besides--excuse me--i don't know that." "but you might know it," observed the gentleman. "it's not my business," scrooge returned. "it's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. mine occupies me constantly. good afternoon, gentlemen!" seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him. meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. the ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at scrooge out of a gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. the cold became intense. in the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. the water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings suddenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. the brightness of the shops, where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. the lord mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty mansion house, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep christmas as a lord mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef. foggier yet, and colder! piercing, searching, biting cold. if the good st. dunstan had but nipped the evil spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. the owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a christmas carol; but, at the first sound of "god bless you, merry gentleman, may nothing you dismay!" scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog, and even more congenial frost. at length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. with an ill-will scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat. "you'll want all day to-morrow, i suppose?" said scrooge. "if quite convenient, sir." "it's not convenient," said scrooge, "and it's not fair. if i was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill used, i'll be bound?" the clerk smiled faintly. "and yet," said scrooge, "you don't think _me_ ill used when i pay a day's wages for no work." the clerk observed that it was only once a year. "a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of december!" said scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. "but i suppose you must have the whole day. be here all the earlier next morning." the clerk promised that he would; and scrooge walked out with a growl. the office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being christmas-eve, and then ran home to camden town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's buff. scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's book, went home to bed. he lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. they were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way out again. it was old enough now, and dreary enough; for nobody lived in it but scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. the yard was so dark that even scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. the fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the genius of the weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold. now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. it is also a fact that scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of london, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. let it also be borne in mind that scrooge had not bestowed one thought on marley since his last mention of his seven-years'-dead partner that afternoon. and then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but marley's face. marley's face. it was not in impenetrable shadow, as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. it was not angry or ferocious, but looked at scrooge as marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. the hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath of hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. that, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face, and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression. as scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again. to say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. but he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle. he _did_ pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he _did_ look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. but there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said, "pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang. the sound resounded through the house like thunder. every room above, and every cask in the wine merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. he fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs: slowly, too: trimming his candle as he went. you may talk vaguely about driving a coach and six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young act of parliament; but i mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall, and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. there was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with scrooge's dip. up scrooge went, not caring a button for that. darkness is cheap, and scrooge liked it. but, before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. he had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that. sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. all as they should be. nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. lumber-room as usual. old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double locked himself in, which was not his custom. thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. it was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. he was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. the fire-place was an old one, built by some dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the scriptures. there were cains and abels, pharaoh's daughters, queens of sheba, angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather beds, abrahams, belshazzars, apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. if each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old marley's head on every one. "humbug!" said scrooge; and walked across the room. after several turns he sat down again. as he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated, for some purpose now forgotten, with a chamber in the highest story of the building. it was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that, as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. it swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. this might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. the bells ceased, as they had begun, together. they were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar. scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. the cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. "it's humbug still!" said scrooge. "i won't believe it." his colour changed, though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "i know him! marley's ghost!" and fell again. the same face: the very same. marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. the chain he drew was clasped about his middle. it was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. his body was transparent; so that scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. scrooge had often heard it said that marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now. no, nor did he believe it even now. though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses. "how now!" said scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "what do you want with me?" "much!"--marley's voice, no doubt about it. "who are you?" "ask me who i _was_." "who _were_ you, then?" said scrooge, raising his voice. "you're particular, for a shade." he was going to say "_to_ a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate. "in life i was your partner, jacob marley." "can you--can you sit down?" asked scrooge, looking doubtfully at him. "i can." "do it, then." scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that, in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. but the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it. "you don't believe in me," observed the ghost. "i don't," said scrooge. "what evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your own senses?" "i don't know," said scrooge. "why do you doubt your senses?" "because," said scrooge, "a little thing affects them. a slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. you may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. there's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel in his heart by any means waggish then. the truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones. to sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. there was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of his own. scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven. "you see this toothpick?" said scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself. "i do," replied the ghost. "you are not looking at it," said scrooge. "but i see it," said the ghost, "notwithstanding." "well!" returned scrooge, "i have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. humbug, i tell you; humbug!" at this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. but how much greater was his horror when the phantom, taking off the bandage round his head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast! scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face. "mercy!" he said. "dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" "man of the worldly mind!" replied the ghost, "do you believe in me or not?" "i do," said scrooge. "i must. but why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?" [illustration: _to sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, scrooge felt, the very deuce with him._] "it is required of every man," the ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. it is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands. "you are fettered," said scrooge, trembling. "tell me why?" "i wear the chain i forged in life," replied the ghost. "i made it link by link, and yard by yard; i girded it on of my own free-will, and of my own free-will i wore it. is its pattern strange to _you_?" scrooge trembled more and more. "or would you know," pursued the ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? it was full as heavy and as long as this, seven christmas-eves ago. you have laboured on it since. it is a ponderous chain!" scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable, but he could see nothing. "jacob!" he said imploringly. "old jacob marley, tell me more! speak comfort to me, jacob!" "i have none to give," the ghost replied. "it comes from other regions, ebenezer scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. nor can i tell you what i would. a very little more is all permitted to me. i cannot rest, i cannot stay, i cannot linger anywhere. my spirit never walked beyond our counting-house--mark me;--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!" it was a habit with scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches pockets. pondering on what the ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees. "you must have been very slow about it, jacob," scrooge observed in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference. "slow!" the ghost repeated. "seven years dead," mused scrooge. "and travelling all the time?" "the whole time," said the ghost. "no rest, no peace. incessant torture of remorse." "you travel fast?" said scrooge. "on the wings of the wind," replied the ghost. "you might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said scrooge. the ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance. "oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know that ages of incessant labour, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed! not to know that any christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness! not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! yet such was i! oh, such was i!" "but you were always a good man of business, jacob," faltered scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. "business!" cried the ghost, wringing its hands again. "mankind was my business. the common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were, all, my business. the dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!" it held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. "at this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "i suffer most. why did i walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed star which led the wise men to a poor abode? were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted _me_?" scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "hear me!" cried the ghost. "my time is nearly gone." "i will," said scrooge. "but don't be hard upon me! don't be flowery, jacob! pray!" "how it is that i appear before you in a shape that you can see, i may not tell. i have sat invisible beside you many and many a day." it was not an agreeable idea. scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "that is no light part of my penance," pursued the ghost. "i am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. a chance and hope of my procuring, ebenezer." "you were always a good friend to me," said scrooge. "thankee!" "you will be haunted," resumed the ghost, "by three spirits." scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the ghost's had done. "is that the chance and hope you mentioned, jacob?" he demanded in a faltering voice. "it is." "i--i think i'd rather not," said scrooge. "without their visits," said the ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path i tread. expect the first to-morrow when the bell tolls one." "couldn't i take 'em all at once, and have it over, jacob?" hinted scrooge. "expect the second on the next night at the same hour. the third, upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" when it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head as before. scrooge knew this by the smart sound its teeth made when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. he ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm. the apparition walked backward from him; and, at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that, when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. it beckoned scrooge to approach, which he did. when they were within two paces of each other, marley's ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. scrooge stopped. not so much in obedience as in surprise and fear; for, on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. the spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night. scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. he looked out. the air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. every one of them wore chains like marley's ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. many had been personally known to scrooge in their lives. he had been quite familiar with one old ghost in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below upon a doorstep. the misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. but they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home. scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the ghost had entered. it was double locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. he tried to say "humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable. and being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the invisible world, or the dull conversation of the ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, went straight to bed without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant. stave two the first of the three spirits when scrooge awoke it was so dark, that, looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. he was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters. so he listened for the hour. to his great astonishment, the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. twelve! it was past two when he went to bed. the clock was wrong. an icicle must have got into the works. twelve! he touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most preposterous clock. its rapid little pulse beat twelve, and stopped. "why, it isn't possible," said scrooge, "that i can have slept through a whole day and far into another night. it isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon!" the idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. he was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very little then. all he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world. this was a great relief, because "three days after sight of this first of exchange pay to mr. ebenezer scrooge or his order," and so forth, would have become a mere united states security if there were no days to count by. scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over, and could make nothing of it. the more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and, the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought. marley's ghost bothered him exceedingly. every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "was it a dream or not?" scrooge lay in this state until the chime had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. he resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to heaven, this was, perhaps, the wisest resolution in his power. the quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. at length it broke upon his listening ear. "ding, dong!" "a quarter past," said scrooge, counting. "ding, dong!" "half past," said scrooge. "ding, dong!" "a quarter to it," said scrooge. "ding, dong!" "the hour itself," said scrooge triumphantly, "and nothing else!" he spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy one. light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn. the curtains of his bed were drawn aside, i tell you, by a hand. not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. the curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as i am now to you, and i am standing in the spirit at your elbow. it was a strange figure--like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white, as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. the arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. it wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. it held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand: and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. but the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm. even this, though, when scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was _not_ its strangest quality. for, as its belt sparkled and glittered, now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. and, in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. "are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked scrooge. "i am!" the voice was soft and gentle. singularly low, as if, instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance. "who and what are you?" scrooge demanded. "i am the ghost of christmas past." "long past?" inquired scrooge; observant of its dwarfish stature. "no. your past." perhaps scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered. "what!" exclaimed the ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light i give? is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow?" scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend or any knowledge of having wilfully "bonneted" the spirit at any period of his life. he then made bold to inquire what business brought him there. "your welfare!" said the ghost. scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. the spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately: "your reclamation, then. take heed!" it put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm. "rise! and walk with me!" it would have been in vain for scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. the grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. he rose: but, finding that the spirit made towards the window, clasped its robe in supplication. "i am a mortal," scrooge remonstrated, "and liable to fall." "bear but a touch of my hand _there_," said the spirit, laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this!" as the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. the city had entirely vanished. not a vestige of it was to be seen. the darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with the snow upon the ground. "good heaven!" said scrooge, clasping his hands together as he looked about him. "i was bred in this place. i was a boy here!" the spirit gazed upon him mildly. its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. he was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten! "your lip is trembling," said the ghost. "and what is that upon your cheek?" scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the ghost to lead him where he would. "you recollect the way?" inquired the spirit. "remember it!" cried scrooge with fervour; "i could walk it blindfold." "strange to have forgotten it for so many years!" observed the ghost. "let us go on." [illustration: _"you recollect the way?" inquired the spirit. "remember it!" cried scrooge with fervour; "i could walk it blindfold."_] they walked along the road, scrooge recognising every gate, and post, and tree, until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. all these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it. "these are but shadows of the things that have been," said the ghost. "they have no consciousness of us." the jocund travellers came on; and as they came, scrooge knew and named them every one. why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past? why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other merry christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and by-ways for their several homes? what was merry christmas to scrooge? out upon merry christmas! what good had it ever done to him? "the school is not quite deserted," said the ghost. "a solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still." scrooge said he knew it. and he sobbed. they left the high-road by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weather-cock surmounted cupola on the roof and a bell hanging in it. it was a large house, but one of broken fortunes: for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were overrun with grass. nor was it more retentive of its ancient state within; for, entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. there was an earthly savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat. they went, the ghost and scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. it opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. at one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he had used to be. not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty storehouse door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of scrooge with softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears. the spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading. suddenly a man in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood. "why, it's ali baba!" scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "it's dear old honest ali baba! yes, yes, i know. one christmas-time when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he _did_ come, for the first time, just like that. poor boy! and valentine," said scrooge, "and his wild brother, orson; there they go! and what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the gate of damascus; don't you see him? and the sultan's groom turned upside down by the genii: there he is upon his head! serve him right! i'm glad of it. what business had _he_ to be married to the princess?" to hear scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed. [illustration: _"why, it's ali baba!" scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "it's dear old honest ali baba."_] "there's the parrot!" cried scrooge. "green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! poor robin crusoe he called him, when he came home again after sailing round the island. 'poor robin crusoe, where have you been, robin crusoe?' the man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. it was the parrot, you know. there goes friday, running for his life to the little creek! halloa! hoop! halloo!" then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, "poor boy!" and cried again. "i wish," scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: "but it's too late now." "what is the matter?" asked the spirit. "nothing," said scrooge. "nothing. there was a boy singing a christmas carol at my door last night. i should like to have given him something: that's all." the ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying, as it did so, "let us see another christmas!" scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. the panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about scrooge knew no more than you do. he only knew that it was quite correct: that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays. he was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. scrooge looked at the ghost, and, with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door. it opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and, putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her "dear, dear brother." "i have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said the child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. "to bring you home, home, home!" "home, little fan?" returned the boy. "yes!" said the child, brimful of glee. "home for good and all. home for ever and ever. father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like heaven! he spoke so gently to me one dear night when i was going to bed, that i was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. and you're to be a man!" said the child, opening her eyes; "and are never to come back here; but first we're to be together all the christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world." "you are quite a woman, little fan!" exclaimed the boy. she clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but, being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loath to go, accompanied her. a terrible voice in the hall cried, "bring down master scrooge's box, there!" and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on master scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. he then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of "something" to the postboy who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but, if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. master scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and, getting into it, drove gaily down the garden sweep; the quick wheels dashing the hoar frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray. "always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the ghost. "but she had a large heart!" "so she had," cried scrooge. "you're right. i will not gainsay it, spirit. god forbid!" "she died a woman," said the ghost, "and had, as i think, children." "one child," scrooge returned. "true," said the ghost. "your nephew!" scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, "yes." although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. it was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here, too, it was christmas-time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up. the ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked scrooge if he knew it. "know it!" said scrooge. "was i apprenticed here?" they went in. at sight of an old gentleman in a welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller, he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, scrooge cried in great excitement: "why, it's old fezziwig! bless his heart, it's fezziwig alive again!" old fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. he rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out, in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: "yo ho, there! ebenezer! dick!" scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice. "dick wilkins, to be sure!" said scrooge to the ghost. "bless me, yes. there he is. he was very much attached to me, was dick. poor dick! dear, dear!" "yo ho, my boys!" said fezziwig. "no more work to-night. christmas-eve, dick. christmas, ebenezer! let's have the shutters up," cried old fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say jack robinson!" you wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! they charged into the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had 'em up in their places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight, nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses. "hilli-ho!" cried old fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. "clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! hilli-ho, dick! chirrup, ebenezer!" clear away! there was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old fezziwig looking on. it was done in a minute. every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. in came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomachaches. in came mrs. fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. in came the three miss fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. in came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. in came all the young men and women employed in the business. in came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. in came the cook, with her brother's particular friend the milkman. in came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. in they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, any how and every how. away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them! when this result was brought about, old fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "well done!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. but, scorning rest upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish. there were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of cold roast, and there was a great piece of cold boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. but the great effect of the evening came after the roast and boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! the sort of man who knew his business better than you or i could have told it him!) struck up "sir roger de coverley." then old fezziwig stood out to dance with mrs. fezziwig. top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who _would_ dance, and had no notion of walking. but if they had been twice as many--ah! four times--old fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would mrs. fezziwig. as to _her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. if that's not high praise, tell me higher, and i'll use it. a positive light appeared to issue from fezziwig's calves. they shone in every part of the dance like moons. you couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would become of them next. and when old fezziwig and mrs. fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsy, cork-screw, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; fezziwig "cut"--cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger. when the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. mr. and mrs. fezziwig took their stations, one on either side the door, and, shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a merry christmas. when everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop. during the whole of this time scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. his heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. he corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. it was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and dick were turned from them, that he remembered the ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear. "a small matter," said the ghost, "to make these silly folks so full of gratitude." "small!" echoed scrooge. the spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of fezziwig; and, when he had done so, said: "why! is it not? he has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four, perhaps. is that so much that he deserves this praise?" "it isn't that," said scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter self. "it isn't that, spirit. he has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? the happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune." he felt the spirit's glance, and stopped. "what is the matter?" asked the ghost. "nothing particular," said scrooge. "something, i think?" the ghost insisted. "no," said scrooge, "no. i should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. that's all." his former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and scrooge and the ghost again stood side by side in the open air. "my time grows short," observed the spirit. "quick!" this was not addressed to scrooge, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. for again scrooge saw himself. he was older now; a man in the prime of life. his face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. there was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall. he was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the ghost of christmas past. "it matters little," she said softly. "to you, very little. another idol has displaced me; and, if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come as i would have tried to do, i have no just cause to grieve." "what idol has displaced you?" he rejoined. "a golden one." "this is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "there is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!" "you fear the world too much," she answered gently. "all your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. i have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, gain, engrosses you. have i not?" "what then?" he retorted. "even if i have grown so much wiser, what then? i am not changed towards you." she shook her head. "am i?" "our contract is an old one. it was made when we were both poor, and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. you _are_ changed. when it was made you were another man." "i was a boy," he said impatiently. "your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "i am. that which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. how often and how keenly i have thought of this i will not say. it is enough that i _have_ thought of it, and can release you." "have i ever sought release?" "in words. no. never." "in what, then?" "in a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another hope as its great end. in everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. if this had never been between us," said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him, "tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? ah, no!" he seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition in spite of himself. but he said, with a struggle, "you think not." "i would gladly think otherwise if i could," she answered. "heaven knows! when _i_ have learned a truth like this, i know how strong and irresistible it must be. but if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even i believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do i not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? i do; and i release you. with a full heart, for the love of him you once were." he was about to speak; but, with her head turned from him, she resumed. "you may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. a very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. may you be happy in the life you have chosen!" she left him, and they parted. "spirit!" said scrooge, "show me no more! conduct me home. why do you delight to torture me?" "one shadow more!" exclaimed the ghost. "no more!" cried scrooge. "no more! i don't wish to see it. show me no more!" but the relentless ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next. they were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like that last that scrooge believed it was the same, until he saw _her_, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. the noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there than scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. the consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands most ruthlessly. what would i not have given to be one of them! though i never could have been so rude, no, no! i wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it down; and, for the precious little shoe, i wouldn't have plucked it off, god bless my soul! to save my life. as to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, i couldn't have done it; i should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. and yet i should have dearly liked, i own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, i should have liked, i do confess, to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value. but now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she, with laughing face and plundered dress, was borne towards it in the centre of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who came home attended by a man laden with christmas toys and presents. then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter! the scaling him, with chairs for ladders, to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round the neck, pummel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection! the shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received! the terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter! the immense relief of finding this a false alarm! the joy, and gratitude, and ecstasy! they are all indescribable alike. it is enough that by degrees, the children and their emotions got out of the parlour, and, by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house, where they went to bed, and so subsided. and now scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he thought that such another creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed. "belle," said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, "i saw an old friend of yours this afternoon." "who was it?" "guess!" "how can i? tut, don't i know?" she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed. "mr. scrooge." "mr. scrooge it was. i passed his office window; and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, i could scarcely help seeing him. his partner lies upon the point of death, i hear; and there he sat alone. quite alone in the world, i do believe." "spirit!" said scrooge in a broken voice, "remove me from this place." "i told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the ghost. "that they are what they are, do not blame me!" "remove me!" scrooge exclaimed. "i cannot bear it!" he turned upon the ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. "leave me! take me back! haunt me no longer!" in the struggle--if that can be called a struggle in which the ghost, with no visible resistance on its own part, was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary--scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head. the spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form; but, though scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it in an unbroken flood upon the ground. he was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. he gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep. stave three the second of the three spirits awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. he felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through jacob marley's intervention. but, finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new spectre would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands, and, lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. for he wished to challenge the spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous. gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time of day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects. without venturing for scrooge quite as hardily as this, i don't mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would have astonished him very much. now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and consequently, when the bell struck one, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. all this time he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. at last, however, he began to think--as you or i would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too--at last, i say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. this idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly, and shuffled in his slippers to the door. the moment scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. he obeyed. it was his own room. there was no doubt about that. but it had undergone a surprising transformation. the walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which bright gleaming berries glistened. the crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in scrooge's time, or marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. in easy state upon this couch there sat a jolly giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on scrooge as he came peeping round the door. "come in!" exclaimed the ghost. "come in! and know me better, man!" scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this spirit. he was not the dogged scrooge he had been; and, though the spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them. "i am the ghost of christmas present," said the spirit. "look upon me!" scrooge reverently did so. it was clothed in one simple deep green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. this garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust. "you have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the spirit. "never," scrooge made answer to it. "have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for i am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the phantom. "i don't think i have," said scrooge. "i am afraid i have not. have you had many brothers, spirit?" "more than eighteen hundred," said the ghost. "a tremendous family to provide for," muttered scrooge. the ghost of christmas present rose. "spirit," said scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will. i went forth last night on compulsion, and i learnt a lesson which is working now. to-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it." "touch my robe!" scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. so did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms. the house-fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. the sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in great britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content. there was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain. for, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. the poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. there were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. there were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like spanish friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. there were pears and apples clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags, and eaten after dinner. the very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement. the grocers'! oh, the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! it was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the french plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh, that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for christmas daws to peck at if they chose. but soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. and at the same time there emerged, from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. the sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the spirit very much, for he stood with scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. and it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice, when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good-humour was restored directly. for they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon christmas-day. and so it was! god love it, so it was! in time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too. "is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked scrooge. "there is. my own." "would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked scrooge. "to any kindly given. to a poor one most." "why to a poor one most?" asked scrooge. "because it needs it most." "spirit!" said scrooge after a moment's thought. "i wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment." "i!" cried the spirit. "you would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all," said scrooge; "wouldn't you?" "i!" cried the spirit. "you seek to close these places on the seventh day," said scrooge. "and it comes to the same thing." "_i_ seek!" exclaimed the spirit. "forgive me if i am wrong. it has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family," said scrooge. "there are some upon this earth of yours," returned the spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us, and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. it was a remarkable quality of the ghost (which scrooge had observed at the baker's), that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall. and perhaps it was the pleasure the good spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and, on the threshold of the door, the spirit smiled, and stopped to bless bob cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. think of that! bob had but fifteen "bob" a week himself; he pocketed on saturdays but fifteen copies of his christian name; and yet the ghost of christmas present blessed his four-roomed house! then up rose mrs. cratchit, cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by belinda cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while master peter cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and, getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks. and now two smaller cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young cratchits danced about the table, and exalted master peter cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled. "what has ever got your precious father, then?" said mrs. cratchit. "and your brother, tiny tim? and martha warn't as late last christmas-day by half an hour!" "here's martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke. "here's martha, mother!" cried the two young cratchits. "hurrah! there's _such_ a goose, martha!" "why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said mrs. cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal. "we'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother!" "well! never mind so long as you are come," said mrs. cratchit. "sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, lord bless ye!" "no, no! there's father coming," cried the two young cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "hide, martha, hide!" so martha hid herself, and in came little bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable; and tiny tim upon his shoulder. alas for tiny tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! "why, where's our martha?" cried bob cratchit, looking round. "not coming," said mrs. cratchit. "not coming!" said bob with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "not coming upon christmas-day!" martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young cratchits hustled tiny tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "and how did little tim behave?" asked mrs. cratchit when she had rallied bob on his credulity, and bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. "as good as gold," said bob, "and better. somehow, he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon christmas-day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that tiny tim was growing strong and hearty. his active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came tiny tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while bob, turning up his cuffs--as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer, master peter and the two ubiquitous young cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course--and, in truth, it was something very like it in that house. mrs. cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; master peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; miss belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; martha dusted the hot plates; bob took tiny tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. at last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. it was succeeded by a breathless pause, as mrs. cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even tiny tim, excited by the two young cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried hurrah! there never was such a goose. bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as mrs. cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! yet every one had had enough, and the youngest cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! but now, the plates being changed by miss belinda, mrs. cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in. suppose it should not be done enough! suppose it should break in turning out! suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which the two young cratchits became livid! all sorts of horrors were supposed. hallo! a great deal of steam! the pudding was out of the copper. a smell like a washing-day! that was the cloth. a smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! that was the pudding! in half a minute mrs. cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with christmas holly stuck into the top. oh, a wonderful pudding! bob cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by mrs. cratchit since their marriage. mrs. cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. it would have been flat heresy to do so. any cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. at last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. the compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. then all the cratchit family drew round the hearth in what bob cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at bob cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. these held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. then bob proposed: "a merry christmas to us all, my dears. god bless us!" which all the family re-echoed. "god bless us every one!" said tiny tim, the last of all. he sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. "spirit," said scrooge with an interest he had never felt before, "tell me if tiny tim will live." "i see a vacant seat," replied the ghost, "in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die." "no, no," said scrooge. "oh, no, kind spirit! say he will be spared." "if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race," returned the ghost, "will find him here. what then? if he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "man," said the ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? it may be that, in the sight of heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. oh god! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!" scrooge bent before the ghost's rebuke, and, trembling, cast his eyes upon the ground. but he raised them speedily on hearing his own name. "mr. scrooge!" said bob. "i'll give you mr. scrooge, the founder of the feast!" "the founder of the feast, indeed!" cried mrs. cratchit, reddening. "i wish i had him here. i'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and i hope he'd have a good appetite for it." "my dear," said bob, "the children! christmas-day." "it should be christmas-day, i am sure," said she, "on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as mr. scrooge. you know he is, robert! nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!" "my dear!" was bob's mild answer. "christmas-day." "i'll drink his health for your sake and the day's," said mrs. cratchit, "not for his. long life to him! a merry christmas and a happy new year! he'll be very merry and very happy, i have no doubt!" the children drank the toast after her. it was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. tiny tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. scrooge was the ogre of the family. the mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes. after it had passed away they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of scrooge the baleful being done with. bob cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for master peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. the two young cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of peter's being a man of business; and peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord "was much about as tall as peter"; at which peter pulled up his collars so high, that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. all this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by-and-by they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from tiny tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. there was nothing of high mark in this. they were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty; and peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawn-broker's. but they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the spirit's torch at parting, scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on tiny tim, until the last. by this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as scrooge and the spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms was wonderful. here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness. there, all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. here, again, were shadows on the window blinds of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter--artful witches, well they knew it--in a glow! but, if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. blessings on it, how the ghost exulted! how it bared its breadth of breast, and opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything within its reach! the very lamp-lighter, who ran on before, dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the spirit passed, though little kenned the lamp-lighter that he had any company but christmas. and now, without a word of warning from the ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place or giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed; or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse, rank grass. down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and, frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night. "what place is this?" asked scrooge. "a place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth," returned the spirit. "but they know me. see!" a light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. an old, old man and woman, with their children and their children's children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. the old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. so surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and, so surely as they stopped, his vigour sank again. the spirit did not tarry here, but bade scrooge hold his robe, and, passing on above the moor, sped whither? not to sea? to sea. to scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth. built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. great heaps of seaweed clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind, one might suppose, as seaweed of the water--rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed. but, even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other merry christmas in their can of grog; and one of them, the elder too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be, struck up a sturdy song that was like a gale in itself. again the ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. they stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a christmas tune, or had a christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone christmas-day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. and every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for one another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him. it was a great surprise to scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as death: it was a great surprise to scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. it was a much greater surprise to scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability! "ha, ha!" laughed scrooge's nephew. "ha, ha, ha!" if you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blessed in a laugh than scrooge's nephew, all i can say is, i should like to know him too. introduce him to me, and i'll cultivate his acquaintance. it is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that, while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour. when scrooge's nephew laughed in this way, holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions, scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. and their assembled friends, being not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily. "ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha!" "he said that christmas was a humbug, as i live!" cried scrooge's nephew. "he believed it, too!" "more shame for him, fred!" said scrooge's niece indignantly. bless those women! they never do anything by halves. they are always in earnest. she was very pretty; exceedingly pretty. with a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed--as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. oh, perfectly satisfactory! "he's a comical old fellow," said scrooge's nephew, "that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be. however, his offences carry their own punishment, and i have nothing to say against him." "i'm sure he is very rich, fred," hinted scrooge's niece. "at least, you always tell _me_ so." "what of that, my dear?" said scrooge's nephew. "his wealth is of no use to him. he don't do any good with it. he don't make himself comfortable with it. he hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it." "i have no patience with him," observed scrooge's niece. scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the same opinion. "oh, i have!" said scrooge's nephew. "i am sorry for him; i couldn't be angry with him if i tried. who suffers by his ill whims? himself always. here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. what's the consequence? he don't lose much of a dinner." "indeed, i think he loses a very good dinner," interrupted scrooge's niece. everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamp-light. "well! i am very glad to hear it," said scrooge's nephew, "because i haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. what do _you_ say, topper?" topper had clearly got his eye upon one of scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. whereat scrooge's niece's sister--the plump one with the lace tucker, not the one with the roses--blushed. "do go on, fred," said scrooge's niece, clapping her hands. "he never finishes what he begins to say! he is such a ridiculous fellow!" scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and, as it was impossible to keep the infection off, though the plump sister tried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar, his example was unanimously followed. "i was only going to say," said scrooge's nephew, "that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as i think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. i am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old office or his dusty chambers. i mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for i pity him. he may rail at christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--i defy him--if he finds me going there in good temper, year after year, and saying, 'uncle scrooge, how are you?' if it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and i think i shook him yesterday." it was their turn to laugh, now, at the notion of his shaking scrooge. but, being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle, joyously. after tea they had some music. for they were a musical family, and knew what they were about when they sung a glee or catch, i can assure you: especially topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played, among other tunes, a simple little air (a mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the ghost of christmas past. when this strain of music sounded, all the things that ghost had shown him came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried jacob marley. but they didn't devote the whole evening to music. after awhile they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at christmas, when its mighty founder was a child himself. stop! there was first a game at blindman's buff. of course there was. and i no more believe topper was really blind than i believe he had eyes in his boots. my opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and scrooge's nephew; and that the ghost of christmas present knew it. the way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself amongst the curtains, wherever she went, there went he! he always knew where the plump sister was. he wouldn't catch anybody else. if you had fallen up against him (as some of them did) on purpose, he would have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. she often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. but when, at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there was no escape, then his conduct was the most execrable. for his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her head-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain about her neck, was vile, monstrous! no doubt she told him her opinion of it when, another blind man being in office, they were so very confidential together behind the curtains. scrooge's niece was not one of the blindman's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner where the ghost and scrooge were close behind her. but she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet. likewise at the game of how, when, and where, she was very great, and, to the secret joy of scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as topper could have told you. there might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did scrooge; for, wholly forgetting, in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed right, too, for the sharpest needle, best whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than scrooge; blunt as he took it in his head to be. the ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour, that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. but this the spirit said could not be done. "here is a new game," said scrooge. "one half-hour, spirit, only one!" it was a game called yes and no, where scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. the brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in london, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. at every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa, and stamp. at last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out: "i have found it out! i know what it is, fred! i know what it is!" "what is it?" cried fred. "it's your uncle scro-o-o-o-oge!" which it certainly was. admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to "is it a bear?" ought to have been "yes": inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from mr. scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way. "he has given us plenty of merriment, i am sure," said fred, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and i say, 'uncle scrooge!'" "well! uncle scrooge!" they cried. "a merry christmas and a happy new year to the old man, whatever he is!" said scrooge's nephew. "he wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it nevertheless. uncle scrooge!" uncle scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the ghost had given him time. but the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the spirit were again upon their travels. much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. the spirit stood beside sick-beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. in almshouse, hospital, and gaol, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught scrooge his precepts. it was a long night, if it were only a night; but scrooge had his doubts of this, because the christmas holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. it was strange, too, that, while scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the ghost grew older, clearly older. scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's twelfth-night party, when, looking at the spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey. "are spirits' lives so short?" asked scrooge. "my life upon this globe is very brief," replied the ghost. "it ends to-night." "to-night!" cried scrooge. "to-night at midnight. hark! the time is drawing near." the chimes were ringing the three-quarters past eleven at that moment. "forgive me if i am not justified in what i ask," said scrooge, looking intently at the spirit's robe, "but i see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. is it a foot or a claw?" "it might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," was the spirit's sorrowful reply. "look here." from the foldings of its robe it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. they knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. "oh, man! look here! look, look, down here!" exclaimed the ghost. they were a boy and girl. yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. no change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. scrooge started back, appalled. having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. "spirit! are they yours?" scrooge could say no more. "they are man's," said the spirit, looking down upon them. "and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance. this girl is want. beware of them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow i see that written which is doom, unless the writing be erased. deny it!" cried the spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. "slander those who tell it ye! admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! and bide the end!" "have they no refuge or resource?" cried scrooge. "are there no prisons?" said the spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "are there no workhouses?" the bell struck twelve. scrooge looked about him for the ghost, and saw it not. as the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old jacob marley, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground towards him. stave four the last of the spirits the phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. when it came near him, scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. it was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible, save one outstretched hand. but for this, it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. he felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. he knew no more, for the spirit neither spoke nor moved. "i am in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come?" said scrooge. the spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. "you are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," scrooge pursued. "is that so, spirit?" the upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the spirit had inclined its head. that was the only answer he received. although well used to ghostly company by this time, scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. the spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover. but scrooge was all the worse for this. it thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror to know that, behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. "ghost of the future!" he exclaimed, "i fear you more than any spectre i have seen. but, as i know your purpose is to do me good, and as i hope to live to be another man from what i was, i am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. will you not speak to me?" it gave him no reply. the hand was pointed straight before them. "lead on!" said scrooge. "lead on! the night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, i know. lead on, spirit!" the phantom moved away as it had come towards him. scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. they scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. but there they were in the heart of it; on 'change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, as scrooge had seen them often. the spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. observing that the hand was pointed to them, scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. "no," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, "i don't know much about it either way. i only know he's dead." "when did he die?" inquired another. "last night, i believe." "why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. "i thought he'd never die." "god knows," said the first with a yawn. "what has he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock. "i haven't heard," said the man with the large chin, yawning again. "left it to his company, perhaps. he hasn't left it to _me_. that's all i know." this pleasantry was received with a general laugh. "it's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "for, upon my life, i don't know of anybody to go to it. suppose we make up a party, and volunteer?" "i don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. "but i must be fed if i make one." another laugh. "well, i am the most disinterested among you, after all," said the first speaker, "for i never wear black gloves, and i never eat lunch. but i'll offer to go if anybody else will. when i come to think of it, i'm not at all sure that i wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. bye, bye!" speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the spirit for an explanation. the phantom glided on into a street. its finger pointed to two persons meeting. scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here. he knew these men, also, perfectly. they were men of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. he had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view. "how are you?" said one. "how are you?" returned the other. "well!" said the first. "old scratch has got his own at last, hey?" "so i am told," returned the second. "cold, isn't it?" "seasonable for christmas-time. you are not a skater, i suppose?" "no. no. something else to think of. good morning!" not another word. that was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but, feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. they could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of jacob, his old partner, for that was past, and this ghost's province was the future. nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. but nothing doubting that, to whomsoever they applied, they had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. for he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy. he looked about in that very place for his own image, but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and, though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the porch. it gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this. quiet and dark, beside him stood the phantom, with its outstretched hand. when he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied, from the turn of the hand, and its situation in reference to himself, that the unseen eyes were looking at him keenly. it made him shudder, and feel very cold. they left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation and its bad repute. the ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth and misery. far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal were bought. upon the floor within were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. secrets that few would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove made of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age, who had screened himself from the cold air without by a frouzy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters hung upon a line, and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement. scrooge and the phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. but she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too, and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them than they had been upon the recognition of each other. after a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh. "let the charwoman alone to be the first!" cried she who had entered first. "let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. look here, old joe, here's a chance! if we haven't all three met here without meaning it!" "you couldn't have met in a better place," said old joe, removing his pipe from his mouth. "come into the parlour. you were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two an't strangers. stop till i shut the door of the shop. ah! how it skreeks! there an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, i believe; and i'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. ha! ha! we're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. come into the parlour. come into the parlour." the parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. the old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and, having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night) with the stem of his pipe, put it into his mouth again. while he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two. "what odds, then? what odds, mrs. dilber?" said the woman. "every person has a right to take care of themselves. _he_ always did!" "that's true, indeed!" said the laundress. "no man more so." "why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman! who's the wiser? we're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, i suppose?" "no, indeed!" said mrs. dilber and the man together. "we should hope not." "very well, then!" cried the woman. "that's enough. who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? not a dead man, i suppose?" "no, indeed," said mrs. dilber, laughing. "if he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw," pursued the woman, "why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? if he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself." "it's the truest word that ever was spoke," said mrs. dilber, "it's a judgment on him." "i wish it was a little heavier judgment," replied the woman; "and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if i could have laid my hands on anything else. open that bundle, old joe, and let me know the value of it. speak out plain. i'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. we knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves before we met here, i believe. it's no sin. open the bundle, joe." but the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced _his_ plunder. it was not extensive. a seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. they were severally examined and appraised by old joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found that there was nothing more to come. "that's your account," said joe, "and i wouldn't give another sixpence, if i was to be boiled for not doing it. who's next?" mrs. dilber was next. sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. her account was stated on the wall in the same manner. "i always give too much to ladies. it's a weakness of mine, and that's the way i ruin myself," said old joe. "that's your account. if you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, i'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half-a-crown." "and now undo _my_ bundle, joe," said the first woman. joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and, having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large heavy roll of some dark stuff. "what do you call this?" said joe. "bed-curtains?" "ah!" returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. "bed-curtains!" "you don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?" said joe. "yes, i do," replied the woman. "why not?" "you were born to make your fortune," said joe, "and you'll certainly do it." "i certainly shan't hold my hand, when i can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, i promise you, joe," returned the woman coolly. "don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now." "his blankets?" asked joe. "whose else's do you think?" replied the woman. "he isn't likely to take cold without 'em, i dare say." "i hope he didn't die of anything catching? eh?" said old joe, stopping in his work, and looking up. "don't you be afraid of that," returned the woman. "i an't so fond of his company that i'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. ah! you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. it's the best he had, and a fine one too. they'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me." "what do you call wasting of it?" asked old joe. "putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied the woman with a laugh. "somebody was fool enough to do it, but i took it off again. if calico an't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. it's quite as becoming to the body. he can't look uglier than he did in that one." scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. as they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself. "ha, ha!" laughed the same woman when old joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. "this is the end of it, you see! he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead! ha, ha, ha!" "spirit!" said scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "i see, i see. the case of this unhappy man might be my own. my life tends that way now. merciful heaven, what is this?" he recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. the room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. a pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed: and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man. scrooge glanced towards the phantom. its steady hand was pointed to the head. the cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. he thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side. oh, cold, cold, rigid, dreadful death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion! but of the loved, revered, and honoured head thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. it is not that the hand is heavy, and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man's. strike, shadow, strike! and see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal! no voice pronounced these words in scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. he thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? avarice, hard dealing, griping cares? they have brought him to a rich end, truly! he lay, in the dark, empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child to say he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word i will be kind to him. a cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. what _they_ wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, scrooge did not dare to think. "spirit!" he said, "this is a fearful place. in leaving it, i shall not leave its lesson, trust me. let us go!" still the ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. "i understand you," scrooge returned, "and i would do it if i could. but i have not the power, spirit. i have not the power." again it seemed to look upon him. "if there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death," said scrooge, quite agonised, "show that person to me, spirit! i beseech you." the phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and, withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her children were. she was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of her children in their play. at length the long-expected knock was heard. she hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. there was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress. he sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire, and, when she asked him faintly what news (which was not until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer. "is it good," she said, "or bad?" to help him. "bad," he answered. "we are quite ruined?" "no. there is hope yet, caroline." "if _he_ relents," she said, amazed, "there is! nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened." "he is past relenting," said her husband. "he is dead." she was a mild and patient creature, if her face spoke truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so with clasped hands. she prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart. "what the half-drunken woman, whom i told you of last night, said to me when i tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what i thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. he was not only very ill, but dying, then." "to whom will our debt be transferred?" "i don't know. but, before that time, we shall be ready with the money; and, even though we were not, it would be bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. we may sleep to-night with light hearts, caroline!" yes. soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. the children's faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's death! the only emotion that the ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure. "let me see some tenderness connected with a death," said scrooge; "or that dark chamber, spirit, which we left just now, will be for ever present to me." the ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and, as they went along, scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. they entered poor bob cratchit's house,--the dwelling he had visited before,--and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. quiet. very quiet. the noisy little cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at peter, who had a book before him. the mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. but surely they were very quiet! "'and he took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'" where had scrooge heard those words? he had not dreamed them. the boy must have read them out, as he and the spirit crossed the threshold. why did he not go on? the mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face. "the colour hurts my eyes," she said. the colour? ah, poor tiny tim! "they're better now again," said cratchit's wife. "it makes them weak by candle-light; and i wouldn't show weak eyes to your father, when he comes home, for the world. it must be near his time." "past it rather," peter answered, shutting up his book. "but i think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother." they were very quiet again. at last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once: "i have known him walk with--i have known him walk with tiny tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed." "and so have i," cried peter. "often." "and so have i," exclaimed another. so had all. "but he was very light to carry," she resumed, intent upon her work, "and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no trouble. and there is your father at the door!" she hurried out to meet him; and little bob in his comforter--he had need of it, poor fellow--came in. his tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. then the two young cratchits got upon his knees, and laid, each child, a little cheek against his face, as if they said, "don't mind it, father. don't be grieved!" bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. he looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of mrs. cratchit and the girls. they would be done long before sunday, he said. "sunday! you went to-day, then, robert?" said his wife. "yes, my dear," returned bob. "i wish you could have gone. it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. but you'll see it often. i promised him that i would walk there on a sunday. my little, little child!" cried bob. "my little child!" he broke down all at once. he couldn't help it. if he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were. he left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with christmas. there was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there lately. poor bob sat down in it, and, when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. he was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy. they drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother working still. bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of mr. scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing that he looked a little--"just a little down, you know," said bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. "on which," said bob, "for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, i told him. 'i am heartily sorry for it, mr. cratchit,' he said, 'and heartily sorry for your good wife.' by-the-bye, how he ever knew _that_ i don't know." "knew what, my dear?" "why, that you were a good wife," replied bob. "everybody knows that," said peter. "very well observed, my boy!" cried bob. "i hope they do. 'heartily sorry,' he said, 'for your good wife. if i can be of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me his card, 'that's where i live. pray come to me.' now, it wasn't," cried bob, "for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. it really seemed as if he had known our tiny tim, and felt with us." "i'm sure he's a good soul!" said mrs. cratchit. "you would be sure of it, my dear," returned bob, "if you saw and spoke to him. i shouldn't be at all surprised--mark what i say!--if he got peter a better situation." "only hear that, peter," said mrs. cratchit. "and then," cried one of the girls, "peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself." "get along with you!" retorted peter, grinning. "it's just as likely as not," said bob, "one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. but, however and whenever we part from one another, i am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny tim--shall we--or this first parting that there was among us?" "never, father!" cried they all. "and i know," said bob, "i know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was, although he was a little, little child, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor tiny tim in doing it." "no, never, father!" they all cried again. "i am very happy," said little bob, "i am very happy!" mrs. cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young cratchits kissed him, and peter and himself shook hands. spirit of tiny tim, thy childish essence was from god! "spectre," said scrooge, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. i know it, but i know not how. tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?" the ghost of christmas yet to come conveyed him, as before--though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the future--into the resorts of business men, but showed him not himself. indeed, the spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the end just now desired, until besought by scrooge to tarry for a moment. "this court," said scrooge, "through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length of time. i see the house. let me behold what i shall be in days to come." the spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere. "the house is yonder," scrooge exclaimed. "why do you point away?" the inexorable finger underwent no change. scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked in. it was an office still, but not his. the furniture was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. the phantom pointed as before. he joined it once again, and, wondering why and whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. he paused to look round before entering. a churchyard. here, then, the wretched man, whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. it was a worthy place. walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. a worthy place! the spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. he advanced towards it trembling. the phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. "before i draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said scrooge, "answer me one question. are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of the things that may be only?" still the ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. "men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead," said scrooge. "but if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. say it is thus with what you show me!" the spirit was immovable as ever. scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and, following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, ebenezer scrooge. "am _i_ that man who lay upon the bed?" he cried upon his knees. the finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. "no, spirit! oh no, no!" the finger still was there. "spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its robe, "hear me! i am not the man i was. i will not be the man i must have been but for this intercourse. why show me this, if i am past all hope?" for the first time the hand appeared to shake. "good spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: "your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. assure me that i yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life?" the kind hand trembled. "i will honour christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. i will live in the past, the present, and the future. the spirits of all three shall strive within me. i will not shut out the lessons that they teach. oh, tell me i may sponge away the writing on this stone!" in his agony, he caught the spectral hand. it sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. the spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him. holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress. it shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. stave five the end of it yes! and the bedpost was his own. the bed was his own, the room was his own. best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in! "i will live in the past, the present, and the future!" scrooge repeated as he scrambled out of bed. "the spirits of all three shall strive within me. oh, jacob marley! heaven and the christmas time be praised for this! i say it on my knees, old jacob; on my knees!" he was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. he had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the spirit, and his face was wet with tears. "they are not torn down," cried scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. they are here--i am here--the shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. they will be. i know they will!" his hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance. "i don't know what to do!" cried scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect laocoã¶n of himself with his stockings. "i am as light as a feather, i am as happy as an angel, i am as merry as a school-boy. i am as giddy as a drunken man. a merry christmas to everybody! a happy new year to all the world! hallo here! whoop! hallo!" he had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded. "there's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" cried scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fire-place. "there's the door by which the ghost of jacob marley entered! there's the corner where the ghost of christmas present sat! there's the window where i saw the wandering spirits! it's all right, it's all true, it all happened. ha, ha, ha!" really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. the father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs! "i don't know what day of the month it is," said scrooge. "i don't know how long i have been among the spirits. i don't know anything. i'm quite a baby. never mind. i don't care. i'd rather be a baby. hallo! whoop! hallo here!" he was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. clash, clash, hammer; ding, dong, bell! bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! oh, glorious, glorious! running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. no fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sun-light; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. oh, glorious! glorious! "what's to-day?" cried scrooge, calling downward to a boy in sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. "eh?" returned the boy with all his might of wonder. "what's to-day, my fine fellow?" said scrooge. "to-day!" replied the boy. "why, christmas day." "it's christmas day!" said scrooge to himself. "i haven't missed it. the spirits have done it all in one night. they can do anything they like. of course they can. of course they can. hallo, my fine fellow!" "hallo!" returned the boy. "do you know the poulterer's in the next street but one, at the corner?" scrooge inquired. "i should hope i did," replied the lad. "an intelligent boy!" said scrooge. "a remarkable boy! do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there?--not the little prize turkey: the big one?" "what! the one as big as me?" returned the boy. "what a delightful boy!" said scrooge. "it's a pleasure to talk to him. yes, my buck!" "it's hanging there now," replied the boy. "is it?" said scrooge. "go and buy it." "walk-er!" exclaimed the boy. "no, no," said scrooge, "i am in earnest. go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that i may give them the directions where to take it. come back with the man, and i'll give you a shilling. come back with him in less than five minutes, and i'll give you half-a-crown!" the boy was off like a shot. he must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast. "i'll send it to bob cratchit's," whispered scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. "he shan't know who sends it. it's twice the size of tiny tim. joe miller never made such a joke as sending it to bob's will be!" the hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one; but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street-door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. as he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. "i shall love it as long as i live!" cried scrooge, patting it with his hand. "i scarcely ever looked at it before. what an honest expression it has in its face! it's a wonderful knocker!--here's the turkey. hallo! whoop! how are you? merry christmas!" it _was_ a turkey! he never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. he would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. "why, it's impossible to carry that to camden town," said scrooge. "you must have a cab." the chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. but, if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied. he dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the streets. the people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the ghost of christmas present; and, walking with his hands behind him, scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. he looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, "good morning, sir! a merry christmas to you!" and scrooge said often afterwards that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears. he had not gone far when, coming on towards him, he beheld the portly gentleman who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said, "scrooge and marley's, i believe?" it sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. "my dear sir," said scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands, "how do you do? i hope you succeeded yesterday. it was very kind of you. a merry christmas to you, sir!" "mr. scrooge?" "yes," said scrooge. "that is my name, and i fear it may not be pleasant to you. allow me to ask your pardon. and will you have the goodness----" here scrooge whispered in his ear. "lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. "my dear mr. scrooge, are you serious?" "if you please," said scrooge. "not a farthing less. a great many back-payments are included in it, i assure you. will you do me that favour?" "my dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him, "i don't know what to say to such munifi----" "don't say anything, please," retorted scrooge. "come and see me. will you come and see me?" "i will!" cried the old gentleman. and it was clear he meant to do it. "thankee," said scrooge. "i am much obliged to you. i thank you fifty times. bless you!" he went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. he had never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much happiness. in the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. he passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock. but he made a dash, and did it. "is your master at home, my dear?" said scrooge to the girl. nice girl! very. "yes sir." "where is he, my love?" said scrooge. "he's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. i'll show you up-stairs, if you please." "thankee. he knows me," said scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. "i'll go in here, my dear." he turned it gently, and sidled his face in round the door. they were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right. "fred!" said scrooge. dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it on any account. "why, bless my soul!" cried fred, "who's that?" "it's i. your uncle scrooge. i have come to dinner. will you let me in, fred?" let him in! it is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. he was at home in five minutes. nothing could be heartier. his niece looked just the same. so did topper when _he_ came. so did the plump sister when _she_ came. so did every one when _they_ came. wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness! but he was early at the office next morning. oh, he was early there! if he could only be there first, and catch bob cratchit coming late! that was the thing he had set his heart upon. and he did it; yes, he did! the clock struck nine. no bob. a quarter past. no bob. he was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the tank. his hat was off before he opened the door; his comforter too. he was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. "hallo!" growled scrooge in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it. "what do you mean by coming here at this time of day?" "i am very sorry, sir," said bob. "i _am_ behind my time." "you are!" repeated scrooge. "yes. i think you are. step this way, sir, if you please." "it's only once a year, sir," pleaded bob, appearing from the tank. "it shall not be repeated. i was making rather merry yesterday, sir." "now, i'll tell you what, my friend," said scrooge. "i am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. and therefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again: "and therefore i am about to raise your salary!" bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. he had a momentary idea of knocking scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat. "a merry christmas, bob!" said scrooge with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "a merrier christmas, bob, my good fellow, than i have given you for many a year! i'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a christmas bowl of smoking bishop, bob! make up the fires and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, bob cratchit!" * * * * * scrooge was better than his word. he did it all, and infinitely more; and to tiny tim, who did not die, he was a second father. he became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world. some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and, knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins as have the malady in less attractive forms. his own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. he had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the total-abstinence principle ever afterwards; and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. may that be truly said of us, and all of us! and so, as tiny tim observed, god bless us, every one! from squire to squatter a tale of the old land and the new by gordon stables published by john f. shaw and co., 48 paternoster row, london. this edition dated 1888. chapter one. book i--at burley old farm. "ten to-morrow, archie." "so you'll be ten years old to-morrow, archie?" "yes, father; ten to-morrow. quite old, isn't it? i'll soon be a man, dad. won't it be fun, just?" his father laughed, simply because archie laughed. "i don't know about the fun of it," he said; "for, archie lad, your growing a man will result in my getting old. don't you see?" archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed at it--or rather into it--for a few moments thoughtfully. then he gave his head a little negative kind of a shake, and, still looking towards the fire as if addressing it, replied: "no, no, no; i don't see it. other boys' fathers _may_ grow old; mine won't, mine couldn't, never, _never_." "dad," said a voice from the corner. it was a very weary, rather feeble, voice. the owner of it occupied a kind of invalid couch, on which he half sat and half reclined--a lad of only nine years, with a thin, pale, old-fashioned face, and big, dark, dreamy eyes that seemed to look you through and through as you talked to him. "dad." "yes, my dear." "wouldn't you like to be old really?" "wel--," the father was beginning. "oh," the boy went on, "i should dearly love to be old, very old, and very wise, like one of these!" here his glance reverted to a story-book he had been reading, and which now lay on his lap. his father and mother were used to the boy's odd remarks. both parents sat here to-night, and both looked at him with a sort of fond pity; but the child's eyes had half closed, and presently he dropped out of the conversation, and to all intents and purposes out of the company. "yes," said archie, "ten is terribly old, i know; but is it quite a man though? because mummie there said, that when solomon became a man, he thought, and spoke, and did everything manly, and put away all his boy's things. i shouldn't like to put away my bow and arrow--what say, mum? i shan't be altogether quite a man to-morrow, shall i?" "no, child. who put that in your head?" "oh, rupert, of course! rupert tells me everything, and dreams such strange dreams for me." "you're a strange boy yourself, archie." his mother had been leaning back in her chair. she now slowly resumed her knitting. the firelight fell on her face: it was still young, still beautiful--for the lady was but little over thirty--yet a shade of melancholy had overspread it to-night. the firelight came from huge logs of wood, mingled with large pieces of blazing coals and masses of half-incandescent peat. a more cheerful fire surely never before burned on a hearth. it seemed to take a pride in being cheerful, and in making all sorts of pleasant noises and splutterings. there had been bark on those logs when first heaped on, and long white bunches of lichen, that looked like old men's beards; but tongues of fire from the bubbling, caking coals had soon licked those off, so that both sticks and peat were soon aglow, and the whole looked as glorious as an autumn sunset. and firelight surely never before fell on cosier room, nor on cosier old-world furniture. dark pictures, in great gilt frames, hung on the walls, almost hiding it; dark pictures, but with bright colours standing out in them, which time himself had not been able to dim; albeit he had cracked the varnish. pictures you could look into--look in through almost--and imagine figures that perhaps were not in them at all; pictures of old-fashioned places, with quaint, old-fashioned people and animals; pictures in which every creature or human being looked contented and happy. pictures from masters' hands many of them, and worth far more than their weight in solid gold. and the firelight fell on curious brackets, and on a tall corner-cabinet filled with old delf and china; fell on high, narrow-backed chairs, and on one huge carved-oak chest that took your mind away back to centuries long gone by and made you half believe that there must have been "giants in those days." the firelight fell and was reflected from silver cups, and goblets, and candlesticks, and a glittering shield that stood on a sideboard, their presence giving relief to the eye. heavy, cosy-looking curtains depended from the window cornices, and the door itself was darkly draped. "ten to-morrow. how time does fly!" it was the father who now spoke, and as he did so his hand was stretched out as if instinctively, till it lay on the mother's lap. their eyes met, and there seemed something of sadness in the smile of each. "how time does fly!" "dad!" the voice came once more from the corner. "dad! for years and years i've noticed that you always take mummie's hand and just look like that on the night before archie's birthday. father, why--" but at that very moment the firelight found something else to fall upon--something brighter and fairer by far than anything it had lit up to-night. for the door-curtain was drawn back, and a little, wee, girlish figure advanced on tiptoe and stood smiling in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other. this was elsie, rupert's twin-sister. his "beautiful sister" the boy called her, and she was well worthy of the compliment. only for a moment did she stand there, but as she did so, with her bonnie bright face, she seemed the one thing that had been needed to complete the picture, the centre figure against the sombre, almost solemn, background. the fire blazed more merrily now; a jet of white smoke, that had been spinning forth from a little mound of melting coal, jumped suddenly into flame; while the biggest log cracked like a popgun, and threw off a great red spark, which flew half-way across the room. next instant a wealth of dark-brown hair fell on archie's shoulder, and soft lips were pressed to his sun-dyed cheek, then bright, laughing eyes looked into his. "ten to-morrow, archie! _aren't_ you proud?" elsie now took a footstool, and sat down close beside her invalid brother, stretching one arm across his chest protectingly; but she shook her head at archie from her corner. "ten to-morrow, you great big, big brother archie," she said. archie laughed right merrily. "what are you going to do all?" "oh, such a lot of things! first of all, if it snows--" "it is snowing now, archie, fast." "well then i'm going to shoot the fox that stole poor cock jock. oh, my poor cock jock! we'll never see him again." "shooting foxes isn't sport, archie." "no, dad; it's revenge." the father shook his head. "well, i mean something else." "justice?" "yes, that is it. justice, dad. oh, i did love that cock so! he was so gentlemanly and gallant, father. oh, so kind! and the fox seized him just as poor jock was carrying a crust of bread to the old hen ann. he threw my bonnie bird over his shoulder and ran off, looking so sly and wicked. but i mean to kill him! "last time i fired off branson's gun was at a magpie, a nasty, chattering, unlucky magpie. old kate says they're unlucky." "did you kill the magpie, archie?" "no, i don't think i hurt the magpie. the gun must have gone off when i wasn't looking; but it knocked me down, and blackened all my shoulder, because it pushed so. branson said i didn't grasp it tight enough. but i will to-morrow, when i'm killing the fox. rupert, you'll stuff the head, and we'll hang it in the hall. won't you, roup?" rupert smiled and nodded. "and i'm sure," he continued, "the ann hen was so sorry when she saw poor cock jock carried away." "did the ann hen eat the crust?" "what, father? oh, yes, she did eat the crust! but i think that was only out of politeness. i'm sure it nearly choked her." "well, archie, what will you do else to-morrow?" "oh, then, you know, elsie, the fun will only just be beginning, because we're going to open the north tower of the castle. it's already furnished." "and you're going to be installed as king of the north tower?" said his father. "installed, father? rupert, what does that mean?" "led in with honours, i suppose." "oh, father, i'll instal myself; or sissie there will; or old kate; or branson, the keeper, will instal me. that's easy. the fun will all come after that." burley old farm, as it was called--and sometimes burley castle--was, at the time our story opens, in the heyday of its glory and beauty. squire broadbent, archie's father, had been on it for a dozen years and over. it was all his own, and had belonged to a bachelor uncle before his time. this uncle had never made the slightest attempt to cause two blades of grass to grow where only one had grown before. not he. he was well content to live on the little estate, as his father had done before him, so long as things paid their way; so long as plenty of sleek beasts were seen in the fields in summer, or wading knee-deep in the straw-yard in winter; so long as pigs, and poultry, and feather stock of every conceivable sort, made plenty of noise about the farm-steading, and there was plenty of human life about, the old squire had been content. and why shouldn't he have been? what does a north-country farmer need, or what has he any right to long for, if his larder and coffers are both well filled, and he can have a day on the stubble or moor, and ride to the hounds when the crops are in? but his nephew was more ambitious. the truth is he came from the south, and brought with him what the honest farmer folks of the northumbrian borders call a deal of new-fangled notions. he had come from the south himself, and he had not been a year in the place before he went back, and in due time returned to burley old farm with a bonnie young bride. of course there were people in the neighbourhood who did not hesitate to say, that the squire might have married nearer home, and that there was no accounting for taste. for all this and all that, both the squire and his wife were not long in making themselves universal favourites all round the countryside; for they went everywhere, and did everything; and the neighbours were all welcome to call at burley when they liked, and had to call when mrs broadbent issued invitations. well, the squire's dinners were truly excellent, and when afterwards the men folk joined the ladies in the big drawing-room, the evenings flew away so quickly that, as carriage time came, nobody could ever believe it was anything like so late. the question of what the squire had been previously to his coming to burley was sometimes asked by comparative strangers, but as nobody could or cared to answer explicitly, it was let drop. something in the south, in or about london, or deal, or dover, but what did it matter? he was "a jolly good fellow--ay, and a gentleman every inch." such was the verdict. a gentleman the squire undoubtedly was, though not quite the type of build, either in body or mind, of the tall, bony, and burly men of the north--men descended from a race of ever-unconquered soldiers, and probably more akin to the scotch than the english. sitting here in the green parlour to-night, with the firelight playing on his smiling face as he talked to or teased his eldest boy, squire broadbent was seen to advantage. not big in body, and rather round than angular, inclining even to the portly, with a frank, rosy face and a bold blue eye, you could not have been in his company ten minutes without feeling sorry you had not known him all his life. amiability was the chief characteristic of mrs broadbent. she was a refined and genuine english lady. there is little more to say after that. but what about the squire's new-fangled notions? well, they were really what they call "fads" now-a-days, or, taken collectively, they were one gigantic fad. although he had never been in the agricultural interest before he became squire, even while in city chambers theoretical farming had been his pet study, and he made no secret of it to his fellow-men. "this uncle of mine," he would say, "whom i go to see every christmas, is pretty old, and i'm his heir. mind," he would add, "he is a genuine, good man, and i'll be genuinely sorry for him when he goes under. but that is the way of the world, and then i'll have my fling. my uncle hasn't done the best for his land; he has been content to go--not run; there is little running about the dear old boy--in the same groove as his fathers, but i'm going to cut out a new one." the week that the then mr broadbent was in the habit of spending with his uncle, in the festive season, was not the only holiday he took in the year. no; for regularly as the month of april came round, he started for the states of america, and england saw no more of him till well on in june, by which time the hot weather had driven him home. but he swore by the yankees; that is, he would have sworn by them, had he sworn at all. the yankees in mr broadbent's opinion were far ahead of the english in everything pertaining to the economy of life, and the best manner of living. he was too much of a john bull to admit that the americans possessed any superiority over this tight little isle, in the matter of either politics or knowledge of warfare. england always had been, and always would be, mistress of the seas, and master of and over every country with a foreshore on it. "but," he would say, "look at the yanks as inventors. why, sir, they beat us in everything from button-hook. look at them as farmers, especially as wheat growers and fruit raisers. they are as far above englishmen, with their insular prejudices, and insular dread of taking a step forward for fear of going into a hole, as a berkshire steam ploughman is ahead of a skyeman with his wooden turf-turner. and look at them at home round their own firesides, or look at their houses outside and in, and you will have some faint notion of what comfort combined with luxury really means." it will be observed that mr broadbent had a bold, straightforward way of talking to his peers. he really had, and it will be seen presently that he had, "the courage of his own convictions," to use a hackneyed phrase. he brought those convictions with him to burley, and the courage also. why, in a single year--and a busy, bustling one it had been--the new squire had worked a revolution about the place. lucky for him, he had a well-lined purse to begin with, or he could hardly have come to the root of things, or made such radical reforms as he did. when he first took a look round the farm-steading, he felt puzzled where to begin first. but he went to work steadily, and kept it up, and it is truly wonderful what an amount of solid usefulness can be effected by either man or boy, if he has the courage to adopt such a plan. chapter two. a chip of the old block. it was no part of squire broadbent's plan to turn away old and faithful servants. he had to weed them though, and this meant thinning out to such an extent that not over many were left. the young and healthy creatures of inutility had to shift; but the very old, the decrepit--those who had become stiff and grey in his uncle's service--were pensioned off. they were to stay for the rest of their lives in the rural village adown the glen--bask in the sun in summer, sit by the fire of a winter, and talk of the times when "t'old squire was aboot." the servants settled with, and fresh ones with suitable "go" in them established in their place, the live stock came in for reformation. "saint mary! what a medley!" exclaimed the squire, as he walked through the byres and stables, and past the styes. "everything bred anyhow. no method in my uncle's madness. no rules followed, no type. why the quickest plan will be to put them all to the hammer." this was cutting the gordian-knot with a vengeance, but it was perhaps best in the long run. next came renovation of the farm-steading itself; pulling down and building, enlarging, and what not, and while this was going on, the land itself was not being forgotten. fences were levelled and carted away, and newer and airier ones put up, and for the most part three and sometimes even five fields were opened into one. there were woods also to be seen to. the new squire liked woods, but the trees in some of these were positively poisoning each other. here was a larch-wood, for instance--those logs with the long, grey lichens on them are part of some of the trees. so closely do the larches grow together, so white with moss, so stunted and old-looking, that it would have made a merry-andrew melancholy to walk among them. what good were they? down they must come, and down they had come; and after the ground had been stirred up a bit, and left for a summer to let the sunshine and air into it, all the hill was replanted with young, green, smiling pines, larches, and spruces, and that was assuredly an improvement. in a few years the trees were well advanced; grass and primroses grew where the moss had crept about, and the wood in spring was alive with the song of birds. the mansion-house had been left intact. nothing could have added much to the beauty of that. it stood high up on a knoll, with rising park-like fields behind, and at some considerable distance the blue slate roofs of the farm-steading peeping up through the greenery of the trees. a solid yellow-grey house, with sturdy porch before the hall door, and sturdy mullioned windows, one wing ivy-clad, a broad sweep of gravel in front, and beyond that, lawns and terraces, and flower and rose gardens. and the whole overlooked a river or stream, that went winding away clear and silvery till it lost itself in wooded glens. the scenery was really beautiful all round, and in some parts even wild; while the distant views of the cheviot hills lent a charm to everything. there was something else held sacred by the squire as well as the habitable mansion, and that was burley old castle. undoubtedly a fortress of considerable strength it had been in bygone days, when the wild scots used to come raiding here, but there was no name for it now save that of a "ruin." the great north tower still stood firm and bold, and three walls of the lordly hall, its floor green with long, rank grass; the walls themselves partly covered with ivy, with broom growing on the top, which was broad enough for the half-wild goats to scamper along. there was also the _donjon_ keep, and the remains of a _fosse_; but all the rest of this feudal castle had been unceremoniously carted away, to erect cowsheds and pig-styes with it. "so sinks the pride of former days, when glory's thrill is o'er." no, squire broadbent did not interfere with the castle; he left it to the goats and to archie, who took to it as a favourite resort from the time he could crawl. but these--all these--new-fangled notions the neighbouring squires and farmers bold could easily have forgiven, had broadbent not carried his craze for machinery to the very verge of folly. so _they_ thought. such things might be all very well in america, but they were not called for here. extraordinary mills driven by steam, no less wonderful-looking harrows, uncanny-like drags and drilling machines, sowing and reaping machines that were fearfully and wonderfully made, and ploughs that, like the mills, were worked by steam. terrible inventions these; and even the men that were connected with them had to be brought from the far south, and did not talk a homely, wholesome _lingua_, nor live in a homely, wholesome way. his neighbours confessed that his crops were heavier, and the cereals and roots finer; but they said to each other knowingly, "what about the expense of down-put?" and as far as their own fields went, the plough-boy still whistled to and from his work. then the new live stock, why, type was followed; type was everything in the squire's eye and opinion. no matter what they were, horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, and feather stock, even the dogs and birds were the best and purest of the sort to be had. but for all the head-shaking there had been at first, things really appeared to prosper with the squire; his big, yellow-painted wagons, with their fine clydesdale horses, were as well known in the district and town of b--as the brewer's dray itself. the "nags" were capitally harnessed. what with jet-black, shining leather, brass-work that shone like burnished gold, and crimson-flashing fringes, it was no wonder that the men who drove them were proud, and that they were favourites at every house of call. even the bailiff himself, on his spirited hunter, looked imposing with his whip in his hand, and in his spotless cords. breakfast at burley was a favourite meal, and a pretty early one, and the capital habit of inviting friends thereto was kept up. mrs broadbent's tea was something to taste and remember; while the cold beef, or that early spring lamb on the sideboard, would have converted the veriest vegetarian as soon as he clapped eyes on it. on his spring lamb the squire rather prided himself, and he liked his due meed of praise for having reared it. to be sure he got it; though some of the straightforward northumbrians would occasionally quizzingly enquire what it cost him to put on the table. squire broadbent would not get out of temper whatever was said, and really, to do the man justice, it must be allowed that there was a glorious halo of self-reliance around his head; and altogether such spirit, dash, and independence with all he said and did, that those who breakfasted with him seemed to catch the infection. their farms and they themselves appeared quite behind the times, when viewed in comparison with broadbent's and with broadbent himself. if ever a father was loved and admired by a son, the squire was that man, and archie was that particular son. his father was archie's _beau ideal_ indeed of all that was worth being, or saying, or knowing, in this world; and rupert's as well. he really was his boys' hero, but behaved more to them as if he had been just a big brother. it was a great grief to both of them that rupert could not join in their games out on the lawn in summer--the little cricket matches, the tennis tournaments, the jumping, and romping, and racing. the tutor was younger than the squire by many years, but he could not beat him in any manly game you could mention. yes, it was sad about rupert; but with all the little lad's suffering and weariness, he was _such_ a sunny-faced chap. he never complained, and when sturdy, great, brown-faced archie carried him out as if he had been a baby, and laid him on the couch where he could witness the games, he was delighted beyond description. i'm quite sure that the squire often and often kept on playing longer than he would otherwise have done just to please the child, as he was generally called. as for elsie, she did all her brother did, and a good deal more besides, and yet no one could have called her a tom girl. as the squire was archie's hero, i suppose the boy could not help taking after his hero to some extent; but it was not only surprising but even amusing to notice how like to his "dad" in all his ways archie had at the age of ten become. the same in walk, the same in talk, the same in giving his opinion, and the same in bright, determined looks. archie really was what his father's friends called him, "a chip of the old block." he was a kind of a lad, too, that grown-up men folks could not help having a good, romping lark with. not a young farmer that ever came to the place could have beaten archie at a race; but when some of them did get hold of him out on the lawn of an evening, then there would be a bit of fun, and archie was in it. these burly northumbrians would positively play a kind of pitch and toss with him, standing in a square or triangle and throwing him back and fore as if he had been a cricket ball. and there was one very tall, wiry young fellow who treated archie as if he had been a sort of dumb-bell, and took any amount of exercise out of him; holding him high aloft with one hand, swaying him round and round and up and down, changing hands, and, in a word, going through as many motions with the laughing boy as if he had been inanimate. -----------------------------------------------------------------------i do not think that archie ever dressed more quickly in his life, than he did on the morning of that auspicious day which saw him ten years old. to tell the truth, he had never been very much struck over the benefits of early rising, especially on mornings in winter. the parting between the boy and his warm bed was often of a most affecting character. the servant would knock, and the gong would go, and sometimes he would even hear his father's voice in the hall before he made up his mind to tear himself away. but on this particular morning, no sooner had he rubbed his eyes and began to remember things, than he sprang nimbly to the floor. the bath was never a terrible ordeal to archie, as it is to some lads. he liked it because it made him feel light and buoyant, and made him sing like the happy birds in spring time; but to-day he did think it would be a saving of time to omit it. yes, but it would be cowardly, and on this morning of all mornings; so in he plunged, and plied the sponge manfully. he did not draw up the blinds till well-nigh dressed. for all he could see when he did do so, he might as well have left them down. the windows--the month was january--were hard frozen; had it been any other day, he would have paused to admire the beautiful frost foliage and frost ferns that nature had etched on the panes. he blew his breath on the glass instead, and made a clean round hole thereon. glorious! it had been snowing pretty heavily, but now the sky was clear. the footprints of the wily fox could be tracked. archie would follow him to his den in the wild woods, and his skye terriers would unearth him. then the boy knelt to pray, just reviewing the past for a short time before he did so, and thinking what a deal he had to be thankful for; how kind the good father was to have given him such parents, such a beautiful home, and such health, and thinking too what a deal he had to be sorry for in the year that was gone; then he gave thanks, and prayer for strength to resist temptation in the time to come; and, it is needless to say, he prayed for poor invalid rupert. when he got up from his knees he heard the great gong sounded, and smiled to himself to think how early he was. then he blew on the pane and looked out again. the sky was blue and clear, and there was not a breath of wind; the trees on the lawn, laden with their weight of powdery snow, their branches bending earthwards, especially the larches and spruces, were a sight to see. and the snow-covered lawn itself, oh, how beautiful! archie wondered if the streets of heaven even could be more pure, more dazzlingly white. whick, whick, whick, whir-r-r-r-r! it was a big yellow-billed blackbird, that flew out with startled cry from a small austrian pine tree. as it did so, a cloud of powdery snow rose in the air, showing how hard the frost was. early though it was--only a little past eight--archie found his father and mother in the breakfast-room, and greetings and blessings fell on his head; brief but tender. by-and-bye the tutor came in, looking tired; and archie exulted over him, as cocks crow over a fallen foe, because he was down first. mr walton was a young man of five or six and twenty, and had been in the family for over three years, so he was quite an old friend. moreover, he was a man after the squire's own heart; he was manly, and taught archie manliness, and had a quiet way of helping him out of every difficulty of thought or action. besides, archie and rupert liked him. after breakfast archie went up to see his brother, then downstairs, and straight away out through the servants' hall to the barn-yards. he had showers of blessings, and not a few gifts from the servants; but old scotch kate was most sincere, for this somewhat aged spinster really loved the lad. at the farm-steading he had many friends to see, both hairy and feathered. he found some oats, which he scattered among the last, and laughed to see them scramble, and to hear them talk. well, archie at all events believed firmly that fowls can converse. one very lovely red game bird, came boldly up and pecked his oats from archie's palm. this was the new cock jock, a son of the old bird, which the fox had taken. the ann hen was there too. she was bold, and bonnie, and saucy, and seemed quite to have given up mourning for her lost lord. ann came at archie's call, flew on to his wrist, and after steadying herself and grumbling a little because archie moved his arm too much, she shoved her head and neck into the boy's pocket, and found oats in abundance. that was ann's way of doing business, and she preferred it. the ducks were insolent and noisy; the geese, instead of taking higher views of life, as they are wont to do, bent down their stately necks, and went in for the scramble with the rest. the hen turkeys grumbled a great deal, but got their share nevertheless; while the great gobbler strutted around doing attitudes, and rustling himself, his neck and head blood-red and blue, and every feather as stiff as an oyster-shell. he looked like some indian chief arrayed for the war-path. having hurriedly fed his feathered favourites, archie went bounding off to let out a few dogs. he opened the door and went right into their house, and the consequence was that one of the newfoundlands threw him over in the straw, and licked his face; and the skye terriers came trooping round, and they also paid their addresses to him, some of the young ones jumping over his head, while archie could do nothing for laughing. when he got up he sang out "attention!" and lo! and behold the dogs, every one looking wiser than another, some with their considering-caps on apparently, and their heads held knowingly to one side. "attention!" cried the boy. "i am going to-day to shoot the fox that ran off with the hen ann's husband. i shall want some of you. you bounder, and you little fuss, and you tackier, come." and come those three dogs did, while the rest, with lowered tails and pitiful looks, slunk away to their straw. bounder was an enormous newfoundland, and fuss and tackier were terriers, the former a skye, the latter a very tiny but exceedingly game yorkie. yonder, gun on shoulder, came tall, stately branson, the keeper, clad in velveteen, with gaiters on. branson was a northumbrian, and a grand specimen too. he might have been somewhat slow of speech, but he was not slow to act whenever it came to a scuffle with poachers, and this last was not an unfrequent occurrence. "my gun, branson?" "it's in the kitchen, master archie, clean and ready; and old kate has put a couple of corks in it, for fear it should go off." "oh, it is loaded then--really loaded!" "ay, lad; and i've got to teach you how to carry it. this is your first day on the hill, mind, and a rough one it is." archie soon got his leggings on, and his shot-belt and shooting-cap and everything else, in true sportsman fashion. "what!" he said at the hall door, when he met mr walton, "am i to have my tutor with me _to-day_?" he put strong emphasis on the last word. "you know, mr walton, that i am ten to-day. i suppose i am conceited, but i almost feel a man." his tutor laughed, but by no means offensively. "my dear archie, i _am_ going to the hill; but don't imagine i'm going as your tutor, or to look after you. oh, no! i want to go as your friend." this certainly put a different complexion on the matter. archie considered for a moment, then replied, with charming condescension: "oh, yes, of course, mr walton! you are welcome, i'm sure, to come _as a friend_." chapter three. a day of adventure. if we have any tears all ready to flow, it is satisfactory to know that they will not be required at present. if we have poetic fire and genius, even these gifts may for the time being be held in reservation. no "ode to a dying fox" or "elegy on the death and burial of reynard" will be necessary. for reynard did not die; nor was he shot; at least, not sufficiently shot. in one sense this was a pity. it resulted in mingled humiliation and bitterness for archie and for the dogs. he had pictured to himself a brief moment of triumph when he should return from the chase, bearing in his hand the head of his enemy--the murderer of the ann hen's husband-and having the brush sticking out of his jacket pocket; return to be crowned, figuratively speaking, with festive laurel by elsie, his sister, and looked upon by all the servants with a feeling of awe as a future nimrod. in another sense it was not a pity; that is, for the fox. this sable gentleman had enjoyed a good run, which made him hungry, and as happy as only a fox can be who knows the road through the woods and wilds to a distant burrow, where a bed of withered weeds awaits him, and where a nice fat hen is hidden. when reynard had eaten his dinner and licked his chops, he laid down to sleep, no doubt laughing in his paw at the boy's futile efforts to capture or kill him, and promising himself the pleasure of a future moonlight visit to burley old farm, from which he should return with the ann hen herself on his shoulder. yes, archie's hunt had been unsuccessful, though the day had not ended without adventure, and he had enjoyed the pleasures of the chase. bounder, the big newfoundland, first took up the scent, and away he went with fuss and tackier at his heels, the others following as well as they could, restraining the dogs by voice and gesture. through the spruce woods, through a patch of pine forest, through a wild tangle of tall, snow-laden furze, out into the open, over a stream, and across a wide stretch of heathery moorland, round quarries and rocks, and once more into a wood. this time it was stunted larch, and in the very centre of it, close by a cairn of stones, bounder said--and both fuss and tackier acquiesced--that reynard had his den. but how to get him out? "you two little chaps get inside," bounder seemed to say. "i'll stand here; and as soon as he bolts, i shall make the sawdust fly out of him, you see!" escape for the fox seemed an impossibility. he had more than one entrance to his den, but all were carefully blocked up by the keeper except his back and front door. bounder guarded the latter, archie went to watch by the former. "keep quiet and cool now, and aim right behind the shoulder." quiet and cool indeed! how could he? under such exciting circumstances, his heart was thumping like a frightened pigeon's, and his cheeks burning with the rush of blood to them. he knelt down with his gun ready, and kept his eyes on the hole. he prayed that reynard might not bolt by the front door, for that would spoil his sport. the terrier made it very warm for the fox in his den. small though the little yorkie was, his valour was wonderful. out in the open reynard could have killed them one by one, but here the battle was unfair, so after a few minutes of a terrible scrimmage the fox concluded to bolt. archie saw his head at the hole, half protruded then drawn back, and his heart thumped now almost audibly. would he come? would he dare it? yes, the fox dared it, and came. he dashed out with a wild rush, like a little hairy hurricane. "aim behind the shoulder!" where was the shoulder? where was anything but a long sable stream of something feathering through the snow? bang! bang! both barrels. and down rolled the fox. yes, no. oh dear, it was poor fuss! the fox was half a mile away in a minute. fuss lost blood that stained the snow brown as it fell on it. and archie shed bitter tears of sorrow and humiliation. "oh, fuss, my dear, dear doggie!" he cried, "_i_ didn't mean to hurt you." the skye terrier was lying on the keeper's knees and having a snow styptic. soon the blood ceased to flow, and fuss licked his young master's hands, and presently got down and ran around and wanted to go to earth again; and though archie felt he could never forgive himself for his awkwardness, he was so happy to see that fuss was not much the worse after all. but there would be no triumphant home-returning; he even began to doubt if ever he would be a sportsman. then branson consoled him, and told him he himself didn't do any better when he first took to the hill. "it is well," said mr walton, laughing, "that you didn't shoot me instead." "ye-es," said archie slowly, looking at fuss. it was evident he was not quite convinced that mr walton was right. "fuss is none the worse," cried branson. "oh, i can tell you it does these scotch dogs good to have a drop or two of lead in them! it makes them all the steadier, you know." about an hour after, to his exceeding delight, archie shot a hare. oh joy! oh day of days! his first hare! he felt a man now, from the top of his astrachan cap to the toe caps of his shooting-boots. bounder picked it up, and brought it and laid it at archie's feet. "good dog! you shall carry it." bounder did so most delightedly. they stopped at an outlying cottage on their way home. it was a long, low, thatched building, close by a wood, a very humble dwelling indeed. a gentle-faced widow woman opened to their knock. she looked scared when she saw them, and drew back. "oh!" she said, "i hope robert hasn't got into trouble again?" "no, no, mrs cooper, keep your mind easy, bob's a' right at present. we just want to eat our bit o' bread and cheese in your sheiling." "and right welcome ye are, sirs. come in to the fire. here's a broom to brush the snow fra your leggins." bounder marched in with the rest, with as much swagger and independence as if the cottage belonged to him. mrs cooper's cat determined to defend her hearth and home against such intrusion, and when bounder approached the former, she stood on her dignity, back arched, tail erect, hair on end from stem to stern, with her ears back, and green fire lurking in her eyes. bounder stood patiently looking at her. he would not put down the hare, and he could not defend himself with it in his mouth; so he was puzzled. pussy, however, brought matters to a crisis. she slapped his face, then bolted right up the chimney. bounder put down the hare now, and gave a big sigh as he lay down beside it. "no, mrs cooper, bob hasn't been at his wicked work for some time. he's been gi'en someone else a turn i s'pose, eh?" "oh, sirs," said the widow, "it's no wi' my will he goes poachin'! if his father's heid were above the sod he daren't do it. but, poor bob, he's all i have in the world, and he works hard--sometimes." branson laughed. it was a somewhat sarcastic laugh; and young archie felt sorry for bob's mother, she looked so unhappy. "ay, mrs cooper, bob works hard sometimes, especially when settin' girns for game. ha! ha! hullo!" he added, "speak of angels and they appear. here comes bob himself!" bob entered, looked defiantly at the keeper, but doffed his cap and bowed to mr walton and archie. "mother," he said, "i'm going out." "not far, bob, lad; dinner's nearly ready." bob had turned to leave, but he wheeled round again almost fiercely. he was a splendid young specimen of a borderer, six feet if an inch, and well-made to boot. no extra flesh, but hard and tough as copper bolts. "denner!" he growled. "ay, denner to be sure--taties and salt! ha! and gentry live on the fat o' the land! if i snare a rabbit, if i dare to catch one o' god's own cattle on god's own hills, i'm a felon; i'm to be taken and put in gaol--shot even if i dare resist! yas, mother, i'll be in to denner," and away he strode. "potatoes and salt!" archie could not help thinking about that. and he was going away to his own bright home and to happiness. he glanced round him at the bare, clay walls, with their few bits of daubs of pictures, and up at the blackened rafters, where a cheese stood--one poor, hard cheese--and on which hung some bacon and onions. he could not repress a sigh, almost as heart-felt as that which bounder gave when he lay down beside the hare. when the keeper and tutor rose to go, archie stopped behind with bounder just a moment. when they came out, bounder had no hare. yet that hare was the first archie had shot, and--well, he _had_ meant to astonish elsie with this proof of his prowess; but the hare was better to be left where it was--he had earned a blessing. the party were in the wood when bob cooper, the poacher, sprang up as if from the earth and confronted them. "i came here a purpose," he said to branson. "this is not your wood; even if it was i wouldn't mind. what did you want at my mother's hoose?" "nothing; and i've nothing to say to ye." "haven't ye? but ye were in our cottage. it's no for nought the glaud whistles." "i don't want to quarrel," said branson, "especially after speakin' to your mother; she's a kindly soul, and i'm sorry for her and for you yoursel', bob." bob was taken aback. he had expected defiance, exasperation, and he was prepared to fight. archie stood trembling as these two athletes looked each other in the eyes. but gradually bob's face softened; he bit his lip and moved impatiently. the allusion to his mother had touched his heart. "i didn't want sich words, branson. i--may be i don't deserve 'em. i-hang it all, give me a grip o' your hand!" then away went bob as quickly as he had come. branson glanced at his retreating figure one moment. "well," he said, "i never thought i'd shake hands wi' bob cooper! no matter; better please a fool than fecht 'im." "branson!" "yes, master archie." "i don't think bob's a fool; and i'm sure that, bad as he is, he loves his mother." "quite right, archie," said mr walton. archie met his father at the gate, and ran towards him to tell him all his adventures about the fox and the hare. but bob cooper and everybody else was forgotten when he noticed what and whom he had behind him. the "whom" was branson's little boy, peter; the "what" was one of the wildest-looking--and, for that matter, one of the wickedest-looking-shetland ponies it is possible to imagine. long-haired, shaggy, droll, and daft; but these adjectives do not half describe him. "why, father, wherever--" "he's your birthday present, archie." the boy actually flushed red with joy. his eyes sparkled as he glanced from his father to the pony and back at his father again. "dad," he said at last, "i know now what old kate means about 'her cup being full.' father, my cup overflows!" well, archie's eyes were pretty nearly overflowing anyhow. chapter four. in the old castle tower. they were all together that evening in the green parlour as usual, and everybody was happy and merry. even rupert was sitting up and laughing as much as elsie. the clatter of tongues prevented them hearing mary's tapping at the door; and the carpet being so thick and soft, she was not seen until right in the centre of the room. "why, mary," cried elsie, "i got such a start, i thought you were a ghost!" mary looks uneasily around her. "there be one ghost, miss elsie, comes out o' nights, and walks about the old castle." "was that what you came in to tell us, mary?" "oh, no, sir! if ye please, bob cooper is in the yard, and he wants to speak to master archie. i wouldn't let him go if i were you, ma'am." archie's mother smiled. mary was a privileged little parlour maiden, and ventured at times to make suggestions. "go and see what he wants, dear," said his mother to archie. it was a beautiful clear moonlight night, with just a few white snow-laden clouds lying over the woods, no wind and never a hush save the distant and occasional yelp of a dog. "bob cooper!" "that's me, master archie. i couldn't rest till i'd seen ye the night. the hare--" "oh! that's really nothing, bob cooper!" "but allow me to differ. it's no' the hare altogether. i know where to find fifty. it was the way it was given. look here, lad, and this is what i come to say, branson and you have been too much for bob cooper. the day i went to that wood to thrash him, and i'd hae killed him, an i could. ha! ha! i shook hands with him! archie broadbent, your father's a gentleman, and they say you're a chip o' t'old block. i believe 'em, and look, see, lad, i'll never be seen in your preserves again. tell branson so. there's my hand on't. nay, never be afear'd to touch it. good-night. i feel better now." and away strode the poacher, and archie could hear the sound of his heavy tread crunching through the snow long after he was out of sight. "you seem to have made a friend, archie," said his father, when the boy reported the interview. "a friend," added mr walton with a quiet smile, "that i wouldn't be too proud of." "well," said the squire, "certainly bob cooper is a rough nut, but who knows what his heart may be like?" archie's room in the tower was opened in state next day. old kate herself had lit fires in it every night for a week before, though she never would go up the long dark stair without peter. peter was only a mite of a boy, but wherever he went, fuss, the skye terrier, accompanied him, and it was universally admitted that no ghost in its right senses would dare to face fuss. elsie was there of course, and rupert too, though he had to be almost carried up by stalwart branson. but what a glorious little room it was when you were in it! a more complete boy's own room could scarcely be imagined. it was a _beau ideal_; at least rupert and archie and elsie thought so, and even mr walton and branson said the same. let me see now, i may as well try to describe it, but much must be left to imagination. it was not a very big room, only about twelve feet square; for although the tower appeared very large from outside, the abnormal thickness of its walls detracted from available space inside it. there was one long window on each side, and a chair and small table could be placed on the sill of either. but this was curtained off at night, when light came from a huge lamp that depended from the ceiling, and the rays from which fought for preference with those from the roaring fire on the stone hearth. the room was square. a door, also curtained, gave entrance from the stairway at one corner, and at each of two other corners were two other doors leading into turret chambers, and these tiny, wee rooms were very delightful, because you were out beyond the great tower when you sat in them, and their slits of windows granted you a grand view of the charming scenery everywhere about. the furniture was rustic in the extreme--studiously so. there was a tall rocking-chair, a great dais or sofa, and a recline for rupert--"poor rupert" as he was always called--the big chair was the guest's seat. the ornaments on the walls had been principally supplied by branson. stuffed heads of foxes, badgers, and wild cats, with any number of birds' and beasts' skins, artistically mounted. there were also heads of horned deer, bows and arrows--these last were archie's own--and shields and spears that uncle ramsay had brought home from savage wars in africa and australia. the dais was covered with bear skins, and there was quite a quantity of skins on the floor instead of a carpet. so the whole place looked primeval and romantic. the bookshelf was well supplied with readable tales, and a harp stood in a corner, and on this, young though she was, elsie could already play. the guest to-night was old kate. she sat in the tall chair in a corner opposite the door, branson occupied a seat near her, rupert was on his recline, and archie and elsie on a skin, with little peter nursing wounded fuss in a corner. that was the party. but archie had made tea, and handed it round; and sitting there with her cup in her lap, old kate really looked a strange, weird figure. her face was lean and haggard, her eyes almost wild, and some half-grey hair peeped from under an uncanny-looking cap of black crape, with long depending strings of the same material. old kate was housekeeper and general female factotum. she was really a distant relation of the squire, and so had it very much her own way at burley old farm. she came originally from "just ayant the border," and had a wealth of old-world stories to tell, and could sing queer old bits of ballads too, when in the humour. old kate, however, said she could not sing to-night, for she felt as yet unused to the place; and whether they (the boys) believed in ghosts or not she (kate) did, and so, she said, had her father before her. but she told stories--stories of the bloody raids of long, long ago, when northumbria and the scottish borders were constantly at war--stories that kept her hearers enthralled while they listened, and to which the weird looks and strange voice of the narrator lent a peculiar charm. old kate was just in the very midst of one of these when, twang! one of the strings of elsie's harp broke. it was a very startling sound indeed; for as it went off it seemed to emit a groan that rang through the chamber, and died away in the vaulted roof. elsie crept closer to archie, and peter with fuss drew nearer the fire. the ancient dame, after being convinced that the sound was nothing uncanny, proceeded with her narrative. it was a long one, with an old house in it by the banks of a winding river in the midst of woods and wilds--a house that, if its walls had been able to speak, could have told many a marrow-freezing story of bygone times. there was a room in this house that was haunted. old kate was just coming to this, and to the part of her tale on which the ghosts on a certain night of the year always appeared in this room, and stood over a dark stain in the centre of the floor. "and ne'er a ane," she was saying, "could wash that stain awa'. weel, bairns, one moonlicht nicht, and at the deadest hoor o' the nicht, nothing would please the auld laird but he maun leave his chaimber and go straight along the damp, dreary, long corridor to the door o' the hauntid room. it was half open, and the moon's licht danced in on the fleer. he was listening--he was looking--" but at this very moment, when old kate had lowered her voice to a whisper, and the tension at her listeners' heart-strings was the greatest, a soft, heavy footstep was heard coming slowly, painfully as it might be, up the turret stairs. to say that every one was alarmed would but poorly describe their feelings. old kate's eyes seemed as big as watch-glasses. elsie screamed, and clung to archie. "who--oo--'s--who's there?" cried branson, and his voice sounded fearful and far away. no answer; but the steps drew nearer and nearer. then the curtain was pushed aside, and in dashed--what? a ghost?--no, only honest great bounder. bounder had found out there was something going on, and that fuss was up there, and he didn't see why he should be left out in the cold. that was all; but the feeling of relief when he did appear was unprecedented. old kate required another cup of tea after that. then branson got out his fiddle from a green baize bag; and if he had not played those merry airs, i do not believe that old kate would have had the courage to go downstairs that night at all. archie's pony was great fun at first. the best of it was that he had never been broken in. the squire, or rather his bailiff, had bought him out of a drove; so he was, literally speaking, as wild as the hills, and as mad as a march hare. but he soon knew archie and elsie, and, under branson's supervision, scallowa was put into training on the lawn. he was led, he was walked, he was galloped. but he reared, and kicked, and rolled whenever he thought of it, and yet there was not a bit of vice about him. spring had come, and early summer itself, before scallowa permitted archie to ride him, and a week or two after this the difficulty would have been to have told which of the two was the wilder and dafter, archie or scallowa. they certainly had managed to establish the most amicable relations. whatever scallowa thought, archie agreed to, and _vice versa_, and the pair were never out of mischief. of course archie was pitched off now and then, but he told elsie he did not mind it, and in fact preferred it to constant uprightness: it was a change. but the pony never ran away, because archie always had a bit of carrot in his pocket to give him when he got up off the ground. mr walton assured archie that these carrots accounted for his many tumbles. and there really did seem to be a foundation of truth about this statement. for of course the pony had soon come to know that it was to his interest to throw his rider, and acted accordingly. so after a time archie gave the carrot-payment up, and matters were mended. it was only when school was over that archie went for a canter, unless he happened to get up very early in the morning for the purpose of riding. and this he frequently did, so that, before the summer was done, scallowa and archie were as well known over all the countryside as the postman himself. archie's pony was certainly not very long in the legs, but nevertheless the leaps he could take were quite surprising. on the second summer after archie got this pony, both horse and rider were about perfect in their training, and in the following winter he appeared in the hunting-field with the greatest _sang-froid_, although many of the farmers, on their weight-carrying hunters, could have jumped over archie, scallowa, and all. the boy had a long way to ride to the hounds, and he used to start off the night before. he really did not care where he slept. old kate used to make up a packet of sandwiches for him, and this would be his dinner and breakfast. scallowa he used to tie up in some byre, and as often as not archie would turn in beside him among the straw. in the morning he would finish the remainder of kate's sandwiches, make his toilet in some running stream or lake, and be as fresh as a daisy when the meet took place. both he and scallowa were somewhat uncouth-looking. elsie, his sister, had proposed that he should ride in scarlet, it would look so romantic and pretty; but archie only laughed, and said he would not feel at home in such finery, and his "eider duck"--as he sometimes called the pony-would not know him. "besides, elsie," he said, "lying down among straw with scarlets on wouldn't improve them." but old kate had given him a birthday present of a little scotch glengarry cap with a real eagle's feather, and he always wore this in the hunting-field. he did so for two reasons; first, it pleased old kate; and, secondly, the cap stuck to his head; no breeze could blow it off. it was not long before archie was known in the field as the "little demon huntsman." and, really, had you seen scallowa and he feathering across a moor, his bonnet on the back of his head, and the pony's immense mane blowing straight back in the wind, you would have thought the title well earned. in a straight run the pony could not keep up with the long-legged horses; but archie and he could dash through a wood, and even swim streams, and take all manner of short cuts, so that he was always in at the death. the most remarkable trait in archie's riding was that he could take flying leaps from heights: only a shetland pony could have done this. archie knew every yard of country, and he rather liked heading his lilliputian nag right away for a knoll or precipice, and bounding off it like a roebuck or scottish deerhound. the first time he was observed going straight for a bank of this kind he created quite a sensation. "the boy will be killed!" was the cry, and every lady then drew rein and held her breath. away went scallowa, and they were on the bank, in the air, and landed safely, and away again in less time that it takes me to tell of the exploit. the secret of the lad's splendid management of the pony was this: he loved scallowa, and scallowa knew it. he not only loved the little horse, but studied his ways, so he was able to train him to do quite a number of tricks, such as lying down "dead" to command, kneeling to ladies--for archie was a gallant lad--trotting round and round circus-fashion, and ending every performance by coming and kissing his master. between you and me, reader, a bit of carrot had a good deal to do with the last trick, if not with the others also. it occurred to this bold boy once that he might be able to take scallowa up the dark tower stairs to the boy's own room. the staircase was unusually wide, and the broken stones in it had been repaired with logs of wood. he determined to try; but he practised riding him blindfolded first. then one day he put him at the stairs; he himself went first with the bridle in his hand. what should he do if he failed? that is a question he did not stop to answer. one thing was quite certain, scallowa could not turn and go down again. on they went, the two of them, all in the dark, except that now and then a slit in the wall gave them a little light and, far beneath, a pretty view of the country. on and on, and up and up, till within ten feet of the top. here scallowa came to a dead stop, and the conversation between archie and his steed, although the latter did not speak english, might have been as follows: "come on, 'eider duck'!" "not a step farther, thank you." "come on, old horsie! you can't turn, you know." "no; not another step if i stay here till doomsday in the afternoon. going upstairs becomes monotonous after a time. no; i'll be shot if i budge!" "you'll be shot if you don't. gee up, i say; gee up!" "gee up yourself; i'm going to sleep." "i say, scallowa, look here." "what's that, eh? a bit of carrot? oh, here goes?" and in a few seconds more scallowa was in the room, and had all he could eat of cakes and carrots. archie was so delighted with his success that he must go to the castle turret, and halloo for branson and old kate to come and see what he had got in the tower. old kate's astonishment knew no bounds, and branson laughed till his sides were sore. bounder, the newfoundland, appeared also to appreciate the joke, and smiled from lug to lug. "how will you get him down?" "carrots," said archie; "carrots, branson. the 'duck' will do anything for carrots." the "duck," however, was somewhat nervous at first, and half-way downstairs even the carrots appeared to have lost their charm. while archie was wondering what he should do now, a loud explosion seemed to shake the old tower to its very foundation. it was only bounder barking in the rear of the pony. but the sound had the desired effect, and down came the "duck," and away went archie, so that in a few minutes both were out on the grass. and here scallowa must needs relieve his feelings by lying down and rolling; while great bounder, as if he had quite appreciated all the fun of the affair, and must do something to allay his excitement, went tearing round in a circle, as big dogs do, so fast that it was almost impossible to see anything of him distinctly. he was a dark shape _et preterea nihil_. but after a time scallowa got near to the stair, which only proves that there is nothing in reason you cannot teach a shetland pony, if you love him and understand him. the secret lies in the motto, "fondly and firmly." but, as already hinted, a morsel of carrot comes in handy at times. chapter five. "boys will be boys." bob cooper was as good as his word, which he had pledged to archie on that night at burley old farm, and branson never saw him again in the squire's preserves. nor had he ever been obliged to appear before the squire himself--who was now a magistrate--to account for any acts of trespass in pursuit of game on the lands of other lairds. but this does not prove that bob had given up poaching. he was discreetly silent about this matter whenever he met archie. he had grown exceedingly fond of the lad, and used to be delighted when he called at his mother's cottage on his "eider duck." there was always a welcome waiting archie here, and whey to drink, which, it must be admitted, is very refreshing on a warm summer's day. well, bob on these occasions used to show archie how to make flies, or busk hooks, and gave him a vast deal of information about outdoor life and sport generally. the subject of poaching was hardly ever broached; only once, when he and archie were talking together in the little cottage, bob himself volunteered the following information: "the gentry folks, master archie, think me a terrible man; and they wonder i don't go and plough, or something. la! they little know i've been brought up in the hills. sport i must hae. i couldna live away from nature. but i'm never cruel. heigho! i suppose i must leave the country, and seek for sport in wilder lands, where the man o' money doesn't trample on the poor. only one thing keeps me here." he glanced out of the window as he spoke to where his old mother was cooking dinner _al fresco_--boiling a pot as the gipsy does, hung from a tripod. "i know, i know," said archie. "how old are you now, master archie?" "going on for fourteen." "is _that_ all? why ye're big eno' for a lad o' seventeen!" this was true. archie was wondrous tall, and wondrous brown and handsome. his hardy upbringing and constant outdoor exercise, in summer's shine or winter's snow, fully accounted for his stature and looks. "i'm almost getting too big for my pony." "ah! no, lad; shetlands'll carry most anything." "well, i must be going, bob cooper. good-bye." "good-bye, master archie. ah! lad, if there were more o' your kind and your father's in the country, there would be fewer bad men like--like me." "i don't like to hear you saying that, bob. couldn't you be a good man if you liked? you're big enough." the poacher laughed. "yes," he replied, "i'm big enough; but, somehow, goodness don't strike right home to me like. it don't come natural--that's it." "my brother rupert says it is so easy to be good, if you read and pray god to teach and help you." "ah, master archie, your brother is good himself, but he doesn't know all." "my brother rupert bade me tell you that; but, oh, bob, how nice he can speak. i can't. i can fish and shoot, and ride 'eider duck;' but i can't say things so pretty as he can. well, good-bye again." "good-bye again, and tell your brother that i can't be good all at one jump like, but i'll begin to try mebbe. so long." archie broadbent might have been said to have two kinds of home education; one was thoroughly scholastic, the other very practical indeed. the squire was one in a hundred perhaps. he was devoted to his farm, and busied himself in the field, manually as well as orally. i mean to say that he was of such an active disposition that, while superintending and giving advice and orders, he put his hand to the wheel himself. so did mr walton, and whether it was harvest-time or haymaking, you would have found squire broadbent, the tutor, and archie hard at it, and even little elsie doing a little. i would not like to say that the squire was a radical, but he certainly was no believer in the benefits of too much class distinction. he thought burns was right when he said-"a man's a man for a' that." was he any the less liked or less respected by his servants, because he and his boy tossed hay in the same field with them? i do not think so, and i know that the work always went more merrily on when they were there; and that laughing and even singing could be heard all day long. moreover, there was less beer drank, and more tea. the squire supplied both liberally, and any man might have which he chose. consequently there was less, far less, tired-headedness and languor in the evening. why, it was nothing uncommon for the lads and lasses of burley old farm to meet together on the lawn, after a hard day's toil, and dance for hours to the merry notes of branson's fiddle. we have heard of model farms; this squire's was one; but the servants, wonderful to say, were contented. there was never such a thing as grumbling heard from one year's end to the other. christmas too was always kept in the good, grand old style. even a yule log, drawn from the wood, was considered a property of the performances; and as for good cheer, why there was "lashins" of it, as an irishman would say, and fun "galore," to borrow a word from beyond the border. mr walton was a scholarly person, though you might not have thought so, had you seen him mowing turnips with his coat off. he, however, taught nothing to archie or rupert that might not have some practical bearing on his after life. such studies as mathematics and algebra were dull, in a manner of speaking; latin was taught because no one can understand english without it; french and german conversationally; geography not by rote, but thoroughly; and everything else was either very practical and useful, or very pleasant. music archie loved, but did not care to play; his father did not force him; but poor rupert played the zither. he loved it, and took to it naturally. rupert got stronger as he grew older, and when archie was fourteen and he thirteen, the physician gave good hopes; and he was even able to walk by himself a little. but to some extent he would be "poor rupert" as long as he lived. he read and thought far more than archie, and--let me whisper it--he prayed more fervently. "oh, roup," archie would say, "i should like to be as good as you! somehow, i don't feel to need to pray so much, and to have the lord jesus so close to me." it was a strange conceit this, but rupert's answer was a good one. "yes, archie, i need comfort more; but mind you, brother, the day may come when you'll want comfort of this kind too." -----------------------------------------------------------------------old kate really was a queer old witch of a creature, superstitious to a degree. here is an example: one day she came rushing--without taking time to knock even--into the breakfast parlour. "oh, mistress broadbent, what a ghast i've gotten!" "dear me!" said the squire's wife; "sit down and tell us. what is it, poor kate?" "oh! oh!" she sighed. "nae wonder my puir legs ached. oh! sirs! sirs! "ye ken my little pantry? well, there's been a board doon on the fleer for ages o' man, and to-day it was taken out to be scrubbit, and what think ye was reveeled?" "i couldn't guess." "words, 'oman; words, printed and painted on the timmer--'_sacred to the memory of dinah brown, aged 99_.' a tombstone, 'oman--a wooden gravestone, and me standin' on't a' these years." here the squire was forced to burst out into a hearty laugh, for which his wife reprimanded him by a look. there was no mistake about the "wooden tombstone," but that this was the cause of old kate's rheumatism one might take the liberty to doubt. kate was a staunch believer in ghosts, goblins, fairies, kelpies, brownies, spunkies, and all the rest of the supernatural family; and i have something to relate in connection with this, though it is not altogether to the credit of my hero, archie. old kate and young peter were frequent visitors to the room in the tower, for the tea archie made, and the fires he kept on, were both most excellent in their way. "boys will be boys," and archie was a little inclined to practical joking. it made him laugh, so he said, and laughing made one fat. it happened that, one dark winter's evening, old kate was invited up into the tower, and branson with peter came also. archie volunteered a song, and branson played many a fine old air on his fiddle, so that the first part of the evening passed away pleasantly and even merrily enough. old kate drank cup after cup of tea as she sat in that weird old chair, and, by-and-by, archie, the naughty boy that he was, led the conversation round to ghosts. the ancient dame was in her element now; she launched forth into story after story, and each was more hair-stirring than its predecessor. elsie and archie occupied their favourite place on a bear's skin in front of the low fire; and while kate still droned on, and branson listened with eyes and mouth wide open, the boy might have been noticed to stoop down, and whisper something in his sister's ear. almost immediately after a rattling of chains could be heard in one of the turrets. both kate and branson started, and the former could not be prevailed upon to resume her story till archie lit a candle and walked all round the room, drawing back the turret curtains to show no one was there. once again old kate began, and once again chains were heard to rattle, and a still more awesome sound followed--a long, low, deep-bass groan, while at the same time, strange to say, the candle in archie's hand burnt blue. to add to the fearsomeness of the situation, while the chain continued to rattle, and the groaning now and then, there was a very appreciable odour of sulphur in the apartment. this was the climax. old kate screamed, and the big keeper, branson, fell on his knees in terror. even elsie, though she had an inkling of what was to happen, began to feel afraid. "there now, granny," cried archie, having carried the joke far enough, "here is the groaning ghost." as he spoke he produced a pair of kitchen bellows, with a musical reed in the pipe, which he proceeded to sound in old kate's very face, looking a very mischievous imp while he did so. "oh," said old kate, "what a scare the laddie has given me. but the chain?" archie pulled a string, and the chain rattled again. "and the candle? that was na canny." "a dust of sulphur in the wick, granny." big branson looked ashamed of himself, and old kate herself began to smile once more. "but how could ye hae the heart to scare an old wife sae, master archie?" "oh, granny, we got up the fun just to show you there were no such things as ghosts. rupert says--and he should know, because he's always reading--that ghosts are always rats or something." "ye maunna frichten me again, laddie. will ye promise?" "yes, granny, there's my hand on it. now sit down and have another cup of tea, and elsie will play and sing." elsie could sing now, and sweet young voice she had, that seemed to carry you to happier lands. branson always said it made him feel a boy again, wandering through the woods in summer, or chasing the butterflies over flowery beds. and so, albeit archie had carried his practical joke out to his own satisfaction, if not to that of every one else, this evening, like many others that had come before it, and came after it, passed away pleasantly enough. -----------------------------------------------------------------------it was in the spring of the same year, and during the easter holidays, that a little london boy came down to reside with his aunt, who lived in one of archie's father's cottages. young harry brown had been sent to the country for the express purpose of enjoying himself, and set about this business forthwith. he made up to archie; in fact, he took so many liberties, and talked to him so glibly, and with so little respect, that, although archie had imbued much of his father's principles as regards liberalism, he did not half like it. perhaps, after all, it was only the boy's manner, for he had never been to the country at all before, and looked upon every one--archie included--who did not know london, as jolly green. but archie did not appreciate it, and, like the traditional worm, he turned, and once again his love for practical joking got the better of his common-sense. "teach us somefink," said harry one day, turning his white face up. he was older, perhaps, than archie, but decidedly smaller. "teach us somefink, and when you comes to vitechapel to wisit me, i'll teach you summut. my eye, won't yer stare!" the idea of this white-chafted, unwholesome-looking cad, expecting that _he_, squire broadbent's son, would visit _him_ in whitechapel! but archie managed to swallow his wrath and pocket his pride for the time being. "what shall i teach you, eh? i suppose you know that potatoes don't grow on trees, nor geese upon gooseberry-bushes?" "yes; i know that taters is dug out of the hearth. i'm pretty fly for a young un." "can you ride?" "no." "well, meet me here to-morrow at the same time, and i'll bring my 'duck.'" "look 'ere, johnnie raw, ye said '_ride_,' not '_swim_.' a duck teaches swimmin', not ridin'. none o' yer larks now!" next day archie swept down upon the cockney in fine form, meaning to impress him. the cockney was not much impressed; i fear he was not very impressionable. "my heye, johnnie raw," he roared, "vere did yer steal the moke?" "look you here, young whitechapel, you'll have to guard that tongue of yours a little, else communications will be cut. do you see?" "it _is_ a donkey, ain't it, johnnie?" "come on to the field and have a ride." five minutes afterwards the young cockney on the "eider duck's" back was tearing along the field at railway speed. john gilpin's ride was nothing to it, nor tam o'shanter's on his grey mare, meg! both these worthies had stuck to the saddle, but this horseman rode upon the neck of the steed. scallowa stopped short at the gate, but the boy flew over. archie found his friend rubbing himself, and looking very serious, and he felt happier now. "call that 'ere donkey a heider duck? h'm? i allers thought heider ducks was soft! "one to you, johnnie. i don't want to ride hany more." "what else shall i teach you?" "hey?" "come, i'll show you over the farm." "honour bright? no larks!" "yes; no larks!" "say honour." "honour." young whitechapel had not very much faith in his guide, however; but he saw more country wonders that day than ever he could have dreamt of; while his strange remarks kept archie continually laughing. next day the two boys went bird-nesting, and really archie was very mischievous. he showed him a hoody-crow's nest, which he represented as a green plover's or lapwing's; and a blackbird's nest in a furze-bush, which he told harry was a magpie's; and so on, and so forth, till at last he got tired of the cheeky cockney, and sent him off on a mile walk to a cairn of stones, on which he told him crows sometimes sat and "might have a nest." then archie threw himself on the moss, took out a book, and began to read. he was just beginning to repent of his conduct to harry brown, and meant to go up to him like a man when he returned, and crave his forgiveness. but somehow, when harry came back he had so long a face, that wicked archie burst out laughing, and forgot all about his good resolve. "what shall i teach you next?" said archie. "draw it mild, johnnie; it's 'arry's turn. it's the boy's turn to teach you summut. shall we 'ave it hout now wi' the raw uns? bunches o' fives i means. hey?" "i really don't understand you." "ha! ha! ha! i knowed yer was a green 'un, johnnie. can yer fight? hey? 'cause i'm spoilin' for a row." and harry brown threw off his jacket, and began to dance about in terribly knowing attitudes. "you had better put on your clothes again," said archie. "fight _you_? why i could fling you over the fishpond." "ah! i dessay; but flingin' ain't fightin', johnnie. come, there's no getting hout of it. it ain't the first young haristocrat i've frightened; an' now you're afraid." that was enough for archie. and the next moment the lads were at it. but archie had met his match; he went down a dozen times. he remained down the last time. "it is wonderful," he said. "i quite admire you. but i've had enough; i'm beaten." "spoken like a plucked 'un. haven't swallowed yer teeth, hey?" "no; but i'll have a horrid black-eye." "raw beef, my boy; raw beef." "well; i confess i've caught a tartar." "an' i caught a crab yesterday. wot about your eider duck? my heye! johnnie, i ain't been able to sit down conweniently since. i say, johnnie?" "well." "friends, hey?" "all right." then the two shook hands, and young whitechapel said if archie would buy two pairs of gloves he would show him how it was done. so archie did, and became an apt pupil in the noble art of self-defence; which may be used at times, but never abused. however, archie broadbent never forgot that lesson in the wood. chapter six. "johnnie's got the grit in him." on the day of his fight with young harry in the wood, archie returned home to find both his father and mr walton in the drawing-room alone. his father caught the lad by the arm. "been tumbling again off that pony of yours?" "no, father, worse. i'm sure i've done wrong." he then told them all about the practical joking, and the _finale_. "well," said the squire, "there is only one verdict. what do you say, walton?" "serve him right!" "oh, i know that," said archie; "but isn't it lowering our name to keep such company?" "it isn't raising our name, nor growing fresh laurels either, for you to play practical jokes on this poor london lad. but as to being in his company, archie, you may have to be in worse yet. but listen! i want my son to behave as a gentleman, even in low company. remember that boy, and despise no one, whatever be his rank in life. now, go and beg your mother's and sister's forgiveness for having to appear before them with a black-eye." "archie!" his father called after him, as he was leaving the room. "yes, dad?" "how long do you think it will be before you get into another scrape?" "i couldn't say for certain, father. i'm sure i don't want to get into any. they just seem to come." "there's no doubt about one thing, mr broadbent," said the tutor smiling, when archie had left. "and that is?" "he's what everybody says he is, a chip of the old block. headstrong, and all that; doesn't look before he leaps." "don't _i_, walton?" "squire, i'm not going to flatter you. you know you don't." "well, my worthy secretary," said the squire, "i'm glad you speak so plainly. i can always come to you for advice when--" "when you want to," said walton, laughing. "all right, mind you do. i'm proud to be your factor, as well as tutor to your boys. now what about that chillingham bull? you won't turn him into the west field?" "why not? the field is well fenced. all our picturesque beasts are there. he is only a show animal, and he is really only a baby." "true, the bull is not much more than a baby, but--" the baby in question was the gift of a noble friend to squire broadbent; and so beautiful and picturesque did he consider him, that he would have permitted him to roam about the lawns, if there did not exist the considerable probability that he would play battledore and shuttlecock with the visitors, and perhaps toss old kate herself over the garden wall. so he was relegated to the west field. this really was a park to all appearance. a few pet cattle grazed in it, a flock of sheep, and a little herd of deer. they all lived amicably together, and sought shelter under the same spreading trees from the summer's sun. the cattle were often changed, so were the sheep, but the deer were as much fixtures as the trees themselves. the changing of sheep or cattle meant fine fun for archie. he would be there in all his glory, doing the work that was properly that of herdsmen and collie dogs. there really was not a great deal of need for collies when archie was there, mounted on his wild shetland pony, his darling "eider duck" scallowa; and it was admittedly a fine sight to see the pair of them--they seemed made for each other--feathering away across the field, heading and turning the drove. at such times he would be armed with a long whip, and occasionally a beast more rampageous than the rest would separate itself from the herd, and, with tail erect and head down, dash madly over the grass. this would be just the test for archie's skill that he longed for. away he would go at a glorious gallop; sometimes riding neck and neck with the runaway and plying the whip, at other times getting round and well ahead across the beast's bows with shout and yell, but taking care to manoeuvre so as to steer clear of an ugly rush. in this field always dwelt one particular sheep. it had, like the pony, been a birthday present, and, like the pony, it hailed from the _ultima thule_ of the british north. if ever there was a demon sheep in existence, surely this was the identical quadruped. tall and lank, and daft-looking, it possessed almost the speed of a red deer, and was as full of mischief as ever sheep could be. the worst of the beast was, that he led all the other woolly-backs into mischief; and whether it proposed a stampede round the park, ending with a charge through the ranks of the deer, or a well-planned attempt at escape from the field altogether, the other sheep were always willing to join, and sometimes the deer themselves. archie loved that sheep next to the pony, and there were times when he held a meet of his own. mousa, as he called him, would be carted, after the fashion of the queen's deer, to a part of the estate, miles from home; but it was always for home that mousa headed, though not in a true line. no, this wonderful sheep would take to the woods as often as not, and scamper over the hills and far away, so that archie had many a fine run; and the only wonder is that scallowa and he did not break their necks. the young chillingham bull was as beautiful as a dream--a nightmare for instance. he was not very large, but sturdy, active, and strong. milk-white, or nearly so, with black muzzle and crimson ears inside, and, you might say, eyes as well. pure white black-tipped horns, erect almost, and a bit of a mane which added to his picturesqueness and wild beauty. his name was lord glendale, and his pedigree longer than the laird o' cockpen's. now, had his lordship behaved himself, he certainly would have been an ornament to the society of westfield. but he wouldn't or couldn't. baby though he was, he attempted several times to vivisect his companions; and one day, thinking perhaps that mousa did not pay him sufficient respect, his lordship made a bold attempt to throw him over the moon. so it was determined that lord glendale should be removed from westfield. at one end of the park was a large, strong fence, and branson and others came to the conclusion that glendale would be best penned, and have a ring put in his nose. yes, true; but penning a chillingham wild baby-bull is not so simple as penning a letter. there is more _present_ risk about the former operation, if not _future_. "well, it's got to be done," said branson. "yes," said archie, who was not far off, "it's got to be done." "oh, master archie, you _can't_ be in this business!" "can't i, branson? you'll see." and branson did see. he saw archie ride into the west field on scallowa, both of them looking in splendid form. men with poles and ropes and dogs followed, some of the former appearing not to relish the business by any means. however, it would probably be an easier job than they thought. the plan would be to get the baby-bull in the centre of the other cattle, manoeuvre so as to keep him there, and so pen all together.--this might have been done had archie kept away, but it so happened that his lordship was on particularly good terms with himself this morning. moreover, he had never seen a shetland pony before. what more natural, therefore, than a longing on the part of lord glendale to examine the little horse _inside_ as well as out? "go gently now, lads," cried branson. "keep the dogs back, peter, we must na' alarm them." lord glendale did not condescend to look at branson. he detached himself quietly from the herd, and began to eat up towards the spot where archie and his "duck" were standing like some pretty statue. eating up towards him is the correct expression, as everyone who knows bulls will admit; for his lordship did not want to alarm archie till he was near enough for the grand rush. then the fun would commence, and lord glendale would see what the pony was made of. while he kept eating, or rather pretending to eat, his sly red eyes were fastened on archie. now, had it been harry brown, the whitechapel boy, this ruse on the part of the baby-bull might have been successful. but archie broadbent was too old for his lordship. he pretended, however, to take no notice; but just as the bull was preparing for the rush he laughed derisively, flicked lord glendale with the whip, and started. lord glendale roared with anger and disappointment. "oh, master archie," cried branson, "you shouldn't have done that!" now the play began in earnest. away went archie on scallowa, and after him tore the bull. archie's notion was to tire the brute out, and there was some very pretty riding and manoeuvring between the two belligerents. perhaps the bull was all too young to be easily tired, for the charges he made seemed to increase in fierceness each time, but archie easily eluded him. branson drove the cattle towards the pen, and got them inside, then he and his men concentrated all their attention on the combatants. "the boy'll be killed as sure as a gun!" cried the keeper. archie did not think so, evidently; and it is certain he had his wits about him, for presently he rode near enough to shout: "ease up a hurdle from the back of the pen, and stand by to open it as i ride through." the plan was a bold one, and branson saw through it at once. down he ran with his men, and a back hurdle was loosened. "all right!" he shouted. and now down thundered scallowa and archie, the bull making a beautiful second. in a minute or less he had entered the pen, but this very moment the style of the fight changed somewhat; for had not the attention of everyone been riveted on the race, they might have seen the great newfoundland dashing over the field, and just as lord glendale was entering the pen, bounder pinned him short by the tail. the brute roared with pain and wheeled round. meanwhile archie had escaped on the pony, and the back hurdle was put up again. but how about the new phase the fight had taken? once more the boy's quick-wittedness came to the front. he leapt off the pony and back into the pen, calling aloud, "bounder! bounder! bounder!" in rushed the obedient dog, and after him came the bull; up went the hurdle, and off went archie! but, alas! for the unlucky bounder. he was tossed right over into the field a moment afterwards, bleeding frightfully from a wound in his side. to all appearance bounder was dead. in an agony of mind the boy tried to staunch the blood with his handkerchief; and when at last the poor dog lifted his head, and licked his young master's face, the relief to his feelings was so great that he burst into tears. archie was only a boy after all, though a bold and somewhat mischievous one. bounder now drank water brought from a stream in a hat. he tried to get up, but was too weak to walk, so he was lifted on to scallowa's broad back and held there, and thus they all returned to burley old farm. so ended the adventure with the baby-bull of chillingham. the ring was put in his nose next day, and i hope it did not hurt much. but old kate had bounder as a patient in the kitchen corner for three whole weeks. a day or two after the above adventure, and just as the squire was putting on his coat in the hall, who should march up to the door and knock but harry brown himself. most boys would have gone to the backdoor, but shyness was not one of harry's failings. "'ullo!" he said; for the door opened almost on the instant he knocked, "yer don't take long to hopen to a chap then." "no," said squire broadbent, smiling down on the lad; "fact is, boy, i was just going out." "going for a little houting, hey? is 'pose now you're johnnie's guv'nor?" "i think i know whom you refer to. master archie, isn't it? and you're the little london lad?" "i don't know nuffink about no harchies. p'r'aps it _is_ harchibald. but i allers calls my friends wot they looks like. he looks like johnnie. kinsevently, guv'nor, he _is_ johnnie to me. d'ye twig?" "i think i do," said squire broadbent, laughing; "and you want to see my boy?" "vot i vants is this 'ere. johnnie is a rare game un. 'scuse me, guv'nor, but johnnie's got the grit in him, and i vant to say good-bye; nuffink else, guv'nor." here harry actually condescended to point a finger at his lip by way of salute, and just at the same moment archie himself came round the corner. he looked a little put out, but his father only laughed, and he saw it was all right. these were harry's last words: "good-bye, then. you've got the grit in ye, johnnie. and if hever ye vants a friend, telegraph to 'arry brown, esq., of vitechapel, 'cos ye know, johnnie, the king may come in the cadger's vay. adoo. so long. blue-lights, and hoff we goes." chapter seven. "they're up to some black work to-night." another summer flew all too fast away at burley old farm and castle tower. the song of birds was hushed in the wild woods, even the corn-crake had ceased its ventriloquistic notes, and the plaintive wee lilt of the yellow-hammer was heard no more. the corn grew ripe on braeland and field, was cut down, gathered, stooked, and finally carted away. the swallows flew southwards, but the peewits remained in droves, and the starlings took up their abode with the sheep. squires and sturdy farmers might now have been met tramping, gun in hand, over the stubble, through the dark green turnip-fields, and over the distant moorlands, where the crimson heather still bloomed so bonnie. anon, the crisp leaves, through which the wind now swept with harsher moan, began to change to yellows, crimsons, and all the hues of sunset, and by-and-by it was hunting-time again. archie was unusually thoughtful one night while the family sat, as of yore, round the low fire in the green parlour, elsie and rupert being busy in their corner over a game of chess. "in a brown study, archie?" said his mother. "_no_, mummie; that is, yes, i was thinking--" "wonders will never cease," said rupert, without looking up. archie looked towards him, but his brother only smiled at the chessmen. the boy was well enough now to joke and laugh. best of signs and most hopeful. "i was thinking that my legs are almost too long now to go to the meet on poor scallowa. not that scallowa would mind. but don't you think, mummie dear, that a long boy on a short pony looks odd?" "a little, archie." "well, why couldn't father let me have tell to-morrow? he is not going out himself." his father was reading the newspaper, but he looked at archie over it. though only his eyes were visible, the boy knew he was smiling. "if you think you won't break your neck," he said, "you may take tell." "oh," archie replied, "i'm quite sure i won't break _my_ neck!" the squire laughed now outright. "you mean you _might_ break tell's, eh?" "well, dad, i didn't _say_ that." "_no_, archie, but you _thought_ it." "i'm afraid, dad, the emphasis fell on the wrong word." "never mind, archie, where the emphasis falls; but if you let tell fall the emphasis will fall where you won't like it." "all right, dad, i'll chance the emphasis. hurrah!" the squire and mr walton went off early next day to a distant town, and branson had orders to bring tell round to the hall door at nine sharp; which he did. the keeper was not groom, but he was the tallest man about, and archie thought he would want a leg up. archie's mother was there, and elsie, and rupert, and old kate, and little peter, to say nothing of bounder and fuss, all to see "t' young squire mount." but no one expected the sight they did see when archie appeared; for the lad's sense of fun and the ridiculous was quite irrepressible. and the young rascal had dressed himself from top to toe in his father's hunting-rig--boots, cords, red coat, hat, and all complete. well, as the boots were a mile and a half too big for him-more or less, and the breeches and coat would have held at least three archie broadbents, while the hat nearly buried his head, you may guess what sort of a guy he looked. bounder drew back and barked at him. old kate turned her old eyes cloudwards, and held up her palms. branson for politeness' sake _tried_ not to laugh; but it was too much, he went off at last like a soda-water cork, and the merriment rippled round the ring like wildfire. even poor rupert laughed till the tears came. then back into the house ran archie, and presently re-appeared dressed in his own velvet suit. but archie had not altogether cooled down yet. he had come to the conclusion that having an actual leg up, was not an impressive way of getting on to his hunter; so after kissing his mother, and asking rupert to kiss elsie for him, he bounded at one spring to branson's shoulder, and from this elevation bowed and said "good morning," then let himself neatly down to the saddle. "tally ho! yoicks!" he shouted. then clattered down the avenue, cleared the low, white gate, and speedily disappeared across the fields. archie had promised himself a rare day's run, and he was not disappointed. the fox was an old one and a wily one--and, i might add, a very gentlemanly old fox--and he led the field one of the prettiest dances that dawson, the greyest-headed huntsman in the north, ever remembered; but there was no kill. no; master reynard knew precisely where he was going, and got home all right, and went quietly to sleep as soon as the pack drew off. the consequence was that archie found himself still ten miles from home as gloaming was deepening into night. another hour he thought would find him at burley old farm. but people never know what is before them, especially hunting people. it had been observed by old kate, that after archie left in the morning, bounder seemed unusually sad. he refused his breakfast, and behaved so strangely that the superstitious dame was quite alarmed. "i'll say naething to the ladies," she told one of the servants, "but, woe is me! i fear that something awfu' is gain tae happen. i houp the young laddie winna brak his neck. he rode awa' sae daft-like. he is just his faither a' ower again." bounder really had something on his mind; for dogs do think far more than we give them credit for. well, the squire was off, and also mr walton, and now his young master had flown. what did it mean? why he would find out before he was many hours older. so ran bounder's cogitations. to think was to act with bounder; so up he jumped, and off he trotted. he followed the scent for miles; then he met an errant collie, and forgetting for a time all about his master, he went off with him. there were many things to be done, and bounder was not in a hurry. they chased cows and sheep together merely for mischief's sake; they gave chase to some rabbits, and when the bunnies took to their holes, they spent hours in a vain attempt to dig them out. the rabbits knew they could never succeed, so they quietly washed their faces and laughed at them. they tired at last, and with their heads and paws covered with mould, commenced to look for mice among the moss. they came upon a wild bees' home in a bank, and tore this up, killing the inmates bee by bee as they scrambled out wondering what the racket meant. they snapped at the bees who were returning home, and when both had their lips well stung they concluded to leave the hive alone. honey wasn't _very_ nice after all, they said. at sunset they bathed in a mill-dam and swam about till nearly dusk, because the miller's boy was obliging enough to throw in sticks for them. then the miller's boy fell in himself, and bounder took him out and laid him on the bank to drip, neither knowing nor caring that he had saved a precious life. but the miller's boy's mother appeared on the scene and took the weeping lad away, inviting the dogs to follow. she showered blessings on their heads, especially on "the big black one's," as the urchin called bounder, and she put bread and milk before them and bade them eat. the dogs required no second bidding, and just as bounder was finishing his meal the sound of hoofs was heard on the road, and out bounced bounder, the horse swerved, the rider was thrown, and the dog began to wildly lick his face. "so it's you, is it, bounder?" said archie. "a nice trick. and now i'll have to walk home a good five miles." bounder backed off and barked. why did his master go off and leave him then? that is what the dog was saying. "come on, boy," said archie. "there's no help for it; but i do feel stiff." they could go straight over the hill, and through the fields and the wood, that was one consolation. so off they set, and archie soon forgot his stiffness and warmed to his work. bounder followed close to his heels, as if he were a very old and a very wise dog indeed; and harrying bees' hives, or playing with millers' boys, could find no place in his thoughts. archie lost his way once or twice, and it grew quite dark. he was wondering what he should do when he noticed a light spring up not far away, and commenced walking towards it. it came from the little window of a rustic cottage, and the boy knew at once now in which way to steer. curiosity, however, impelled him to draw near to the window. he gave just one glance in, but very quickly drew back. sitting round a table was a gang of half a dozen poachers. he knew them as the worst and most notorious evil-doers in all the country round. they were eating and drinking, and guns stood in the corners, while the men themselves seemed ready to be off somewhere. away went archie. he wanted no nearer acquaintance with a gang like that. in his way home he had to pass bob cooper's cottage, and thought he might just look in, because bob had a whole book of new flies getting ready for him, and perhaps they were done. bob was out, and his mother was sitting reading the good book by the light of a little black oil lamp. she looked very anxious, and said she felt so. her laddie had "never said where he was going. only just went away out, and hadn't come back." it was archie's turn now to be anxious, when he thought of the gang, and the dark work they might be after. bob was not among them, but who could tell that he would not join afterwards? he bade the widow "good-night," and went slowly homewards thinking. he found everyone in a state of extreme anxiety. hours ago tell had galloped to his stable door, and if there be anything more calculated to raise alarm than another, it is the arrival at his master's place of a riderless horse. but archie's appearance, alive and intact, dispelled the cloud, and dinner was soon announced. "oh, by the way," said archie's tutor, as they were going towards the dining-room, "your old friend bob cooper has been here, and wants to see you! i think he is in the kitchen now." away rushed archie, and sure enough there was bob eating supper in old kate's private room. he got up as archie's entered, and looked shy, as people of his class do at times. archie was delighted. "i brought the flies, and some new sorts that i think will do for the kelpie burn," he said. "well, i'm going to dine, bob; you do the same. don't go till i see you. how long have you been here?" "two hours, anyhow." when archie returned he invited bob to the room in the castle tower. kate must come too, and branson with his fiddle. away went archie and his rough friend, and were just finishing a long debate about flies and fishing when kate and peter, and branson and bounder, came up the turret stairs and entered the room. archie then told them all of what he had seen that night at the cottage. "mark my words for it," said bob, shaking his head, "they're up to some black work to-night." "you mustn't go yet awhile, bob," archie said. "we'll have some fun, and you're as well where you are." chapter eight. the widow's lonely hut. bob cooper bade archie and branson good-bye that night at the bend of the road, some half mile from his own home, and trudged sturdily on in the starlight. there was sufficient light "to see men as trees walking." "my mother'll think i'm out in th' woods," bob said to himself. "well, she'll be glad when she knows she's wrong this time." once or twice he started, and looked cautiously, half-fearfully, round him; for he felt certain he saw dark shadows in the field close by, and heard the stealthy tread of footsteps. he grasped the stout stick he carried all the firmer, for the poacher had made enemies of late by separating himself from a well-known gang of his old associates--men who, like the robbers in the ancient ballad- "slept all day and waked all night, and kept the country round in fright." on he went; and the strange, uncomfortable feeling at his heart was dispelled as, on rounding a corner of the road, he saw the light glinting cheerfully from his mother's cottage. "poor old creature," he murmured half aloud, "many a sore heart i've given her. but i'll be a better boy now. i'll--" "now, lads," shouted a voice, "have at him!" "back!" cried bob cooper, brandishing his cudgel. "back, or it'll be worse for you!" the dark shadows made a rush. bob struck out with all his force, and one after another fell beneath his arm. but a blow from behind disabled him at last, and down he went, just as his distracted mother came rushing, lantern in hand, from her hut. there was the sharp click of the handcuffs, and bob cooper was a prisoner. the lantern-light fell on the uniforms of policemen. "what is it? oh, what has my laddie been doin'?" "murder, missus, or something very like it! there has been dark doin's in th' hill to-night!" bob grasped the nearest policeman by the arm with his manacled hands. "when--when did ye say it had happened?" "you know too well, lad. not two hours ago. don't sham innocence; it sits but ill on a face like yours." "mother," cried bob bewilderingly, "i know nothing of it! i'm innocent!" but his mother heard not his words. she had fainted, and with rough kindness was carried into the hut and laid upon the bed. when she revived some what they left her. it was a long, dismal ride the unhappy man had that night; and indeed it was well on in the morning before the party with their prisoner reached the town of b--. bob's appearance before a magistrate was followed almost instantly by his dismissal to the cells again. the magistrate knew him. the police had caught him "red-handed," so they said, and had only succeeded in making him prisoner "after a fierce resistance." "remanded for a week," without being allowed to say one word in his own defence. the policeman's hint to bob's mother about "dark doin's in th' hill" was founded on fearful facts. a keeper had been killed after a terrible _melee_ with the gang of poachers, and several men had been severely wounded on both sides. the snow-storm that came on early on the morning after poor bob cooper's capture was one of the severest ever remembered in northumbria. the frost was hard too all day long. the snow fell incessantly, and lay in drifts like cliffs, fully seven feet high, across the roads. the wind blew high, sweeping the powdery snow hither and thither in gusts. it felt for all the world like going into a cold shower-bath to put one's head even beyond the threshold of the door. nor did the storm abate even at nightfall; but next day the wind died down, and the face of the sky became clear, only along the southern horizon the white clouds were still massed like hills and cliffs. it was not until the afternoon that news reached burley old farm of the fight in the woods and death of the keeper. it was a sturdy old postman who had brought the tidings. he had fought his way through the snow with the letters, and his account of the battle had well-nigh caused old kate to swoon away. when mary, the little parlour maid, carried the mail in to her master she did not hesitate to relate what she had heard. squire broadbent himself with archie repaired to the kitchen, and found the postman surrounded by the startled servants, who were drinking in every word he said. "one man killed, you say, allan?" "ay, sir, killed dead enough. and it's a providence they caught the murderer. took him up, sir, just as he was a-goin' into his mother's house, as cool as a frosted turnip, sir." "well, allan, that is satisfactory. and what is his name?" "bob cooper, sir, known all over the--" "bob cooper!" cried archie aghast. "why, father, he was in our room in the turret at the time." "so he was," said the squire. "taken on suspicion i suppose. but this must be seen to at once. bad as we know bob to have been, there is evidence enough that he has reformed of late. at all events, he shall not remain an hour in gaol on such a charge longer than we can help." night came on very soon that evening. the clouds banked up again, the snow began to fall, and the wind moaned round the old house and castle in a way that made one feel cold to the marrow even to listen to. morning broke slowly at last, and archie was early astir. tell, with the shetland pony and a huge great hunter, were brought to the door, and shortly after breakfast the party started for b--. branson bestrode the big hunter--he took the lead--and after him came the squire on tell, and archie on scallowa. this daft little horse was in fine form this morning, having been in stall for several days. he kept up well with the hunters, though there were times that both he and his rider were all but buried in the gigantic wreaths that lay across the road. luckily the wind was not high, else no living thing could long have faced that storm. the cottage in which widow cooper had lived ever since the death of her husband was a very primitive and a very poor one. it consisted only of two rooms, what are called in scotland "a butt and a ben." bob had been only a little barefooted boy when his father died, and probably hardly missed him. he had been sent regularly to school before then, but not since, for his mother had been unable to give him further education. all their support was the morsel of garden, a pig or two, and the fowls, coupled with whatever the widow could make by knitting ribbed stockings for the farmer folks around. bob grew up wild, just as the birds and beasts of the hills and woods do. while, however, he was still a little mite of a chap, the keepers even seldom molested him. it was only natural, they thought, for a boy to act the part of a squirrel or polecat, and to be acquainted with every bird's nest and rabbit's burrow within a radius of miles. when he grew a little older and a trifle bigger they began to warn him off, and when one day he was met marching away with a cap full of pheasant's eggs, he received as severe a drubbing as ever a lad got at the hands of a gamekeeper. bob had grown worse instead of better after this. the keepers became his sworn enemies, and there was a spice of danger and adventure in vexing and outwitting them. unfortunately, in spite of all his mother said to the contrary, bob was firmly impressed with the notion that game of every kind, whether fur or feather, belonged as much to him as to the gentry who tried to preserve them. the fresh air was free; nobody dared to claim the sunshine. then why the wild birds, and the hares and rabbits? evil company corrupts good manners. that is what his copy-book used to tell him. but bob soon learned to laugh at that, and it is no wonder that as he reached manhood his doings and daring as a poacher became noted far and near. he was beyond the control of his mother. she could only advise him, read to him, pray for him; but i fear in vain. only be it known that bob cooper really loved this mother of his, anomalous though it may seem. well, the keepers had been very harsh with him, and the gentry were harsh with him, and eke the law itself. law indeed! why bob was all but an outlaw, so intense was his hatred to, and so great his defiance of the powers that be. it was strange that what force could not effect, a few soft words from branson, and archie's gift of the hare he had shot on his birthday, brought about. bob cooper's heart could not have been wholly adamantine, therefore he began to believe that after all a gamekeeper might be a good fellow, and that there might even exist gentlefolks whose chief delight was not the oppression of the poor. he began after that to seek for honest work; but, alas! people looked askance at him, and he found that the path of virtue was one not easily regained when once deviated from. his quondam enemy, however, branson, spoke many a good word for him, and bob was getting on, much to his mother's delight and thankfulness, when the final and crashing blow fell. poor old widow cooper! for years and years she had but two comforts in this world; one was her bible, and the other--do not smile when i tell you--was her pipie. oh! you know, the poor have not much to make them happy and to cheer their loneliness, so why begrudge the widow her morsel of tobacco? in the former she learned to look forward to another and a better world, far beyond that bit of blue sky she could see at the top of her chimney on a summer's night--a world where everything would be bright and joyful, where there would be no vexatious rheumatism, no age, and neither cold nor care. from the latter she drew sweet forgetfulness of present trouble, and happy recollections of bygone years. sitting there by the hearth all alone--her son perhaps away on the hill--her thoughts used oftentimes to run away with her. once more she would be young, once again her hair was a bonnie brown, her form little and graceful, roses mantling in her cheeks, soft light in her eyes. and she is wandering through the tasselled broom with david by her side. "david! heigho!" she would sigh as she shook the ashes from her pipie. "poor david! it seems a long, long time since he left me for the better land," and the sunlight would stream down the big, open chimney and fall upon her skinny hands--fall upon the elfin-like locks that escaped from beneath her cap--fall, too, on the glittering pages of the book on her lap like a promise of better things to come. before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son, she was startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced at her door, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for the softening of her boy's heart. then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed--fell around her like a house of cards. it was a cruel, a terrible blow. the policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough sort of kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more about her. how she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better imagined. she had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from fevered dreams it was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut. the window and door were snowed up, and only a faint pale light shimmered in through the chimney, falling on the fireless hearth--a dismal sight. many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. the cold grew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poor widow's weakened frame. her dreams grew more bright and happy though, as her body became numbed and insensible. it was as though the spirit were rejoicing in its coming freedom. but dreams left her at last. then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the old clock that hung against the wall. the squire speedily effected bob cooper's freedom, and he felt he had really done a good thing. "now, robert," he told him, "you have had a sad experience. let it be a lesson to you. i'll give you a chance. come to burley, and branson will find you honest work as long as you like to do it." "lord love you, sir!" cried bob. "there are few gentry like you." "i don't know so much about that, robert. you are not acquainted with all the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. but now, branson, how are we all to get home?" "oh, i know!" said archie. "scallowa can easily bear branson's weight, and i will ride the big hunter along with bob." so this was arranged. it was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow's lonesome hut. the squire with branson had left archie and bob, and cut across the frozen moor by themselves. "how glad my mother will be!" said bob. and now they came in sight of the cottage, and bob rubbed his eyes and looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs of life was about. the icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut was entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked more like the entrance to some cave in greenland north. bad enough this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met them as they pushed open the door! it had blown down the wide chimney, covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, and even o'er-canopied the bed itself. and the widow, the mother, lay underneath. no, not dead; she breathed, at least. when the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently down her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short time was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognised her son and archie. "oh, mother, mother!" cried bob, the tears streaming over his sun-browned face, "the maker'll never forgive me for all the ill i've done ye." "hush! bobbie, hush! what, lad, the maker no' forgive ye! eh, ye little know the grip o' his goodness! but you're here, you're innocent. thank him for that." "ye'll soon get better, mother, and i'll be so good. the squire is to give me work too." "it's o'er late for me," she said. "i'd like to live to see it, but his will be done." archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more mounted on scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the little cottage. the moon had risen now, and the night was starry and fine. he tied scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced. he found bob cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro. "she--just blessed me and wore away." that was all he said or could say. and what words of comfort could archie speak? none. he sat silently beside him all that livelong night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. but the poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he stretched out one of his great hands and patted archie's knee as one would pet a dog. a week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. archie went slowly back with bob towards the cottage. on their way thither, the poacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and with his hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick. "we'll say good-bye here, master archie." "what! you are not going back with me to burley old farm?" bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the contents. "do you know them, master archie?" "yes, your poor mother's glasses." "ay, lad, and as long as i live i'll keep them. and till my dying day, archie, i'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher bob. no, i'm not goin' back to burley, and i'm not going to the cottage again. i'm going away. where? i couldn't say. here, quick, shake hands, friend. let it be over. good-bye." "good-bye." and away went bob. he stopped when a little way off, and turned as if he had forgotten something. "archie!" he cried. "yes, bob." "take care of my mother's cat." next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood. chapter nine. the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely. one year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it may bring many changes. it did to burley old farm, and some of them were sad enough, though some were glad. a glad change took place for instance in the early spring, after bob's departure; for rupert appeared to wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and when uncle ramsay, in a letter received one morning, announced his intention of coming from london, and making quite a long stay at burley, rupert declared his intention of mounting scallowa, and riding over to the station to meet him. and the boy was as good as his word. in order that they might be both cavaliers together, uncle ramsay hired a horse at d--, and the two rode joyfully home side by side. his mother did not like to see that carmine flush on rupert's cheeks, however, nor the extra dark sparkle in his eyes when he entered the parlour to announce his uncle's arrival, but she said nothing. uncle ramsay broadbent was a brother of the squire, and, though considerably older, a good deal like him in all his ways. there was the same dash and go in him, and the same smiling front, unlikely to be dismayed by any amount of misfortune. "there are a deal of ups and downs in the ocean of life," archie heard him say one day; "we're on the top of a big wave one hour, and in the trough of the sea next, so we must take things as they come." yes, this uncle was a seafarer; the skipper of a sturdy merchantman that he had sailed in for ten long years. he did not care to be called captain by anyone. he was a master mariner, and had an opinion, which he often expressed, that plain "mr" was a gentleman's prefix. "i shan't go back to sea again," he said next morning at breakfast. "fact is, brother, my owners think i'm getting too old. and maybe they're right. i've had a fair innings, and it is only fair to give the young ones a chance." uncle ramsay seemed to give new life and soul to the old place. he settled completely down to the burley style of life long before the summer was half over. he joined the servants in the fields, and worked with them as did the squire, walton, and archie. and though more merriment went on in consequence, there was nevertheless more work done. he took an interest in all the boys' "fads," spent hours with them in their workshop, and made one in every game that was played on the grass. he was dreadfully awkward at cricket and tennis however; for such games as these are but little practised by sailors. only he was right willing to learn. there was a youthfulness and breeziness about uncle ramsay's every action, that few save seafarers possess when hair is turning white. of course, the skipper spent many a jolly hour up in the room of the castle tower, and he did not object either to the presence of old kate in the chair. he listened like a boy when she told her weird stories; and he listened more like a baby than anything else when branson played his fiddle. then he himself would spin them a yarn, and hold them all enthralled, especially big-eyed elsie, with the sterling reality and graphicness of the narrative. when uncle ramsay spoke you could see the waves in motion, hear the scream of the birds around the stern, or the wind roaring through the rigging. he spoke as he thought; he painted from life. well, the arrival of uncle ramsay and rupert's getting strong were two of the pleasant changes that took place at burley in this eventful year. alas! i have to chronicle the sad ones also. yet why sigh? to use uncle ramsay's own words, "you never know what a ship is made of until stormy seas are around you." first then came a bad harvest--a terribly bad harvest. it was not that the crops themselves were so very light, but the weather was cold and wet; the grain took long to ripen. the task of cutting it down was unfortunately an easy one, but the getting it stored was almost an impossibility. at the very time when it was ripe, and after a single fiercely hot day, a thunder-storm came on, and with it such hail as the oldest inhabitant in the parish could not remember having seen equalled. this resulted in the total loss of far more of the precious seed, than would have sown all the land of burley twice over. the wet continued. it rained and rained every day, and when it rained it poured. the squire had heard of a yankee invention for drying wheat under cover, and rashly set about a rude but most expensive imitation thereof. he first mentioned the matter to uncle ramsay at the breakfast-table. the squire seemed in excellent spirits that morning. he was walking briskly up and down the room rubbing his hands, as if in deep but pleasant thought, when his brother came quietly in. "hullo! you lazy old sea-dog. why you'd lie in your bed till the sun burned a hole in the blanket. now just look at me." "i'm just looking at you." "well, i've been up for hours. i'm as hungry as a caithness highlander. and i've got an idea." "i thought there was something in the wind." "guess." "guess, indeed! goodness forbid i should try. but i say, brother," continued uncle ramsay, laughing, "couldn't you manage to fall asleep somewhere out of doors, like the man in the story, and wake up and find yourself a king? my stars, wouldn't we have reforms as long as your reign lasted! the breakfast, mary? ah, that's the style!" "you won't be serious and listen, i suppose, ramsay." "oh, yes; i will." "well, the americans--" "the americans again; but go on." "the americans, in some parts where i've been, wouldn't lose a straw in a bad season. it is all done by means of great fanners and heated air, you know. now, i'm going to show these honest northumbrian farmers a thing or two. i--" "i say, brother, hadn't you better trust to providence, and wait for a fair wind?" "now, ramsay, that's where you and i differ. you're a slow moses. i want to move ahead a trifle in front of the times. i've been looking all over the dictionary of my daily life, and i can't find such a word as 'wait' in it." "let me give you some of this steak, brother." "my plan of operations, ramsay, is--" "why," said mrs broadbent, "you haven't eaten anything yet!" "i thought," said uncle ramsay, "you were as hungry as a tipperary highlander, or some such animal." "my plan, ramsay, is--" etc, etc. the two "etc, etc's" in the last line stand for all the rest of the honest squire's speech, which, as his sailor brother said, was as long as the logline. but for all his hunger he made but a poor breakfast, and immediately after he jumped up and hurried away to the barn-yards. it was a busy time for the next two weeks at burley old farm, but, to the squire's credit be it said, he was pretty successful with his strange operation of drying wheat independent of the sun. his ricks were built, and he was happy--happy as long as he thought nothing about the expense. but he did take an hour or two one evening to run through accounts, as he called it. uncle ramsay was with him. "why, brother," said ramsay, looking very serious now indeed, "you are terribly down to leeward--awfully out of pocket!" "ah! never mind, ramsay. one can't keep ahead of the times now-a-days, you know, without spending a little." "spending a little! where are your other books? mr walton and i will have a look through them to-night, if you don't mind." "not a bit, brother, not a bit. we're going to give a dance to-morrow night to the servants, so if you like to bother with the book-work i'll attend to the terpsichorean kick up." mr walton and uncle ramsay had a snack in the office that evening instead of coming up to supper, and when mrs broadbent looked in to say good-night she found them both quiet and hard at work. "i say, walton," said uncle ramsay some time after, "this is serious. draw near the fire and let us have a talk." "it is sad as well as serious," said walton. "had you any idea of it?" "not the slightest. in fact i'm to blame, i think, for not seeing to the books before. but the squire--" walton hesitated. "i know my brother well," said ramsay. "as good a fellow as ever lived, but as headstrong as a nor'-easter. and now he has been spending money on machinery to the tune of some ten thousand pounds. he has been growing crop after crop of wheat as if he lived on the prairies and the land was new; and he has really been putting as much down in seed, labour, and fashionable manures as he has taken off." "yet," said walton, "he is no fool." "no, not he; he is clever, too much so. but heaven send his pride, honest though it be, does not result in a fall." the two sat till long past twelve talking and planning, then they opened the casement and walked out on to the lawn. it was a lovely autumn night. the broad, round moon was high in the heavens, fighting its way through a sky of curdling clouds which greatly detracted from its radiance. "look, walton," said the sailor, "to windward; yonder it is all blue sky, by-and-by it will be a bright and lovely night." "by-and-by. yes," sighed walton. "but see! what is that down yonder rising white over the trees? smoke! why, walton, the barn-yards are all on fire!" almost at the same moment branson rushed upon the scene. "glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "wake the squire. the servants are all astir. we must save the beasts, come of everything else what will." the farm-steading of burley was built in the usual square formation round a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so well filled that beasts might lie out all night. to the north were the stacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the wind blew from that direction. it was by no means high; but fire makes its own wind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had all caught. from the very first these latter had been enveloped in dense rolling clouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling snowflakes, so that to save any of the live stock seemed almost an impossibility. with all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kind possible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the squire had not established a fire brigade on his farm. but fire was an eventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and now there was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration. as soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save the live stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little could be done save taking the doors off their hinges. who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by the humble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out, and away to a place of safety? in some instances, when they had nearly succeeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out to the straw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit of their fellows. thus several servants ran terrible risks to their lives. they were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatly owing to archie's presence of mind. he had dashed madly into the stable for his pet scallowa. the shetland pony had never looked more wild before. he sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. all at once it occurred to archie to mount and ride him out. no sooner had he got on his back than he came forth like a lamb. he took him to a field and let him free, and as he was hurrying back he met little peter. "come, peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses." the two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was bridled and mounted by little peter and ridden out. but a fearful hitch occurred. tell, the squire's hunter, backed against the stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning archie, who found it impossible to open the door. the roof had already caught. the horses were screaming in terror, and rearing wildly against the walls. peter rushed away to seek assistance. he met branson, and in a word or two told him what had happened. luckily axes were at hand, and sturdy volunteers speedily smashed the door in, and poor archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes and bleeding face, was dragged through. the scene after this must be left to imagination. but the squire reverently and fervently thanked god when the shrieks of those fire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be heard save the crackle and roar of the flames. the fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. the moonlight itself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm cast shadows against it. next morning stackyards, barn-yards, farm-steading, machinery-house, and everything pertaining to burley old farm, presented but a smouldering, blackened heap of ruins. squire broadbent entertained his poor, frightened people to an early breakfast in the servants' hall, and the most cheerful face there was that of the squire. here is his little speech: "my good folks, sit down and eat; and let us be thankful we're all here, and that no human lives are lost. my good kinswoman kate here will tell you that there never yet was an ill but there might be a worse. let us pray the worse may never come." chapter ten. "after all, it doesn't take much to make a man happy." for weeks to come neither uncle ramsay nor walton had the heart to add another sorrow to the squire's cup of misery. they knew that the fire had but brought on a little sooner a catastrophe which was already fulling; they knew that squire broadbent was virtually a ruined man. all the machinery had been rendered useless; the most of the cattle were dead; the stacks were gone; and yet, strange to say, the squire hoped on. those horses and cattle which had been saved were housed now in rudely-built sheds, among the fire-blackened ruins of their former wholesome stables and byres. one day branson, who had always been a confidential servant, sent mary in to say he wished to speak to the squire. his master came out at once. "nothing else, branson," he said. "you carry a long face, man." "the wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. will you walk down with me to the cattle-sheds?" arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his stall before his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched nose. his hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then uneasily round towards his loin, as if in pain. there was a visible swelling on the rump. branson placed a hand on it, and the squire could hear it "bog" and crackle. "what is that, branson? has he been hurt?" "no, sir, worse. i'll show you." he took out his sharp hunting-knife. "it won't hurt the poor beast," he said. then he cut deep into the swelling. the animal never moved. no blood followed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and filled with air-bubbles. "the quarter-ill," said the cowman, who stood mournfully by. that ox was dead in a few hours. another died next day, two the next, and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month there was hardly an animal alive about the place except the horses. it was time now the squire should know all, and he did. he looked a chastened man when he came out from that interview with his brother and walton. but he put a right cheery face on matters when he told his wife. "we'll have to retrench," he said. "it'll be a struggle for a time, but we'll get over it right enough." present money, however, was wanted, and raised it must be. and now came the hardest blow the squire had yet received. it was a staggering one, though he met it boldly. there was then at burley old mansion a long picture gallery. it was a room in an upper story, and extended the whole length of the house--a hall in fact, and one that more than one squire broadbent had entertained his friends right royally in. from the walls not only did portraits of ancestors bold and gay, smile or frown down, but there hung there also many a splendid landscape and seascape by old masters. most of the latter had to be sold, and the gallery was closed, for the simple reason that squire broadbent, courageous though he was, could not look upon its bare and desecrated walls without a feeling of sorrow. pictures even from the drawing-room had to go also, and that room too was closed. but the breakfast-room, which opened to the lawn and rose gardens, where the wild birds sang so sweetly in summer, was left intact; so was the dining-room, and that cosy, wee green parlour in which the family delighted to assemble around the fire in the winter's evenings. squire broadbent had been always a favourite in the county--somewhat of an upstart and iconoclast though he was--so the sympathy he received was universal. iconoclast? yes, he had delighted in shivering the humble idols of others, and now his own were cast down. nobody, however, deserted him. farmers and squires might have said among themselves that they always knew broadbent was "going the pace," and that his new-fangled american notions were poorly suited to england, but in his presence they did all they could to cheer him. when the ploughing time came round they gave him what is called in the far north "a love-darg." men with teams of horses came from every farm for miles around and tilled his ground. they had luncheon in a marquee, but they would not hear of stopping to dinner. they were indeed thoughtful and kind. the parson of the parish and the doctor were particular friends of the squire. they often dropped in of an evening to talk of old times with the family by the fireside. "i'm right glad," the doctor said one evening, "to see that you don't lose heart, squire." "bless me, sir, why should i? to be sure we're poor now, but god has left us a deal of comfort, doctor, and, after all, _it doesn't take much to make a man happy_." -----------------------------------------------------------------------boys will be boys. yes, we all know that. but there comes a time in the life of every right-thinking lad when another truth strikes home to him, that boys will be men. i rather think that the sooner a boy becomes cognisant of this fact the better. life is not all a dream; it must sooner or later become a stern reality. life is not all pleasant parade and show, like a field-day at aldershot; no, for sooner or later pomp and panoply have to be exchanged for camp-life and action, and bright uniforms are either rolled in blood and dust, or come triumphant, though tarnished, from the field of glory. life is not all plain sailing over sunlit seas, for by-and-by the clouds bank up, storms come on, and the good ship has to do battle with wind and wave. but who would have it otherwise? no one would who possesses the slightest ray of honest ambition, or a single spark of that pride of self which we need not blush to own. one day, about the beginning of autumn, rupert and archie, and their sister elsie, were in the room in the tower. they sat together in a turret chamber, elsie gazing dreamily from the window at the beautiful scenery spread out beneath. the woods and wilds, the rolling hills, the silvery stream, the half-ripe grain moving in the wind, as waves at sea move, and the silvery sunshine over all. she was in a kind of a daydream, her fingers listlessly touching a chord on the harp now and then. a pretty picture she looked, too, with her bonnie brown hair, and her bonnie blue eyes, and thorough english face, thorough english beauty. perhaps archie had been thinking something of this sort as he sat there looking at her, while rupert half-lay in the rocking-chair, which his brother had made for him, engrossed as usual in a book. whether archie did think thus or not, certain it is that presently he drew his chair close to his sister's, and laying one arm fondly on her shoulder. "what is sissie looking at?" he asked. "oh, archie," she replied, "i don't think i've been looking at anything; but i've been seeing everything and wishing!" "wishing, elsie? well, you don't look merry. what were you wishing?" "i was wishing the old days were back again, when--when father was rich; before the awful fire came, and the plague, and everything. it has made us all old, i think. wouldn't you like father was rich again?" "i am not certain; but wishes are not horses, you know." "_no_," said elsie; "only if it could even be always like this, and if you and rupert and i could be always as we are now. i think that, poor though we are, everything just now is so pretty and so pleasant. but you are going away to the university, and the place won't be the same. i shall get older faster than ever then." "well, elsie," said archie, laughing, "i am so old that i am going to make my will." rupert put down his book with a quiet smile. "what are you going to leave me, old man? scallowa?" "no, rupert, you're too long in the legs for scallowa, you have no idea what a bodkin of a boy you are growing. scallowa i will and bequeath to my pretty sister here, and i'll buy her a side-saddle, and two pennyworth of carrot seed. elsie will also have bounder, and you, rupert, shall have fuss." "anything else for me?" "don't be greedy. but i'll tell you. you shall have my tool-house, and all my tools, and my gun besides. well, this room is to be sister's own, and she shall also have my fishing-rod, and the book of flies that poor bob cooper made for me. oh, don't despise them, they are all wonders!" "well really, archie," said elsie, "you talk as earnestly as if you actually were going to die." "who said i was going to die? no, i don't mean to die till i've done much more mischief." "hush! archie." "well, i'm hushed." "why do you want to make your will?" "oh, it isn't wanting to make my will! i am--i've done it. and the 'why' is this, i'm going away." "to oxford?" "no, elsie, not to oxford. i've got quite enough latin and greek out of walton to last me all my life. i couldn't be a doctor; besides father is hardly rich enough to make me one at present. i couldn't be a doctor, and i'm not good enough to be a parson." "archie, how you talk." there were tears in elsie's eyes now. "i can't help it. i'm going away to enter life in a new land. uncle ramsay has told me all about australia. he says the old country is used up, and fortunes can be made in a few years on the other side of the globe." there was silence in the turret for long minutes; the whispering of the wind in the elm trees beneath could be heard, the murmuring of the river, and far away in the woods the cawing of rooks. "don't you cry, elsie," said archie. "i've been thinking about all this for some time, and my mind is made up. i'm going, elsie, and i know it is for the best. you don't imagine for a single moment, do you, that i'll forget the dear old times, and you all? no, no, no. i'll think about you every night, and all day long, and i'll come back rich. you don't think that i _won't_ make my fortune, do you? because i mean to, and will. so there. don't cry, elsie." "_i'm_ not going to cry, archie," said rupert. "right, rupert, you're a brick, as branson says." "i'm not old enough," continued rupert, "to give you my blessing, though i suppose kate would give you hers; but we'll all pray for you." "well," said archie thoughtfully, "that will help some." "why, you silly boy, it will help a lot." "i wish i were as good as you, rupert. but i'm just going to try hard to do my best, and i feel certain i'll be all right." "you know, roup, how well i can play cricket, and how i often easily bowl father out. well, that is because i've just tried my very hardest to become a good player; and i'm going to try my very hardest again in another way. oh, i shall win! i'm cocksure i shall. come, elsie, dry your eyes. here's my handkie. don't be a little old wife." "you won't get killed, or anything, archie?" "no; i won't get killed, or eaten either." "they do tell me," said elsie--"that is, old kate told me--that the streets in australia are all paved with gold, and that the roofs of the houses are all solid silver." "well, i don't think she is quite right," said archie, laughing. "anyhow, uncle says there is a fortune to be made, and i'm going to make it. that's all." -----------------------------------------------------------------------archie went straight away down from that boy's room feeling every inch a man, and had an interview with his father and uncle. it is needless to relate what took place there, or to report the conversation which the older folks had that evening in the little green parlour. both father and uncle looked upon archie's request as something only natural. for both these men, singular to say, had been boys once themselves; and, in the squire's own words, archie was a son to be proud of. "we can't keep the lad always with us, mother," said squire broadbent; "and the wide world is the best of schools. i feel certain that, go where he will, he won't lose heart. if he does, i should be ashamed to own him as a son. so there! my only regret is, ramsay, that i cannot send the lad away with a better lined pocket." "my dear silly old brother, he will be better as he is. and i'm really not sure that he would not be better still if he went away, as many have gone before him, with only a stick and a bundle over his shoulder. you have a deal too much of the broadbent pride; and archie had better leave that all behind at home, or be careful to conceal it when he gets to the land of his adoption." the following is a brief list of archie's stock-in-trade when he sailed away in the good ship _dugong_ to begin the world alone: 1. a good stock of clothes. 2. a good stock of assurance. 3. plenty of hope. 4. good health and abundance of strength. 5. a little nest egg at an australian bank to keep him partly independent till he should be able to establish a footing. 6. letters of introduction, blessings, and a little pocket bible. his uncle chose his ship, and sent him away round the cape in a good old-fashioned sailing vessel. and his uncle went to glasgow to see him off, his last words being, "keep up your heart, boy, whatever happens; and keep calm in every difficulty. good-bye." away sailed the ship, and away went archie to see the cities that are paved with gold, and whose houses have roofs of solid silver. chapter eleven. book ii--at the golden gates. "spoken like his father's son." "cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow, courage, true hearts shall bear us on our way; hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow, let us forget the dangers of to-day." that dear old song! how many a time and oft it has helped to raise the drooping spirits of emigrants sailing away from these loved islands, never again to return! the melody itself too is such a manly one. inez dear, bring my fiddle. not a bit of bravado in that ringing air, bold and all though it is. yet every line tells of british ardour and determination--ardour that no thoughts of home or love can cool, determination that no danger can daunt. "cheer, boys, cheer." the last rays of the setting sun were lighting up the cornish cliffs, on which so few in that good ship would ever again set eyes, when those around the forecastle-head took up the song. "cheer, boys, cheer." listen! those on the quarterdeck join in the chorus, sinking in song all difference of class and rank. and they join, too, in that rattling "three times three" that bids farewell to england. then the crimson clouds high up in the west change to purple and brown, the sea grows grey, and the distant shore becomes slaty blue. soon the stars peep out, and the passengers cease to tramp about, and find their way below to the cosily-lighted saloon. archie is sitting on a sofa quite apart from all the others. the song is still ringing in his head, and, if the whole truth must be told, he feels just a trifle down-hearted. he cannot quite account for this, though he tries to, and his thoughts are upon the whole somewhat rambling. they would no doubt be quite connected if it were not for the distracting novelty of all his present surroundings, which are as utterly different from anything he has hitherto become acquainted with as if he had suddenly been transported to another planet. no, he cannot account for being dull. perhaps the motion of the ship has something to do with it, though this is not a very romantic way of putting it. archie has plenty of moral courage; and as the ship encountered head winds, and made a long and most difficult passage down through the irish sea, he braced himself to get over his morsel of _mal de mer_, and has succeeded. he is quite cross with himself for permitting his mind to be tinged with melancholy. that song ought to have set him up. "why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?" oh, archie is not weeping; catch him doing anything so girlish and peevish! he would not cry in his cabin where he could do so without being seen, and it is not likely he would permit moisture to appear in his eyes in the saloon here. yet his home never did seem to him so delightful, so cosy, so happy, as the thoughts of it do now. why had he not loved it even more than he did when it was yet all around him? the dear little green parlour, his gentle lady mother that used to knit so quietly by the fire in the winter's evenings, listening with pleasure to his father's daring schemes and hopeful plans. his bonnie sister, elsie, so proud of him--archie; rupert, with his pale, classical face and gentle smile; matter-of-fact walton; jolly old uncle ramsay. they all rose up before his mind's eye as they had been; nay but as they might be even at that very moment. and the room in the tower, the evenings spent there in summer when daylight was fading over the hills and woods, and the rooks flying wearily home to their nests in the swaying elm trees; or in winter when the fire burned brightly on the hearth, and weird old kate sat in her high-backed chair, telling her strange old-world stories, with branson, wide-eyed, fiddle in hand, on a seat near her, and bounder--poor bounder--on the bear's skin. then the big kitchen, or servants' hall--the servants that all loved "master archie" so dearly, and laughed and enjoyed every prank he used to play. dear old burley! should he ever see it again? a week has not passed since he left it, and yet it seems and feels a lifetime. he was young a week ago; now he is old, very old--nearly a man. nearly? well, nearly, in years; in thoughts, and feelings, and circumstances even--_quite_ a man. but then he should not feel down-hearted for this simple reason; he had left home under such bright auspices. many boys run away to sea. the difference between their lot and his is indeed a wide one. yes, that must be very sad. no home life to look back upon, no friends to think of or love, no pleasant present, no hopeful future. then archie, instead of letting his thoughts dwell any longer on the past, began at once to bridge over for himself the long period of time that must elapse ere he should return to burley old farm. of course there would be changes. he dared say walton would be away; but elsie and rupert would still be there, and his father and mother, looking perhaps a little older, but still as happy. and the burned farm-steading would be restored, or if it were not, it soon should be after he came back; for he would be rich, rolling in wealth in fact, if half the stories he had heard of australia were true, even allowing that _all_ the streets were not paved with gold, and _all_ the houses not roofed with sparkling silver. so engrossed was he with these pleasant thoughts, that he had not observed the advent of a passenger who had entered the saloon, and sat quietly down on a camp-stool near him. a man of about forty, dressed in a rough pilot suit of clothes, with a rosy weather-beaten but pleasant face, and a few grey hairs in his short black beard. he was looking at archie intently when their eyes met, and the boy felt somewhat abashed. the passenger, however, did not remove his glance instantly; he spoke instead. "you've never been to sea before, have you?" "no, sir; never been off the land till a week ago." "going to seek your fortune?" "yes; i'm going to _make_ my fortune." "bravo! i hope you will." "what's to hinder me?" "nothing; oh, nothing much! everybody doesn't though. but you seem to have a bit of go in you." "are you going to make yours?" said archie. the stranger laughed. "no," he replied. "unluckily, perhaps, mine was made for me. i've been out before too, and i'm going again to see things." "you're going in quest of adventure?" "i suppose that is really it. that is how the story-books put it, anyhow. but i don't expect to meet with adventures like sinbad the sailor, you know; and i don't think i would like to have a little old man of the sea with his little old legs round my neck." "australia is a very wonderful place, isn't it?" "yes; wonderfully wonderful. everything is upside-down there, you know. to begin with, the people walk with their heads downwards. some of the trees are as tall as the moon, and at certain seasons of the year the bark comes tumbling off them like rolls of shoeleather. others are shaped like bottles, others again have heads of waving grass, and others have ferns for tops. there are trees, too, that drop all their leaves to give the flowers a chance; and these are so brilliantly red, and so numerous, that the forest where they grow looks all on fire. well, many of the animals walk or jump on two legs, instead of running on four. does that interest you?" "yes. tell me something more about birds." "well, ducks are everywhere in australia, and many kinds are as big as geese. they seem to thrive. and ages ago, it is said by the natives, the moles in australia got tired of living in the dark, and held a meeting above-ground, and determined to live a different mode of life. so they grew longer claws, and short, broad, flat tails, and bills like ducks, and took to the water, and have been happy ever since. "well, there are black swans in abundance; and though it is two or three years since i was out last, i cannot forget a beautiful bird, something betwixt a pheasant and peacock, and the cock's tail is his especial delight. it is something really to be proud of, and at a distance looks like a beautiful lyre, strings and all. the cockatoos swarm around the trees, and scream and laugh at the lyre-bird giving himself airs, but i daresay this is all envy. the hen bird is not a beauty, but her chief delight is to watch the antics and attitudes of her lord and master as he struts about making love and fun to her time about, at one moment singing a kind of low, sweet song, at another mocking every sound that is heard in the forest, every noise made by man or bird or beast. no wonder the female lyre-bird thinks her lord the cleverest and most beautiful creature in the world! "then there is a daft-looking kingfisher, all head and bill, and wondering eyes, who laughs like a jackass, and makes you laugh to hear him laugh. so loud does he laugh at times that his voice drowns every other sound in the forest. "there is a bird eight feet high, partly cassowary, partly ostrich, that when attacked kicks like a horse, or more like a cow, because it kicks sideways. but if i were to sit here till our good ship reached the cape, i could not tell you about half the curious, beautiful, and ridiculous creatures and things you will find in australia if you move much about. i do think that that country beats all creation for the gorgeousness of its wild birds and wild flowers; and if things do seem a bit higgledy-piggledy at first, you soon settle down to it, and soon tire wondering at anything. "but," continued the stranger, "with all their peculiarities, the birds and beasts are satisfied with their get-up, and pleased with their surroundings, although all day long in the forests the cockatoos, and parrots, and piping crows, and lyre-birds do little else but joke and chaff one another because they all look so comical. "yes, lad, australia you will find is a country of contrarieties, and the only wonder to me is that the rivers don't all run up-hill instead of running down; and mind, they are sometimes broader at their sources than they are at their ends." "there is plenty of gold there?" asked archie. "oh, yes, any amount; but--" "but what, sir?" "the real difficulty--in fact, the only difficulty--is the finding of it." "but that, i suppose, can be got over." "come along with me up on deck, and we'll talk matters over. it is hot and stuffy down here; besides, they are going to lay the cloth." arrived at the quarterdeck, the stranger took hold of archie's arm, as if he had known him all his life. "now," he said, "my name is vesey, generally called captain vesey, because i never did anything that i know of to merit the title. i've been in an army or two in different parts of the globe as a free lance, you know." "how nice!" "oh, delightful!" said captain vesey, though from the tone of his voice archie was doubtful as to his meaning. "well," he added, "i own a yacht, now waiting for me, i believe, at the cape of good hope, if she isn't sunk, or burned, or something. and your tally?" "my what, sir?" "your tally, your name, and the rest of it?" "archie broadbent, son of squire broadbent, of burley old farm, northumberland." "what! you a son of charlie broadbent? yankee charlie, as we used to call him at the club. well, well, well, wonders will never cease; and it only shows how small the world is, after all." "and you used to know my father, sir?" "my dear boy, i promised myself the pleasure of calling on him at burley. i've only been home for two months, however; and i heard--well, boy, i needn't mince matters--i heard your father had been unfortunate, and had left his place, and gone nobody could tell me whither." "no," said archie, laughing, "it isn't quite so bad as all that; and it is bound to come right in the end." "you are talking very hopefully, lad. i could trace a resemblance in your face to someone i knew the very moment i sat down. and there is something like the same cheerful ring in your voice there used to be in his. you really are a chip of the old block." "so they say." and archie laughed again, pleased by this time. "but, you know, lad, you are very young to be going away to seek your fortune." "i'll get over that, sir." "i hope so. of course, you won't go pottering after gold!" "i don't know. if i thought i would find lots, i would go like a shot." "well, take my advice, and don't. there, i do not want to discourage you; but you better turn your mind to farming--to squatting." "that wouldn't be very genteel, would it?" "genteel! why, lad, if you're going to go in for genteelity, you'd best have stayed at home." "well, but i have an excellent education. i can write like copper-plate. i am a fair hand at figures, and well up in latin and greek; and--" "ha! ha! ha!" captain vesey laughed aloud. "latin and greek, eh? you must keep that to yourself, boy." "and," continued archie boldly, "i have a whole lot of capital introductions. i'm sure to get into a good office in sydney; and in a few years--" archie stopped short, because by the light that streamed from the skylight he could see that captain vesey was looking at him half-wonderingly, but evidently amused. "go on," said the captain. "not a word more," said archie doggedly. "finish your sentence, lad." "i shan't. there!" "well, i'll do it for you. you'll get into a delightful office, with mahogany writing-desks and stained glass windows, turkey carpet and an easy-chair. your employer will take you out in his buggy every sunday to dine with him; and after a few years, as you say, he'll make you a co-partner; and you'll end by marrying his daughter, and live happy ever after." "you're laughing at me, sir. i'll go down below." "yes, i'm laughing at you, because you're only a greenhorn; and it is as well that i should squeeze a little of the lime-juice out of you as anyone else. no, don't go below. mind, i was your father's friend." "yes," pouted poor archie; "but you don't appear to be mine. you are throwing cold water over my hopes; you are smashing my idols." "a very pretty speech, archie broadbent. but mind you this--a hut on solid ground is better far than a castle in the air. and it is better that i should storm and capsize your cloud-castle, than that an absolute stranger did so." "well, i suppose you are right. forgive me for being cross." "spoken like his father's son," said captain vesey, grasping and shaking the hand that archie extended to him. "now we know each other. ding! ding! ding! there goes the dinner-bell. sit next to me." chapter twelve. "keep on your cap. i was once a poor man myself." the voyage out was a long, even tedious one; but as it has but little bearing on the story i forbear to describe it at length. the ship had a passenger for madeira, parcels for ascension and saint helena, and she lay in at the cape for a whole week. here captain vesey left the vessel, bidding archie a kind farewell, after dining with him at the fountain, and roaming with him all over the charming botanical gardens. "i've an idea we'll meet again," he said as he bade him adieu. "if god spares me, i'll be sure to visit sydney in a year or two, and i hope to find you doing well. you'll know if my little yacht, the _barracouta_, comes in, and i know you'll come off and see me. i hope to find you with as good a coat on your back as you have now." then the _dugong_ sailed away again; but the time now seemed longer to archie than ever, for in captain vesey he really had lost a good friend--a friend who was all the more valuable because he spoke the plain, unvarnished truth; and if in doing so one or two of the young man's cherished idols were brought tumbling down to the ground, it was all the better for the young man. it showed those idols had feet of clay, else a little cold water thrown over them would hardly have had such an effect. i am sorry to say, however, that no sooner had the captain left the ship, than archie set about carefully collecting the pieces of those said idols and patching them up again. "after all," he thought to himself, "this captain vesey, jolly fellow as he is, never had to struggle with fortune as i shall do; and i don't think he has the same pluck in him that my father has, and that people say i have. we'll see, anyhow. other fellows have been fortunate in a few years, why shouldn't i? 'in a few years?' yes, these are the very words captain vesey laughed at me for. 'in a few years?' to be sure. and why not? what _is_ the good of a fortune to a fellow after he gets old, and all worn down with gout and rheumatism? 'cheer, boys, cheer;' i'm going in to win." how slow the ship sailed now, apparently; and when it did blow it usually blew the wrong way, and she would have to stand off and on, or go tack and half-tack against it, like a man with one long leg and one short. but she was becalmed more than once, and this did seem dreadful. it put archie in mind of a man going to sleep in the middle of his work, which is not at all the correct thing to do. well, there is nothing like a sailing ship after all for teaching one the virtue of patience; and at last archie settled down to his sea life. he was becoming quite a sailor--as hard as the wheel-spokes, as brown as the binnacle. he was quite a favourite with the captain and officers, and with all hands fore and aft. indeed he was very often in the forecastle or galley of an evening listening to the men's yarns or songs, and sometimes singing a verse or two himself. he was just beginning to think the _dugong_ was vanderdecken's ship, and that she never would make port at all, when one day at dinner he noticed that the captain was unusually cheerful. "in four or five days more, please god," said he, "we'll be safe in sydney." archie almost wished he had not known this, for these four or five days were the longest of any he had yet passed. he had commenced to worship his patched-up idols again, and felt happier now, and more full of hope and certainty of fortune than he had done during the whole voyage. sometimes they sighted land. once or twice birds flew on board--such bright, pretty birds too they looked. and birds also went wheeling and whirring about the ship--gulls, the like of which he had never seen before. they were more elegant in shape and purer in colour than ours, and their voices were clear and ringing. dick whittington construed words out of the sound of the chiming bells. therefore it is not at all wonderful that archie was pleased to believe that some of these beautiful birds were screaming him a welcome to the land of gold. just at or near the end of the voyage half a gale of wind blew the ship considerably out of her course. then the breeze went round to fair again, the sea went down, and the birds came back; and one afternoon a shout was heard from the foretop that made archie's heart jump for very joy. "land ho!" that same evening, as the sun was setting behind the blue mountains, leaving a gorgeous splendour of cloud-scenery that may be equalled, but is never surpassed in any country, the _dugong_ sailed slowly into sydney harbour, and cast anchor. at last! yes, at last. here were the golden gates of the el dorado that were to lead the ambitious boy to fortune, and all the pleasures fortune is capable of bestowing. archie had fancied that sydney would prove to be a very beautiful place; but not in his wildest imaginings had he conjured up a scene of such surpassing loveliness as that which now lay before him, and around him as well. on the town itself his eye naturally first rested. there it lay, miles upon miles of houses, towers, and steeples, spread out along the coast, and rising inland. the mountains and hills beyond, their rugged grandeur softened and subdued in the purple haze of the day's dying glory; the sky above, with its shades of orange, saffron, crimson, opal, and grey; and the rocks, to right and left in the nearer distance, with their dreamy clouds of foliage, from which peeped many a lordly mansion, many a fairy-like palace. he hardly noticed the forests of masts; he was done with ships, done with masts, for a time at least; but his inmost heart responded to the distant hum of city life, that came gently stealing over the waters, mingling with the chime of evening bells, and the music of the happy sea-gulls. would he, could he, get on shore to-night? "no," the first officer replied, "not before another day." so he stood on deck, or walked about, never thinking of food--what is food or drink to a youth who lives on hope?--till the gloaming shades gave place to night, till the southern stars shone over the hills and harbour, and strings upon strings of lamps and lights were hung everywhere across the city above and below. now the fairy scene is changed. archie is on shore. it is the forenoon of another day, and the sun is warm though not uncomfortably hot. there is so much that is bracing and invigorating in the very air, that he longs to be doing something at once. longs to commence laying the foundation-stone of that temple of fortune which--let captain vesey say what he likes--he, archie broadbent, is bent upon building. he has dressed himself in his very english best. his clothes are new and creaseless, his gloves are spotless, his black silk hat immaculate, the cambric handkerchief that peeps coyly from his breast pocket is whiter than the snow, his boots fit like gloves, and shine as softly black as his hat itself, and his cane even must be the envy of every young man he meets. strange to say, however, no one appears to take a very great deal of notice of him, though, as he glances towards the shop windows, he can see as if in a mirror that one or two passengers have looked back and smiled. but it couldn't surely have been at him? impossible! the people, however, are apparently all very active and very busy, though cool, with a self-possession that he cannot help envying, and which he tries to imitate without any marked degree of success. there is an air of luxury and refinement about many of the buildings that quite impresses the young man; but he cannot help noticing that there is also a sort of business air about the streets which he hardly expected to find, and which reminds him forcibly of glasgow and manchester. he almost wishes it had been otherwise. he marches on boldly enough. archie feels as if on a prospecting tour--prospecting for gold. of course he is going to make his fortune, but how is he going to begin? that is the awkward part of the business. if he could once get in the thin end of the wedge he would quickly drive it home. "there is nothing like ambition. if we steer a steady course." of course there isn't. but staring into a china-shop window will do him little good. i do not believe he saw anything in that window however. only, on turning away from it, his foot goes splash into a pool of dirty water on the pavement, or rather on what ought to be a pavement. that boot is ruined for the day, and this reminds him that sydney streets are _not_ paved with gold, but with very unromantic matter-of-fact mud. happy thought! he will dine. the waiters are very polite, but not obsequious, and he makes a hearty meal, and feels more at home. shall he tip this waiter fellow? is it the correct thing to tip waiters? will the waiter think him green if he does, or green if he doesn't? these questions, trifling though they may appear, really annoyed archie; but he erred on the right side, and did tip the waiter--well too. and the waiter brightened up, and asked him if he would like to see a playbill. then this reminded archie that he might as well call on some of the people to whom he had introductions. so he pulled out a small bundle of letters, and he asked the waiter where this, that, and t'other street was; and the waiter brought a map, and gave him so many hints, that when he found himself on the street again he did not feel half so foreign. he had something to do now, something in view. besides he had dined. "yes, he'd better drive," he said to himself, "it would look better." he lifted a finger, and a hansom rattled along, and drew up by the kerb. he had not expected to find cabs in sydney. his card-case was handy, and his first letter also. he might have taken a 'bus or tram. there were plenty passing, and very like glasgow 'buses they were too; from the john with the ribbons to the cad at the rear. but a hansom certainly looked more aristocratic. aristocratic? yes. but were there any aristocrats in sydney? was there any real blue blood in the place? he had not answered those questions to his satisfaction, when the hansom stopped so suddenly that he fell forward. "wait," he said to the driver haughtily. "certainly, sir." archie did not observe, however, the grimace the jehu made to another cabman, as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, else he would hardly have been pleased. there was quite a business air about the office into which the young man ushered himself, but no one took much notice of him. if he had had an older face under that brand-new hat, they might have been more struck with his appearance. "ahem! aw--!" archie began. "one minute, sir," said the clerk nearest him. "fives in forty thousand? fives in forty are eight--eight thousand." the clerk advanced pen in mouth. "do you come from jenkins's about those bills?" "no, i come from england; and i've a letter of introduction to your _master_." archie brought the last word out with a bang. "mr berry isn't in. will you leave a message?" "no, thank you." "as you please." archie was going off, when the clerk called after him, "here is mr berry himself, sir." a tall, brown-faced, elderly gentleman, with very white hair and pleasant smile. he took archie into the office, bade him be seated, and slowly read the letter; then he approached the young man and shook hands. the hand felt like a dead fish's tail in archie's, and somehow the smile had vanished. "i'm really glad to see your father's son," he said. "sorry though to hear that he has had a run of bad luck. very bad luck it must be, too," he added, "to let you come out here." "indeed, sir; but i mean to make my for--that is, i want to make my living." "ay, young man, living's more like it; and i wish i could help you. there's a wave of depression over this side of our little island at present, and i don't know that any office in town has a genteel situation to offer you." archie's soul-heat sank a degree or two. "you think, sir, that--" "i think that you would have done better at home. it would be cruel of me not to tell you the truth. now i'll give you an example. we advertised for a clerk just a week since--" "i wish i'd been here." "my young friend, you wouldn't have had the ghost of a chance. we had five-and-thirty to pick and choose from, and we took the likeliest. i'm really sorry. if anything should turn up, where shall i communicate?" where should he communicate? and this was his father's best friend, from whom the too sanguine father expected archie would have an invitation to dinner at once, and a general introduction to sydney society. "oh, it is no great matter about communicating, mr berry; aw!--no matter at all! i can afford to wait a bit and look round me. i--aw!-good morning, sir." away stalked the young northumbrian, like a prince of the blood. "a chip of the old block," muttered mr berry, as he resumed his desk work. "poor lad, he'll have to come down a peg though." the cabby sprang towards the young nob. "where next, sir?" "grindlay's." archie was not more successful here, nor anywhere else. but at the end of a week, during which time he had tried as hard as any young man had ever tried before in sydney or any other city to find some genteel employment, he made a wise resolve; viz, to go into lodgings. he found that living in a hotel, though very cheerful, made a terrible hole in his purse; so he brought himself "down a peg" by the simple process of "going up" nearer the sky. here is the explanation of this paradox. it was archie's custom to spend his forenoons looking for something to do, and his evenings walking in the suburbs. poor, lonely lad, that never a soul in the city cared for, any more than if he had been a stray cat, he found it wearisome, heart-breaking work wandering about the narrow, twisting streets and getting civilly snubbed. he felt more of a gentleman when dining. afterwards his tiredness quite left him, and hope swelled his heart once more. so out he would go and away--somewhere, anywhere; it did not matter so long as he could see woods, and water, and houses. oh, such lovely suburban villas, with cool verandahs, round which flowering creepers twined, and lawns shaded by dark green waving banana trees, beneath which he could ofttimes hear the voices of merry children, or the tinkle of the light guitar. he would give reins to his fancy then, and imagine things--such sweet things! yes, he would own one of the biggest and most delightful of these mansions; he should keep fleet horses, a beautiful carriage, a boat--he must have a boat, or should it be a gondola? yes, that would be nicer and newer. in this boat, when the moonlight silvered the water, he would glide over the bay, returning early to his happy home. his bonnie sister should be there, his brother rupert--the student--his mother, and his hero, that honest, bluff, old father of his. what a dear, delightful dream! no wonder he did not care to return to the realities of his city life till long after the sun had set over the hills, and the stars were twinkling down brighter and lovelier far than those lights he had so admired the night his ship arrived. he was returning slowly one evening and was close to the city, but in a rather lonely place, when he noticed something dark under the shade of a tree, and heard a girl's voice say: "dearie me! as missus says; but ain't i jolly tired just!" "who is that?" said archie. "on'y me, sir; on'y sarah. don't be afear'd. i ain't a larrikin. help this 'ere box on my back like a good chummie." "it's too heavy for your slight shoulders," quoth gallant archie. "i don't mind carrying it a bit." "what, a gent like you! why, sir, you're greener than they make 'em round here!" "i'm from england." "ho, ho! well, that accounts for the milk. so'm i from hengland. this way, chummie." they hadn't far to go. "my missus lives two story up, top of a ware'us, and i've been to the station for that 'ere box. she do take it out o' me for all the wage. she do." archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and sarah's mistress herself opened the door and held a candle. a thin, weary-looking body, with whom sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly terms. "brought my young man," said sarah. "ain't he a smartie? but, heigho! _so_ green! _you_ never!" "come in a minute, sir, and rest you. never mind this silly girl." archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he had not only heard all this ex-policeman's wife's story, but taken a semi-attic belonging to her. and he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took possession. for now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief to his mind that he would not be spending much money. archie could write home cheerfully now. he was sure that something would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be derogatory to the son of a northumbrian squire. more than one influential member of commercial society had promised "to communicate with him at the very earliest moment." but, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second day of his arrival. archie was undoubtedly "a game un," as sarah called him; but his heart began to feel very heavy indeed. living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. what then? write home for more? he shuddered to think of such a thing. if his first friend, captain vesey, had only turned up now, he would have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. but captain vesey did not. a young man cannot be long in sydney without getting into a set. archie did, and who could blame him. they were not a rich set, nor a very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own. they formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to the play, and often had little "adventures" about town, the narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of importance. they really were not bad fellows, and would have done archie a good turn if they could. but they could not. they laughed a deal at first at his english notions and ideas; but gradually archie got over his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would have liked sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do. the ex-policeman's wife was very kind to her lodger. so was sarah; though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to lower his english squirearchical dignity very much. but, to do her justice, sarah did not mean any harm. only once did archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. "what did he do?" "oh, he drinks!" said sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade of some kind. archie asked no more. rummaging in a box one day, archie found his last letter of introduction. it had been given him by uncle ramsay. "you'll find him a rough and right sort of a stick," his uncle had said. "he _was_ my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock down his cheque for many thousands." archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to find the address. it was one of the very villas he had often passed, in a beautiful place close by the water-side. what would be his reception here? this question was soon put at rest. he rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room; a room that displayed more richness than taste. a very beautiful girl--some thirteen years of age perhaps--got up from a grand piano, and stood before him. archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could. "surely," he thought, "_she_ cannot be the daughter of the rough and right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. he had never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of hair before. "did you want to see papa? sit down. i'll go and find him." "will you take this letter to him?" said archie. and the girl left, letter in hand. ten minutes after the "rough stick" entered, whistling "sally come up." "hullo! hullo!" he cried, "so here we are." there he was without doubt--a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer's cap on the very back of his bushy head. he struck archie a friendly slap on the back. "keep on yer cap," he shouted, "i was once a poor man myself." archie was too surprised and indignant to speak. "well, well, well," said mr winslow, "they do tell me wonders won't never cease. what a whirligig of a world it is. one day i'm cleanin' a gent's boots. gent is a capting of a ship. next day gent's nephew comes to me to beg for a job. say, young man, what'll ye drink?" "i didn't come to _drink_, mr winslow, neither did i come to _beg_." "whew-ew-ew," whistled the quondam steward, "here's pride; here's a touch o' the old country. why, young un, i might have made you my under-gardener." the girl at this moment entered the room. she had heard the last sentence. "papa!" she remonstrated. then she glided out by the casement window. burning blushes suffused archie's cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. his hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. it was the girl. "don't be angry with poor papa," she said, almost beseechingly. "no, no," archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. "what is your name?" "etheldene." "what a beautiful name! i--i will never forget it. good-bye." he ran home with the image of the child in his mind--on his brain. sarah--plain sarah--met him at the top of the stairs. he brushed past her. "la! but ye does look glum," said sarah. archie locked his door. he did not want to see even sarah--homely sarah--that night. chapter thirteen. "something in soap." it was a still, sultry night in november. archie's balcony window was wide open, and if there had been a breath of air anywhere he would have had the benefit of it. that was one advantage of having a room high up above the town, and there were several others. for instance, it was quieter, more retired, and his companions did not often take him by storm, because they objected to climb so many stairs. dingy, small, and dismal some might have called it, but archie always felt at home up in his semi-attic. it even reminded him of his room in the dear old tower at burley. then his morsel of balcony, why that was worth all the money he paid for the room itself; and as for the view from this charming, though non-aristocratic elevation, it was simply unsurpassed, unsurpassable--looking far away over a rich and fertile country to the grand old hills beyond--a landscape that, like the sea, was still the same, but ever changing; sometimes smiling and green, sometimes bathed in tints of purple and blue, sometimes grey as a sky o'ercast with rain clouds. yes, he loved it, and he would take a chair out here on a moonlight evening and sit and think and dream. but on this particular night sleep, usually so kind to the young man, absolutely refused to visit his pillow. he tried to woo the goddess on his right side, on his left, on his back; it was all in vain. finally, he sat bolt upright in his little truckle bed in silent defiance. "i don't care," he said aloud, "whether i sleep or not. what does it matter? i've nothing to do to-morrow. heigho!" nothing to do to-morrow! how sad! and he so young too. were all his dreams of future fortune to fade and pass away like this--nothing to do? why he envied the very boys who drove the mill wagons that went lazily rolling past his place every day. they seemed happy, and so contented; while he--why his very life--had come to be all one continued fever. "nothing to do yet, sir?" it was the ordinary salutation of his hard-working mite of a landlady when he came home to his meal in the afternoon. "i knows by the weary way ye walks upstairs, sir, you aren't successful yet, sir." "nothink to do yet, sir?" they were the usual words that the slavey used when she dragged upstairs of an evening with his tea-things. "nothink to do," she would say, as she deposited the tray on the table, and sank _sans ceremonie_ into the easy-chair. "nothink to do. what a 'appy life to lead! now 'ere's me a draggin' up and down stairs, and a carryin' of coals and a sweepin', and a dustin' and a hanswering of the door, till, what wi' the 'eat and the dust and the fleas, my poor little life's well-nigh worrited out o' me. heigho! hif i was honly back again in merrie england, catch me ever goin' to any australia any more. but you looks a horned gent, sir. nothink to do! my eye and betty martin, ye oughter to be 'appy, if you ain't." archie got up to-night, enrobed himself in his dressing-gown, and went and sat on his balcony. this soothed him. the stars were very bright, and seemed very near. he did not care for other companionship than these and his own all-too-busy thoughts. there was hardly a sound to be heard, except now and then the hum of a distant railway train increasing to a harsh roar as it crossed the bridge, then becoming subdued again and muffled as it entered woods, or went rolling over a soft and open country. nothing to do! but he must and would do something. why should he starve in a city of plenty? he had arms and hands, if he hadn't a head. indeed, he had begun of late to believe that his head, which he used to think so much of, was the least important part of his body. he caught himself feeling his forearm and his biceps. why this latter had got smaller and beautifully less of late. he had to shut his fist hard to make it perceptible to touch. this was worse and worse, he thought. he would not be able to lift a fifty-six if he wanted to before long, or have strength enough left to wield a stable broom if he should be obliged to go as gardener to winslow. "what next, i wonder?" he said to himself. "first i lose my brains, if ever i had any, and now i have lost my biceps; the worst loss last." he lit his candle, and took up the newspaper. "i'll pocket my pride, and take a porter's situation," he murmured. "let us see now. hullo! what is this? 'apprentice wanted--the drug trade--splendid opening to a pushing youngster.' well, i am a pushing youngster. 'premium required.' i don't care, i have a bit of money left, and i'll pay it like a man if there is enough. why the drug trade is grand. sydney drug-stores beat glasgow's all to pieces. druggists and drysalters have their carriages and mansions, their town and country houses. hurrah! i'll be something yet!" he blew out the candle, and jumped into bed. the gentle goddess required no further wooing. she took him in her lap, and he went off at once like a baby. rap--rap--rap--rap! "hullo! yes; coming, sarah; coming." it was broad daylight; and when he admitted sarah at last, with the breakfast-tray, she told him she had been up and down fifty times, trying to make him hear. sarah was given to a little exaggeration at times. "it was all very well for a gent like he," she said, "but there was her a-slavin' and a-toilin', and all the rest of it." "well, well, my dear," he cut in, "i'm awfully sorry, i assure you." sarah stopped right in the centre of the room, still holding the tray, and looked at him. "what!" she cried. "ye ain't a-going to marry me then, young man! what are ye my-dearing me for?" "no, sarah," replied archie, laughing; "i'm not going to marry you; but i've hopes of a good situation, and--" "is that all?" sarah dumped down the tray, and tripped away singing. archie's interview with the advertiser was of a most satisfactory character. he did not like the street, it was too new and out of the way; but then it would be a beginning. he did not like his would-be employer, but he dared say he would improve on acquaintance. there was plenty in the shop, though the place was dingy and dirty, and the windows small. the spiders evidently had fine times of it here, and did not object to the smell of drugs. he was received by mr glorie himself in a little back sanctum off the little back shop. the premium for apprenticing archie was rather more than the young man could give; but this being explained to the proprietor of these beautiful premises, and owner of all the spiders, he graciously condescended to take half. archie's salary--a wretched pittance--was to commence at once after articles were signed; and mr glorie promised to give him a perfect insight into the drug business, and make a man of him, and "something else besides," he added, nodding to archie in a mysterious manner. the possessor of the strange name was a queer-looking man; there did not appear much glory about him. he was very tall, very lanky, and thin, his shoulders sloping downwards like a well-pointed pencil, while his face was solemn and elongated, like your own, reader, if you look at it in a spoon held lengthways. the articles were signed, and archie walked home on feathers apparently. he went upstairs singing. his landlady ran to the door. "work at last?" archie nodded and smiled. when sarah came in with the dinner things she danced across the room, bobbing her queer, old-fashioned face and crying-"lawk-a-daisy, diddle-um-doo, missus says you've got work to do!" "yes, sarah, at long last, and i'm so happy." "'appy, indeed!" sang sarah. "why, ye won't be the gent no longer!" archie certainly had got work to do. for a time his employer kept him in the shop. there was only one other lad, and he went home with the physic, and what with studying hard to make himself _au fait_ in prescribing and selling seidlitz powders and gum drops, archie was pretty busy. so months flew by. then his long-faced employer took him into the back premises, and proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of the something else that was to make a man of him. "there's a fortune in it," said mr glorie, pointing to a bubbling grease-pot. "yes, young sir, a vast fortune." "what is the speciality?" archie ventured to enquire. "the speciality, young sir?" replied mr glorie, his face relaxing into something as near a smile as it would permit of. "the speciality, sir, is soap. a transparent soap. a soap, young sir, that is destined to revolutionise the world of commerce, and bring _my_ star to the ascendant after struggling for two long decades with the dark clouds of adversity." so this was the mystery. archie was henceforward, so it appeared, to live in an atmosphere of scented soap; his hope must centre in bubbles. he was to assist this mr glorie's star to rise to the zenith, while his own fortune might sink to nadir. and he had paid his premium. it was swallowed up and simmering in that ugly old grease-pot, and except for the miserable salary he received from mr glorie he might starve. poor archie! he certainly did not share his employer's enthusiasm, and on this particular evening he did not walk home on feathers, and when he sat down to supper his face must have appeared to sarah quite as long and lugubrious as mr glorie's; for she raised her hands and said: "lawk-a-doodle, sir! what's the matter? have ye killed anybody?" "not yet," answered archie; "but i almost feel i could." he stuck to his work, however, like a man; but that work became more and more allied to soap, and the front shop hardly knew him any more. he had informed the fellows at the club-room that he was employed at last; that he was apprenticed to the drug trade. but the soap somehow leaked out, and more than once, when he was introduced to some new-comer, he was styled-"mr broadbent," and "something in soap." this used to make him bite his lips in anger. he would not have cared half so much had he not joined this very club, with a little flourish of trumpets, as young broadbent, son of squire broadbent, of burley old castle, england. and now he was "something in soap." he wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow hue, and that he was "something in soap." he felt sorry for having done so as soon as the letter was posted. he met old winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped archie's small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear's paw, and congratulated him on having got on his feet at last. "yes," said archie with a sneer and a laugh, "i'm 'something in soap.'" "and soap's a good thing i can tell you. soap's not to be despised. there's a fortune in soap. i had an uncle in soap. stick to it, my lad, and it'll stick to you." but when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed in the front door drug department, while he himself was relegated to the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he proceeded forthwith to tell this mr glorie what he thought of him. mr glorie's face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells. "i'll have the law on you," he shouted. "i don't care; i've done with you. i'm sick of you and your soap." he really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in pieces. "you've broke your indenture! you--you--" "i've broken your jar, anyhow," cried archie. he picked up his hat, and rushing out, ran recklessly off to his club. he was "something in soap" no more. he was beggared, but he was free, unless indeed mr glorie should put him in gaol. chapter fourteen. the king may come in the cadger's way. mr glorie did not put his runaway apprentice in gaol. he simply advertised for another--with a premium. poor archie! his condition in life was certainly not to be envied now. he had but very few pounds between him and actual want. he was rich in one thing alone--pride. he would sooner starve than write home for a penny. no, he _could_ die in a gutter, but he could not bear to think they should know of it at burley old farm. long ago, in the bonnie woods around burley, he used to wonder to find dead birds in dark crannies of the rocks. he could understand it now. they had crawled into the crannies to die, out of sight and alone. his club friends tried to rally him. they tried to cheer him up in more ways than one. be it whispered, they tried to make him seek solace in gambling and in the wine-cup. i do not think that i have held up my hero as a paragon. on the contrary, i have but represented him as he was--a bold, determined lad, with many and many a fault; but now i am glad to say this one thing in his favour: he was not such a fool as to try to drown his wits in wine, nor to seek to make money questionably by betting and by cards. after archie's letter home, in which he told elsie that he was "something in soap," he had written another, and a more cheerful one. it was one which cost him a good deal of trouble to write; for he really could not get over the notion that he was telling white lies when he spoke of "his prospects in life, and his hopes being on the ascendant;" and as he dropped it into the receiver, he felt mean, demoralised; and he came slowly along george street, trying to make himself believe that any letter was better than no letter, and that he would hardly have been justified in telling the whole truth. well, at burley old farm things had rather improved, simply for this reason: squire broadbent had gone in heavily for retrenchment. he had proved the truth of his own statement: "it does not take much in this world to make a man happy." the squire was happy when he saw his wife and children happy. the former was always quietly cheerful, and the latter did all they could to keep up each other's hearts. they spent much of their spare time in the beautiful and romantic tower-room, and in walking about the woods, the grounds, and farm; for rupert was well now, and was his father's right hand, not in the rough-and-tumble dashing way that archie would have been, but in a thoughtful, considering way. mr walton had gone away, but branson and old kate were still to the fore. the squire could not have spared these. i think that rupert's religion was a very pretty thing. he had lost none of his simple faith, his abiding trust in god's goodness, though he had regained his health. his devotions were quite as sincere, his thankfulness for mercies received greater even than before, and he had the most unbounded faith in the efficacy of prayer. so his sister and he lived in hope, and the squire used to build castles in the green parlour of an evening, and of course the absent archie was one of the kings of these castles. after a certain number of years of retrenchment, burley was going to rise from its ashes like the fabled phoenix--machinery and all. the squire was even yet determined to show these old-fashioned farmer folks of northumbria "a thing or two." that was his ambition; and we must not blame him; for a man without ambition of some kind is a very humble sort of a clod--a clod of very poor clay. but to return to sydney. archie had received several rough invitations to go and visit mr winslow. he had accepted two of these, and, singular to say, etheldene's father was absent each time. now, i refuse to be misunderstood. archie did not "manage" to call when the ex-miner was out; but archie was not displeased. he had taken a very great fancy for the child, and did not hesitate to tell her that from the first day he had met her he had loved her like his sister elsie. of course etheldene wanted to know all about elsie, and hours were spent in telling her about this one darling sister of his, and about rupert and all the grand old life at burley. "i should laugh," cried archie, "if some day when you grew up, you should find yourself in england, and fall in love with rupert, and marry him." the child smiled, but looked wonderfully sad and beautiful the next moment. she had a way like this with her. for if etheldene had been taken to represent any month of our english year, it would have been april--sunshine, flowers, and showers. but one evening archie happened to be later out in the suburbs than he ought to have been. the day had been hot, and the night was delightfully cool and pleasant. he was returning home when a tall, rough-looking, bearded man stopped him, and asked "for a light, old chum." archie had a match, which he handed him, and as the light fell on the man's face, it revealed a very handsome one indeed, and one that somehow seemed not unfamiliar to him. archie went on. there was the noise of singing farther down the street, a merry band of youths who had been to a race meeting that clay, and were up to mischief. the tall man hid under the shadow of a wall. "they're larrikins," he said to himself, and "he's a greenhorn." he spat in his fist, and kept his eye on the advancing figures. archie met them. they were arm-in-arm, five in all, and instead of making way for him, rushed him, and down he went, his head catching the kerb with frightful force. they at once proceeded to rifle him. but perhaps "larrikins" had never gone to ground so quickly and so unexpectedly before. it was the bearded man who was "having his fling" among them, and he ended by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up. archie remembered nothing more then. when he became sensible he was in bed with a bandaged head, and feeling as weak all over as a kitten. sarah was in the room with the landlady. "hush, my dear," said the latter; "you've been very ill for more than a week. you're not to get up, nor even to speak." archie certainly did not feel inclined to do either. he just closed his eyes and dozed off again, and his soul flew right away back to burley. "oh, yes; he's out of danger!" it was the doctor's voice. "he'll do first-rate with careful nursing." "he won't want for that, sir. sarah here has been like a little mother to him." archie dozed for days. only, whenever he was sensible, he could notice that sarah was far better dressed, and far older-looking and nicer-looking than ever she had been. and now and then the big-bearded man came and sat by his bed, looking sometimes at him, some times at sarah. one day archie was able to sit up; he felt quite well almost, though of course he was not really so. "i have you to thank for helping me that night," he said. "ay, ay, master archie; but don't you know me?" "no--no. i don't think so." the big-bearded man took out a little case from his pocket, and pulled therefrom a pair of horn-bound spectacles. "why!" cried archie, "you're not--" "i _am_, really." "oh, bob cooper, i'm pleased to see you! tell me all your story." "not yet, chummie; it is too long, or rather you're too weak. why, you're crying!" "it's tears of joy!" "well, well; i would join you, lad, but tears ain't in my line. but somebody else will want to see you to-morrow." "who?" "just wait and see." archie did wait. indeed he had to; for the doctor left express orders that he was not to be disturbed. the evening sun was streaming over the hills when sarah entered next day and gave a look towards the bed. "i'm awake, sarah." "it's bob," said sarah, "and t'other little gent. they be both a-comin' upstairs athout their boots." archie was just wondering what right sarah had to call bob cooper by his christian name, when bob himself came quietly in. "ah!" he said, as he approached the bed, "you're beginning to look your old self already. now who is this, think you?" archie extended a feeble white hand. "why, whitechapel!" he exclaimed joyfully. "wonders will never cease!" "well, johnnie, and how are ye? i told ye, ye know, that 'the king, might come in the cadger's way.'" "not much king about me now, harry; but sit down. why i've come through such a lot since i saw you, that i begin to feel quite aged. well, it is just like old times seeing you. but you're not a bit altered. no beard, or moustache, or anything, and just as cheeky-looking as when you gave me that thrashing in the wood at burley. but you don't talk so cockneyfied." "no, johnnie; ye see i've roughed it a bit, and learned better english in the bush and scrub. but i say, johnnie, i wouldn't mind being back for a day or two at burley. i think i could ride your buck-jumping 'eider duck' now. ah, i won't forget that first ride, though; i've got to rub myself yet whenever i think of it." "but how on earth did you get here at all, the pair of you?" "well," said harry, "that ain't my story 'alf so much as it is bob's. i reckon he better tell it." "oh, but i haven't the gift of the gab like you, harry! i'm a slow coach. i am a duffer at a story." "stop telling both," cried archie. "i don't want any story about the matter. just a little conversational yarn; you can help each other out, and what i don't understand, why i'll ask, that's all." "but wait a bit," he continued. "touch that bell, harry. pull hard; it doesn't ring else. my diggins are not much account. here comes sarah, singing. bless her old soul! i'd been dead many a day if it hadn't been for sarah." "look here, sarah." "i'm looking nowheres else, mister broadbent; but mind you this, if there's too much talking, i'm to show both these gents downstairs. them's the doctor's orders, and they've got to be obeyed. now, what's your will, sir?" "tea, sarah." "that's right. one or two words at a time and all goes easy. tea you shall have in the twinkling of a bedpost. tea and etceteras." sarah was as good as her word. in ten minutes she had laid a little table and spread it with good things; a big teapot, cups and saucers, and a steaming urn. then off she went singing again. archie wondered what made her so happy, and meant to ask her when his guests were gone. "now, young squire," said harry, "i'll be the lady; and if your tea isn't to your taste, why just holler." "but don't call me squire, harry; i left that title at home. we're all equal here. no kings and no cadgers." "well, bob, when last i saw you in old england, there was a sorrowful face above your shoulders, and i'll never forget the way you turned round and asked me to look after your mother's cat." "ah, poor mother! i wish i'd been better to her when i had her. however, i reckon we'll meet some day up-bye yonder." "yes, bob, and you jumped the fence and disappeared in the wood! where did you go?" chapter fifteen. bob's story: wild life at the diggings. "well, it all came about like this, archie: 'england,' i said to myself, says i, 'ain't no place for a poor man.' your gentry people, most o' them anyhow, are just like dogs in the manger. the dog couldn't eat the straw, but he wouldn't let the poor hungry cow have a bite. your landed proprietors are just the same; they got their land as the dog got his manger. they took it, and though they can't live on it all, they won't let anybody else do it." "you're rather hard on the gentry, bob." "well, maybe, archie; but they ain't many o' them like squire broadbent. never mind, there didn't seem to be room for me in england, and i couldn't help noticing that all the best people, and the freest, and kindest, were men like your uncle ramsay, who had been away abroad, and had gotten all their dirty little meannesses squeezed out of them. so when i left you, after cutting that bit o' stick, i made tracks for london. i hadn't much money, so i tramped all the way to york, and then took train. when i got to london, why i felt worse off than ever. not a soul to speak to; not a face i knew; even the bobbies looking sour when i asked them a civil question; and starvation staring me in the face." "starvation, bob?" "ay, archie, and money in my pocket. plenty o' shilling dinners; but, lo! what was _one_ london shilling dinner to the like o' me? why, i could have bolted three! then i thought of harry here, and made tracks for whitechapel. i found the youngster--i'd known him at burley--and he was glad to see me again. his granny was dead, or somebody; anyhow, he was all alone in the world. but he made me welcome--downright happy and welcome. i'll tell you what it is, archie lad, harry is a little gentleman, cockney here or cockney there; and deep down below that white, thin face o' his, which three years and over of australian sunshine hasn't made much browner, harry carries a heart, look, see! that wouldn't disgrace an english squire." "bravo, bob! i like to hear you speak in that way about our friend." "well, that night i said to harry, 'isn't it hard, harry.' i says, 'that in this free and enlightened land a man is put into gaol if he snares a rabbit?' "'free and enlightened fiddlestick!' that was harry's words. 'i tell ye what it is, bob,' says he, 'this country is played out. but i knows where there are lots o' rabbits for the catching.' "'where's that?' i says. "'australia o!' says harry. "'harry,' says i, 'let us pool up, and set sail for the land of rabbits--for australia o!' "'right you are,' says harry; and we pooled up on the spot; and from that day we haven't had more'n one purse between the two of us, have we, harry?" "only one," said harry; "and one's enough between such old, old chums." "he may well say old, _old_ chums, archie; he may well put the two olds to it; for it isn't so much the time we've been together, it's what we've come through together; and shoulder to shoulder has always been our motto. we've shared our bed, we've shared our blanket, our damper and our water also, when there wasn't much between the two of us. "we got helped out by the emigration folks, and we've paid them since, and a bit of interest thrown in for luck like; but when we stood together in port jackson for the first time, the contents of our purse wouldn't have kept us living long, i can assure you. "'cities aren't for the like of us, harry,' says i. "'not now,' says harry. "so we joined a gang going west. there was a rush away to some place where somebody had found gold, and harry and i thought we might do as well as any o' them. "ay, archie, that was a rush. 'tinklers, tailors, sodjers, sailors.' i declare we thought ourselves the best o' the whole gang, and i think so still. "we were lucky enough to meet an old digger, and he told us just exactly what to take and what to leave. one thing we _did_ take was steamboat and train, as far as they would go, and this helped us to leave the mob a bit in the rear. "well, we got high up country at long last--" "hold!" cried harry. "he's missing the best of it. is that fair, johnnie?" "no, it isn't fair." "why, johnnie, we hadn't got fifty miles beyond civilisation when, what with the heat and the rough food and bad water, johnnie, my london legs and my london heart failed me, and down i must lie. we were near a bit of a cockatoo farmer's shanty." "does it pay to breed cockatoos?" said archie innocently. "don't be the death o' me, johnnie. a cockatoo farmer is just a crofter. well, in there bob helped me, and i could go no farther. how long was i ill, bob?" "the best part o' two mouths, harry." "ay, johnnie, and all that time bob there helped the farmer--dug for him, trenched and fenced, and all for my sake, and to keep the life in my cockney skin." "well, harry," said bob, "you proved your worth after we got up. you hardened down fine after that fever." harry turned towards archie. "you mustn't believe all bob says, johnnie, when he speaks about me. bob is a good-natured, silly sort of a chap; and though he has a beard now, he ain't got more 'n 'alf the lime-juice squeezed out of him yet." "never mind, bob," said archie, "even limes and lemons should not be squeezed dry. you and i are country lads, and we would rather retain a shade of greenness than otherwise; but go on, bob." "well, now," continued bob, "i don't know that harry's fever didn't do us both good in the long run; for when we started at last for the interior, we met a good lot of the rush coming back. there was no fear of losing the tracks. that was one good thing that came o' harry's fever. another was, that it kind o' tightened his constitution. la! he could come through anything after that--get wet to the skin and dry again; lie out under a tree or under the dews o' heaven, and never complain of stiffness; and eat corn beef and damper as much as you'd like to put before him; and he never seemed to tire. as for me, you know, archie, i'm an old bush bird. i was brought up in the woods and wilds; and, faith, i'm never so much at home as i am in the forests. not but what we found the march inland wearisome enough. worst of it was, we had no horses, and we had to do a lot of what you might call good honest begging; but if the squatters did give us food going up, we were willing to work for it." "if they'd let us, bob." "which they didn't. hospitality and religion go hand in hand with the squatter. when i and harry here set out on that terribly long march, i confess to both of ye now i didn't feel at all certain as to how anything at all would turn out. i was just as bad as the young bear when its mother put it down and told it to walk. the bear said, 'all right, mother; but how is it done?' and as the mother only answered by a grunt, the young bear had to do the best it could; and so did we. "'how is it going to end?' i often said to harry. "'we can't lose anything, bob,' harry would say, laughing, 'except our lives, and they ain't worth much to anybody but ourselves; so i'm thinkin' we're safe.'" here bob paused a moment to stir his tea, and look thoughtfully into the cup, as if there might be some kind of inspiration to be had from that. he laughed lightly as he proceeded: "i'm a bad hand at a yarn; better wi' the gun and the 'girn,' harry. but i'm laughing now because i remember what droll notions i had about what the bush, as they call it, would be like when we got there." "but, johnnie," harry put in, "the curious thing is, that we never did get there, according to the settlers." "no?" "no; because they would always say to us, 'you're going bush way, aren't ye, boys?' and we would answer, 'why, ain't we there now?' and they would laugh." "that's true," said bob. "the country never seemed to be bush enough for anybody. soon's they settled down in a place the bush'd be farther west." "then the bush, when one is going west," said archie, "must be like to-morrow, always one day ahead." "that's it; and always keeping one day ahead. but it was bush enough for us almost anywhere. and though i feel ashamed like to own it now, there was more than once that i wished i hadn't gone there at all. but i had taken the jump, you see, and there was no going back. well, i used to think at first that the heat would kill us, but it didn't. then i made sure the want of water would. that didn't either, because, one way or another, we always came across some. but i'll tell you what nearly killed us, and that was the lonesomeness of those forests. talk of trees! la! archie, you'd think of jack and the beanstalk if you saw some we saw. and why didn't the birds sing sometimes? but no, only the constant bicker, bicker of something in the grass. there were sounds though that did alarm us. we know now that they were made by birds and harmless beasts, but we were all in the dark then. "often and often, when we were just dropping, and thought it would be a comfort to lie down and die, we would come out of a forest all at once, and feel in a kind of heaven because we saw smoke, or maybe heard the bleating o' sheep. heaven? indeed, archie, it seemed to be; for we had many a kindly welcome from the roughest-looking chaps you could possibly imagine. and the luxury of bathing our poor feet, with the certainty of a pair of dry, clean socks in the mornin', made us as happy as a couple of kings. a lump of salt junk, a dab of damper, and a bed in a corner made us feel so jolly we could hardly go to sleep for laughing. "but the poor beggars we met, how they did carry on to be sure about their bad luck, and about being sold, and this, that, and t'other. ay, and they didn't all go back. we saw dead bodies under trees that nobody had stopped to bury; and it was sad enough to notice that a good many of these were women, and such pinched and ragged corpses! it isn't nice to think back about it. "had anybody found gold in this rush? yes, a few got good working claims, but most of the others stopped till they couldn't stop any longer, and had to get away east again, crawling, and cursing their fate and folly. "but i'll tell you, archie, what ruined most o' them. just drink. it is funny that drink will find its way farther into the bush at times than bread will. "well, coming in at the tail o' the day, like, as harry and i did, we could spot how matters stood at a glance, and we determined to keep clear of bush hotels. ah! they call them all hotels. well, i'm a rough un, archie, but the scenes i've witnessed in some of those drinking houffs has turned my stomach. maudlin, drunken miners, singing, and blethering, and boasting; fighting and rioting worse than poachers, archie, and among them--heaven help us!--poor women folks that would melt your heart to look on. "'can we settle down here a bit?' i said to harry, when we got to the diggings. "'we'll try our little best, old chum,' was harry's reply. "and we did try. it was hard even to live at first. the food, such as it was in the new stores, was at famine price, and there was not much to be got from the rivers and woods. but after a few months things mended; our station grew into a kind o' working town. we had even a graveyard, and all the worst of us got weeded out, and found a place there. "harry and i got a claim after no end of prospecting that we weren't up to. we bought our claim, and bought it cheap; and the chap we got it from died in a week. drink? ay, archie, drink. i'll never forget, and harry i don't think will, the last time we saw him. we had left him in a neighbour's hut down the gully dying to all appearance, too weak hardly to speak. we bade him 'good-bye' for the last time as we thought, and were just sitting and talking like in our slab hut before turning in, and late it must have been, when the door opened, and in came glutz, that was his name. la! what a sight! his face looked like the face of a skeleton with some parchment drawn tight over it, his hollow eyes glittered like wildfire, his lips were dry and drawn, his voice husky. "he pointed at us with his shining fingers, and uttered a low cry like some beast in pain; then, in a horrid whisper, he got out these words: "'give me drink, drink, i'm burning.' "i've seen many a sight, but never such a one as that, archie. we carried him back. yes, we did let him have a mouthful. what mattered it. next day he was in a shallow grave. i suppose the dingoes had him. they had most of those that died. "well, by-and-by things got better with harry and me; our claim began to yield, we got dust and nuggets. we said nothing to anybody. we built a better sort of shanty, and laid out a morsel of garden, we fished and hunted, and soon learned to live better than we'd done before, and as we were making a bit of money we were as happy as sandboys. "no, we didn't keep away from the hotel--they soon got one up--it wouldn't have done not to be free and easy. but we knew exactly what to do when we did go there. we could spin our bits o' yarns, and smoke our pipes, without losing our heads. sometimes shindies got up though, and revolvers were used freely enough, but as a rule it was pretty quiet." "only once, when that little fellow told you to 'bail up.'" "what was that, harry?" asked archie. "nothing much," said bob shyly. "he caught him short round the waist, johnnie, and smashed everything on the counter with him, then flung him straight and clear through the doorway. when he had finished he quietly asked what was to pay, and bob was a favourite after that. i reckon no one ever thought of challenging him again." "where did you keep your gold?" "we hid it in the earth in the tent. there was a black fellow came to look after us every day. we kept him well in his place, for we never could trust him; and it was a good thing we did, as i'm going to tell you. "we had been, maybe, a year and a half in the gully, and had got together a gay bit o' swag, when our claim gave out all at once as 'twere--some shift o' the ground or lode. had we had machinery we might have made a round fortune, but there was no use crying about it. we quietly determined to make tracks. we had sent some away to brisbane already--that we knew was safe, but we had a good bit more to take about us. however, we wouldn't have to walk all the way back, for though the place was half-deserted, there were horses to be had, and farther along we'd manage to get drags. "two of the worst hats about the place were a man called vance, and a kind of broken-down surgeon of the name of williams. they lived by their wits, and the wonder is they hadn't been hanged long ago. "it was about three nights before we started, and we were coming home up the gully. the moon was shining as bright as ever i'd seen it. the dew was falling too, and we weren't sorry when we got inside. our tame dingo came to meet us. he had been a pup that we found in the bush and brought up by hand, and a more faithful fellow never lived. we lit our fat-lamp and sat down to talk, and a good hour, or maybe more, went by. then we lay down, for there was lots to be done in the morning. "there was a little hole in the hut at one end where wango, as we called the wild dog, could crawl through; and just as we were dozing off i heard a slight noise, and opened my eyes enough to see poor wango creeping out. we felt sure he wouldn't go far, and would rush in and alarm us if there were the slightest danger. so in a minute more i was sleeping as soundly as only a miner can sleep, archie. how long i may have slept, or how late or early it was, i couldn't say, but i awoke all at once with a start. there was a man in the hut. next minute a shot was fired. i fell back, and don't remember any more. harry there will tell you the rest." "it was the shot that wakened me, archie, but i felt stupid. i groped round for my revolver, and couldn't find it. then, johnnie, i just let them have it tom sayers's fashion--like i did you in the wood, if you remember." "there were two of them?" "ay, vance and the doctor. i could see their faces by the light of their firing. they didn't aim well the first time, johnnie, so i settled them. i threw the doctor over my head. his nut must have come against something hard, because it stilled him. i got the door opened and had my other man out. ha! ha! it strikes me, johnnie, that i must have wanted some exercise, for i never punished a bloke before as i punished that vance. he had no more strength in him than a bandicoot by the time i was quite done with him, and looked as limp all over and just as lively as 'alf a pound of london tripe. "i just went to the bluff-top after that, and coo-eed for help, and three or four right good friends were with us in as many minutes, johnnie. "we thought bob was dead, but he soon spoke up and told us he wasn't, and didn't mean to die. "our chums would have lynched the ruffians that night. the black fellow was foremost among those that wanted to. but i didn't like that, no more did bob. they were put in a tent, tied hand and foot, and our black fellow made sentry over them. next day they were all gone. then we knew it was a put-up job. poor old wango was found with his throat cut. the black fellow had enticed him out and taken him off, then the others had gone for us." "but our swag was safe," said bob, "though i lay ill for months after. and now it was harry's turn to nurse; and i can tell you, archie, that my dear, old dead-and-gone mother couldn't have been kinder to me than he was. a whole party of us took the road back east, and many is the pleasant evening we spent around our camp fire. "we got safe to brisbane, and we got safe here; but somehow we're a kind o' sick of mining." "ever hear more of your assailants?" asked archie. "what, the chaps who tried to bail us up? yes. we did hear they'd taken to bush-ranging, and are likely to come to grief at that." "well, bob cooper, i think you've told your story pretty tidily, with harry's assistance; and i don't wonder now that you've only got one purse between you." "ah!" said bob, "it would take weeks to tell you one half of our adventures. we may tell you some more when we're all together in the bush doing a bit of farming." "all together?" "to be sure! d'ye reckon we'll leave you here, now we've found you? we'll have one purse between three." "indeed, bob, we will not. if i go to the bush--and now i've half a mind to--i'll work like a new hollander." "bravo! you're a chip o' the old block. well, we can arrange that. we'll hire you. will that do, my proud young son of a proud old sire?" "yes; you can hire me." "well, we'll pay so much for your hands, and so much for your head and brains." archie laughed. "and," continued bob, "i'm sure that sarah will do the very best for the three of us." "sarah! why, what do you mean, bob?" "only this, lad: sarah has promised to become my little wife." the girl had just entered. "haven't you, sarah?" "hain't i what?" "promised to marry me." "well, mister archie broadbent, now i comes to think on't, i believes i 'ave. you know, mister, you wouldn't never 'ave married me." "no, sarah." "well, and i'm perfectly sick o' toilin' up and down these stairs. that's 'ow it is, sir." "well, sarah," said archie, "bring us some more nice tea, and i'll forgive you for this once, but you mustn't do it any more." it was late ere bob and harry went away. archie lay back at once, and when, a few minutes after, the ex-policeman's wife came in to see how he was, she found him sound and fast. archie was back again at burley old farm, that is why he smiled in his dreams. "so i'm going to be a hired man in the bush," he said to himself next morning. "that's a turn in the kaleidoscope of fortune." however, as the reader will see, it did not quite come to this with archie broadbent. chapter sixteen. a miner's marriage. it was the cool season in sydney. in other words, it was winter just commencing; so, what with balmy air and beauty everywhere around, no wonder archie soon got well. he had the kindest treatment too, and he had youth and hope. he could now write home to his parents and elsie a long, cheerful letter without any twinge of conscience. he was going to begin work soon in downright earnest, and get straight away from city life, and all its allurements; he wondered, he said, it had not occurred to him to do this before, only it was not too late to mend even yet. he hated city life now quite as much as he had previously loved it, and been enamoured of it. it never rains but it pours, and on the very day after he posted his packet to burley he received a registered letter from his uncle. it contained a bill of exchange for fifty pounds. archie blushed scarlet when he saw it. now had this letter and its contents been from his father, knowing all he did of the straits at home, he would have sent the money back. but his uncle evidently knew whom he had to deal with; for he assured archie in his letter that it was a loan, not a gift. he might want it he said, and he really would be obliging him by accepting it. he--uncle ramsay-knew what the world was, and so on and so forth, and the letter ended by requesting archie to say nothing about it to his parents at present. "dear old boy," said archie half aloud, and tears of gratitude sprang to his eyes. "how thoughtful and kind! well, it'll be a loan, and i'll pray every night that god may spare him till i get home to shake his honest brown paw, and thrust the fifty pounds back into it. no, it would be really unkind to refuse it." he went straight away--walking on feathers--to bob's hotel. he found him and harry sitting out on the balcony drinking sherbet. he took a seat beside them. "i'm in clover, boys," he cried exultingly, as he handed the cash to bob to look at. "so you are," said bob, reading the figures. "well, this is what my old mother would call a godsend. i always said your uncle ramsay was as good as they make 'em." "it looks a lot of money to me at present," said archie. "i'll have all that to begin life with; for i have still a few pounds left to pay my landlady, and to buy a blanket or two." "well, as to what you'll buy, archie," said bob cooper, "if you don't mind leaving that to us, we will manage all, cheaper and better than you could; for we're old on the job." "oh! i will with pleasure, only--" "i know all about that. you'll settle up. well, we're all going to be settlers. eh? see the joke?" "bob doesn't often say funny things," said harry; "so it must be a fine thing to be going to get married." "ay, lad, and i'm going to do it properly. worst of it is, archie, i don't know anybody to invite. oh, we must have a dinner! bother breakfasts, and hang honeymoons. no, no; a run round sydney will suit sarah better than a year o' honeymooning nonsense. then we'll all go off in the boat to brisbane. that'll be a honeymoon and a half in itself. hurrah! won't we all be so happy! i feel sure sarah's a jewel." "how long did you know her, bob, before you asked her the momentous question?" "asked her _what_!" "to marry you." "oh, only a week! la! that's long enough. i could see she was true blue, and as soft as rain. bless her heart! i say, archie, who'll we ask?" "well, i know a few good fellows--" "right. let us have them. what's their names?" out came bob's notebook, and down went a dozen names. "that'll be ample," said archie. "well," bob acquiesced with a sigh, "i suppose it must. now we're going to be spliced by special licence, sarah and i. none of your doing things by half. and harry there is going to order the cabs and carriages, and favours and music, and the parson, and everything firstchop." the idea of "ordering the parson" struck archie as somewhat incongruous; but bob had his own way of saying things, and it was evident he would have his own way in doing things too for once. "and," continued bob, "the ex-policeman's wife and i are going to buy the bonnie things to-morrow. and as for the 'bobby' himself, we'll have to send him away for the day. he is too fond of one thing, and would spoil the splore." next day sure enough bob did start off with the "bobby's" wife to buy the bonnie things. a tall, handsome fellow bob looked too; and the tailor having done his best, he was altogether a dandy. he would persist in giving his mother, as he called her, his arm on the street, and the appearance of the pair of them caused a good many people to look after them and smile. however, the "bonnie things" were bought, and it was well he had someone to look after him, else he would have spent money uselessly as well as freely. only, as bob said, "it was but one day in his life, why shouldn't he make the best of it?" he insisted on making his mother a present of a nice little gold watch. no, he _wouldn't_ let her have a silver one, and it _should_ be "set with blue-stones." he would have that one, and no other. "too expensive? no, indeed!" he cried. "make out the bill, master, and i'll knock down my cheque. hurrah! one doesn't get married every morning, and it isn't everybody who gets a girl like sarah when he does get spliced! so there!" archie had told bob and harry of his first dinner at the hotel, and how kind and considerate in every way the waiter had been, and how he had often gone back there to have a talk. "it is there then, and nowhere else," said bob, "we'll have our wedding dinner." archie would not gainsay this; and nothing would satisfy the lucky miner but chartering a whole flat for a week. "that's the way we'll do it," he said; "and now look here, as long as the week lasts, any of your friends can drop into breakfast, dinner, or supper. we are going to do the thing proper, if we sell our best jackets to help to pay the bill. what say, old chummie?" "certainly," said harry; "and if ever i'm fool enough to get married, i'll do the same kind o' thing." a happy thought occurred to archie the day before the marriage. "how much loose cash have you, bob?" "i dunno," said bob, diving his hands into both his capacious pockets-each were big enough to hold a rabbit--and making a wonderful rattling. "i reckon i've enough for to-morrow. it seems deep enough." "well, my friend, hand over." "what!" cried bob, "you want me to bail up?" "bail up!" "you're a downright bushranger, archie. however, i suppose i must obey." then he emptied his pockets into a pile on the table--gold, silver, copper, all in the same heap. archie counted and made a note of all, put part away in a box, locked it, gave bob back a few coins, mostly silver, and stowed the rest in his purse. "now," said archie, "be a good old boy, bob; and if you want any more money, just ask nicely, and perhaps you'll have it." there was a rattling thunder-storm that night, which died away at last far beyond the hills, and next morning broke bright, and cool, and clear. a more lovely marriage morning surely never yet was seen. and in due time the carriages rolled up to the church door, horses and men bedecked in favours, and right merry was the peal that rang forth from saint james's. sarah did not make by any means an uninteresting bride. she had not over-dressed, so that showed she possessed good taste. as for the stalwart northumbrian, big-bearded bob, he really was splendid. he was all a man, i can assure you, and bore himself as such in spite of the fact that his black broadcloth coat was rather wrinkly in places, and that his white kid gloves had burst at the sides. there was a glorious glitter of love and pride in his dark blue eyes as he towered beside sarah at the altar, and he made the responses in tones that rang through all the church. after the ceremony and vestry business bob gave a sigh of relief, and squeezed sarah's hand till she blushed. the carriage was waiting, and a pretty bit of a mob too. and before bob jumped in he said, "now, harry, for the bag." as he spoke he gave a look of triumph towards archie, as much as to say, "see how i have sold you." harry handed him a bag of silver coins. "stand by, you boys, for a scramble," shouted bob in a voice that almost brought down the church. "coo-ee!" and out flew handful after handful, here, there, and everywhere, till the sack was empty. when the carriages got clear away at last, there was a ringing cheer went up from the crowd that really did everybody's heart good to hear. of course the bridegroom stood up and waved his hat back, and when at last he subsided: "och!" he sighed, "that is the correct way to get married. i've got all their good wishes, and they're worth their weight in gold, let alone silver." the carriages all headed away for the heights of north shore, and on to the top of the bay, from whence such a glorious panorama was spread out before them as one seldom witnesses. the city itself was a sight; but there were the hills, and rocks, and woods, and the grand coast line, and last, though not least, the blue sea itself. the breakfast was _al fresco_. it really was a luncheon, and it would have done credit to the wedding of a highland laird or lord, let alone a miner and _quondam_ poacher. but australia is a queer place. bob's money at all events had been honestly come by, and everybody hailed him king of the day. he knew he was king, and simply did as he pleased. here is one example of his abounding liberality. before starting back for town that day he turned to archie, as a prince might turn: "archie, chummie," he said. "you see those boys?" "yes." "well, they all look cheeky." "very much so, bob." "and i dearly love a cheeky boy. scatter a handful of coins among them, and see that there be one or two yellow ones in the lot." "what nonsense!" cried archie; "what extravagant folly, bob!" "all right," said bob quietly. "i've no money, but--" he pulled out his splendid gold hunter. "what are you going to do?" "why, let them scramble for the watch." "no, no, bob; i'll throw the coins." "you have to," said bob, sitting down, laughing. the dinner, and the dance afterwards, were completely successful. there was no over-crowding, and no stuck-up-ness, as bob called it. everybody did what he pleased, and all were as happy and jolly as the night was long. bob did not go away on any particular honeymoon. he told sarah they would have their honeymoon out when they went to the bush. meanwhile, day after day, for a week, the miner bridegroom kept open house for archie's friends; and every morning some delightful trip was arranged, which, faithfully carried out, brought everyone hungry and happy back to dinner. there is more beauty of scenery to be seen around sydney in winter than would take volumes to describe by pen, and acres of canvas to depict; and, after all, both author and artist would have to admit that they had not done justice to their subject. now that he had really found friends--humble though they might be considered in england--life to archie, which before his accident was very grey and hopeless, became bright and clear again. he had a present, and he believed he had a future. he saw new beauties everywhere around him, even in the city; and the people themselves, who in his lonely days seemed to him so grasping, grim, and heartless, began to look pleasant in his eyes. this only proves that we have happiness within our reach if we only let it come to us, and it never will while we sit and sulk, or walk around and growl. bob, with his young wife and archie and harry, made many a pilgrimage all round the city, and up and through the sternly rugged and grand scenery among the blue mountains. nor was it all wild and stern, for valleys were visited, whose beauty far excelled anything else archie had ever seen on earth, or could have dreamt of even. sky, wood, hill, water, and wild flowers all combined to form scenes of loveliness that were entrancing at this sweet season of the year. twenty times a day at least archie was heard saying to himself, "oh, how i wish sister and rupert were here!" then there were delightful afternoons spent in rowing about the bay. i really think bob was taking the proper way to enjoy himself after all. he had made up his mind to spend a certain sum of money on seeing all that was worth seeing, and he set himself to do so in a thoroughly business way. well, if a person has got to do nothing, the best plan is to do it pleasantly. so he would hire one of the biggest, broadest-beamed boats he could find, with two men to row. they would land here and there in the course of the afternoon, and towards sunset get well out into the centre of the bay. this was the time for enjoyment. the lovely chain of houses, the woods, and mansions half hid in a cloudland of soft greens and hazy blues; the far-off hills, the red setting sun, the painted sky, and the water itself casting reflections of all above. then slowly homewards, the chains of lights springing up here, there, and everywhere as the gloaming began to deepen into night. if seeing and enjoying such scenes as these with a contented mind, a good appetite, and the certainty of an excellent dinner on their return, did not constitute genuine happiness, then i do not know from personal experience what that feeling is. but the time flew by. preparations had to be made to leave this fascinating city, and one day archie proposed that bob and he should visit winslow in his suburban villa. chapter seventeen. mr winslow in a different light. "you'll find him a rough stick," said archie. "what, rougher than me or harry?" said bob. "well, as you've put the question i'll answer you pat. i don't consider either you or harry particularly rough. if you're rough you're right, bob, and it is really wonderful what a difference mixing with the world has done for both of you; and if you knew a little more of the rudiments of english grammar, you would pass at a pinch." "thank ye," said bob. "you've got a bit of the bur-r-r of northumbria in your brogue, but i do believe people like it, and harry isn't half the cockney he used to be. but, bob, this man--i wish i could say gentleman--winslow never was, and never could be, anything but a shell-back. he puts me in mind of the warty old lobsters one sees crawling in and out among the rocks away down at the point yonder. "but, oh!" added archie, "what a little angel the daughter is! of course she is only a baby. and what a lovely name--etheldene! isn't it sweet, bob?" "i don't know about the sweetness; there is a good mouthful of it, anyhow." "off you go, bob, and dress. have you darned those holes in your gloves?" "no; bought a new pair." "just like your extravagance. be off!" bob cooper took extra pains with his dressing to-day, and when he appeared at last before his little wife sarah, she turned him round and round and round three times, partly for luck, and partly to look at him with genuine pride up and down. "my eye," she said at last, "you does look stunning! not a pin in sight, nor a string sticking out anywheres. you're going to see a young lady, i suppose; but sarah ain't jealous of her little man. she likes to see him admired." "yes," said bob, laughing; "you've hit the nail straight on the head; i am going to see a young lady. she is fourteen year old, i think. but bless your little bobbing bit o' a heart, lass, it isn't for her i'm dressed. no; i'm going with t' young squire. he may be all the same as us out here, and lets me call him archie. but what are they out here, after all? why, only a set o' whitewashed heathens. no, i must dress for the company i'm in." "and the very young lady--?" "is a miss winslow. i think t' young squire is kind o' gone on her, though she _is_ only a baby. well, good-bye, lass." "good-bye, little man." etheldene ran with smiles and outstretched arms to meet archie, but drew back when she noticed the immense bearded stranger. "it's only bob," said archie. "is your father in?" "yes, and we're all going to have tea out here under the trees." the "all" was not a very large number; only etheldene's governess and father, herself, and a girl playmate. poor etheldene's mother had died in the bush when she was little more than a baby. the rough life had hardly suited her. and this child had been such a little bushranger from her earliest days that her present appearance, her extreme beauty and gentleness, made another of those wonderful puzzles for which australia is notorious. probably etheldene knew more about the blacks, with their strange customs and manners, their curious rites and superstitions, and more about the home life of wallabies, kangaroos, dingoes, birds, insects, and every thing that grew wild, than many a professed naturalist; but she had her own names, or names given by blacks, to the trees and to the wild flowers. while etheldene, somewhat timidly it must be confessed, was leading big bob round the gardens and lawns by the hand as if he were a kind of exaggerated schoolboy, and showing him all her pets--animate and inanimate--her ferns and flowers and birds, winslow himself came upon the scene with the _morning herald_ in his hand. he was dressed--if dressing it could be called--in the same careless manner archie had last seen him. it must be confessed, however, that this semi-negligent style seemed to suit him. archie wondered if ever he had worn a necktie in his life, and how he would look in a dress suit. he lounged up with careless ease, and stuck out his great spade of a hand. archie remembered he was etheldene's father, and shook it. "well, youngster, how are you? bobbish, eh? ah, i see ethie has got in tow with a new chum. your friend? is he now? well, that's the sort of man i like. he's bound to do well in this country. you ain't a bad sort yourself, lad; but nothing to that, no more than a young turkey is to an emu. well, sit down." mr winslow flung himself on the grass. it might be rather damp, but he dared not trust his weight and bulk on a lawn-chair. "so your friend's going to the bush, and going to take you with him, eh?" archie's proud soul rebelled against this way of talking, but he said nothing. it was evident that mr winslow looked upon him as a boy. "well, i hope you'll do right both of you. what prospects have you?" archie told him how high his hopes were, and how exalted his notions. "them's your sentiments, eh? then my advice is this: pitch 'em all overboard--the whole jing-bang of them. your high-flown notions sink you english greenhorns. now, when i all but offered you a position under me--" "under your gardener," said archie, smiling. "well, it's all the same. i didn't mean to insult your father's son. i wanted to know if you had the grit and the go in you." "i think i've both, sir. father--squire broadbent--" "squire fiddlestick!" "sir!" "go on, lad, never mind me. your father--" "my father brought me up to work." "tossing hay, i suppose, raking flower-beds and such. well, you'll find all this different in australian bush-life; it is sink or swim there." "well, i'm going to swim." "bravo, boy!" "and now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in this land of contrariety?" "no," cried winslow, "no, lad. goodness forbid i should give you that impression. if i had only the gift of the gab, and were a good writer, i'd send stuff to this paper," (here he struck the sheet that lay on the grass) "that would show men how i felt, and i'd be a member of the legislature in a year's time. but this is what i say, lad, _brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no good here_, or very little. we want the two combined; but if either are to be left out, why leave out the brains. there is many an english youth of gentle birth and good education that would make wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket his pride, don a workman's jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel. that's it, d'ye see?" "i think i do." "that's right. now tell me about your uncle. dear old man! we never had a cross word all the time i sailed with him." archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last letter to read. by-and-by etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated schoolboy. "sit down, mr cooper, on the grass. that's the style." "well," cried archie, laughing, "if everybody is going to squat on the grass, so shall i." even etheldene laughed at this; and when the governess came, and servants with the tea, they found a very happy family indeed. after due introductions, winslow continued talking to bob. "that's it, you see, mr cooper; and i'm right glad you've come to me for advice. what i don't know about settling in bushland isn't worth knowing, though i say it myself. there are plenty long-headed fellows that have risen to riches very quickly, but i believe, lad, the same men would have made money in their own country. they are the geniuses of finance; fellows with four eyes in their head, and that can look two ways at once. but they are the exception, and the ordinary man needn't expect such luck, because he won't get it. "now there's yourself, mr cooper, and your friend that i haven't seen; you've made a lucky dive at the fields, and you're tired of gold-digging. i don't blame you. you want to turn farmer in earnest. on a small scale you are a capitalist. well, mind, you're going to play a game, in which the very first movement may settle you for good or evil. "go to brisbane. don't believe the chaps here. go straight away up, and take time a bit, and look round. don't buy a pig in a poke. hundreds do. there's a lot of people whose interest is to sell a1 claims, and a shoal of greenhorns with capital who want to buy. now listen. maybe not one of these have any experience. they see speculation in each other's eyes; and if one makes a grab, the other will try to be before him, and very likely the one that lays hold is hoisted. let me put it in another way. hang a hook, with a nice piece of pork on it, overboard where there are sharks. everyone would like the pork, but everyone is shy and suspicious. suddenly a shark, with more speculation in his eye than the others, prepares for a rush, and rather than he shall have it all the rest do just the same, and the lucky one gets hoisted. it's that way with catching capitalists. so i say again, look before you leap. don't run after bargains. they may be good, but--this young fellow here has some knowledge of english farming. well, that is good in its way, very good; and he has plenty of muscle, and is willing to work, that is better. if he were all alone, i'd tell him to go away to the bush and shear sheep, build fences, and drive cattle for eighteen months, and keep his eyes wide open, and his ears too, and he'd get some insight into business. as it is, you're all going together, and you'll all have a look at things. you'll see what sort of stock the country is suited for--sheep, or cattle, or both; if it is exposed, or wet, or day, or forest, or all together. and you'll find out if it be healthy for men and stock, and not 'sour' for either; and also you'll consider what markets are open to you. for there'd be small use in rearing stock you couldn't sell. see?" "yes," said bob; "i see a lot of difficulties in the way i hadn't thought of." "go warily then, and the difficulties will vanish. i think i'll go with you to brisbane," added winslow, after a pause. "i'm getting sick already of civilised life." etheldene threw her arms round her father's neck. "well, birdie, what is it? 'fraid i go and leave you too long?" "you mustn't leave me at all, father. i'm sometimes sick of civilised life. i'm going with you wherever you go." that same evening after dinner, while etheldene was away somewhere with her new friend--showing him, i think, how to throw the boomerang-winslow and archie sat out in the verandah looking at the stars while they sipped their coffee. winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke. "i'm going to ask you a strange question, youngster," he said. "well, sir?" said archie. "suppose i were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would you help me out if you could?" "you needn't ask, sir," said archie. "my uncle's friend." "well, a fifty-pound note would do it." archie had his uncle's draft still with him. he never said a word till he had handed it to winslow, and till this eccentric individual had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets. "but," said archie, "i would rather you would not look upon it as a loan. in fact, i am doubting the evidence of my senses. you--with all the show of wealth i see around me--to be in temporary need of a poor, paltry fifty pounds! verily, sir, this is the land of contrarieties." winslow simply laughed. "you have a lot to learn yet," he said, "my young friend; but i admire your courage, and your generous-heartedness, though not your business habits." archie and bob paid many a visit to wistaria grove--the name of winslow's place--during the three weeks previous to the start from sydney. one day, when alone with archie, winslow thrust an envelope into his hands. "that's your fifty pounds," he said. "why, count it, lad; don't stow it away like that. it ain't business." "why," said archie, "here are three hundred pounds, not fifty pounds!" "it's all yours, lad, every penny; and if you don't put it up i'll put it in the fire." "but explain." "yes, nothing more easy. you mustn't be angry. no? well, then, i knew, from all accounts, you were a chip o' the old block, and there was no use offending your silly pride by offering to lend you money to buy a morsel of claim, so i simply borrowed yours and put it out for you." "put it out for me?" "yes, that's it; and the money is honestly increased. bless your innocence! i could double it in a week. it is making the first thousand pounds that is the difficulty in this country of contrarieties, as you call it." when archie told bob the story that evening, bob's answer was: "well, lad, i knew winslow was a good-hearted fellow the very first day i saw him. never you judge a man by his clothes, archie." "first impressions certainly _are_ deceiving," said archie; "and i'm learning something new every day of my life." -----------------------------------------------------------------------"i am going round to melbourne for a week or two, boys," said winslow one day. "which of you will come with me?" "i'll stop here," said bob, "and stick to business. you had better go, archie." "i would like to, if--if i could afford it." "now, just look here, young man, you stick that eternal english pride of yours in your pocket. i ask you to come with me as a guest, and if you refuse i'll throw you overboard. and if, during our journey, i catch you taking your pride, or your purse either, out of your pocket, i'll never speak another word to you as long as i live." "all right," said archie, laughing; "that settles it. is etheldene going too?" "yes, the child is going. she won't stay away from her old dad. she hasn't a mother, poor thing." regarding archie's visit to victoria, we must let him speak himself another time; for the scene of our story must now shift. chapter eighteen. book iii--in the wild interior. "in this new land of ours." there was something in the glorious lonesomeness of bush-life that accorded most completely with archie's notions of true happiness and independence. his life now, and the lives of all the three, would be simply what they chose to make them. to use the figurative language of the new testament, they had "taken hold of the plough," and they certainly had no intention of "looking back." archie felt (this too is figurative) as the mariner may be supposed to feel just leaving his native shore to sail away over the broad, the boundless ocean to far-off lands. his hand is on the tiller; the shore is receding; his eye is aloft, where the sails are bellying out before the wind. there is hardly a sound, save the creaking of the blocks, or rattle of the rudder chains, the joyous ripple of the water, and the screaming of the sea-birds, that seem to sing their farewells. away ahead is the blue horizon and the heaving sea, but he has faith in his good barque, and faith in his own skill and judgment, and for the time being he is a viking; he is "monarch of all he surveys." "monarch of all he surveys?" yes; these words are borrowed from the poem on robinson crusoe, you remember; that stirring story that so appeals to the heart of every genuine boy. there was something of the robinson crusoe element in archie's present mode of living, for he and his friends had to rough it in the same delightfully primitive fashion. they had to know and to practise a little of almost every trade under the sun; and while life to the boy-he was really little more--was very real and very earnest, it felt all the time like playing at being a man. but how am i to account for the happiness--nay, even joyfulness--that appeared to be infused in the young man's very blood and soul? nay, not appeared to be only, but that actually was--a joyfulness whose effects could at times be actually felt in his very frame and muscle like a proud thrill, that made his steps and tread elastic, and caused him to gaily sing to himself as he went about at his work. may i try to explain this by a little homely experiment, which you yourself may also perform? see, here then i have a small disc of zinc, no larger than a coat button, and i have also a shilling-piece. i place the former on my tongue, and the latter between my lower lip and gum, and lo! the moment i permit the two metallic edges to touch i feel a tingling thrill, and if my eyes be shut i perceive a flash as well. it is electricity passing through the bodily medium--my tongue. the one coin becomes _en rapport_, so to speak, with the other. so in like manner was archie's soul within him _en rapport_ with all the light, the life, the love he saw around him, his body being but the wholesome, healthy, solid medium. _en rapport_ with the light. why, by day this was everywhere--in the sky during its midday blue brightness; in the clouds so gorgeously painted that lay over the hills at early morning, or over the wooded horizon near eventide. _en rapport_ with the light dancing and shimmering in the pool down yonder; playing among the wild flowers that grew everywhere in wanton luxuriance; flickering through the tree-tops, despite the trailing creepers; gleaming through the tender greens of fern fronds in cool places; sporting with the strange fantastic, but brightly-coloured orchids; turning greys to white, and browns to bronze; warming, wooing, beautifying all things--the light, the lovely light. _en rapport_ with the life. ay, there it was. where was it not? in the air, where myriads of insects dance and buzz and sing and poise hawk-like above flowers, as if inhaling their sweetness, or dart hither and thither in their zigzag course, and almost with the speed of lightning; where monster beetles go droning lazily round, as if uncertain where to alight; where moths, like painted fans, hover in the sunshine, or fold their wings and go to sleep on flower-tops. in the forests, where birds, like animated blossoms, living chips of dazzling colours, hop from boughs, climb stems, run along silvery bark on trees, hopping, jumping, tapping, talking, chattering, screaming, with bills that move and throats that heave even when their voices cannot be heard in the feathered babel. life on the ground, where thousands of busy beetles creep, or play hide-and-seek among the stems of tall grass, and where ants innumerable go in search of what they somehow never seem to find. life on the water slowly sailing round, or in and out among the reeds, in the form of bonnie velvet ducks and pretty spangled teal. life in the water, where shoals of fish dart hither and thither, or rest for a moment in shallows to bask in the sun, their bodies all a-quiver with enjoyment. life in the sky itself, high up. behold that splendid flock of wonga-wonga pigeons, with bronzen wings, that seem to shake the sunshine off them in showers of silver and gold, or, lower down, that mob of snowy-breasted cockatoos, going somewhere to do something, no doubt, and making a dreadful din about it, but quite a sight, if only from the glints of lily and rose that appear in the white of their outstretched wings and tails. life everywhere. _en rapport_ with all the love around him. yes, for it is spring here, though the autumn tints are on the trees in groves and woods at burley. deep down in the forest yonder, if you could penetrate without your clothes being torn from your back, you might listen to the soft murmur of the doves that stand by their nests in the green gloom of fig trees; you would linger long to note the love passages taking place among the cosy wee, bright, and bonnie parrakeets; you would observe the hawk flying silently, sullenly, home to his castle in the inaccessible heights of the gum trees, but you would go quickly past the forest dens of lively cockatoos. for everywhere it is spring with birds and beasts. they have dressed in their gayest; they have assumed their fondest notes and cries; they live and breathe and buzz in an atmosphere of happiness and love. well, it was spring with nature, and it was spring in archie's heart. work was a pleasure to him. that last sentence really deserves a line to itself. without the ghost of an intention to moralise, i must be permitted to say, that the youth who finds an undoubted pleasure in working is sure to get on in australia. there is that in the clear, pure, dry air of the back bush which renders inactivity an impossibility to anyone except ne'er-do-wells and born idiots. this is putting it strongly, but it is also putting it truthfully. archie felt he had done with sydney, for a time at all events, when he left. he was not sorry to shake the dust of the city from his half-wellingtons as he embarked on the _canny scotia_, bound for brisbane. if the winslows had not been among the passengers he certainly would have given vent to a sigh or two. all for the sake of sweet little etheldene? yes, for her sake. was she not going to be rupert's wife, and his own second sister? oh, he had it all nicely arranged, all cut and dry, i can assure you! here is a funny thing, but it is also a fact. the very day that the _canny scotia_ was to sail, archie took harry with him, and the two started through the city, and bore up for the shop of mr glorie. they entered. it was like entering a gloomy vault. nothing was altered. there stood the rows on rows of dusty bottles, with their dingy gilt labels; the dusty mahogany drawers; the morsel of railinged desk with its curtain of dirty red; there were the murky windows with their bottles of crusted yellows and reds; and up there the identical spider still working away at his dismal web, still living in hopes apparently of some day being able to catch a fly. the melancholy-looking new apprentice, who had doubtless paid the new premium, a long lantern-jawed lad with great eyes in hollow sockets, and a blue-grey face, stood looking at the pair of them. "where is your master, mr--?" "mr myers, sir. myers is my name." "where is mr glorie, mr myers?" "d'ye wish to see'm, sir?" "don't it seem like it?" cried harry, who for the life of him "could not help putting his oar in." "master's at the back, among--the soap." he droned out the last words in such a lugubrious tone that archie felt sorry for him. just then, thinking perhaps he scented a customer, mr glorie himself entered, all apron from the jaws to the knees. "ah! mr glorie," cried archie. "i really couldn't leave sydney without saying ta-ta, and expressing my sorrow for breaking--" "your indenture, young sir?" "no; i'm glad i broke that. i mean the oil-jar. here is a sovereign towards it, and i hope there's no bad feeling." "oh, no, not in the least, and thank you, sir, kindly!" "well, good-bye. good-bye mr myers. if ever i return from the bush i'll come back and see you." and away they went, and away went archie's feeling of gloom as soon as he got to the sunny side of the street. "i say," said harry, "that's a lively coon behind the counter. looks to me like a love-sick bandicoot, or a consumptive kangaroo. but don't you know there is such a thing as being too honest? now that old death-and-glory chap robbed you, and had it been me, and i'd called again, it would have been to kick him. but you're still the old johnnie." -----------------------------------------------------------------------now if i were writing all this tale from imagination, instead of sketching the life and struggles of a real live laddie, i should have ascended into the realms of romance, and made a kind of hero of him thus: he should have gone straight away to the bank when he received that 50 pounds from his uncle, and sent it back, and then gone off to the bush with twopence halfpenny in his pocket, engaged himself to a squatter as under-man, and worked his way right up to the pinnacle of fortune. but archie had not done that; and between you and me and the binnacle, not to let it go any further, i think he did an extremely sensible thing in sticking to the money. oh, but plenty of young men who do not have uncles to send them fifty-pound notes to help them over their first failures, do very well without such assistance! so let no intending emigrant be disheartened. again, as to winslow's wild way of borrowing said 50 pounds, and changing it into 300 pounds, that was another "fluke," and a sort of thing that might never happen again in a hundred years. pride did come in again, however, with a jump--with a gay northumbrian bound--when bob and harry seriously proposed that johnnie, as the latter still called him, should put his money in the pool, and share and share alike with them. "no, no, no," said the young squire, "don't rile me; that would be so obviously unfair to _you_, that it would be unfair to _myself_." when asked to explain this seeming paradox, he added: "because it would rob me of my feeling of independence." so the matter ended. but through the long-headed kindness and business tact of winslow, all three succeeded in getting farms that adjoined, though archie's was but a patch compared to the united great farms of his chums, that stretched to a goodly two thousand acres and more, with land beyond to take up as pasture. but then there was stock to buy, and tools, and all kinds of things, to say nothing of men's and boys' wages to be paid, and arms and ammunition to help to fill the larder. at this time the railway did not go sweeping away so far west as it does now, the colony being very much younger, and considerably rougher; and the farms lay on the edge of the darling downs. this was a great advantage, as it gave them the run of the markets without having to pay nearly as much in transit and freight as the stock was worth. they had another advantage in their selection--thanks once more to winslow--they had bush still farther to the west of them. not adjacent, to be sure, but near enough to make a shift of stock to grass lands, that could be had for an old song, as the saying is. the selection was procured under better conditions than i believe it is to be had to-day; for the rent was only about ninepence an acre, and that for twenty years, the whole payable at any time in order to obtain complete possession. [at present agricultural farms may be selected of not more than 1280 acres, and the rent is fixed by the land board, not being less than threepence per acre per annum. a licence is issued to the selector, who must, within five years, fence in the land or make permanent improvements of a value equal to the cost of the fence, and must also live on the selection. if at the end of that time he can prove that he has performed the above conditions, he will be entitled to a transferable lease for fifty years. the rent for the first ten years will be the amount as at first fixed, and the rent for every subsequent period of five years will be determined by the land board, but the greatest increase that can be made at any re-assessment is fifty per cent.] it must not be imagined that this new home of theirs was a land flowing with milk and honey, or that they had nothing earthly to do but till the ground, sow seed, and live happy ever after. indeed the work to be performed was all earthly, and the milk and honey had all to come. a deal of the very best land in australia is covered with woods and forests, and clearing has to be done. bob wished his busy little body of a wife to stay behind in brisbane till he had some kind of a decent crib, as he called it, ready to invite her to. but sarah said, "no! where you go i go. your crib shall be my crib, bob, and i shall bake the damper." this was not very poetical language, but there was a good deal of sound sense about sarah, even if there was but little poetry. well, it did seem at first a disheartening kind of wilderness they had come to, but the site for the homesteads had been previously selected, and after a night's rest in their rude tents and waggons, work was commenced. right joyfully too,-"down with them! down with the lords of the forests." this was the song of our pioneers. men shouted and talked, and laughed and joked, saws rasped and axes rang, and all the while duty went merrily on. birds find beasts, never disturbed before in the solitude of their homes, except by wandering blacks, crowded round--only keeping a safe distance away--and wondered whatever the matter could be. the musical magpies, or laughing jackasses, said they would soon settle the business; they would frighten those new chums out of their wits, and out of the woods. so they started to do it. they laughed in such loud, discordant, daft tones that at times archie was obliged to put his fingers in his ears, and guns had to be fired to stop the row. so they were not successful. the cockatoos tried the same game; they cackled and skraighed like a million mad hens, and rustled and ruffled their plumage, and flapped their wings and flew, but all to no purpose--the work went on. the beautiful lorries, parrakeets, and budgerigars took little notice of the intruders, but went farther away, deserting half-built nests to build new ones. the bonnie little long-tailed opossum peeped down from his perch on the gums, looking exceedingly wise, and told his wife that not in all his experience had there been such goings on in the forest lands, and that something was sure to follow it; his wife might mark his words for that. the wonga-wongas grumbled dreadfully; but great hawks flew high in the air, swooping round and round against the sun, as they have a habit of doing, and now and then gave vent to a shrill cry which was more of exultation than anything else. "there will be dead bones to pick before long." that is what the hawks thought. snakes now and then got angrily up, puffed and blew a bit, but immediately decamped into the denser cover. the dingoes kept their minds to themselves until night fell, and the stars came out; the constellation called the southern cross spangled the heaven's dark blue, then the dingoes lifted up their voices and wept; and, oh, such weeping! whoso has never heard a concert of australian wild dogs can have no conception of the noise these animals are capable of. whoso has once heard it, and gone to sleep towards the end of it, will never afterwards complain of the harmless musical reunions of our london cats. but sleep is often impossible. you have got just to lie in bed and wonder what in the name of mystery they do it for. they seem to quarrel over the key-note, and lose it, and try for it, and get it again, and again go off into a chorus that would "ding doon" tantallan castle. and when you do doze off at last, as likely as not, you will dream of howling winds and hungry wolves till it is grey daylight in the morning. chapter nineteen. burley new farm. there was so much to be done before things could be got "straight" on the new station, that the days and weeks flew by at a wonderful pace. i pity the man or boy who is reduced to the expedient of killing time. why if one is only pleasantly and usefully occupied, or engaged in interesting pursuits, time kills itself, and we wonder where it has gone to. if i were to enter into a minute description of the setting-up of the stock and agricultural farm, chapter after chapter would have to be written, and still i should not have finished. i do not think it would be unprofitable reading either, nor such as one would feel inclined to skip. but as there are a deal of different ways of building and furnishing new places the plan adopted by the three friends might not be considered the best after all. besides, improvements are taking place every day even in bush-life. however, in the free-and-easy life one leads in the bush one soon learns to feel quite independent of the finer arts of the upholsterer. in that last sentence i have used the adjective "easy;" but please to observe it is adjoined to another hyphenically, and becomes one with it--"free-and-easy." there is really very little ease in the bush. nor does a man want it or care for it--he goes there to work. loafers had best keep to cities and to city life, and look for their _little_ enjoyments in parks and gardens by day, in smoke-filled billiard-rooms or glaringly-lighted music-halls by night, go to bed at midnight, and make a late breakfast on rusks and soda-water. we citizens of the woods and wilds do not envy them. we go to bed with the birds, or soon after. we go to sleep, no matter how hard our couches may be; and we do sleep too, and wake with clear heads and clean tongues, and after breakfast feel that nothing in the world will be a comfort to us but work. yes, men work in the bush; and, strange to say, though they go there young, they do not appear to grow quickly old. grey hairs may come, and nature may do a bit of etching on their brows and around their eyes with the pencil of time, but this does not make an atom of difference to their brains and hearts. these get a trifle tougher, that is all, but no older. well, of the three friends i think archie made the best bushman, though bob came next, then harry, who really had developed his powers of mind and body wonderfully, which only just proves that there is nothing after all, even for a cockney, like rubbing shoulders against a rough world. a dozen times a week at least archie mentally thanked his father for having taught him to work at home, and for the training he had received in riding to hounds, in tramping over the fields and moors with branson, in gaining practical knowledge at the barn-yards, and last, though not least, in the good, honest, useful groundwork of education received from his tutor walton. there was something else that archie never failed to feel thankful to heaven for, and that was the education his mother had given him. remember this: archie was but a rough, harum-scarum kind of a british boy at best, and religious teaching might have fallen on his soul as water falls on a duck's back, to use a homely phrase. but as a boy he had lived in an atmosphere of refinement. he constantly breathed it till he became imbued with it; and he received the influence also second-hand, or by reflection, from his brother rupert and his sister. often and often in the bush, around the log fire of an evening, did archie speak proudly of that beloved twain to his companions. his language really had, at times, a smack of real, downright innocence about it, as when he said to bob once: "mind you, bob, i never was what you might call good. i said, and do say, my prayers, and all the like of that; but roup and elsie were so high above me that, after coming in from a day's work or a day on the hill, it used to be like going into church on a week-day to enter the green parlour. i felt my own mental weakness, and i tried to put off my soul's roughness with my dirty boots in the kitchen." but archie was now an excellent superintendent of work. he knew when things were being well done, and he determined they should be. nothing riled him more than an attempt on the part of any of the men to take advantage of him. they soon came to know him; not as a tyrant, but simply as one who would have things rightly done, and who knew when they _were_ being rightly done, even if it were only so apparently simple a matter as planting a fence-post; for there is a right way and a wrong way of doing that. the men spoke of him as the young boss. harry being ignored in all matters that required field-knowledge. "we don't want nary a plumbline," said a man once, "when the young boss's around. he carries a plumbline in his eye." archie never let any man know when he was angry; but they knew afterwards, however, that he had been so from the consequences. yet with all his strictness he was kind-hearted, and very just. he had the happy gift of being able to put himself in the servant's place while judging betwixt man and master. communications were constantly kept up between the station and the railway, by means of waggons, or drays and saddle-horses. among the servants were several young blacks. these were useful in many ways, and faithful enough; but required keeping in their places. to be in any way familiar with them was to lose their respect, and they were not of much consequence after that. when completed, the homestead itself was certainly not devoid of comfort, though everything was of the homeliest construction; for no large amount of money was spent in getting it up. a scotchman would describe it as consisting of "twa butts and a ben," with a wing at the back. the capital letter l, laid down longways thus--i will give you some notion of its shape. there were two doors in front, and four windows, and a backdoor in the after wing, also having windows. the wing portion of the house contained the kitchen and general sitting-room; the right hand portion the best rooms, ladies' room included, but a door and passage communicated with these and the kitchen. this house was wholly built of sawn wood, but finished inside with lath and plaster, and harled outside, so that when roofed over with those slabs of wood, such as we see some old-english church steeples made of, called "shingles," the building was almost picturesque. all the more so because it was built on high ground, and trees were left around and near it. the kitchen and wing were _par excellence_ the bachelor apartments, of an evening at all events. every thing that was necessary in the way of furnishing found its way into the homestead of burley new farm; but nothing else, with the exception of that of the guests'-room. of this more anon. the living-house was completed first; but all the time that this was being built men were very busy on the clearings, and the sites were mapped out for the large wool-shed, with huge adjoining yards, where the sheep at shearing-time would be received and seen to. there were also the whole paraphernalia and buildings constituting the cattle and horse-yards, a killing and milking-yard; and behind these were slab huts, roofed with huge pieces of bark, rudely but most artistically fixed, for the men. these last had fire-places, and though wholly built of wood, there was no danger of fire, the chimneys being of stone. most of the yards and outhouses were separate from each other, and the whole steading was built on elevated ground, the store-hut being not far from the main or dwelling-house. i hardly know what to liken the contents of this store, or the inside of the place itself, to. not unlike perhaps the half-deck or fore-cabin of a greenland ship on the day when stores are being doled out to the men. or, to come nearer home, if ever the reader has been in a remote and rough part of our own country, say wales or scotland, where gangs of navvies have been encamped for a time, at a spot where a new line of railway is being pushed through a gully or glen. just take a peep inside. there is a short counter of the rudest description, on which stand scales and weights, measures and knives. larger scales stand on the floor, and everywhere around you are heaps of stores, of every useful kind you could possibly name or imagine, and these are best divided into four classes--eatables, wearables, luxuries, and tools. harry is at home here, and he has managed to infuse a kind of regularity into the place, and takes a sort of pride in knowing where all his wares are stored. the various departments are kept separate. yonder, for instance, stand the tea, coffee, and cocoa-nibs, and near them the sugar of two kinds, the bags of flour, the cheeses (in boxes), the salt (in casks), soda, soap, and last, but not least, the tobacco and spirits; this last in a place by itself, and well out of harm's way. then there is oil and candles--by-and-bye they will make these on the farm-matches--and this brings us to the luxuries--mustard, pepper of various sorts, vinegar, pickles, curry, potted salmon, and meats of many kinds, and bags of rice. next there is a small store of medicines of the simplest, not to say roughest, sorts, both for man and beast, and rough bandages of flannel and cotton, with a bundle of splints. then comes clothing of all kinds--hats, shirts, jackets, boots, shoes, etc. then tools and cooking utensils; and in a private cupboard, quite away in a corner, the ammunition. it is unnecessary to add that harness and horse-shoes found a place in this store, or that a desk stood in one corner where account-books were kept, for the men did not invariably pay down on the nail. i think it said a good deal for sarah's courage that she came right away down into the bush with her "little man," and took charge of the cooking department on the station, when it was little, if any, better than simply a camp, with waggons for bedrooms, and a morsel of canvas for gentility's sake. but please to pop your head inside the kitchen, now that the dwelling-house has been up for some little time. before you reach the door you will have to do a bit of stepping, for outside nothing is tidied up as yet. heaps of chips, heaps of stones and sticks and builders' rubbish, are everywhere. even when you get inside there is a new smell--a limy odour--to greet you in the passage, but in the kitchen itself all is order and neatness. a huge dresser stands against the wall just under the window. the legs of it are a bit rough to be sure, but nobody here is likely to be hypercritical; and when the dinner-hour arrives, instead of the vegetables, meat, and odds-and-ends that now stand thereon, plates, and even knives and forks, will be neatly placed in a row, and sarah herself, her cooking apron replaced by a neater and nattier one, will take the head of the table, one of the boys will say a shy kind of grace, and the meal will go merrily on. on a shelf, slightly raised above the floor, stand rows of clean saucepans, stewpans, and a big, family-looking business of a frying-pan; and on the wall hang bright, shining dish-covers, and a couple of racks and shelves laden with delf. a good fire of logs burns on the low hearth, and there, among ashes pulled on one side for the purpose, a genuine "damper" is baking, while from a movable "sway" depends a chain and crook, on which latter hangs a pot. this contains corned beef--very well, call it _salt_ if you please. anyhow, when sarah lifts the lid to stick a fork into the boiling mess an odour escapes and pervades the kitchen quite appetising enough to make the teeth of a bushman water, if he had done anything like a morning's work. there is another pot close by the fire, and in this sweet potatoes are boiling. it is a warm spring day, and the big window is open to admit the air, else poor sarah would be feeling rather uncomfortable. what is "damper"? it is simply a huge, thick cake or loaf, made from extremely well-kneaded dough, and baked in the hot ashes of the hearth. like making good oat cakes, before a person can manufacture a "damper" properly, he must be in a measure to the manner born. there is a deal in the mixing of the dough, and much in the method of firing, and, after all, some people do not care for the article at all, most useful and handy and even edible though it be. but i daresay there are individuals to be found in the world who would turn up their noses at good oat cake. ah, well, it is really surprising what the air of the australian bush does in the way of increasing one's appetite and destroying fastidiousness. but it is near the dinner-hour, and right nimbly sarah serves it up; and she has just time to lave her face and hands, and change her apron, when in comes bob, followed by archie and harry. before he sits down bob catches hold of sarah by both hands, and looks admiringly into her face, and ends by giving her rosy cheek a kiss, which resounds through the kitchen rafters like the sound of a cattle-man's whip. "i declare, sarah lass," he says heartily, "you are getting prettier and prettier every day. now at this very moment your lips and cheeks are as red as peonies, and your eyes sparkle as brightly as a young kangaroo's; and if any man a stone heavier than myself will make bold to say that i did wrong to marry you on a week's courtship, i'll kick him over the river and across the creek. 'for what we are about to receive, the lord make us truly thankful. amen.' sit in, boys, and fire away. this beef is delightful. i like to see the red juice following the knife; and the sweet potatoes taste well, if they don't look pretty. what, sarah, too much done? not a bit o' them." -----------------------------------------------------------------------the creek that bob talked about kicking somebody across was a kind of strath or glen not very far from the steading, and lying below it, green and luxuriant at present. it wound away up and down the country for miles, and in the centre of it was a stream or river or burn, well clothed on its banks with bush, and opening out here and there into little lakes or pools. this stream was--so old bushmen said--never known to run dry. in the winter time it would at times well merit the name of river, especially when after a storm a "spate" came down, with a bore perhaps feet high, carrying along in its dreadful rush tree trunks, rocks, pieces of bank--everything, in fact, that came in its way, or attempted to withstand its giant power. "spates," however, our heroes hoped would come but seldom; for it is sad to see the ruin they make, and to notice afterwards the carcases of sheep and cattle, and even horses, that bestrew the haughs, or banks, and give food to prowling dingoes and birds of the air, especially the ubiquitous crow. the ordinary state of the water, however, is best described by the word stream or rivulet, while in droughty summers it might dwindle down to a mere burn meandering from pool to pool. the country all around was plain and forest and rolling hills. it was splendidly situated for grazing of a mixed kind. but our three friends were not to be content with this, and told off the best part of it for future agricultural purposes. even this was to be but a nucleus, and at this moment much of the land then untilled is yielding abundance of grain. not until the place was well prepared for them were cattle bought and brought home. sheep were not to be thought of for a year or two. with the cattle, when they began to arrive, winslow, who was soon to pay the new settlement a visit, sent up a few really good stockmen. and now archie was to see something of bush-life in reality. chapter twenty. runaway stock--bivouac in the bush-night scene. australian cattle have one characteristic in common with some breeds of pigeons, notably with those we call "homers." they have extremely good memories as to localities, and a habit of "making back," as it is termed, to the pastures from which they have been driven. this comes to be very awkward at times, especially if a whole herd decamps or takes "a moonlight flitting." it would be mere digression to pause to enquire what god-given instinct it is, that enables half-wild cattle to find their way back to their old homes in as straight a line as possible, even when they have been driven to a new station by circuitous routes. many other animals have this same homing power; dogs for example, and, to a greater extent, cats. swallows and sea-birds, such as the arctic gull, and the albatross, possess it in a very high degree; but it is still more wonderfully displayed in fur seals that, although dispersed to regions thousands and thousands of miles away during winter, invariably and unerringly find their road back to a tiny group of wave and wind-swept islands, four in number, called the prybilov group, in the midst of the fog-shrouded sea of behring. the whole question wants a deal of thinking out, and life is far too short to do it in. -----------------------------------------------------------------------one morning, shortly after the arrival of the first great herd of stock, word was brought to head-quarters that the cattle had escaped by stampede, and were doubtless on their way to the distant station whence they had been bought. it was no time to ask the question, who was in fault? early action was necessary, and was provided for without a moment's hesitation. i rather think that archie was glad to have an opportunity of doing a bit of rough riding, and showing off his skill in horse management. he owned what bob termed a clipper. not a very handsome horse to look at, perhaps, but fleet enough and strong enough for anything. as sure-footed as a mule was this steed, and as regards wisdom, a perfect equine solomon. at a suggestion of bob's he had been named tell, in memory of the tell of other days. tell had been ridden by archie for many weeks, so that master and horse knew each other well. indeed archie had received a lesson or two from the animal that he was not likely to forget; for one day he had so far forgotten himself as to dig the rowel into tell's sides, when there was really no occasion to do anything of the sort. this was more than the horse could stand, and, though he was not an out-and-out buck-jumper, nevertheless, a moment after the stirrup performance, archie found himself making a voyage of discovery, towards the moon apparently. he descended as quickly almost as he had gone up, and took the ground on his shoulder and cheek, which latter was well skinned. tell had stood quietly by looking at him, and as archie patted him kindly, he forgave him on the spot, and permitted a remount. archie and bob hardly permitted themselves to swallow breakfast, so anxious were they to join the stockmen and be off. as there was no saying when they might return, they did not go unprovided for a night or two out. in front of their saddles were strapped their opossum rugs, and they carried also a tin billy each, and provisions, in the shape of tea, damper, and cooked corned beef; nothing else, save a change of socks and their arms. bob bade his wife a hurried adieu, archie waved his hand, and next minute they were over the paddocks and through the clearings and the woods, in which the trees had been ring-barked, to permit the grass to grow. and such tall grass archie had never before seen as that which grew in some parts of the open. "is it going to be a long job, think you, bob?" "i hardly know, archie. but craig is here." "oh, yes, gentleman craig, as mr winslow insists on calling him! you have seen him." "yes; i met him at brisbane. and a handsome chap he is. looks like a prince." "isn't it strange he doesn't rise from the ranks, as one might say; that he doesn't get on?" "i'll tell you what keeps him back," said bob, reining his horse up to a dead stop, that archie might hear him all the easier. "i'll tell you what keeps him back now, before you see him. i mustn't talk loud, for the very birds might go and tell the fellow, and he doesn't like to be 'minded about it. he drinks!" "but he can't get drink in the bush." "not so easily, though he has been known before now to ride thirty miles to visit a hotel." "a shanty, you mean." "well, they call 'em all hotels over here, you must remember." "and would he just take a drink and come back?" bob laughed. "heaven help him, no. it isn't one drink, nor ten, nor fifty he takes, for he makes a week or two of it." "i hope he won't take any such long rides while he is with us." "no. winslow says we are sure of him for six months, anyhow. then he'll go to town and knock his cheque down. but come on, craig and his lads will be waiting for us." at the most southerly and easterly end of the selection they met gentleman craig himself. he rode forward to meet them, lifting his broad hat, and reining up when near enough. he did this in a beautifully urbane fashion, that showed he had quite as much respect for himself as for his employers. he was indeed a handsome fellow, and his rough garibaldian costume fitted him, and set him out as if he had been some great actor. "this is an awkward business," he began, with an easy smile; "but i think we'll soon catch the runaways up." "i hope so," bob said. "oh, it was all my fault, because i'm boss of my gang, you know. i ought to have known better, but a small mob of stray beasts got among ours, and by-and-by there was a stampede. it was dirty-dark last night, and looked like a storm, so there wouldn't have been an ounce of use in following them up." he flicked his long whip half saucily, half angrily, as he spoke. "well, never mind," bob replied, "we'll have better luck next, i've no doubt." away they went now at a swinging trot, and on crossing the creek they met craig's fellows. they laid their horses harder at it now, bob and archie keeping a bit in the rear, though the latter declared that tell was pulling like a young steam-engine. "why," cried archie at last, "this beast means to pull my arms out at the shoulders. i always thought i knew how to hold the reins till now." "they have a queer way with them, those bush-ranging horses," said bob; "but i reckon you'll get up to them at last." "if i were to give tell his head, he would soon be in the van." "in the van? oh, i see, in the front!" "yes; and then i'd be lost. why these chaps appear to know every inch of the ground. to me it is simply marvellous." "well, the trees are blazed." "i've seen no blazed trees. have you?" "never a one. i say, craig." "hullo!" cried the head stockman, glancing over his shoulder. "are you steering by blazed trees?" "no," he laughed; "by tracks. cattle don't mind blazed trees much." perhaps bob felt green now, for he said no more. archie looked about him, but never a trail nor track could he decipher. yet on they rode, helter-skelter apparently, but cautiously enough for all that. tell was full of fire and fun; for, like verdant green's horse, when put at a tiny tree trunk in his way, he took a leap that would have carried him over a five-bar-gate. there was many a storm-felled tree in the way also and many a dead trunk, half buried in ferns; there were steep stone-clad hills, difficult to climb, but worse to descend, and many a little rivulet to cross; but nothing could interfere with the progress of these hardy horses. although the sun was blazing hot, no one seemed to feel it much. the landscape was very wild, and very beautiful; but archie got weary at last of its very loveliness, and was not one whit sorry when the afternoon halt was called under the pleasant shade of trees, and close by the banks of a rippling stream. the horses were glad to drink as well as the men, then they were hobbled, and allowed to browse while all hands sat down to eat. only damper and beef, washed down by a billyful of the clear water, which, strange to say, was wonderfully cool. when the sun was sinking low on the forest-clad horizon, there was a joyful but half-suppressed shout from craig and his men. part of the herd was in sight, quietly browsing up a creek. gentleman craig pointed them out to archie; but he had to gaze a considerable time before he could really distinguish anything that had the faintest resemblance to cattle. "your eye is young yet to the bush," said craig, laughing, but not in any unmannerly way. "and now," he continued, "we must go cautiously or we spoil all." the horsemen made a wide detour, and got between the bush and the mob; and the ground being favourable, here it was determined to camp for the night. the object of the stockmen was not to alarm the herd, but to prevent them from getting any farther off till morning, when the march homewards would commence. with this intent, log fires were built here and there around the herd; and once these were well alight the mob was considered pretty safe. all, however, had been done very quietly; and during the livelong night, until grey dawn broke over the hills, the fellows would have to keep those fires burning. supper was a more pleasing meal, for there was the addition of tea; after which, with their feet to the log fire--bob and craig enjoying a whiff of tobacco--they lay as much at their ease, and feeling every whit as comfortable, as if at home by the "ingleside." gentleman craig had many stories and anecdotes to relate of the wild life he had had, that both archie and bob listened to with delight. "i'll take one more walk around," said craig, "then stretch myself on my downy bed. will you come with me, mr broadbent?" "with pleasure," said archie. "mind how you step then. keep your whip in your hand, but on no account crack it. we have to use our intellect _versus_ brute force. if the brute force became alarmed and combined, then our intellect would go to the wall, there would be another stampede, and another long ride to-morrow." up and down in the starlight, or by the fitful gleams of the log fires, they could see the men moving like uneasy ghosts. craig spoke a word or two kindly and quietly as he passed, and having made his inspection, and satisfied himself that all was comparatively safe, he returned with archie to the fire. bob was already fast asleep, rolled snugly in his blanket, with his head in the hollow of his upturned saddle; and archie and craig made speed to follow his example. as for craig, he was soon in the land of nod. he was a true bushman, and could go off sound as a bell the moment he stretched himself on his "downy bed," as he called it. but archie felt the situation far too new to permit of slumber all at once. he had never lain out thus before; and the experience was so delightful to him that he felt justified in lying awake a bit, and looking at the stars. the distant dingoes began to howl, and more than once some great dark bird flew over the camp, high overhead, but on silent wings. his thoughts wandered away over the thousands and thousands of miles that intervened between him and home, and he began to wonder what they were all doing at burley; for it would be broad daylight there, and very likely his father was trudging over the moors, or through the stubbles. but dreams came and mingled with his waking thoughts at last, and were just usurping them all when he became conscious of the approach of stealthy footsteps. he lay perfectly still, though his hand sought his ready revolver; for stories of black fellows stealing on out-sleeping travellers began to crowd through his mind, and being young to the bush, he could not prevent that heart of his from throbbing uneasily and painfully against his ribs. how did they brain people, he was wondering, with a boomerang or nullah? or was it not more common to spear them? but, greatly to his relief, the figure immediately afterwards revealed itself in the person of one of the men, silently placing an armful of wood on the half-dying embers. then he silently glided away again, and next minute archie was wrapt in the elysium of forgetfulness. the dews lay all about, glittering in the first beams of the sun, when he awoke, feeling somewhat cold and considerably stiff; but warm tea and a breakfast of wondrous solidity soon put him all to rights again. two nights after this the new stock was safe in the yards; and every evening before sundown, for many a day to come, they had to be "tailed," and brought within the strong bars of the rendezvous. branding was the next business. this is no trifling matter with old cattle. with the calves indeed it is a bit troublesome at times, but the grown-up ones resent the adding of insult to injury. it is no uncommon thing for men to be severely injured during the operation. nevertheless the agility displayed by the stockmen and their excessive coolness is marvellous to behold. most of those cattle were branded with a "b.h.," which stood for bob and harry; but some were marked with the letters "a.b.," for archibald broadbent, and--i need not hide the truth--archie was a proud young man when he saw these marks. he realised now fully that he had commenced life in earnest, and was a squatter, not only in name, but in reality. the fencing work and improvements still went gaily on, the ground being divided into immense paddocks, many of which our young farmers trusted to see ere long covered with waving grain. the new herds soon got used to the country, and settled down on it, dividing themselves quietly into herds of their own making, that were found browsing together mornings and evenings in the best pastures, or gathered in mobs during the fierce heat of the middle-day. archie quickly enough acquired the craft of a cunning and bold stockman, and never seemed happier than when riding neck and neck with some runaway semi-wild bull, or riding in the midst of a mob, selecting the beast that was wanted. and at a job like the latter tell and he appeared to be only one individual betwixt the two of them, like the fabled centaur. he came to grief though once, while engaged heading a bull in as ugly a bit of country as any stockman ever rode over. it happened. next chapter, please. chapter twenty one. a wild adventure--archie's pride receives a fall. it happened--i was going to say at the end of the other page--that in a few weeks' time mr winslow paid his promised visit to burley new farm, as the three friends called it. great preparations had been made beforehand because etheldene was coming with her father, and was accompanied by a black maid. both etheldene and her maid had been accommodated with a dray, and when sarah, with her cheeks like ripe cherries, and her eyes like sloes, showed the young lady to her bedroom, etheldene was pleased to express her delight in no measured terms. she had not expected anything like this. real mattresses, with real curtains, a real sofa, and real lace round the looking-glass. "it is almost too good for bush-life," said etheldene; "but i am so pleased, mrs cooper; and everything is as clean and tidy as my own rooms in sydney. father, do come and see all this, and thank mrs cooper prettily." somewhat to archie's astonishment a horse was led round next morning for etheldene, and she appeared in a pretty dark habit, and was helped into the saddle, and gathered up the reins, and looked as calm and self-possessed as a princess could have done. it was gentleman craig who was the groom, and a gallant one he made. for the life of him archie could not help envying the man for his excessive coolness, and would have given half of his cattle--those with the bold "a.b.'s" on them--to have been only half as handsome. never mind. archie is soon mounted, and cantering away by the young lady's side, and feeling so buoyant and happy all over that he would not have exchanged places with a king on a throne. "oh, yes," said etheldene, laughing, as she replied to a question of archie's, "i know nearly everything about cattle, and sheep too! but," she added, "i'm sure you are clever among them already." archie felt the blood mount to his forehead; but he took off his broad hat and bowed for the compliment, almost as prettily as gentleman craig could have done himself. now, there is such a thing as being too clever, and it was trying to be clever that led poor archie to grief that day. the young man was both proud and pleased to have an opportunity of showing etheldene round the settlement, all the more so that there was to be a muster of the herds that day, and neighbour-squatters had come on horseback to assist. this was a kind of a love-darg which was very common in queensland a few years ago, and probably is to this day. archie pointed laughingly towards the stock whip etheldene carried. he never for a moment imagined it was in the girl's power to use or manage such an instrument. "that is a pretty toy, miss winslow," he said. "toy, do you call it, sir?" said this young diana, pouting prettily. "it is only a lady's whip, for the thong is but ten feet long. but listen." it flew from her hands as she spoke, and the sound made every animal within hearing raise head and sniff the air. "well," said archie, "i hope you won't run into any danger." "oh," she exclaimed, "danger is fun!" and she laughed right merrily, and looked as full of life and beauty as a bird in spring time. etheldene was tall and well-developed for her age, for girls in this strange land very soon grow out of their childhood. archie had called her diana in his own mind, and before the day was over she certainly had given proof that she well merited the title. new herds had arrived, and had for one purpose or another to be headed into the stock yards. this is a task of no little difficulty, and to-day being warm these cattle appeared unusually fidgety. twos and threes frequently stampeded from the mob, and went determinedly dashing back towards the creek and forest, so there was plenty of opportunities for anyone to show off his horsemanship. once during a chase like this archie was surprised to see etheldene riding neck and neck for a time with a furious bull. he trembled for her safety as he dashed onwards to her assistance. but crack, crack, crack went the brave girl's whip; she punished the runaway most unmercifully, and had succeeded in turning him ere her northumbrian cavalier rode up. a moment more and the bull was tearing back towards the herd he had left, a stockman or two following close behind. "i was frightened for you," said archie. "pray, don't be so, mr broadbent. i don't want to think myself a child, and i should not like you to think me one. mind, i've been in the bush all my life." but there was more and greater occasion to be frightened for etheldene ere the day was done. in fact, she ran so madly into danger, that the wonder is she escaped. she had a gallant, soft-mouthed horse--that was one thing to her advantage--and the girl had a gentle hand. but archie drew rein himself, and held his breath with fear, to see a maddened animal, that she was pressing hard, turn wildly round and charge back on horse and rider with all the fury imaginable. a turn of the wrist of the bridle hand, one slight jerk of the fingers, and etheldene's horse had turned on a pivot, we might almost say, and the danger was over. so on the whole, instead of archie having had a very grand opportunity for showing off his powers before this young diana, it was rather the other way. the hunt ended satisfactory to both parties; and while sarah was getting an extra good dinner ready, archie proposed a canter "to give them an appetite." "have you got an appetite, mr broadbent? i have." it was evident etheldene was not too fine a lady to deny the possession of good health. "yes," said archie; "to tell you the plain truth, i'm as hungry as a hunter. but it'll do the nags good to stretch their legs after so much wheeling and swivelling." so away they rode again, side by side, taking the blazed path towards the plains. "you are sure you can find your way back, i suppose?" said etheldene. "i think so." "it would be good fun to be lost." "would you really like to be?" "oh, we would not be altogether, you know! we would find our way to some hut and eat damper, or to some grand hotel, i suppose, in the bush, and father and craig would soon find us." "father and you have known craig long?" "yes, many, many years. poor fellow, it is quite a pity for him. father says he was very clever at college, and is a master of arts of cambridge." "well, he has taken his hogs to a nice market." "but father would do a deal for him if he could trust him. he has told father over and over again that plenty of people would trust him if he could only trust himself." "poor man! so nice-looking too! they may well call him gentleman craig." "but is it not time we were returning?" "look! look!" she cried, before archie could answer. "yonder is a bull-fight. whom does the little herd belong to?" "not to us. we are far beyond even our pastures. we have cut away from them. this is a kind of no-man's land, where we go shooting at times; and i daresay they are trespassers or wild cattle. pity they cannot be tamed." "they are of no use to anyone, i have heard father say, except to shoot. if they be introduced into a herd of stock cattle, they teach all the others mischief. but see how they fight! is it not awful?" "yes. had we not better return? i do not think your father would like you to witness such sights as that." the girl laughed lightly. "oh," she cried, "you don't half know father yet! he trusts me everywhere. he is very, very good, though not so refined as some would have him to be." the cows of this herd stood quietly by chewing their cuds, under the shade of a huge gum tree, while two red-eyed giant bulls struggled for mastery in the open. it was a curious fight, and a furious fight. at the time archie and his companion came in sight of the conflict, they had closed, and were fencing with their horns with as much skill, apparently, as any two men armed with foils could have displayed. the main points to be gained appeared to be to unlock or get out of touch of each other's horns long enough to stab in neck and shoulder, and during the time of being in touch to force back and gain ground. once during this fight the younger bull backed his opponent right to the top of a slight hill. it was a supreme effort, and evidently made in the hope that he would hurl him from a height at the other side. but in this he was disappointed; for the top was level, and the older one, regaining strength, hurled his enemy down the hill again far more quickly than he had come up. round and round, and from side to side, the battle raged, till at long last the courage and strength of one failed completely. he suffered himself to be backed, and it was evident was only waiting an opportunity to escape uncut and unscathed. this came at length, and he turned and, with a cry of rage, dashed madly away to the forest. the battle now became a chase, and the whole herd, holloaing good luck to the victor, joined in it. as there was no more to be seen, archie and etheldene turned their horses' heads homewards. they had not ridden far, however, before the vanquished bull himself hove in sight. he was alone now, though still tearing off in a panic, and moaning low and angrily to himself. it was at this moment that what archie considered a happy inspiration took possession of our impulsive hero. "let us wait till he passes," he said, "and drive him before us to camp." easily said. but how was it to be done? they drew back within the shadow of a tree, and the bull rushed past. then out pranced knight archie, cracking his stock whip. the monster paused, and wheeling round tore up the ground with his hoofs in a perfect agony of anger. "what next?" he seemed to say to himself. "it is bad enough to be beaten before the herd; but i will have my revenge now." the brute's roaring now was like the sound of a gong, hollow and ringing, but dreadful to listen to. archie met him boldly enough, intending to cut him in the face as he dashed past. in his excitement he dug his spurs into tell, and next minute he was on the ground. the bull rushed by, but speedily wheeled, and came tearing back, sure now of blood in which to dip his ugly hoofs. archie had scrambled up, and was near a tree when the infuriated beast came down on the charge. even at this moment of supreme danger archie-he remembered this afterwards--could not help admiring the excessively business-like way the animal came at him to break him up. there was a terrible earnestness and a terrible satisfaction in his face or eyes; call it what you like, there it was. near as archie was to the tree, to reach and get round it was impossible. he made a movement to get at his revolver; but it was too late to draw and fire, so at once he threw himself flat on the ground. the bull rushed over him, and came into collision with the tree trunk. this confused him for a second or two, and archie had time to regain his feet. he looked wildly about for his horse. tell was quietly looking on; he seemed to be waiting for his young master. but archie never would have reached the horse alive had not brave etheldene's whip not been flicked with painful force across the bull's eyes. that blow saved archie, though the girl's horse was wounded on the flank. a minute after both were galloping speedily across the plain, all danger over; for the bull was still rooting around the tree, apparently thinking that his tormentors had vanished through the earth. "how best can i thank you?" archie was saying. "by saying nothing about it," was etheldene's answer. "but you have saved my life, child." "a mere bagatelle, as father says," said this saucy queensland maiden, with an arch look at her companion. but archie did not look arch as he put the next question. "which do you mean is the bagatelle, etheldene, my life, or the saving of it?" "yes, you may call me etheldene--father's friends do--but don't, please, call me child again." "i beg your pardon, etheldene." "it is granted, sir." "but now you haven't answered my question." "what was it? i'm so stupid!" "which did you mean was the bagatelle--my life, or the saving of it?" "oh, both!" "thank you." "i wish i could save gentleman craig's life," she added, looking thoughtful and earnest all in a moment. "bother gentleman craig!" thought archie; but he was not rude enough to say so. "why?" he asked. "because he once saved mine. that was when i was lost in the bush, you know. he will tell you some day--i will ask him to. he is very proud though, and does not like to talk very much about himself." archie was silent for a short time. why, he was wondering to himself, did it make him wretched--as it certainly had done--to have etheldene look upon his life and the saving of it as a mere bagatelle. why should she not? still the thought was far from pleasant. perhaps, if he had been killed outright, she would have ridden home and reported his death in the freest and easiest manner, and the accident would not have spoiled her dinner. the girl could have no feeling; and yet he had destined her, in his own mind, to be rupert's wife. she was unworthy of so great an honour. it should never happen if he could prevent it. suddenly it occurred to him to ask her what a bagatelle was. "a bagatelle?" she replied. "oh, about a thousand pounds. father always speaks of a thousand pounds as a mere bagatelle." archie laughed aloud--he could not help it; but etheldene looked merrily at him as she remarked quietly, "you wouldn't laugh if you knew what i know." "indeed! what is it?" "we are both lost!" "goodness forbid!" "you won't have grace to say to-day--there will be no dinner; that's always the worst of being lost." archie looked around him. there was not a blazed tree to be seen, and he never remembered having been in the country before in which they now rode. "we cannot be far out," he said, "and i believe we are riding straight for the creek." "so do i, and that is one reason why we are both sure to be wrong. it's great fun, isn't it?" "i don't think so. we're in an ugly fix. i really thought i was a better bushman than i am." poor archie! his pride had received quite a series of ugly falls since morning, but this was the worst come last. he felt a very crestfallen cavalier indeed. it did not tend to raise his spirits a bit to be told that if gentleman craig were here, he would find the blazed-tree line in a very short time. but things took a more cheerful aspect when out from a clump of trees rode a rough-looking stockman, mounted on a sackful of bones in the shape of an aged white horse. he stopped right in front of them. "hillo, younkers! whither away? can't be sundowners, sure-ly!" "no," said archie; "we are not sundowners. we are riding straight home to burley new farm." "'xcuse me for contradicting you flat, my boy. it strikes me ye ain't boss o' the sitivation. feel a kind o' bushed, don't ye?" archie was fain to confess it. "well, i know the tracks, and if ye stump it along o' me, ye won't have to play at babes o' the wood to-night." they did "stump it along o' him," and before very long found themselves in the farm pasture lands. they met craig coming, tearing along on his big horse, and glad he was to see them. "oh, craig," cried etheldene, "we've been having such fun, and been bushed, and everything!" "i found this 'ere young gent a-bolting with this 'ere young lady," said their guide, whom craig knew and addressed by the name of hurricane bill. "a runaway match, eh? now, who was in the fault? but i think i know. let me give you a bit of advice, sir. never trust yourself far in the bush with miss ethie. she doesn't mind a bit being lost, and i can't be always after her. well, dinner is getting cold." "did you wait for us?" said etheldene. "not quite unanimously, miss ethie. it was like this: mr cooper and mr harry waited for you, and your father waited for mr broadbent. it comes to the same thing in the end, you know." "yes," said etheldene, "and it's funny." "what did you come for, bill? your horse looks a bit jaded." "to invite you all to the hunt. findlayson's compliments, and all that genteel nonsense; and come as many as can. why, the kangaroos, drat 'em, are eating us up. what with them and the dingoes we've been having fine times, i can tell ye!" "well, it seems to me, bill, your master is always in trouble. last year it was the blacks, the year before he was visited by bushrangers, wasn't he?" "ye-es. fact is we're a bit too far north, and a little too much out west, and so everything gets at us like." "and when is the hunt?" "soon's we can gather." "i'm going for one," said etheldene. "what _you_, miss?" said hurricane bill. "you're most too young, ain't ye?" the girl did not condescend to answer him. "come, sir, we'll ride on," she said to archie. and away they flew. "depend upon it, bill, if she says she is going, go she will, and there's an end of it." "humph!" that was bill's reply. he always admitted he had "no great fancy for womenfolks." chapter twenty two. round the log fire--hurricane bill and the tiger-snake--gentleman craig's resolve. kangaroo driving or hunting is one of the wild sports of australia, though i have heard it doubted whether there was any real sport in it. it is extremely exciting, and never much more dangerous than a ride after the hounds at home in a rough country. it really does seem little short of murder, however, to surround the animals and slay them wholesale; only, be it remembered, they are extremely hard upon the herbage. it has been said that a kangaroo will eat as much as two sheep; whether this be true or not, these animals must be kept down, or they will keep the squatter down. every other species of wild animal disappears before man, but kangaroos appear to imagine that human beings were sent into the bush to make two blades of grass grow where only one grew before, and that both blades belong to them. the only people from burley new farm who went to the findlayson kangaroo drive were harry, archie, and etheldene, and craig to look after her. me. winslow stopped at home with bob, to give him advice and suggest improvements; for he well knew his daughter would be safe with gentleman craig. it was a long ride, however, and one night was to be spent in camp; but as there was nothing to do, and nothing in the shape of cattle or sheep to look after, it was rather jolly than otherwise. they found a delightful spot near a clear pool and close by the forest to make their pitch on for the night. hurricane bill was the active party on this occasion; he found wood with the help of harry, and enough of it to last till the morning. the beauty, or one of the beauties, of the climate in this part of australia is, that with the sun the thermometer sinks, and the later spring and even summer nights are very pleasant indeed. when supper was finished, and tea, that safest and best of stimulants, had been discussed, talking became general; everybody was in good spirits in the expectation of some fun on the morrow; for a longish ride through the depth of that gloomy forest would bring them to the plain and to findlayson's in time for a second breakfast. hurricane bill told many a strange story of australian life, but all in the way of conversation; for bill was a shy kind of man, and wanted a good deal of drawing-out, as the dog said about the badger. archie gave his experiences of hunting in england, and of shooting and fishing and country adventure generally in that far-off land, and he had no more earnest listener than etheldene. to her england was the land of romance. young though she was, she had read the most of walter scott's novels, and had an idea that england and scotland were still peopled as we find these countries described by the great wizard, and she did not wish to be disillusioned. the very mention of the word "castle," or "ruin," or "coat of mail," brought fancies and pictures into her mind that she would not have had blotted out on any account. over and over again, many a day and many a time, she had made archie describe to her every room in the old farm; and his turret chamber high up above the tall-spreading elm trees, where the rooks built and cawed in spring, and through which the wild winds of winter moaned and soughed when the leaves had fallen, was to etheldene a veritable room in fairyland. "oh," she said to-night, "how i should love it all! i do want to go to england, and i'll make father take me just once before i die." "before ye die, miss!" said hurricane bill. "why it is funny to hear the likes o' you, with all the world before ye, talkin' about dying." well, by-and-by london was mentioned, and then it was harry's turn. he was by no means sorry to have something to say. "shall i describe to you, miss winslow," he said, "some of the wild sights of whitechapel?" "is it a dreadfully wild place, mr brown?" "it is rather; eh, johnnie?" "i don't know much about it, harry." "well, there are slums near by there, miss, that no man with a black coat and an umbrella dare enter in daylight owing to the wild beasts. then there are peelers." "what are peelers? monkeys?" "yes, miss; they are a sort of monkeys--blue monkeys--and carry sticks same as the real african ourang-outangs do. and can't they use them too!" "are they very ugly?" "awful, and venomous too; and at night they have one eye that shines in the dark like a wild cat's, and you've got to stand clear when that eye's on you." "well," said etheldene, "i wouldn't like to be lost in a place like that. i'd rather be bushed where i am. but i think, mr brown, you are laughing at me. are there any snakes in whitechapel?" "no, thank goodness; no, miss. i can't stand snakes much." "there was a pretty tiger crept past you just as i was talking though," she said with great coolness. harry jumped and shook himself. etheldene laughed. "it is far enough away by this time," she remarked. "i saw something ripple past you, harry, like a whip-thong. i thought my eyes had made it." "you brought it along with the wood perhaps," said craig quietly. "'pon my word," cried harry, "you're a lot of job's comforters, all of you. d'ye know i won't sleep one blessed wink to-night. i'll fancy every moment there is a snake in my blanket or under the saddle." "they won't come near you, mr brown," said craig. "they keep as far away from englishmen as possible." "not always," said bill. "maybe ye wouldn't believe it, but i was bitten and well-nigh dead, and it was a tiger as done it. and if i ain't english, then there ain't an englishman 'twixt 'ere and melbourne. see that, miss?" he held up a hand in the firelight as he spoke. "why," said etheldene, "you don't mean to say the snake bit off half your little finger?" "not much i don't; but he bit me _on_ the finger, miss. i was a swagsman then, and was gathering wood, as we were to-night, when i got nipped, and my chum tightened a morsel of string round it to keep the poison away from the heart, then he laid the finger on a stone and chopped it off with his spade. fact what i'm telling you. but the poison got in the blood somehow all the same. they half carried me to irish charlie's hotel. lucky, that wasn't far off. then they stuck the whiskey into me." "did the whiskey kill the poison?" said archie. "whiskey kill the poison! why, young sir, charlie's whiskey would have killed a kangaroo! but nothing warmed me that night; my blood felt frozen. well, sleep came at last, and, oh, the dreams! 'twere worse ten thousand times than being wi' daniel in the den o' lions. next day nobody hardly knew me; i was blue and wrinkled. i had aged ten years in a single night." "i say," said harry, "suppose we change the subject." "and i say," said craig, "suppose we make the beds." he got up as he spoke, and began to busy himself in preparations for etheldene's couch. it was easily and simply arranged, but the arrangement nevertheless showed considerable forethought. he disappeared for a few minutes, and returned laden with all the necessary paraphernalia. a seven-foot pole was fastened to a tree; the other end supported by a forked stick, which he sharpened and drove into the ground. some grass was spread beneath the pole, a blanket thrown carefully over it, the upturned saddle put down for a pillow, and a tent formed by throwing over the pole a loose piece of canvas that he had taken from his saddle-bow, weighted down by some stones, and the whole was complete. "now, baby," said craig, handing etheldene a warm rug, "will you be pleased to retire?" "where is my flat candlestick?" she answered. gentleman craig pointed to the southern cross. "yonder," he said. "is it not a lovely one?" "it puts me in mind of old, old times," said etheldene with a sigh. "and you're calling me 'baby' too. do you remember, ever so long ago in the bush, when i was a baby in downright earnest, how you used to sing a lullaby to me outside my wee tent?" "if you go to bed, and don't speak any more, i may do so again." "good-night then. sound sleep to everybody. what fun!" then baby disappeared. craig sat himself down near the tent, after replenishing the fire--he was to keep the first watch, then bill would come on duty--and at once began to sing, or rather 'croon' over, an old, old song. his voice was rich and sweet, and though he sang low it could be heard distinctly enough by all, and it mingled almost mournfully with the soughing of the wind through the tall trees. "my song is rather a sorrowful ditty," he had half-whispered to archie before he began; "but it is poor miss ethie's favourite." but long before craig had finished no one around the log fire was awake but himself. he looked to his rifle and revolvers, placed them handy in case of an attack by blacks, then once more sat down, leaning his back against a tree and giving way to thought. not over pleasant thoughts were those of gentleman craig's, as might have been guessed from his frequent sighs as he gazed earnestly into the fire. what did he see in the fire? _tableaux_ of his past life? perhaps or perhaps not. at all events they could not have been very inspiriting ones. no one could have started in life with better prospects than he had done; but he carried with him wherever he went his own fearful enemy, something that would not leave him alone, but was ever, ever urging him to drink. even as a student he had been what was called "a jolly fellow," and his friendship was appreciated by scores who knew him. he loved to be considered the life and soul of a company. it was an honour dearer to him than anything else; but deeply, dearly had he paid for it. by this time he might have been honoured and respected in his own country, for he was undoubtedly clever; but he had lost himself, and lost all that made life dear--his beautiful, queenly mother. he would never see her more. she was _dead_, yet the memory of the love she bore him was still the one, the only ray of sunshine left in his soul. and he had come out here to australia determined to turn over a new leaf. alas! he had not done so. "oh, what a fool i have been!" he said in his thoughts, clenching his lists until the nails almost cut the palms. he started up now and went wandering away towards the trees. there was nothing that could hurt him there. he felt powerful enough to grapple with a dozen blacks, but none were in his thoughts; and, indeed, none were in the forest. he could talk aloud now, as he walked rapidly up and down past the weird grey trunks of the gum trees. "my foolish pride has been my curse," he said bitterly. "but should i allow it to be so? the thing lies in a nutshell i have never yet had the courage to say, 'i will not touch the hateful firewater, because i cannot control myself if i do.' if i take but one glass i arouse within me the dormant fiend, and he takes possession of my soul, and rules all my actions until sickness ends my carousal, and i am left weak as a child in soul and body. if i were not too proud to say those words to my fellow-beings, if i were not afraid of being laughed at as a _coward_! ah, that's it! it is too hard to bear! shall i face it? shall i own myself a coward in this one thing? i seem compelled to answer myself, to answer my own soul. or is it my dead mother's spirit speaking through my heart? oh, if i thought so i--i--" here the strong man broke down. he knelt beside a tree trunk and sobbed like a boy. then he prayed; and when he got up from his knees he was calm. he extended one hand towards the stars. "mother," he said, "by god's help i shall be free." -----------------------------------------------------------------------when the morning broke pale and golden over the eastern hills, and the laughing jackasses came round to smile terribly loud and terribly chaffingly at the white men's preparation for their simple breakfast, craig moved about without a single trace of his last night's sorrow. he was busy looking after the horses when etheldene came bounding towards him with both hands extended, so frank and free and beautiful that as he took hold of them he could not help saying: "you look as fresh as a fern this morning, baby." "not so green, craig. say 'not so green.'" "no, not so green. but really to look at you brings a great big wave of joy surging all over my heart. but to descend from romance to common-sense. i hope you are hungry? i have just been seeing to your horse. where do you think i found him?" "i couldn't guess." "why in the water down yonder. lying down and wallowing." "the naughty horse! ah, here come the others! good morning all." "we have been bathing," said archie. "oh, how delicious!" "yes," said harry; "johnnie and i were bathing down under the trees, and it really was a treat to see how quickly he came to bank when i told him there was an alligator taking stock." "we scared the ducks though. pity we didn't bring our guns and bag a few." "i believe we'll have a right good breakfast at findlayson's," said craig; "so i propose we now have a mouthful of something and start." the gloom of that deep forest became irksome at last; though some of its trees were wondrous to behold in their stately straightness and immensity of size, the trunks of others were bent and crooked into such weird forms of contortion, that they positively looked uncanny. referring to these, archie remarked to craig, who was riding by his side: "are they not grotesquely beautiful?" craig laughed lightly. "their grotesqueness is apparent anyhow," he replied. "but would you believe it, in this very forest i was a week mad?" "mad!" "yes; worse than mad--delirious. oh, i did not run about, i was too feeble! but a black woman or girl found me, and built a kind of bark gunja over me, for it rained part of the time and dripped the rest. and those trees with their bent and gnarled stems walked about me, and gibbered and laughed, and pointed crooked fingers at me. i can afford to smile at it now, but it was very dreadful then; and the worst of it was i had brought it all on myself." archie was silent. "you know in what way?" added craig. "i have been told," archie said, simply and sadly. "for weeks, mr broadbent, after i was able to walk, i remained among the blacks doing nothing, just wandering aimlessly from place to place; but the woods and the trees looked no longer weird and awful to me then, for i was in my right mind. it was spring--nay, but early summer--and i could feel and drink in all the gorgeous beauty of foliage, of tree flowers and wild flowers, nodding palms and feathery ferns; but, oh! i left and went south again; i met once more the white man, and forgot all the religion of nature in which my soul had for a time been steeped. so that is all a kind of confession. i feel the better for having made it. we are all poor, weak mortals at the best; only i made a resolve last night." "you did?" "yes; and i am going to keep it. i am going to have help." "help!" "yes, from him who made those stately giants of the forest and changed their stems to silvery white. he can change all things." "amen!" said archie solemnly. chapter twenty three. at findlayson's farm--the great kangaroo hunt--a dinner and concert. gentleman craig was certainly a strange mortal; but after all he was only the type of a class of men to be found at most of our great universities. admirable crichtons in a small way, in the estimation of their friends--bold, handsome, careless, and dashing, not to say clever--they may go through the course with flying colours. but too often they strike the rocks of sin and sink, going out like the splendid meteors of a november night, or sometimes--if they continue to float-they are sent off to australia, with the hopes of giving them one more chance. alas! they seldom get farther than the cities. it is only the very best and boldest of them that reach the bush, and there you may find them building fences or shearing sheep. if any kind of labour at all is going to make men of them, it is this. two minutes after craig had been talking to archie, the sweet, clear, ringing notes of his manly voice were awaking echoes far a-down the dark forest. parrots and parrakeets, of lovely plumage, fluttered nearer, holding low their wise, old-fashioned heads to look and listen. lyre-birds hopped out from under green fern-bushes, raising their tails and glancing at their figures in the clear pool. they listened too, and ran back to where their nests were to tell their wives men-people were passing through the forest singing; but that they, the cock lyre-birds, could sing infinitely better if they tried. on and on and on went the cavalcade, till sylvan beauty itself began to pall at last, and no one was a bit sorry when all at once the forest ended, and they were out on a plain, out in the scrub, with, away beyond, gently-rising hills, on which trees were scattered. the bleating of sheep now made them forget all about the gloom of the forest. they passed one or two rude huts, and then saw a bigger smoke in the distance, which bill told archie was findlayson's. findlayson came out to meet them. a scot every inch of him, you could tell that at a glance. a scot from the soles of his rough shoes to the rim of his hat; brown as to beard and hands, and with a good-natured face the colour of a badly-burned brick. he bade them welcome in a right hearty way, and helped "the lassie" to dismount. he had met "the lassie" before. "but," he said, "i wadna hae kent ye; you were but a bit gilpie then. losh! but ye have grown. your father's weel, i suppose? ah, it'll be a while afore anybody makes such a sudden haul at the diggin' o' gowd as he did! but come in. it's goin' to be anither warm day, i fear. "breakfast is a' ready. you'll have a thistle fu' o' whiskey first, you men folks. rin butt the hoose, my dear, and see my sister. tell her to boil the eggs, and lift the bacon and the roast ducks." he brought out the bottle as he spoke. both harry and archie tasted to please him. but craig went boldly into battle. "i'm done with it, findlayson," he said. "it has been my ruin. i'm done. i'm a weak fool." "but a wee drap wadna hurt you, man. just to put the dust out o' your wizzen." craig smiled. "it is the wee draps," he replied, "that do the mischief." "well, i winna try to force you. here comes the gude wife wi' the teapot." "bill," he continued, "as soon as you've satisfied the cravins o' nature, mount the grey colt, and ride down the creek, and tell them the new chums and i will be wi' them in half an hour." and in little over that specified time they had all joined the hunt. black folks and "orra men," as findlayson called them, were already detouring around a wide track of country to beat up the kangaroos. there were nearly a score of mounted men, but only one lady besides etheldene, a squatter's bold sister. the dogs were a sight to look at. they would have puzzled some englishmen what to make of them. partly greyhounds, but larger, sturdier, and stronger, as if they had received at one time a cross of mastiff. they looked eminently fit, however, and were with difficulty kept back. every now and then a distant shout was heard, and at such times the hounds seemed burning to be off. but soon the kangaroos themselves began to appear thick and fast. they came from one part or another in little groups, meeting and hopping about in wonder and fright. they seemed only looking for a means of escape; and at times, as a few rushing from one direction met others, they appeared to consult. many stood high up, as if on tiptoe, gazing eagerly around, with a curious mixture of bewilderment and fright displayed on their simple but gentle faces. they got small time to think now, however, for men and dogs were on them, and the flight and the murder commenced with a vengeance. there were black fellows there, who appeared to spring suddenly from the earth, spear-armed, to deal terrible destruction right and left among the innocent animals. and black women too, who seemed to revel in the bloody sight. if the whites were excited and thirsty for carnage, those aborigines were doubly so. meanwhile the men had dismounted, archie and harry among the rest, and were firing away as quickly as possible. there is one thing to be said in favour of the gunners; they took good aim, and there was little after-motion in the body of the kangaroo in which a bullet had found a billet. after all archie was neither content with the sport, nor had it come up as yet to his _beau ideal_ of adventure from all he had heard and read of it. the scene was altogether noisy, wild, and confusing. the blacks gloated in the bloodshed, and archie did not love them any the more for it. it was the first time he had seen those fellows using their spears, and he could guess from the way they handled or hurled them that they would be pretty dangerous enemies to meet face to face in the plain or scrub. "harry," he said after a time, "i'm getting tired of all this; let us go to our horses." "i'm tired too. hallo! where is the chick-a-biddy?" "you mean miss winslow, harry." "ay, johnnie." "i have not seen her for some time." they soon found her though, near a bit of scrub, where their own horses were tied. she was sitting on her saddle, looking as steady and demure as an equestrian statue. the sunshine was so finding that they did not at first notice her in the shade there until they were close upon her. "what, etheldene!" cried archie; "we hardly expected you here." "where, then?" "following the hounds." "what! into that mob? no, that is not what i came for." at that moment craig rode up. "so glad," he said, "to find you all here. mount, gentlemen. are you ready, baby?" "ready, yes, an hour ago, craig." they met horsemen and hounds not far away, and taking a bold detour over a rough and broken country, at the edge of a wood, the hounds found a "forester," or old man kangaroo. the beast had a good start if he had taken the best advantage of it; but he failed to do so. he had hesitated several times; but the run was a fine one. a wilder, rougher, more dangerous ride archie had never taken. the beast was at bay before very long, and his resistance to the death was extraordinary. they had many more rides before the day was over; and when they re-assembled in farmer findlayson's hospitable parlour, archie was fain for once to own himself not only tired, but "dead beat." the dinner was what harry called a splendid spread. old findlayson had been a gardener in his younger days in england, and his wife was a cook; and one of the results of this amalgamation was, dinners or breakfasts either, that had already made the scotchman famous. here was soup that an epicure would not have despised, fish to tempt a dying man, besides game of different kinds, pies, and last, if not least, steak of kangaroo. the soup itself was made from the tail of the kangaroo, and i know nothing more wholesome and nourishing, though some may think it a little strong. while the white folks were having dinner indoors, the black fellows were doing ample justice to theirs _al fresco_, only they had their own _cuisine_ and _menu_, of which the least said the better. "you're sure, mr craig, you winna tak' a wee drappie?" if the honest squatter put this question once in the course of the evening, he put it twenty times. "no, really," said craig at last; "i will not tak' a wee drappie. i've sworn off; i have, really. besides, your wife has made me some delightful tea." "weel, man, tak' a wee drappie in your last cup. it'll cheer ye up." "take down your fiddle, findlayson, and play a rattling strathspey or reel, that'll cheer me up more wholesomely than any amount of 'wee drappies.'" "come out o' doors then." it was cool now out there in findlayson's garden--it was a real garden too. his garden and his fiddle were findlayson's two fads; and that he was master of both, their present surroundings of fern and flower, and delicious scent of wattle-blossom, and the charming strains that floated from the corner where the squatter stood were proof enough. the fiddle in his hands talked and sang, now bold or merrily, now in sad and wailing notes that brought tears to even archie's eyes. then, at a suggestion of craig's, etheldene's sweet young voice was raised in song, and this was only the beginning of the concert. conversation filled up the gaps, so that the evening passed away all too soon. just as findlayson had concluded that plaintive and feeling air "auld robin gray," a little black girl came stealthily, silently up to etheldene, and placed a little creature like a rabbit in her lap, uttering a few words of bush-english, which seemed to archie's ear utterly devoid of sense. then the black girl ran; she went away to her own camp to tell her people that the white folks were holding a corroboree. the gift was a motherless kangaroo, that at once commenced to make itself at home by hiding its innocent head under etheldene's arm. the party soon after broke up for the night, and next day but one, early in the morning, the return journey was commenced, and finished that night; but the sun had gone down, and the moon was shining high and full over the forest, before they once more reached the clearing. chapter twenty four. a new arrival. winslow made months of a stay in the bush, and his services were of great value to the young squatters. the improvements he suggested were many and various, and he was careful to see them carried out. dams were made, and huge reservoirs were dug; for, as winslow said, their trials were all before them, and a droughty season might mean financial ruin to them. "nevertheless," he added one day, addressing bob, "i feel sure of you; and to prove this i don't mind knocking down a cheque or two to the tune of a thou or three or five if you want them. "i'll take bank interest," he added, "not a penny more." bob thanked him, and consulted the others that evening. true, archie's aristocratic pride popped up every now and then, but it was kept well under by the others. "besides, don't you see, johnnie," said harry, "this isn't a gift. winslow is a business man, and he knows well what he is about." "and," added bob, "the fencing isn't finished yet. we have all those workmen's mouths to fill, and the sooner the work is done the better." "then the sheep are to come in a year or so, and it all runs away with money, johnnie. our fortunes are to be made. there is money on the ground to be gathered up, and all that winslow proposes is holding the candle to us till we fill our pockets." "it is very kind of him," said archie, "but--" "well," said bob, "i know where your 'buts' will end if you are not careful. you will give offence to mr winslow, and he'll just turn on his heel and never see us again." "do you think so?" "think so? yes, archie, i'm sure of it. a better-hearted man doesn't live, rough and all as he is; and he has set his mind to doing the right thing for us all for your sake, lad, and so i say, think twice before you throw cold water over that big, warm heart of his." "well," said archie, "when you put it in that light, i can see matters clearly. i wouldn't offend my good old uncle ramsay's friend for all the world. i'm sorry i ever appeared bluff with him. so you can let him do as he pleases." and so winslow did to a great extent. nor do i blame bob and harry for accepting his friendly assistance. better far to be beholden to a private individual, who is both earnest and sincere, than to a money-lending company, who will charge double interest, and make you feel that your soul is not your own. better still, i grant you, to wait and work and plod; but this life is almost too short for much waiting, and after all, one half of the world hangs on to the skirts of the other half, and that other half is all the more evenly balanced in consequence. i would not, however, have my young readers misunderstand me. what i maintain is this, that although a poor man cannot leave this country in the expectation that anybody or any company will be found to advance the needful to set him up in the business of a squatter, still, when he has worked hard for a time, beginning at the lowermost ring of the ladder, and saved enough to get a selection, and a few cattle and sheep, then, if he needs assistance to heave ahead a bit, he will--if everything is right and square--have no difficulty in finding it. so things went cheerily on at burley new farm. and at last winslow and etheldene took their departure, promising to come again. "so far, lads," said winslow, as he mounted his horse, "there hasn't been a hitch nowheres. but mind keep two hands at the wheel." mr winslow's grammar was not of the best, and his sentences generally had a smack of the briny about them, which, however, did not detract from their graphicness. "tip us your flippers, boys," he added, "and let us be off. but i'm just as happy as if i were a father to the lot of you." gentleman craig shook hands with mr winslow. he had already helped etheldene into her saddle. archie was standing by her, the bridle of his own nag tell thrown carelessly over his arm; for good-byes were being said quite a mile from the farm. "i'll count the days, etheldene, till you come again," said archie. "the place will not seem the same without you." craig stood respectfully aside till archie had bade her adieu, then, with his broad hat down by his side, he advanced. he took her hand and kissed it. "good-bye, baby," he said. there were tears in etheldene's eyes as she rode away. big winslow took off his hat, waved it over his head, and gave voice to a splendid specimen of a british cheer, which, i daresay, relieved his feelings as much as it startled the lories. the "boys" were not slow in returning that cheer. then away rode the winslows, and presently the grey-stemmed gum trees swallowed them up. -----------------------------------------------------------------------two whole years passed by. so quickly, too, because they had not been idle years. quite the reverse of that, for every day brought its own duties with it, and there was always something new to be thought about or done. one event had taken place which, in bob's eyes, eclipsed all the others--a little baby squatter saw the light of day. but i should not have used the word eclipsed. little "putty-face," as harry most irreverently called her, did not eclipse anything; on the contrary, everything grew brighter on her arrival, and she was hailed queen of the station. the news spread abroad like wildfire, and people came from far and near to look at the wee thing, just as if a baby had never been born in the bush before. findlayson dug the child with his forefinger in the cheek, and nodded and "a-goo-ed" to it, and it smiled back, and slobbered and grinned and jumped. findlayson then declared it to be the wisest "wee vision o' a thing the warld ever saw." sarah was delighted, so was the nurse--a young sonsy scotch lass brought to the station on purpose to attend to baby. "but," said findlayson, "what about bapteezin' the blessed wee vision." "oh," said bob, "i've thought of that! craig and i are going to brisbane with stock, and we'll import a parson." it so happened that a young missionary was on his way to spread the glad tidings among the blacks, and it did not need much coaxing on bob's part to get him to make a detour, and spend a week at burley new farm. so this was the imported parson. but being in brisbane, bob thought he must import something else, which showed what a mindful father he was. he had a look round, and a glance in at all the shop windows in queen street, finally he entered an emporium that took his fancy. "ahem!" said bob. "i want a few toys." "yes, sir. about what age, sir?" "the newest and best you have." "i didn't refer to the age of the toys," said the urbane shopkeeper, with the ghost of a smile in his eye. "i should have said, toys suitable for what age?" "for every age," replied bob boldly. the shopkeeper then took the liberty of remarking that his visitor must surely be blessed with a quiverful. "i've only the one little girl," said bob. "she fills the book as yet. but, you see, we're far away in the bush, and baby will grow out of gum-rings and rattles, won't she, into dolls and dung-carts? d'ye see? d'ye understand?" "perfectly." it ended in bob importing not only the parson in a dray, but a box of toys as big as a sea-chest, and only bob himself could have told you all that was in it. that box would have stocked a toyshop itself and harry and archie had the grandest of fun unpacking it, and both laughed till they had to elevate their arms in the air to get the stitches out of their sides. the amusing part of it was that innocent bob had bought such a lot of each species. a brown paper parcel, for example, was marked "1 gross: gum-rings." "that was a job lot," said bob, explaining. "i got them at a reduction, as the fellow said. besides, if she has one in each hand, and another in her mouth, it will keep her out of mischief for a month or two to begin with." there was no mistake about it, baby was set up; for a time, at all events. not only did visitors--rough and smooth, but mostly rough--come from afar, but letters of congratulation also. winslow said in a letter that etheldene was dying to come and see "the vision," and so was he, though not quite so bad. "only," he added, "as soon eth is finished we'll both run up. eth is going to melbourne to be finished, and i think a year will do the job." "whatever does he mean," said stalwart bob, "by finishing eth, and doing the job?" "why, you great big brush turkey," said sarah, "he means finishing her edication, in coorse!" "oh, i see now!" said bob. "to be sure; quite right. i say, sarah, we'll have to send 'the vision' to a slap-up lady's school one of these days, won't us?" "bob," replied sarah severely, "tell that lazy black chap, jumper, to dig some potatoes." "i'm off, sarah! i'm off!" both harry and archie had by this time become perfect in all a squatter's art. both had grown hard and hardy, and i am not sure that harry was not now quite as bold a rider as archie himself, albeit he was a cockney born, albeit he had had to rub himself after that first ride of his on scallowa, the "eider duck." well, then, both he and archie were perfectly _au fait_ at cattle work in all its branches, and only those who have lived _on_ and had some interest _in_ farming have an idea what a vast amount of practical work breeding cattle includes. one has really to be jack-of-all-trades, and a veterinary surgeon into the bargain. moreover, if he be master, and not merely foreman, there are books to be kept; so he must be a good accountant, and a good caterer, and always have his weather eye lifting, and keeping a long lookout for probable changes in the markets. but things had prospered well at burley new station. one chief reason of this was that the seasons had been good, and that there was every prospect that the colony of queensland was to be one of the most respected and favourite in the little island. for most of his information on the management of sheep, archie and his companions were indebted to the head stockman, gentleman craig. he had indeed been a godsend, and proved himself a blessing to the station. it is but fair to add that he had sacredly and sternly kept the vow he had registered that night. he did not deny that it had been difficult for him to do so; in fact he often referred to his own weakness when talking to archie, whose education made him a great favourite and the constant companion of craig. "but you don't feel any the worse for having completely changed your habits, do you?" said archie one day. craig's reply was a remarkable one, and one that should be borne in mind by those teetotallers who look upon inebriety as simply a species of moral aberration, and utterly ignore the physiology of the disease. "to tell you the truth, mr broadbent, i am both better and worse. i am better physically; i am in harder, more robust, muscular health; i'm as strong in the arms as a kicking kangaroo. i eat well, i sleep fairly well, and am fit in every way. but i feel as if i had passed through the vale of the shadow of death, and it had left some of its darkness on and in my soul. i feel as if the cure had mentally taken a deal out of me; and when i meet, at brisbane or other towns, men who offer me drink i feel mean and downcast, because i have to refuse it, and because i dared not even take it as food and medicine. no one can give up habits of life that have become second nature without mental injury, if not bodily. and i'm more and more convinced every month that intemperance is a disease of periodicity, just like gout and rheumatism." "you have cravings at certain times, then?" "yes; but that isn't the worst. the worst is that periodically in my dreams i have gone back to my old ways, and think i am living once again in the fool's paradise of the inebriate; singing wild songs, drinking recklessly, talking recklessly, and looking upon life as but a brief unreality, and upon time as a thing only to be drowned in the wine-cup. yes, but when i awake from these pleasantly-dreadful dreams, i thank god fervidly i have been but dreaming." archie sighed, and no more was said on the subject. letters came from home about once a month, but they came to archie only. yet, though bob had never a friend to write to him from northumbria, nor harry one in whitechapel, the advent of a packet from home gave genuine joy to all hands. archie's letters from home were read first by archie himself, away out under the shade of a tree as likely as not. then they were read to his chums, including sarah and diana. diana was the baby. but they were not finished with even then. no; for they were hauled out and perused night after night for maybe a week, and then periodically for perhaps another fortnight. there was something new to talk about found in them each time; something suggesting pleasant conversation. archie was often even amused at "his dear old dad's" remarks and advice. he gave as many hints, and planned as many improvements, as though he had been a settler all his life, and knew everything there was any need to know about the soil and the climate. he believed--i.e., the old squire believed--that if he were only out among them, he would show even the natives [white men born in the bush] a thing or two. yes, it was amusing; and after filling about ten or twelve closely-written pages on suggested improvements, he was sure to finish up somewhat as follows in the postscript: "but after all, archie, my dear boy, you must be very careful in all you do. never go like a bull at a gate, lad. don't forget that i--even i-was not altogether successful at burley old farm." "bless that postscript," archie would say; "mother comes in there." "does she now?" sarah would remark, looking interested. "ay, that she does. you see father just writes all he likes first-blows off steam as it were; and mother reads it, and quietly dictates a postscript." then there were elsie's letters and rupert's, to say nothing of a note from old kate and a crumpled little enclosure from branson. well, in addition to letters, there was always a bundle of papers, every inch of which was read--even the advertisements, and every paragraph of which brought back to archie and bob memories of the dear old land they were never likely to forget. chapter twenty five. the stream of life flows quietly on. one day a grand gift arrived from england, being nothing less than a couple of splendid scotch collies and a pair of skye terriers. they had borne the journey wonderfully well, and set about taking stock, and settling themselves in their new home, at once. archie's pet kangaroo was an object of great curiosity to the skyes at first. on the very second day of their arrival bobie and roup, as they were called, marched up to the kangaroo, and thus addressed him: "we have both come to the conclusion that you are something that shouldn't be." "indeed!" said the kangaroo. "yes; so we're going to let the sawdust out of you." "take that then to begin with!" said mr kangaroo; and one of the dogs was kicked clean and clear over a fern bush. they drew off after that with their tails well down. they thought they had made a mistake somehow. a rabbit that could kick like a young colt was best left to his own devices. the collies never attempted to attack the kangaroo; but when they saw the droll creature hopping solemnly after archie, one looked at the other, and both seemed to laugh inwardly. the collies were placed under the charge of craig to be broken to use, for both were young, and the skyes became the vermin-killers. they worked in couple, and kept down the rats far more effectually than ever the cats had done. they used to put dingoes to the rout whenever or wherever they saw them; and as sometimes both these game little animals would return of a morning severely bitten about the face and ears, it was evident enough they had gone in for sharp service during the night. one curious thing about the skyes was, that they killed snakes, and always came dragging home with the loathsome things. this was very clever and very plucky; nevertheless, a tame laughing jackass that harry had in a huge cage was to them a pet aversion. perhaps the bird knew that; for as soon as he saw them he used to give vent to a series of wild, defiant "ha-ha-ha's" and "hee-hee-hee's" that would have laid a ghost. the improvements on that portion of burley new farm more immediately adjoining the steading had gone merrily on, and in a year or two, after fencing and clearing the land, a rough style of agriculture was commenced. the ploughs were not very first-class, and the horses were oxen--if i may make an irish bull. they did the work slowly but well. they had a notion that every now and then they ought to be allowed to go to sleep for five minutes. however, they were easily roused, and just went on again in a dreamy kind of way. the land did not require much coaxing to send up crops of splendid wheat. it was a new-born joy to bob and archie to ride along their paddocks, and see the wind waving over the growing grain, making the whole field look like an inland sea. "what would your father say to a sight like that?" said bob one morning while the two were on their rounds. "he would start subsoiling ploughs and improve it." "i don't know about the improvement, archie, but i've no doubt he would try. but new land needs little improving." "maybe no; but mind you, bob, father is precious clever, though i don't hold with all his ways. he'd have steam-ploughs here, and steam-harrows too. he'd cut down the grain to the roots by steam-machines, or he'd have steam-strippers." "but you don't think we should go any faster?" "bob, i must confess i like to take big jumps myself. i take after my father in some things, but after my scottish ancestors in others. for instance, i like to know what lies at the other side of the hedge before i put my horse at it." the first crops of wheat that were taken off the lands of burley new farm were gathered without much straw. it seemed a waste to burn the latter; but the distance from the railway, and still more from a market-town, made its destruction a necessity. nor was it altogether destruction either; for the ashes served as a fertiliser for future crops. as things got more settled down, and years flew by, the system of working the whole station was greatly improved. bob and harry had become quite the home-farmers and agriculturists, while the cattle partially, and the sheep almost wholly, became the care of archie, with gentleman craig as his first officer. craig certainly had a long head on his broad shoulders. he did not hesitate from the first to give his opinions as to the management of the station. one thing he assured the three friends of: namely, that the sheep must be sent farther north and west if they were to do well. "they want higher and dryer ground," he said; "but you may try them here." i think at this time neither bob nor archie knew there was anything more deadly to be dreaded than foot-rot, which the constant attention of the shepherds, and a due allowance of blue-stone, served out from harry's stores, kept well under. they gained other and sadder experience before very long, however. at first all went as merrily as marriage bells. the first sheep-shearing was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the life of our bushmen. the season was october--a spring month in australia--and the fleeces were in fine form, albeit some were rather full of grass seed. they were mostly open, however, and everyone augured a good clip. sarah was very busy indoors superintending everything; for there was extra cooking to be done now. wee diana, who had developed into quite a bush child, though a pretty one, toddled about here, there, and everywhere; the only wonder is--as an irishman might say--that she did not get killed three or four times a day. diana had long since abjured gum-rings and rattles, and taken to hoops and whips. one of the collie dogs, and the pet kangaroo, were her constant companions. as previously stated, both collies had been sent to craig to be trained; but as bounce had a difference of opinion with one of the shepherds, he concluded he would make a change by the way of bettering himself, so he had taken french leave and come home to the steading. he would have been sent off again, sure enough, if he had not--collie-like--enlisted sarah herself on his behalf. this he had done by lying down beside little diana on the kitchen floor. the two kissed each other and fell asleep. bounce's position was assured after that. findlayson, who did not mean to commence operations among his own fleeces for another month, paid a visit to burley, and brought with him a few spare hands. harry had plenty to do both out of doors and in his stores; for many men were now about the place, and they must all eat and smoke. "as sure as a gun," said findlayson the first morning, "that joukie-daidles o' yours 'ill get killed." he said this just after about three hundred sheep had rushed the child, and run over her. it was the fault of the kangaroo on one hand, and the collie, bounce, on the other. findlayson had picked her off the ground, out of a cloud of dust, very dirty, but smiling. "what is to be done with her?" said bob, scratching his head. "fauld her," said findlayson. "what does that mean?" findlayson showed him what "faulding" meant. he speedily put up a little enclosure on an eminence, from which diana could see all without the possibility of escaping. so every day she, with her dog and the pet kangaroo, to say nothing of a barrow-load of toys, including a huge noah's ark, found herself happy and out of harm's way. diana could be seen at times leaning over the hurdle, and waving a hand exultingly in the air, and it was presumed she was loudly cheering the men's performance; but as to hearing anything, that seemed utterly out of the question, with the baa-ing and maa-ing of the sheep. when the work was in full blast it certainly was a strange sight, and quite colonial. archie had been at sheep-shearings before at home among the cheviot hills, but nothing to compare to this. there was, first and foremost, the sheep to be brought up in batches or flocks from the distant stations, men and dogs also having plenty to do to keep them together, then the enclosing them near the washing-ground. the dam in which the washing took place was luckily well filled, for rain had fallen not long before. sheep-washing is hard work, as anyone will testify who has tried his hand at it for even half a day. sheep are sometimes exceedingly stupid, more particularly, i think, about a time like this. the whole business is objected to, and they appear imbued with the idea that you mean to drown them, and put every obstacle in your way a stubborn nature can invent. the sheep, after being well scrubbed, were allowed a day to get dry and soft and nice. then came the clipping. gentleman craig was stationed at a platform to count the fleeces and see them ready for pressing, and archie's work was cut out in seeing that the fellows at the clipping did their duty properly. it was a busy, steaming time, on the whole, for everybody, but merry enough nevertheless. there was "lashins" of eating and drinking. findlayson himself took charge of the grog, which was mostly rum, only he had a small store of mountain dew for his own special consumption. harry was quite the whitechapel tradesman all over, though you could not have told whether the grocer or butcher most predominated in his appearance. the clipping went on with marvellous speed, a rivalry existing between the hands apparently; but as they were paid by the number of fleeces, there was evident desire on the part of several to sacrifice perfection to rapidity. when it was all over there was still a deal to be done in clearing up and getting the whole station resettled, one part of the resettling, and the chief too, being the re-establishing of the sheep on their pasturage after marking them. the wool was pressed into bales, and loaded on huge bullock-waggons, which are in appearance something between an ordinary country wood-cart and a brewer's dray. the road to the distant station was indeed a rough one, and at the slow rate travelled by the bullock teams the journey would occupy days. craig himself was going with the last lot of these, and archie had started early and ridden on all alone to see to business in brisbane. he had only been twice at the town in the course of three years, so it is no wonder that now he was impressed with the notion that the well-dressed city folks must stare at him, to see if he had any hay-seed in his hair. winslow was coming round by boat, and etheldene as well; she had been at home for some time on a holiday. why was it, i wonder, that archie paid a visit to several outfitters' shops in brisbane, and made so many purchases? he really was well enough dressed when he entered the town; at all events, he had looked a smart young farmer all over. but when he left his bedroom on the morning of winslow's arrival, he had considerably more of the english squire than the australian squatter about his _tout ensemble_. but he really looked a handsome, happy, careless young fellow, and that bit of a sprouting moustache showed off his good looks to perfection. he could not help feeling it sometimes as he sat reading a paper in the hotel hall, and waiting for his friends, and was fool enough to wonder if etheldene would think him improved in appearance. but archie was neither "masher" nor dandy at heart. he was simply a young man, and i would not value any young man who did not take pains with his personal appearance, even at the risk of being thought proud. archie had not long to wait for winslow. he burst in like a fresh sea-breeze--hale, hearty, and bonnie. he was also a trifle better dressed than usual. but who was that young lady close by his left hand? that couldn't be--yes, it was etheldene, and next moment archie was grasping a hand of each. etheldene's beauty had matured; she had been but a girl, a child, when archie had met her before. now she was a bewitching young lady, modest and lovely, but, on the whole, so self-possessed that if our hero had harboured any desire to appear before her at his very best, and keep up the good impression by every means in his power, he had the good sense to give it up and remain his own natural honest self. but he could not help saying to himself, "what a wife she will make for rupert! and how elsie will love and adore her! and i--yes, i will be content to remain the big bachelor brother." there was such a deal to ask of each other, such a deal to do and to say, that days flew by before they knew where they were, as winslow expressed it. on the fifth day gentleman craig arrived to give an account of his stewardship. etheldene almost bounded towards him. but she looked a little shy at his stare of astonishment as he took her gloved hand. "baby," he exclaimed, "i would hardly have known you! how you have improved!" then the conversation became general. when accounts were squared, it was discovered that, by the spring wool, and last year's crops and bullocks, the young squatters had done wonderfully well, and were really on a fair way to wealth. "now, archie broadbent," said winslow that night, "i am going to put you on to a good thing or two. you are a gentleman, and have a gentleman's education. you have brains, and can do a bit of speculation; and it is just here where brains come in." winslow then unfolded his proposals, which were of such an inviting kind that archie at once saw his way to benefit by them. he thanked winslow over and over again for all he had done for him, and merely stipulated that in this case he should be allowed to share his plans with bob and harry. to this, of course, winslow made no objection. "as to thanking me for having given ye a tip or two," said winslow, "don't flatter yourself it is for your sake. it is all to the memory of the days i spent as steward at sea with your good old uncle. did you send him back his fifty pounds?" "i did, and interest with it." "that is right. that is proper pride." archie and the winslows spent a whole fortnight in brisbane, and they went away promising that ere long they would once more visit the station. the touch of etheldene's soft hand lingered long in archie's. the last look from her bonnie eyes haunted him even in his dreams, as well as in his waking thoughts. the former he could not command, so they played him all kinds of pranks. but over his thoughts he still had sway; and whenever he found himself thinking much about etheldene's beauty, or winning ways, or soft, sweet voice, he always ended up by saying to himself, "what a love of a little wife she will make for rupert!" one day, while archie was taking a farewell walk along queen street, glancing in here and there at the windows, and now and then entering to buy something pretty for sarah, something red--dazzling--for her black servant-maid, and toys for di, he received a slap on the back that made him think for a moment a kangaroo had kicked him. "what!" he cried, "captain vesey?" "ay, lad, didn't i say we would meet again?" "well, wonders will never cease! where have you been? and what have you been doing?" "why i've gone in for trade a bit. i've been among the south sea islands, shipping blacks for the interior here; and, to tell you the truth, my boy, i am pretty well sick of the job from all i've seen. it is more like buying slaves, and that is the honest truth." "and i suppose you are going to give it up?" the captain laughed--a laugh that archie did not quite like. "yes," he said, "i'll give it up after--another turn or two. but come and have something cooling, the weather is quite summery already. what a great man you have grown! when i saw you first you were just a--" "a hobbledehoy?" "something like that--very lime-juicy, but very ardent and sanguine. i say, you didn't find the streets of sydney paved with gold, eh?" "not quite," replied archie, laughing as he thought of all his misery and struggles in the capital of new south wales. "but," he added, "though i did not find the streets paved with gold, i found the genuine ore on a housetop, or near it, in a girl called sarah." "what, archie broadbent, you don't mean to say you're married?" "no; but bob is." "what bob? here, waiter, bring us drinks--the best and coolest you have in the house. now, lad, you've got to begin at the beginning of your story, and run right through to the end. spin it off like a man. i'll put my legs on a chair, smoke, and listen." so archie did as he was told, and very much interested was captain vesey. "and now, captain, you must promise to run down, and see us all in the bush. we're a jolly nice family party, i can assure you." "i promise, my boy, right heartily. i hope to be back in brisbane in six months. expect to see me then." they dined together, and spent the evening talking of old times, and planning all that they would do when they met. next day they parted. the end of this spring was remarkable for floods. never before had our heroes seen such storms of rain, often accompanied with thunder and lightning. archie happened to be out in the forest when it first came on. it had been a hot, still, sulphurous morning, which caused even the pet kangaroo to lie panting on his side. then a wind came puffing and roaring through the trees in uncertain gusts, shaking the hanging curtains of climbing plants, rustling and rasping among the sidelong leaved giant gums, tearing down tree ferns and lovely orchids, and scattering the scented bloom of the wattle in every direction. with the wind came the clouds, and a darkness that could be felt. then down died the fitful breeze, and loud and long roared and rattled the thunder, while the blinding lightning seemed everywhere. it rushed down the darkness in rivers like blood, it glanced and glimmered on the pools of water, and zigzagged through the trees. from the awful hurtling of the thunder one would have thought every trunk and stem were being rent and riven in pieces. tell--the horse--seemed uneasy, so archie made for home. the rain had come on long before he reached the creek, but the stream was still fordable. but see! he is but half-way across when, in the interval between the thunder peals, he can hear a steady rumbling roar away up the creek and gulley, but coming closer and closer every moment. on, on, on, good tell! splash through that stream quicker than ever you went before, or far down the country to-morrow morning two swollen corpses will be seen floating on the floods! bewildered by the dashing rain, and the mist that rose on every side, archie and his trusty steed had but reached high ground when down came the bore. a terrible sight, though but dimly seen. fully five feet high, it seemed to carry everything before it. alas! for flocks and herds. archie could see white bodies and black, tumbling and trundling along in the rolling "spate." the floods continued for days. and when they abated then losses could be reckoned. though dead cattle and sheep now lay in dozens about the flat lands near the creek, only a small percentage of them belonged to burley. higher up findlayson had suffered, and many wild cattle helped to swell the death bill. but it was bad enough. however, our young squatters were not the men to sit down to cry over spilt milk. the damage was repaired, and the broken dams were made new again. and these last were sadly wanted before the summer went past. for it was unusually hot, the sun rising in a cloudless sky, blazing down all day steadily, and setting without even a ray being intercepted by a cloud. bush fires were not now infrequent. while travelling in a distant part of the selection, far to the west, in company with craig, whom he had come to visit, they were witnesses to a fire of this sort that had caught a distant forest. neither pen nor pencil could do justice to such a scene. luckily it was separated from the burley estate by a deep ravine. one of the strangest sights in connection with it was the wild stampede of the panic-stricken kangaroos and bush horses. to work in the fields was now to work indeed. bob's complexion and archie's were "improved" to a kind of brick-red hue, and even harry got wondrously tanned. there was certainly a great saving in clothes that year, for excepting light, broad-brimmed hats, and shirts and trousers, nothing else was worn by the men. but the gardens were cool in the evening, in spite of the midday glare of the sun, and it was delightful to sit out in the open for an hour or two and think and talk of the old country; while the rich perfume of flowers hung warm in the air, and the holy stars shimmered and blinked in the dark blue of the sky. chapter twenty six. "i'll write a letter home." the summer wore away, autumn came, the harvest was made good, and in spite of the drought it turned out well; for the paddocks chosen for agricultural produce seldom lacked moisture, lying as they did on the low lands near the creek, and on rich ground reclaimed from the scrub. our bushmen were congratulating themselves on the success of their farming; for the banking account of all three was building itself, so to speak, slowly, but surely. archie was now quite as wealthy as either of his companions; for his speculations, instigated by his friend winslow, had turned out well; so his stock had increased tenfold, and he had taken more pasture to the westward and north, near where bob's and harry's sheep now were; for craig's advice had been acted on. none too soon though; for early in the winter an old shepherd arrived in haste at the homesteading to report an outbreak of inflammatory catarrh among the flocks still left on the lower pastures. the events that quickly followed put archie in mind of the "dark days" at burley old farm, when fat beasts were dying in twos and threes day after day. sheep affected with this strange ailment lived but a day or two, and the only thing to do was to kill them on the very first symptoms of the ailment appearing. they were then just worth the price of their hides and tallow. considering the amount of extra work entailed, and the number of extra hands to be hired, and the bustle and stir and anxiety caused by the outbreak, it is doubtful if it would not have been better to bury them as they fell, skin and all. this was one of the calamities which winslow had pointed out to archie as likely to occur. but it was stamped out at last. the sheep that remained were sent away to far-off pastures; being kept quite separate, however, from the other flocks. so the cloud passed away, and the squatters could breathe freely again, and hope for a good lambing season, when winter passed away, and spring time came once more. "bob," said archie one evening, as they all sat round the hearth before retiring to bed, "that fire looks awfully cosy, doesn't it? and all the house is clean and quiet--oh, so quiet and delightful that i really wonder anyone could live in a city or anywhere near the roar and din of railway trains! then our farm is thriving far beyond anything we could have dared to expect. we are positively getting rich quickly, if, indeed, we are not rich already. and whether it be winter or summer, the weather is fine, glorious sometimes. indeed, it is like a foretaste of heaven, bob, in my humble opinion, to get up early and wander out of doors." "well," said bob, "small reason to be ashamed to say that, my boy." "hold on, bob, i'm coming to the part i'm ashamed of; just you smoke your pipe and keep quiet. well, so much in love am i with the new country that i'm beginning to forget the old. of course i'll always-always be a true englishman, and i'd go back to-morrow to lay down my life for the dear old land if it was in danger. but it isn't, it doesn't want us, it doesn't need us; it is full to overflowing, and i daresay they can do without any of us. but, bob, there is my dear old father, mother, elsie, and rupert. now, if it were only possible to have them here. but i know my father is wedded to burley, and his life's dream is to show his neighbours a thing or two. i know too that if he starts machinery again he will be irretrievably lost." archie paused, and the kangaroo looked up into his face as much as to say, "go on, i'm all attention." "well, bob, if i make a pile here and go home, i'll just get as fond of burley as i was when a boy, and i may lose my pile too. it seems selfish to speak so, but there is no necessity for it. so i mean to try to get father to emigrate. do you think such a thing is possible, bob?" "it's the same with men as with trees, archie. you must loosen the ground about them, root by root must be carefully taken up if you want to transplant them, and you must take so much of the old earth with them that they hardly know they are being moved. sarah, bring the coffee. as for my own part, archie, i am going back; but it is only just to see the old cottage, the dear old woods, and--and my mother's grave." "yes," said archie, thoughtfully. "well, root by root you said, didn't you?" "ay, root by root." "then i'm going to begin. rupert and elsie will be the first roots. roup isn't over strong yet. this country will make a man of him. bob and you, harry, can go to bed as soon as you like. i'm going out to think and walk about a bit. stick another log or two on the fire, and as soon as you have all turned in i'll write a letter home. i'll begin the uprooting, though it does seem cruel to snap old ties." "well," said harry, "thank goodness, i've got no ties to snap. and i think with you, archie, that the old country isn't a patch on the new. just think o' the london fogs. you mind them, sarah." "i does, 'arry." "and the snow." "and the slush, 'arry." "and the drizzle." "and the kitchen beetles, boy. it would take a fat little lot to make me go back out o' the sunshine. here's the coffee." "keep mine hot, sarah." away went archie out into the night, out under the stars, out in the falling dew, and his kangaroo went jumping and hopping after him. the sky was very bright and clear to-night, though fleece-shaped, snow-white clouds lay low on the horizon, and the moon was rising through the distant woods, giving the appearance of some gigantic fire as its beams glared red among the topmost branches. there was the distant howling or yelling of dingoes, and the low, half-frightened bleat of sheep, and there was the rippling murmur of the stream not far off, but all else was still. it was two hours before archie found his way back. the kangaroo saw him to the door, then went off to curl up in the shed till the hot beams of the morning sun should lure him forth to breakfast. and all alone sat archie, by the kitchen table, writing a letter home by the light of candles made on the steading. it was very still now in the house--only the ticking of the clock, the occasional whirr of some insect flying against the window, anxious to come into the light and warmth and scratching of the young man's pen. surely the dog knew that archie was writing home, for presently he got slowly up from his corner and came and leant his head on his master's knee, in that wise and kindly way collies have of showing their thoughts and feelings. archie must leave off writing for a moment to smooth and pet the honest "bawsent" head. now it would be very easy for us to peep over archie's shoulder and read what he was writing, but that would be rude; anything rather than rudeness and impoliteness. rather, for instance, let us take a voyage across the wide, terribly wide ocean, to pay a visit to burley old farm, and wait till the letter comes. "i wonder," said elsie with a gentle sigh, and a long look at the fire, "when we may expect to hear from archie again. dear me, what a long, long time it is since he went away! let me see, rupert, it is going on for six years, isn't it?" "yes. archie must be quite a man by now." "he's all right," said the squire. "that he is, i know," said uncle ramsay. "he's in god's good hands," said the mother, but her glasses were so moist she had to take them off to wipe them; "he is in god's good hands, and all we can do now is to pray for him." two little taps at the green-parlour door and enter the maid, not looking much older, and not less smart, than when last we saw her. "if you please, sir, there's a gentleman in the study as would like to see you." "oh," she added, with a little start, "here he comes!" and there he came certainly. "god bless all here!" he cried heartily. "what," exclaimed the squire, jumping up and holding out his hand, "my dear old friend venturesome vesey!" "yes, yankee charlie, and right glad i am to see you." "my wife and children, vesey. though you and i have often met in town since my marriage, you've never seen them before. my brother, whom you know." vesey was not long in making himself one of the family circle, and he gave his promise to stay at burley old farm for a week at least. rupert and elsie took to him at once. how could they help it? a sailor and gentleman, and a man of the world to boot. besides, coming directly from archie. "i just popped into the house the very morning after he had written the letter i now hand to you," said captain vesey. "he had an idea it would be safer for me to bring it. well, here it is; and i'm going straight away out to the garden to smoke a pipe under the moon while you read it. friend as i am of archie's, you must have the letter all to yourselves;" and away went vesey. "send for old kate and branson," cried the squire, and they accordingly marched in all expectancy. then the father unfolded the letter with as much reverence almost as if it had been _foxe's book of martyrs_. every eye was fixed upon him as he slowly read it. even bounder, the great newfoundland, knew something unusual was up, and sat by elsie all the time. -----------------------------------------------------------------------archie's letter home. "my dearest mother,--it is to you i write first, because i know that a proposal i have to make will 'take you aback,' as my friend winslow would say. i may as well tell you what it is at once, because, if i don't, your beloved impatience will cause you to skip all the other parts of the letter till you come to it. now then, my own old mummy, wipe your spectacles all ready, catch hold of the arm of your chair firmly, and tell elsie to 'stand by'--another expression of winslow's--the smelling-salts bottle. are you all ready? heave oh! then. i'm going to ask you to let rupert and elsie come out to me here. "have you fainted, mummy? not a bit of it; you're my own brave mother! and don't you see that this will be only the beginning of the end? and a bright, happy end, mother, i'm looking forward to its being. it will be the reunion of us all once more; and if we do not live quite under one roof, as in the dear old days at burley old farm, we will live in happy juxtaposition. "'what!' you cry, 'deprive me of my children?' it is for your children's good, mummy. take rupert first. he is not strong now, but he is young. if he comes at once to this glorious land of ours, on which i am quite enthusiastic, he will get as hardy as a new hollander in six months' time. wouldn't you like to see him with roses on his face, mother, and a brow as brown as a postage stamp? send him out. would you like him to have a frame of iron, with muscles as tough as a mainstay? send him out. would you like him to be as full of health as an egg is full of meat? and so happy that he would have to get up at nights to sing? then send him here. "take poor me next. you've no notion how homesick i am; i'm dying to see some of you. i am making money fast, and i love my dear, free, jolly life; but for all that, there are times that i would give up everything i possess--health, and hopes of wealth--for sake of one glance at your dear faces, and one run round burley old farm with father." this part of archie's letter told home. there were tears in mrs broadbent's motherly eyes; and old kate was heard to murmur, "dear, bonnie laddie!" and put her apron to her face. "then," the letter continued, "there is elsie. it would do her good to come too, because--bless the lassie!--she takes her happiness at second-hand; and knowing that she was a comfort to us boys, and made everything cheery and nice, would cause her to be as jolly as the summer's day is long or a gum tree high. then, mother, we three should work together with only one intent--that of getting you and father both out, and old kate and branson too. "as for you, dad, i know you will do what is right; and see how good it would be for us all to let roup and elsie come. then you must remember that when we got things a bit straighter, we would expect you and mother to follow. you, dear dad, would have full scope here for your inventive genius, and improvements that are thrown away in england could be turned to profit out here. "we would not go like a bull at a gate at anything, father; but what we do want here is machinery, easily worked, for cutting up and dealing with wood; for cutting up ground, and for destroying tree stumps; and last, but not least, we want wells, and a complete system of irrigation for some lands, that shall make us independent to a great extent of the sparsely-failing rains of some seasons. of course you could tell us something about sheep disease and cattle plague, and i'm not sure you couldn't help us to turn the wild horses to account, with which some parts of the interior swarm." squire broadbent paused here to exclaim, as he slapped his thigh with his open palm: "by saint andrews, brother, archie is a chip of the old block! he's a true broadbent, i can tell you. he appreciates the brains of his father too. heads are what are wanted out there; genius to set the mill a-going. as for this country--pah! it's played out. yes, my children, you shall go, and your father will follow." "my dear elsie and rupert," the letter went on, "how i should love to have you both out here. i have not asked you before, because i wanted to have everything in a thriving condition first; but now that everything is so, it wants but you two to help me on, and in a year or two--hurrah! for dad and the mum! "yes, elsie, your house is all prepared. i said nothing about this before. i've been, like the duck-bill, working silently out of sight--out of your sight i mean. but there it is, the finest house in all the district, a perfect mansion; walls as thick as burley old tower--that's for coolness in summer. lined inside with cedar--that's for cosiness in winter. big hall in it, and all the rooms just _facsimile_ of our own house at home, or as near to them as the climate will admit. "but mind you, elsie, i'm not going to have you banished to the bush wilds altogether. no, lassie, no; we will have a mansion--a real mansion--in sydney or brisbane as well, and the house at burley new farm will be our country residence. "i know i'll have your answer by another mail, and it will put new life into us all to know you are coming. then i will start right away to furnish our house. our walls shall be polished, pictures shall be hung, and mirrors everywhere; the floors shall glitter like beetles' wings, and couches and skins be all about. i'm rather lame at house description, but you, elsie, shall finish the furnishing, and put in the nicknacks yourself. "i'm writing here in the stillness of night, with our doggie's head upon my knee. all have gone to bed--black and white--in the house and round the station. but i've just come in from a long walk in the moonlight. i went out to be alone and think about you; and what a glorious night, rupert! we have no such nights in england. though it is winter, it is warm and balmy. it is a delight to walk at night either in summer or winter. oh, i do wish i could describe to you my garden as it is in spring and early summer! that is, you know, _our_ garden that is going to be. i had the garden laid out and planted long before the house was put up, and now my chief delight is to keep it up. you know, as i told you before, i went to melbourne with the winslows. well, we went round everywhere, and saw everything; we sailed on the lovely river, and i was struck with the wonderful beauty of the gardens, and determined ours should be something like it. and when the orange blossom is out, and the fragrant verbenas, and a thousand other half-wild flowers, with ferns, ferns, ferns everywhere, and a fountain playing in the shadiest nook--this was an idea of harry's--you would think you were in fairyland or dreamland, or 'through the looking-glass,' or somewhere; anyhow, you would be entranced. "but to-night, when i walked there, the house--our house you know- looked desolate and dreary, and my heart gave a big superstitious thud when i heard what i thought was a footstep on the verandah, but it was only a frog as big as your hat. "that verandah cost me and harry many a ramble into the scrub and forest, but now it is something worth seeing, with its wealth of climbing flowering plants, its hanging ferns, and its clustering marvellous orchids. "yes, the house looks lonely; looks haunted almost; only, of course, ghosts never come near a new house. but, dear elsie, how lovely it will look when we are living in it! when light streams out from the open casement windows! when warmth and music are there! oh, come soon, come _soon_! you see i'm still impulsive. "you, elsie, love pets. i daresay bounder will come with you. poor scallowa! i was sorry to hear of his sad death. but we can have all kinds of pets here. we have many. to begin with, there is little diana, she is queen of the station, and likely to be; she is everybody's favourite. then there are the collies, and the kangaroo. he is quite a darling fellow, and goes everywhere with me. "our laughing jackass is improving every day. he looks excessively wise when you talk to him, and if touched up with the end of a brush of turkey's feathers, which we keep for the purpose, he goes off into such fits of mad hilarious, mocking, ringing laughter that somebody has got to pick him up, cage and all, and make all haste out of the house with him. "we have also a pet bear; that is harry's. but don't jump. it is no bigger than a cat, and far tamer. it is a most wonderful little rascal to climb ever you saw. koala we call him, which is his native name, and he is never tired of exploring the roof and rafters; but when he wants to go to sleep, he will tie himself round sarah's waist, with his back downwards, and go off as sound as a top. "we have lots of cats and a cockatoo, who is an exceedingly mischievous one, and who spends most of his life in the garden. he can talk, and dance, and sing as well. and he is a caution to snakes, i can tell you. i don't want to frighten you though. we never see the 'tiger' snake, or hardly ever, and i think the rest are harmless. i know the swagsmen, and the sundowners too, often kill the carpet snake, and roast and eat it when they have no other sort of fresh meat. i have tasted it, and i can tell you, rupert, it is better than roasted rabbit. "i'm going to have a flying squirrel. the first time i saw these creatures was at night among the trees, and they startled me--great shadowy things sailing like black kites from bough to bough. "kangaroos are cautions. we spend many and many a good day hunting them. if we did not kill them they would eat us up, or eat the sheep's fodder up, and that would be all the same. "gentleman craig has strange views about most things; he believes in darwin, and a deal that isn't darwin; but he says kangaroos first got or acquired their monster hindlegs, and their sturdy tails, from sitting up looking over the high grass, and cropping the leaves of bushes. he says that australia is two millions of years old at the very least. "i must say i like craig very much. he is so noble and handsome. what a splendid soldier he would have made! but with all his grandeur of looks--i cannot call it anything else--there is an air of pensiveness and melancholy about him that is never absent. even when he smiles it is a sad smile. ah! rupert, his story is a very strange one; but he is young yet, only twenty-six, and he is now doing well. he lives by himself, with just one shepherd under him, on the very confines of civilisation. i often fear the blacks will bail up his hut some day, and mumkill him, and we should all be sorry. craig is saving money, and i believe will be a squatter himself one of these days. etheldene is very fond of him. sometimes i am downright jealous and nasty about it, because i would like you, rupert, to have etheldene for a wife. and she knows all about the black fellows, and can speak their language. well, you see, rupert, you could go and preach to and convert them; for they are not half so bad as they are painted. the white men often use them most cruelly, and think no more of shooting them than i should of killing an old man kangaroo. "when i began this letter, dearest elsie and old roup, i meant to tell you such a lot i find i shall have no chance of doing--all about the grand trees, the wild and beautiful scenery, the birds and beasts and insects, but i should have to write for a week to do it. so pray forgive my rambling letter, and come and see it all for yourself. "come you must, else--let me see now what i shall threaten. oh, i have it; i won't ever return! but if you do come, then in a few years we'll all go back together, and bring out dad and the dear mummy. "i can't see to write any more. no, the lights are just as bright as when i commenced; but when i think of dad and the mum, my eyes _will_ get filled with moisture. so there! "god bless you all, _all_, from the mum and dad all the way down to kate, branson, and bounder. "archie broadbent, c.o.b. "p.s.--do you know what c.o.b. means? it means chip of the old block. hurrah!" chapter twenty seven. rumours of war. as soon as squire broadbent read his son's letter he carefully folded it up, and with a smile on his face handed it to rupert. and by-and-bye, when captain vesey returned, and settled into the family circle with the rest, and had told them all he could remember about archie and burley new farm in australia, the brother and sister, followed by bounder, slipped quietly out and told old kate they were going to the tower. would she come? that she would. and so for hours they all sat up there before the fire talking of archie, and all he had done and had been, and laying plans and dreaming dreams, and building castles in the air, just in the same way that young folks always have done in this world, and will, i daresay, continue to do till the end of time. but that letter bore fruit, as we shall see. things went on much as usual in the bush. winter passed away, spring came round and lambing season, and the shepherds were busy once more. gentleman craig made several visits to the home farm, and always brought good news. it was a glorious time in every way; a more prosperous spring among the sheep no one could wish to have. on his last visit to the house craig stayed a day or two, and archie went back with him, accompanied by a man on horseback, with medicines and some extra stores--clothing and groceries, etc, i mean, for in those days live stock was sometimes called stores. they made findlayson's the first night, though it was late. they found that the honest scot had been so busy all day he had scarcely sat down to a meal. archie and craig were "in clipping-time" therefore, for there was roast duck on the table, and delightful potatoes all steaming hot, and, as usual, the black bottle of mountain dew, a "wee drappie" of which he tried in vain to get either craig or archie to swallow. "oh, by-the-bye, men," said findlayson, in the course of the evening-that is, about twelve o'clock--"i hear bad news up the hills way." "indeed," said craig. "ay, lad. you better ha'e your gun loaded. the blacks, they say, are out in force. they've been killing sheep and bullocks too, and picking the best." "well, i don't blame them either. mind, we white men began the trouble; but, nevertheless, i'll defend my flock." little more was said on the subject. but next morning another and an uglier rumour came. a black fellow or two had been shot, and the tribe had sworn vengeance and held a corroboree. "there's a cloud rising," said findlayson. "i hope it winna brak o'er the district." "i hope not, findlayson. anyhow, i know the black fellows well. i'm not sure i won't ride over after i get back and try to get to the bottom of the difference." the out-station, under the immediate charge of gentleman craig, was fully thirty miles more to the north and west than findlayson's, and on capital sheep-pasture land, being not very far from the hills--a branch ridge that broke off from the main range, and lay almost due east and west. many a splendidly-wooded glen and gully was here; but at the time of our story these were still inhabited by blacks innumerable. savage, fierce, and vindictive they were in all conscience, but surely not so brave as we sometimes hear them spoken of, else could they have swept the country for miles of the intruding white man. in days gone by they had indeed committed some appallingly-shocking massacres; but of late years they had seemed contented to either retire before the whites or to become their servants, and receive at their hands that moral death--temptation to drink--which has worked such woe among savages in every quarter of the inhabitable globe. as archie and his companion came upon the plain where--near the top of the creek on a bit of tableland--craig's "castle," as he called it, was situated, the owner looked anxiously towards it. at first they could see no signs of life; but as they rode farther on, and nearer, the shepherd himself came out to meet them, roup, the collie, bounding joyfully on in front, and barking in the exuberance of his glee. "all right and safe, shepherd?" "all right and safe, sir," the man returned; "but the blacks have been here to-day." "then i'll go there to-morrow." "i don't think that's a good plan." "oh! isn't it? well, i'll chance it. will you come, mr broadbent?" "i will with pleasure." "anything for dinner, george?" "yes, sir. i expected you; and i've got a grilled pheasant, and fish besides." "ah, capital! but what made you expect me to-day?" "the dog roup, sir. he was constantly going to the door to look out, so i could have sworn you would come." the evening passed away quietly enough. dwelling in this remote region, and liable at any time to be attacked, gentleman craig had thought it right to almost make a fort of his little slab hut. he had two black fellows who worked for him, and with their assistance a rampart of stones, earth, and wood was thrown up, although these men had often assured him that "he," craig, "was 'corton budgery,' and that there was no fear of the black fellows 'mumkill' him." "i'm not so very sure about it," thought craig; "and it is best to be on the safe side." they retired to-night early, having seen to the sheep and set a black to watch, for the dingoes were very destructive. both craig and archie slept in the same room, and they hardly undressed, merely taking off their coats, and lying down on the rough bed of sacking, with collie near the door to do sentry. they had not long turned in when the dog began to growl low. "down charge, roup," said craig. instead of obeying, the dog sprang to the door, barking fiercely. both archie and craig were out of bed in a moment, and handling their revolvers. craig managed to quieten roup, and then listened attentively. the wind was rising and moaning round the chimney, but above this sound they could hear a long-prolonged "coo--oo--ee!" "that's a white man's voice," said craig; "we're safe." the door and fort was at once opened, and a minute after five squatters entered. "sorry we came so late," they said; "but we've been and done it, and it took some time." "what have you done?" said craig. "fired the woods all along the gullies among the hills." "is that fair to the blacks?" "curse them!" exclaimed the spokesman. "why do they not keep back? the law grumbles if we shoot the dogs, unless in what they please to call self-defence, which means after they have speared our beasts and shepherds, and are standing outside our doors with a nullah ready to brain us." craig and archie went to the door and looked towards the hills. what a scene was there! the fire seemed to have taken possession of the whole of the highlands from east to west, and was entwining wood and forest, glen and ravine, in its snake-like embrace. the hills themselves were cradled in flames and lurid smoke. the stems of the giant gum trees alone seemed to defy the blaze, and though their summits looked like steeples on fire, the trunks stood like pillars of black marble against the golden gleam behind them. the noise was deafening, and the smoke rolled away to leeward, laden with sparks thick as the snowflakes in a winter's fall. it was an appalling sight, the description of which is beyond the power of any pen. "well, men," said craig when he re-entered the hut, "i don't quite see the force of what you have done. it is like a declaration of war, and, depend upon it, the black fellows will accept the challenge." "it'll make the grass grow," said one of the men with a laugh. "yes," said another; "and that grass will grow over a black man's grave or two ere long, if i don't much mistake." "it wouldn't be worth while burying the fiends," said a third. "we'll leave them to the rooks." "well," said craig, "there's meat and damper there, men. stir up the fire, warm your tea, and be happy as long as you can. we're off to bed." gentleman craig was as good as his word next day. he rode away in search of the tribe, and after a long ride found them encamped on a tableland. as it turned out they knew him, and he rode quietly into their midst. they were all armed with spear, and nullah, and boomerang. they were tattooed, nearly naked, and hideous enough in their horrid war-paint. craig showed no signs of fear. indeed he felt none. he told the chief, however, that he had not approved of the action of the white men, his brothers, and had come, if possible, to make peace. why should they fight? there was room enough in the forest and scrub for all. if they--the blacks--would leave the cattle and flocks of the squatters alone, he--craig--could assure them things would go on as happily as before. "and if not?" they asked. "if not, for one black man there was in the country, there were a thousand white. they would come upon them in troops, even like the locusts; they would hunt them as they hunted the dingoes; they would kill them as dingoes were killed, and before long all the black fellows would be in the land of forgetfulness. what would it profit them then that they had speared a few white fellows?" craig stayed for hours arguing with these wild men, and left at last after having actually made peace with honour. the cloud had rolled away, for a time at all events. in the course of a few days archie and his man left on his return journey. findlayson made up his mind to go on with him to burley new farm; for this scot was very fond of an occasional trip eastwards, and what he called a "twa-handed crack" with bob or harry. everybody was glad to see him; for, truth to tell, no one had ever seen findlayson without a smile on his old-fashioned face, and so he was well liked. bob came galloping out to meet them, and with him, greatly to archie's astonishment, was what he at first took for a black bear. the black bear was bounder. archie dismounted and threw his arms round the great honest dog's neck, and almost burst into tears of joy. for just half a minute bounder was taken aback; then memory came rushing over him; he gave a jump, and landed archie on his back, and covered his face and hair with his canine kisses. but this was not enough. bounder must blow off steam. he must get rid of the exuberance of his delight before it killed him. so with a half-hysterical but happy bark he went off at a tangent, and commenced sweeping round and round in a circle so quickly that he appeared but a black shape. this wild caper he kept up till nearly exhausted, then returned once more to be embraced. "so they've come." it was all that archie could say. yes, they had come. elsie had come, rupert had come, branson and bounder had come. and oh, what a joyful meeting that was! only those who have been separated for many long years from all they love and hold dear, and have met just thus, as archie now met his sister and brother, can have any appreciation of the amount of joy that filled their hearts. the very first overflowing of this joy being expended, of course the next thing for both archie and the newcomers to say was, "how you've changed!" yes, they had all changed. none more so than elsie. she always gave promise of beauty; but now that archie held her at arms' length, to look at and criticise, he could not help exclaiming right truthfully: "_why_, elsie, you're almost as beautiful as etheldene!" "oh, what a compliment!" cried rupert. "i wouldn't have it, elsie. that '_almost_' spoils it." "just you wait till you see etheldene, young man," said archie, nodding his head. "you'll fall in love at once. i only hope she won't marry gentleman craig. and how is mother and father?" then questions came in streams. to write one half that was spoken that night would take me weeks. they all sat out in the verandah of the old house; for the night was sultry and warm, and it was very late indeed before anyone ever thought of retiring. findlayson had been unusually quiet during the whole of the evening. to be sure, it would not have been quite right for him to have put in his oar too much, but, to tell the truth, something had happened which appeared to account for his silence. findlayson had fallen in love-love at first sight. oh, there are such things! i had a touch of the complaint myself once, so my judgment is critical. of course, it is needless to say that elsie was the bright particular star, that had in one brief moment revolutionised the existence and life of the ordinarily placid and very matter-of-fact findlayson. so he sat to-night in his corner and hardly spoke, but, i daresay, like paddy's parrot, he made up for it in thinking; and he looked all he could also, without seeming positively rude. well, a whole fortnight was spent by archie in showing his brother and sister round the station, and initiating them into some of the mysteries and contrarieties of life in the australian bush. after this the three started off for brisbane and sydney, to complete the purchase of furniture for archie's house. archie proved himself exceedingly clever at this sort of thing, considering that he was only a male person. but in proof of what i state, let me tell you, that before leaving home he had even taken the measure of the rooms, and of the windows and doors. and when he got to sydney he showed his taste in the decorative art by choosing "fixings" of an altogether oriental and semi-aesthetic design. at sydney elsie and rupert were introduced to the winslows, and, as soon as he conveniently could, archie took his brother's opinion about etheldene. very much to his astonishment, rupert told him that etheldene was more sisterly than anything else, and he dare say she was rather a nice girl--"as far as girls go." archie laughed outright at rupert's coolness, but somehow or other he felt relieved. first impressions go a far way in a matter of this kind, and it was pretty evident there was little chance of rupert's falling in love with etheldene, for some time at least. yet this was the plan of campaign archie had cut out: rupert and etheldene should be very much struck with each other from the very first; the young lady should frequently visit at burley new farm, and, for the good of his health, rupert should go often to sydney. things would progress thus, off and on, for a few years, then the marriage would follow, rupert being by this time settled perhaps, and in a fair way of doing well. i am afraid archie had reckoned without his host, or even his hostess. he was not long in coming to this conclusion either; and about the same time he made another discovery, very much to his own surprise; namely, that he himself was in love with etheldene, and that he had probably been so for some considerable length of time, without knowing it. he determined in his own mind therefore that he would steel his heart towards miss winslow, and forget her. before elsie and rupert came to settle down finally at the farm, they enjoyed, in company with mr winslow and his daughter, many charming trips to what i might call the show-places of australia. sydney, and all its indescribably-beautiful surroundings, they visited first. then they went to melbourne, and were much struck with all the wealth and grandeur they saw around them, although they could not help thinking the actual state of the streets was somewhat of a reproach to the town. they sailed on the yarra-yarra; they went inland and saw, only to marvel at, the grandeur of the scenery, the ferny forests, the glens and hills, the waterfalls and tumbling streams and lovely lakes. and all the time rupert could not get rid of the impression that it was a beautiful dream, from which he would presently awake and find himself at burley old farm. chapter twenty eight. the massacre at findlayson's farm. by the time elsie and rupert had returned from their wanderings winter was once more coming on; but already both the sister and brother had got a complexion. the house was quite furnished now, guest room and all. it was indeed a mansion, though i would not like to say how much money it had cost archie to make it so. however, he had determined, as he said himself to bob, to do the thing properly while he was about it. and there is no doubt he succeeded well. his garden too was all he had depicted it in his letter home. that archie had succeeded to his heart's content in breaking ties with the old country was pretty evident, from a letter received by him from his father about mid-winter. "he had noticed for quite a long time," the squire wrote, "and was getting more and more convinced, that this england was, agriculturally speaking, on its last legs. even american inventions, and american skill and enterprise, had failed to do much for the lands of burley. he had tried everything, but the ground failed to respond. burley was a good place for an old retired man who loved to potter around after the partridges; but for one like himself, still in the prime of his life, it had lost its charms. even archie's mother, he told him, did not see the advisability of throwing good money after bad, and uncle ramsay was of the same way of thinking. so he had made up his mind to let the place and come straight away out. he would allow archie to look out for land for him, and by-and-bye he would come and take possession. australia would henceforth reap the benefit of his genius and example; for he meant to show australians a thing or two." when archie read that letter, he came in with a rush to read it to bob, harry, and sarah. "i think your father is right," said bob. "i tell you, bob, my boy, it isn't father so much as mother. the dear old mummy speaks and breathes through every line and word of this epistle. now i'm off to astonish elsie and roup. come along, bounder." meanwhile findlayson became a regular visitor at the farm. "_why_," archie said to him one evening, as he met him about the outer boundary of the farm, "why, findlayson, my boy, you're getting to be a regular 'sundowner.' well, miss winslow has come, and craig is with us, and as i want to show branson a bit of real australian sport, you had better stop with us a fortnight." "i'll be delighted. i wish i'd brought my fiddle." "we'll send for it if you can't live without it." "not very weel. but i've something to tell you." "well, say on; but you needn't dismount." "yes, i'll speak better down here." findlayson sat up on top of the fence, and at once opened fire by telling archie he had fallen in love with elsie, and had determined to make her his wife. archie certainly was taken aback. "why, findlayson," he said, "you're old enough to be her father." "a' the better, man. and look here, i've been squatting for fifteen years, ever since there was a sheep in the plains almost. i have a nice little nest egg at the bank, and if your sister doesna care to live in the bush we'll tak' a hoose in sydney. for, o man, man, elsie is the bonniest lassie the world e'er saw. she beats the gowan [mountain daisy]." archie laughed. "i must refer you to the lady herself," he said. "of course, man, of course- "'he either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who dares not put it to the test to win or lose it all.'" so away went findlayson to put his fate to the test. what _he_ said or what _she_ said does not really concern us; but five minutes after his interview archie met the honest scot, and wondrously crestfallen he looked. "she winna hae me," he cried, "but _nil desperandum_, that'll be my motto till the happy day." the next fortnight was in a great measure given up to pleasure and sport. both branson and bounder received their baptism of fire, though the great newfoundland was wondrously exercised in his mind as to what a kangaroo was, and what it was not. as to the dingoes, he arrived at a conclusion very speedily. they could beat him at a race, however; but when bounder one time got two of them together, he proved to everybody's satisfaction that there was life in the old dog yet. gentleman craig never appeared to such excellent advantage anywhere as in ladies' society. he really led the conversation at the dinner-table, though not appearing to do so, but rather the reverse, while in the drawing-room he was the moving spirit. he also managed to make findlayson happy after a way. the scotchman had told craig all his troubles, but craig brought him his fiddle, on which he was a really excellent performer. "rouse out, mr findlayson, and join the ladies at the piano." "but, man," the squatter replied, "my heart's no in it; my heart is broken. i can play slow music, but when it comes to quick, it goes hard against the grain." nevertheless, findlayson took his stand beside the piano, and the ice thus being broken, he played every night, though it must be confessed, for truth's sake, he never refused a "cogie" when the bottle came round his way. towards ten o'clock findlayson used, therefore, to become somewhat sentimental. the gentleman sat up for a wee half hour after the ladies retired, and sometimes findlayson would seize his fiddle. "gentlemen," he would say, "here is how i feel." then he would play a lament or a wail with such feeling that even his listeners would be affected, while sometimes the tears would be quivering on the performer's eyelashes. at the end of the fortnight findlayson went to brisbane. he had some mysterious business to transact, the nature of which he refused to tell even archie. but it was rumoured that a week or two later on, drays laden with furniture were seen to pass along the tracks on their way to findlayson's farm. poor fellow, he was evidently badly hit. he was very much in love indeed, and, like a drowning man, he clutched at straws. the refurnishing of his house was one of these straws. findlayson was going to give "a week's fun," as he phrased it. he was determined, after having seen archie's new house, that his own should rival and even outshine it in splendour. and he really was insane enough to believe that if elsie only once saw the charming house he owned, with the wild and beautiful scenery all around it, she would alter her mind, and look more favourably on his suit. in giving way to vain imaginings of this kind, findlayson was really ignoring, or forgetting at all events, the sentiments of his own favourite poet, burns, as impressed in the following touching lines: "it ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, that bought contentment, peace, or pleasure; the bands and bliss o' mutual love, o that's the chiefest warld's treasure!" his sister was very straightforward, and at once put her brother down as a wee bit daft. perhaps he really was; only the old saying is a true one: "those that are in love are like no one else." -----------------------------------------------------------------------it was the last month of winter, when early one morning a gay party from burley new farm set out to visit findlayson, and spend a week or two in order to "'liven him up," as harry expressed it. bob was not particularly fond of going much from home--besides, winslow and he were planning some extensions--so he stopped on the station. but harry went, and, as before, when going to the kangaroo hunt, gentleman craig was in the cavalcade, and of course rupert and elsie. it would have been no very difficult matter to have done the journey in a single day, only archie was desirous of letting his brother and sister have a taste of camping out in the bush. they chose the same route as before, and encamped at night in the self-same place. the evening too was spent in much the same way, even to singing and story-telling, and craig's lullaby to baby, when she and elsie had gone to their tent. morning dawned at last on forest and plain, and both harry and the brothers were early astir. it would have been impossible to remain asleep much after daybreak, owing to the noise of the birds, including the occasional ear-splitting clatter of the laughing jackasses. besides, towards morning it had been exceedingly cold. the first thing that greeted their eyes was a thorough old-fashioned hoar frost, the like of which archie had not seen for many a year. everything gleamed, white almost as coral. the grass itself was a sight to see, and the leaves on the trees were edged with lace. but up mounted the sun, and all was speedily changed. leaves grew brightly green again, and the hoar frost was turned into glancing, gleaming, rainbow-coloured drops of dew. the young men ran merrily away to the pool in the creek, and most effectually scared the ducks. the breakfast to-day was a different sort of a meal to the morsel of stiff damper and corned junk that had been partaken of at last bivouac. elsie made the tea, and etheldene and she presided. the meat pies and patties were excellent, and everyone was in the highest possible spirits, and joyously merry. alas! and alas! this was a breakfast no one who sat down to, and who lives, is ever likely to forget. have you ever, reader, been startled on a bright sunshiny summer's day by a thunder peal? and have you seen the clouds rapidly bank up after this and obscure the sky, darkness brooding over the windless landscape, lighted up every moment by the blinding lightning's flash, and gloom and danger brooding all round, where but a short half hour ago the birds carolled in sunlight? then will you be able, in some measure, to understand the terribleness of the situation in which an hour or two after breakfast the party found themselves, and the awful suddenness of the shock that for a time quite paralysed every member of it. they had left the dismal depths of the forest, and were out on the open pasture land, and nearing findlayson's house, when craig and archie, riding on in front, came upon the well-known bobtailed collie, who was the almost constant companion of the squatter. the dog was alive, but dying. there was a terrible spear-gash in his neck. craig dismounted and knelt beside him. the poor brute knew him, wagged his inch-long tail, licked the hand that caressed him, and almost immediately expired. craig immediately rode back to the others. "do not be alarmed, ladies," he said. "but i fear the worst. there is no smoke in findlayson's chimney. the black fellows have killed his dog." though both girls grew pale, there were no other signs of fear manifested by them. if young australia could be brave, so could old england. the men consulted hurriedly, and it was agreed that while branson and harry waited with the ladies, archie and craig should ride on towards the house. not a sign of life; no, not one. signs enough of death though, signs enough of an awful struggle. it was all very plain and simple, though all very, very sad and dreadful. here in the courtyard lay several dead natives, festering and sweltering in the noonday sun. here were the boomerangs and spears that had fallen from their hands as they dropped never to rise again. here was the door battered and splintered and beaten in with tomahawks, and just inside, in the passage, lay the bodies of hurricane bill and poor findlayson, hacked about almost beyond recognition. in the rooms all was confusion, every place had been ransacked. the furniture, all new and elegant, smashed and riven; the very piano that the honest scot had bought for sake of elsie had been dissected, and its keys carried away for ornaments. in an inner room, half-dressed, were findlayson's sister and her little scotch maid, their arms broken, as if they had held them up to beseech for mercy from the monsters who had attacked them. their arms were broken, and their skulls beaten in, their white night-dresses drenched in blood. there was blood, blood everywhere--in curdled streams, in great liver-like gouts, and in dark pools on the floor. in the kitchen were many more bodies of white men (the shepherds), and of the fiends in human form with whom they had struggled for their lives. it was an awful and sickening sight. no need for craig or archie to tell the news when they returned to the others. their very silence and sadness told the terrible tale. nothing could be done at present, however, in the way of punishing the murderers, who by this time must be far away in their mountain fastnesses. they must ride back, and at once too, in order to warn the people at burley and round about of their great danger. so the return journey was commenced at once. on riding through the forest they had to observe the greatest caution. craig was an old bushman, and knew the ways of the blacks well. he trotted on in front. and whenever in any thicket, where an ambush might possibly be lurking, he saw no sign of bird or beast, he dismounted and, revolver in hand, examined the place before he permitted the others to come on. they got through the forest and out of the gloom at last, and some hours afterwards dismounted a long way down the creek to water the horses and let them browse. as for themselves, no one thought of eating. there was that feeling of weight at every heart one experiences when first awakening from some dreadful nightmare. they talked about the massacre, as they sat under the shadow of a gum tree, almost in whispers; and at the slightest unusual noise the men grasped their revolvers and listened. they were just about to resume their journey when the distant sound of galloping horses fell on their ears. their own nags neighed. all sprang to their feet, and next moment some eight or nine men rode into the clearing. most of them were known to craig, so he advanced to meet them. "ah! i see you know the worst," said the leader. "yes," said craig, "we know." "we've been to your place. it is all right there with one exception." "one exception?" "yes; it's only the kid--mr cooper's little daughter, you know." "is she dead?" cried archie aghast. "no, sir; that is, it isn't likely. mr cooper's black girl left last night, and took the child." "good heavens! our little diana! poor bob! he will go raving mad!" "he is mad, sir, or all but, already; but we've left some fellows to defend the station, and taken to the trail as you see." "craig," said archie, "we must go too." "well," said the first speaker, "the coast is all clear betwixt here and burley. two must return there with the ladies. i advise you to make your choice, and lose no time." it was finally arranged that branson and one of the newcomers should form the escort; and so archie, harry, and craig bade the girls a hurried adieu, and speedily rode away after the men. chapter twenty nine. on the war trail. twelve men all told to march against a tribe consisting probably of over a hundred and fifty warriors, armed for the fight, and intoxicated with their recent success! it was a rash, an almost mad, venture; but they did not for one moment dream of drawing back. they would trust to their own superior skill to beat the enemy; trust to that fortune that so often favours the brave; trusting--many of them i hope--to that merciful providence who protects the weak, and who, in our greatest hour of need, does not refuse to listen to our pleadings. they had ridden some little way in silence, when suddenly archie drew rein. "halt, men!" he cried. "halt for a moment and deliberate. who is to be the commander of this little force?" "yourself," said gentleman craig, lifting his hat. "you are boss of burley farm, and mr cooper's dearest friend." "hear, hear!" cried several of the others. "perhaps it is best," said archie, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "that i should take the leadership under the circumstances. but, craig, i choose you as my second in command, and one whose counsel i will respect and be guided by." "thank you," said craig; "and to begin with, i move we go straight back to findlayson's farm. we are not too well armed, nor too well provisioned." the proposal was at once adopted, and towards sundown they had once more reached the outlying pastures. they were dismounting to enter, when the half-naked figure of a black suddenly appeared from behind the storehouse. a gun or two was levelled at him at once. "stay," cried craig. "do not fire. that is jacoby, the black stockman, and one of poor mr findlayson's chief men. ha, jacoby, advance my lad, and tell us all you know." jacoby's answer was couched in such unintelligible jargon--a mixture of bush-english and broad scotch--that i will not try the reader's patience by giving it verbatim. he was terribly excited, and looked heartbroken with grief. he had but recently come home, having passed "plenty black fellows" on the road. they had attempted to kill him, but here he was. "could he track them?" "yes, easily. they had gone away _there_." he pointed north and east as he spoke. "this is strange," said craig. "men, if what jacoby tells us be correct, instead of retreating to their homes in the wilderness, the blacks are doubling round; and if so, it must be their intention to commit more of their diabolical deeds, so there is no time to be lost." it was determined first to bury their dear friends; and very soon a grave was dug--a huge rough hole, that was all--and in it the murdered whites were laid side by side. rupert repeated the burial-service, or as much of it as he could remember; then the rude grave was filled, and as the earth fell over the chest of poor old-fashioned findlayson, and archie thought of all his droll and innocent ways, tears trickled over his face that he made no attempt to hide. the men hauled the gates of a paddock off its hinges, and piled wood upon that, so that the wandering dingoes, with their friends the rooks, should be baulked in their attempts to gorge upon the dead. the blacks had evidently commenced to ransack the stores; but for some reason or another had gone and left them mostly untouched. here were gunpowder and cartridges in abundance, and many dainty, easily-carried foods, such as tinned meats and fish, that the unhappy owner had evidently laid in for his friends. so enough of everything was packed away in the men's pockets or bags, and they were soon ready once more for the road. the horses must rest, however; for these formed the mainstay of the little expedition. the men too could not keep on all night without a pause; so archie and craig consulted, and it was agreed to bivouac for a few hours, then resume the journey when the moon should rise. meanwhile the sun went down behind the dark and distant wooded hills, that in their strange shapes almost resembled the horizon seen at sea when the waves are high and stormy. between the place where archie and his brother stood and the light, all was rugged plain and forest land, but soon the whole assumed a shade of almost blackness, and the nearest trees stood up weird and spectre-like against the sky's strange hue. towards the horizon to-night there was a deep saffron or orange fading above into a kind of pure grey or opal hue, with over it all a light blush of red, and hurrying away to the south, impelled by some air-current not felt below, was a mighty host of little cloudlets of every colour, from darkest purple to golden-red and crimson. there was now and then the bleating of sheep--sheep without a shepherd-and a slight tinkle-tinkle, as of a bell. it was in reality the voice of a strange bird, often to be found in the neighbourhood of creeks and pools. hardly any other sound at present fell on the ear. by-and-bye the hurrying clouds got paler, and the orange left the horizon, and stars began to twinkle in the east. "come out here a little way with me," said rupert, taking archie by the hand. when they had gone some little distance, quite out of hearing of the camp, rupert spoke: "do you mind kneeling down here," he said, "to pray, archie?" "you good old rupert, no," was the reply. perhaps no more simple, earnest, or heart-felt prayer was ever breathed under such circumstances, or in such a place. and not only was rupert earnest, but he was confident. he spoke to the great father as to a friend whom he had long, long known, and one whom he could trust to do all for the best. he prayed for protection, he prayed for help for the speedy restoration of the stolen child, and he even prayed for the tribe they soon hoped to meet in conflict--prayed that the god who moves in so mysterious a way to perform his wonders would bless the present affliction to the white man, and even to the misguided black. oh, what a beautiful religion is ours--the religion of love--the religion taught by the lips of the mild and gentle jesus! when they rose from their knees they once more looked skywards at the stars, for they were brightly shining now; then hand-in-hand, as they had come, the brothers returned to the camp. no log fire was lit to-night. the men just lay down to sleep rolled in their blankets, with their arms close by their saddle pillows, two being told off to walk sentry in case of a sudden surprise. even the horses were put in an enclosure, lest they might roam too far away. about twelve o'clock archie awoke from an uneasy dreamful slumber, and looked about him. his attention was speedily attracted to what seemed a huge fire blazing luridly behind the hills, and lighting up the haze above with its gleams. was the forest on fire again? no; it was only moonrise over the woods. he awakened craig, and soon the little camp was all astir, and ready for the road. jacoby was to act as guide. no indian from the wild west of america could be a better tracker. but even before he started he told craig the task would be an easy one, for the black fellows had drunk plenty, and had taken plenty rum with them. they would not go far, he thought, and there was a probability that they would meet some of the band returning. even in the moonlight jacoby followed the trail easily and rapidly. it took them first straight for the forest that had been burned recently--a thoughtless deed on the part of the whites, that probably led to all this sad trouble. there was evidence here that the blacks had gone into camp on the very night of the massacre, and had held a corroboree, which could only have been a day or two ago. there were the remains of the camp fires and the trampled ground and broken branches, with no attempt at concealment. there was a chance that even now they might not be far away, and that the little band might come up with them ere they had started for the day. but if they ventured to hope so, they were doomed to disappointment. morning broke at last lazily over the woods, and with but a brief interval they followed up the trail, and so on and on all that day, till far into the afternoon, when for a brief moment only jacoby found himself puzzled, having fallen in with another trail leading south and west from the main track. he soon, however, discovered that the new trail must be that of some band who had joined the findlayson farm raiders. it became painfully evident soon after that this was the correct solution, for, going backwards some little way, archie found a child's shoe--one of a crimson pair that bob had bought in brisbane for his little diana. "god help her, poor darling!" said archie reverently, as he placed the little shoe in his breast pocket. when he returned he held it up for a moment before the men, and the scowl of anger that crossed their faces, and the firmer clutch they took of their weapons, showed it would indeed be bad for the blacks when they met these rough pioneers face to face. at sunset supper was partaken of, and camp once more formed, though no fire was lit, cold though it might be before morning. the men were tired, and were sound asleep almost as soon as they lay down; but craig, with the brothers, climbed the ridge of the hill to look about them soon after it grew dark. the camp rested at the entrance of a wild gully, a view of which could be had, darkling away towards the east, from the hill on which the three friends now found themselves. presently rupert spoke. "archie," he said, "in this land of contrarieties does the moon sometimes rise in the south?" "not quite," replied archie. "look, then. what is that reflection over yonder?" craig and archie both caught sight of it at the same time. "by saint george and merry england!" craig cried exultingly, "that is the camp of the blacks. now to find diana's other shoe, and the dear child herself wearing it. now for revenge!" "nay," said rupert, "call it _justice_, craig." "what you will; but let us hurry down." they stayed but for a moment more to take their bearings. the fire gleams pointed to a spot to the south-east, on high ground, and right above the gully, and they had a background of trees, not the sky. it was evident then that the enemy was encamped in a little clearing on a forest tableland; and if they meant to save the child's life--if indeed she was not already dead--the greatest caution would be necessary. they speedily descended, and a consultation being held, it was resolved to commence operations as soon as the moon should rise; but meanwhile to creep in the darkness as near to the camp as possible. but first jacoby was sent out to reconnoitre. no cat, no flying squirrel could glide more noiselessly through an australian forest than this faithful fellow. still he seemed an unconsciously long time gone. just as craig and archie were getting seriously uneasy the tinkle, tinkle of the bell-bird was heard. this was the signal agreed upon, and presently after, jacoby himself came silently into their midst. "the child?" was archie's first question. "baal mumhill piccaninny, belong a you. pidney you." "the child is safe," said craig, after asking a few more questions of this scotch myell black. "safe? and they are holding a corroboree and drinking. there is little time to lose. they may sacrifice the infant at any time." craig struck a light as he spoke, and every man examined his arms. "the moon will rise in an hour. let us go on. silent as death, men! do not overturn a stone or break a twig, or the poor baby's life will be sacrificed in a moment." they now advanced slowly and cautiously, guided by jacoby, and at length lay down almost within pistol-shot of the place where the horrid corroboree was going on. considering the noise--the shrieking, the clashing of arms, the rude chanting of songs, and awful din, of the dancers and actors in this ugly drama--to maintain silence might have seemed unnecessary; but these blacks have ears like wolves, and, in a lull of even half a second, would be sharp to hear the faintest unusual noise. craig and archie, however, crept on till they came within sight of the ceremonies. at another time it might have been interesting to watch the hideous grotesqueness of that awful war-dance, but other thoughts were in their minds at present--they were looking everywhere for diana. presently the wild, naked, dancing blacks surged backwards, and, asleep in the arms of a horrid gin, they discovered bob's darling child. it was well bob himself was not here or all would quickly have been lost. all was nearly lost as it was; for suddenly archie inadvertently snapped a twig. in a moment there was silence, except for the barking of a dog. craig raised his voice, and gave vent to a scream so wild and unearthly that even archie was startled. at once all was confusion among the blacks. whether they had taken it for the yell of bunyip or not may never be known, but they prepared to fly. the gin carrying diana threw down the frightened child. a black raised his arm to brain the little toddler. he fell dead instead. craig's aim had been a steady one. almost immediately after a volley or two completed the rout, and the blacks fled yelling into the forest. diana was saved! this was better than revenge; for not a hair of her bonnie wee head had been injured, so to speak, and she still wore the one little red-morocco shoe. there was not a man there who did not catch that child up in his arms and kiss her, some giving vent to their feelings in wild words of thankfulness to god in heaven, while the tears came dripping over their hardy, sun-browned cheeks. chapter thirty. chest to chest with savages--how it all ended. no one thought of sleeping again that night. they went back for their horses, and, as the moon had now risen, commenced the journey in a bee line, as far as that was possible, towards burley new farm. they travelled on all night, still under the guidance of jacoby, who needed no blazed trees to show in which direction to go. but when morning came rest became imperative, for the men were beginning to nod in their saddles, and the horses too seemed to be falling asleep on their feet, for several had stumbled and thrown their half-senseless riders. so camp was now formed and breakfast discussed, and almost immediately all save a sentry went off into sound and dreamless slumber, diana lying close to craig, whom she was very fond of, with her head on his great shoulder and her fingers firmly entwined in his beard. it was hard upon the one poor fellow who had to act as sentry. do what he might he could scarcely keep awake, and he was far too tired to continue walking about. he went and leant his body against a tree, and in this position, what with the heat of the day, and the drowsy hum of insects, with the monotonous song of the grasshopper, again and again he felt himself merging into the land of dreams. then he would start and shake himself, and take a turn or two in the sunshine, then go back to the tree and nod as before. the day wore on, the sun got higher and higher, and about noon, just when the sentry was thinking or rather dreaming of waking the sleepers, there was a wild shout from a neighbouring thicket, a spear flew past him and stuck in the tree. next moment there was a terrible _melee_--a hand-to-hand fight with savages that lasted for long minutes, but finally resulted in victory for the squatters. but, alas! it was a dearly-bought victory. three out of the twelve were dead, and three more, including gentleman craig, grievously wounded. the rest followed up the blacks for some little way, and more than one of them bit the dust. then they returned to help their fellows. craig's was a spear wound through the side, none the less dangerous in that hardly a drop of blood was lost externally. they drew the killed in under a tree, and having bound up the wounds of the others, and partly carrying them or helping them along, they resumed the march. all that day they dragged themselves along, and it was far into the early hours of morning ere they reached the boundaries of burley new farm. the moon was shining, though not very brightly, light fleecy clouds were driving rapidly across the sky, so they could see the lights in both the old house and in the lower windows of archie's own dwelling. they fired guns and coo-ee-ed, and presently bob and winslow rushed out to bid them welcome. diana went bounding away to meet him. "oh, daddy, daddy!" she exclaimed, "what a time we've been having! but mind, daddy, it wasn't all fun." bob could not speak for the life of him. he just staggered in with the child in his arms and handed her over to sarah; but i leave the reader to imagine the state of sarah's feelings now. poor craig was borne in and put to bed in archie's guest room, and there he lay for weeks. bob himself had gone to brisbane to import a surgeon, regardless of expense; but it was probably more owing to the tender nursing of elsie than anything else that craig was able at length to crawl out and breathe the balmy, flower-scented air in the verandah. one afternoon, many weeks after this, craig was lying on a bank, under the shade of a tree, in a beautiful part of the forest, all in whitest bloom, and elsie was seated near him. there had been silence for some time, and the girl was quietly reading. "i wonder," said craig at last; "if my life is really worth the care that you and all the good people here have lavished on me?" "how can you speak thus?" said elsie, letting her book drop in her lap, and looking into his face with those clear, blue eyes of hers. "if you only knew all my sad, sinful story, you would not wonder that i speak thus." "tell me your story: may i not hear it?" "it is so long and, pardon me, so melancholy." "never mind, i will listen attentively." then craig commenced. he told her all the strange history of his early demon-haunted life, about his recklessness, about his struggles and his final victory over self. he told her he verily did believe that his mother's spirit was near him that night in the forest when he made the vow which providence in his mercy had enabled him to keep. yes, it was a long story. the sun had gone down ere he had finished, a crescent moon had appeared in the southern sky, and stars had come out. there was sweetness and beauty everywhere. there was calm in craig's soul now. for he had told elsie something besides. he had told her that he had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, and he had asked her in simple language to become his wife--to be his guardian angel. that same evening, when archie came out into the garden, he found elsie still sitting by craig's couch, but her hand was clasped in his. then archie knew all, and a great, big sigh of relief escaped him, for until this very moment he had been of opinion that craig loved etheldene. -----------------------------------------------------------------------in course of a few months squire broadbent was as good as his word. he came out to the new land to give the australians the benefit of his genius in the farming way; to teach young australia a thing or two it had not known before; so at least _he_ thought. with him came mrs broadbent, and even uncle ramsay, and the day of their arrival at brisbane was surely a red-letter day in the annals of that thriving and prosperous place. strange to say, however, none of the squatters from the bush, none of the speculating men, nor anybody else apparently, were very much inclined to be lectured about their own country, and the right and wrong way of doing things, by a squire from the old country, who had never been here before. some of them were even rude enough to laugh in his face, but the squire was not offended a bit. he was on far too good terms with himself for that, and too sure that he was in the right in all he said. he told some of these bush farmers that if _they_ did not choose to learn a wrinkle or two from him _he_ was not the loser, with much more to the same purpose, all of which had about the same effect on his hearers that rain has on a duck's back. to use a rather hackneyed phrase, squire broadbent had the courage of his convictions. he settled quietly down at burley new farm, and commenced to study bush-life in all its bearings. it soon began to dawn upon him that australia was getting to be a great country, that she had a great future before her, and that he--squire broadbent--would be connected with it. he was in no great hurry to invest, though eventually he would. it would be better to wait and watch. there was room enough and to spare for all at archie's house, and that all included honest uncle ramsay of course. he and winslow resumed acquaintance, and in the blunt, straightforward ways of the man even squire broadbent found a deal to admire and even to marvel at. "he is a clever man," said the squire to his brother; "a clever man and a far-seeing. he gets a wonderful grasp of financial matters in a moment. depend upon it, brother, he is the right metal, and it is upon solid stones like him that the future greatness of a nation should be founded." uncle ramsay said he himself did not know much about it. he knew more about ships, and was quite content to settle down at brisbane, and keep a morsel of a 20-tonner. that was his ambition. what a delight it was for archie to have them all round his breakfast-table in the green parlour at burley new form, or seated out in the verandah all so homelike and happy. his dear old mummy too, with her innocent womanly ways, delighted with all she saw, yet half afraid of almost everything--half afraid the monster gum trees would fall upon her when out in the forest; half afraid to put her feet firmly to the ground when walking, but gathering up her skirts gingerly, and thinking every withered branch was a snake; half afraid the howling dingoes would come down in force at night, as wild wolves do on russian wastes, and kill and eat everybody; half afraid of the most ordinary good-natured-looking black fellow; half afraid of even the pet kangaroo when he hopped round and held up his chin to have his old-fashioned neck stroked; half afraid--but happy, so happy nevertheless, because she had all she loved around her. gentleman craig was most deferential and attentive to mrs broadbent, and she could not help admiring him--indeed, no one could--and quite approved of elsie's choice; though, mother-like, she thought the girl far too young to marry yet, as the song says. however, they were not to be married yet quite. there was a year to elapse, and a busy one it was. first and foremost, craig took the unfortunate findlayson's farm. but the old steading was allowed to go to decay, and some one told me the other day that there is now a genuine ghost, said to be seen on moonlight nights, wandering round the ruined pile. anyhow, its associations were of far too terrible a character for craig to think of building near it. he chose the site for his house and outbuildings near the creek and the spot where they had bivouacked before the murder was discovered. it was near here too that craig had made his firm resolve to be a free man-made it and kept it. the spot was charmingly beautiful too; and as his district included a large portion of the forest, he commenced clearing that, but in so scientific and tasteful a manner that it looked, when finished, like a noble park. during this year squire broadbent also became a squatter. from squire to squatter may sound to some like a come-down in life; but really broadbent did not think so. he managed to buy out a station immediately adjoining archie's, and when he had got fairly established thereon he told his brother ramsay that fifteen years had tumbled off his shoulders all in a lump--fifteen years of care and trouble, fifteen years of struggle to keep his head above water, and live up to his squiredom. "i'm more contented now by far and away," he told his wife, "than i was in the busy, boastful days before the fire at burley old farm; so, you see, it doesn't take much in this world to make a man happy." rupert did not turn squatter, but missionary. it was a great treat for him to have etheldene to ride with him away out into the bush whenever he heard a tribe had settled down anywhere for a time. etheldene knew all their ways, and between the two of them they no doubt did much good. it is owing to such earnest men as rupert that so great a change has come over the black population, and that so many of them, even as i write, sit humbly at the feet of jesus, clothed and in their right mind. to quote the words of a recent writer: "the war-paints and weapons for fights are seen no more, the awful heathen corroborees have ceased, the females are treated with kindness, and the lamentable cries, accompanied by bodily injuries, when death occurred, have given place to christian sorrow and quiet tears for their departed friends." it came to pass one day that etheldene and archie, towards the end of the year, found themselves riding alone, through scrub and over plain, just as they were that day they were lost. the conversation turned round to rupert's mission. "what a dear, good, young man your brother is, archie!" said the girl. "do you really love him?" "as a brother, yes." "etheldene, have him for a brother, will you?" the rich blood mounted to her cheeks and brow. she cast one half-shy, half-joyful look at archie, and simply murmured, "yes." it was all over in a moment then. etheldene struck her horse lightly across the crest with the handle of her stock whip, and next minute both horses were galloping as if for dear life. when archie told rupert how things had turned out, he only smiled in his quiet manner. "it is a queer way of wooing," he said; "but then you were always a queer fellow, archie, and etheldene is a regular bush baby, as craig calls her. oh, i knew long ago she loved you!" at the year's end then both elsie and etheldene were married, and married, too, at the same church in sydney from which bob led sarah, his blushing bride. it might not have been quite so wild and daft a wedding, but it was a very happy one nevertheless. no one was more free in blessing the wedded couples than old kate. yes, old as she was, she had determined not to be left alone in england. we know how bob spent his honeymoon. how were the new young folks to spend theirs? oh, it was all arranged beforehand! and on the very morning of the double marriage they embarked--harry and bob going with them for a holiday--on board captain vesey's pretty yacht, and sailed away for england. etheldene's dream of romance was about to become a reality; she was not only to visit the land of chivalry, but with archie her husband and hero by her side. the yacht hung off and on the shore all day, as if reluctant to leave the land; but towards evening a breeze sprang up from the west, the sails filled, and away she went, dancing and curtseying over the water like a thing of life. the sunset was bewitchingly beautiful; the green of the land was changed to a purple haze, that softened and beautified its every outline; the cloudless sky was clear and deep; that is, it gave you the idea you could see so far into and through it. there was a flush of saffron along the horizon; above it was of an opal tint, with here and there a tender shade of crimson--only a suspicion of this colour, no more; and apparently close at hand, in the east, were long-drawn cloudlets of richest red and gold. etheldene looked up in her husband's face. "shall we have such a sky as that to greet our arrival on english shores?" she said. archie drew her closer to his side. "i'm not quite sure about the sky," he replied, shaking his head and smiling, "but we'll have a hearty english welcome." and so they had. the builders by the same author ancient law, the the battle-ground, the the deliverance, the the freeman and other poems, the the life and gabriella miller of old church, the the romance of a plain man, the the virginia voice of the people, the the wheel of life the builders by ellen glasgow [illustration: colophon] garden city new york doubleday, page & company 1919 copyright, 1919, by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian contents book first appearances chapter page i. caroline 3 ii. the time 20 iii. briarlay 25 iv. angelica 44 v. the first night 59 vi. letty 70 vii. caroline makes discoveries 84 viii. blackburn 102 ix. angelica's charity 122 x. other discoveries 142 xi. the sacred cult 165 xii. the world's view of an unfortunate marriage 176 xiii. indirect influence 194 book second realities i. in blackburn's library 219 ii. readjustments 231 iii. man's woman 245 iv. the martyr 257 v. the choice 268 vi. angelica's triumph 281 vii. courage 293 viii. the cedars 310 ix. the years ahead 324 x. the light on the road 339 xi. the letter 348 xii. the vision 359 book first appearances the builders chapter i caroline the train was late that day, and when the old leather mail pouch was brought in, dripping wet, by jonas, the negro driver, mrs. meade put down the muffler she was knitting, and received it reluctantly. "at least there aren't any bills at this time of the month," she observed, with the manner of one who has been designed by providence to repel disaster. while she unbuckled the clammy straps, her full, round face, which was still fresh and pretty in spite of her seventy years, shone like an auspicious moon in the dusky glow of the fire. since wood was scarce, and this particular strip of southside virginia grew poorer with each year's harvest, the only fire at the cedars was the one in "the chamber," as mrs. meade's bedroom was called. it was a big, shabby room, combining, as successfully as its owner, an aspect of gaiety with a conspicuous absence of comforts. there were no curtains at the windows, and the rugs, made from threadbare carpets, had faded to indeterminate patterns; but the cracked mahogany belonged to a good period, and if the colours had worn dim, they were harmonious and restful. the house, though scarred, still held to its high standards. the spirit of the place was the spirit of generous poverty, of cheerful fortitude. the three girls on the hearthrug, knitting busily for the war relief association, were so much alike in colouring, shape, and feature, that it was difficult at a casual glance to distinguish maud, who was almost, if not quite, a beauty, from margaret and diana, who were merely pretty and intelligent. they were all natural, kind-hearted girls, who had been trained from infancy to make the best of things and to laugh when they were hurt. from the days when they had played with ears of corn instead of dolls, they had acquired ingenuity and philosophy. for mrs. meade, who derived her scant income from a plantation cultivated "on shares" by negro tenants, had brought up her girls to take life gaily, and to rely on their own resourcefulness rather than on fortuitous events. "here is a nice fat letter for caroline, and it looks as if it weren't an advertisement." with one plump hand she held out the letter, while she handed the dripping mail bag to jonas. "bring some wood for the fire, jonas, and be sure to shut the door after you." "dar ain' no mo' wood, ole miss." for an instant mrs. meade stopped to think. "well, the garden fence is falling down by the smoke-house. split up some of the rails. here is your letter, caroline." a woman's figure, outlined against the rocking branches of an old cedar beyond the window, turned slowly toward the group on the hearthrug. in caroline's movements, while she lingered there for a moment, there was something gallant and free and spirited, which was a part of the world outside and the swaying boughs. though she was older than the three girls by the fire, she was young with an illusive and indestructible grace of the soul. at thirty-two, in spite of the stern sweetness about her thin red lips, and the defiant courage which flashed now and then from the shadowy pallor of her face, one felt that the flame and ardour of her glance flowed not from inward peace, but from an unconquerable and adventurous spirit. against the grey rain her face seemed the face of some swiftly changing idea, so expressive of an intangible beauty was the delicate curve of the cheek and the broad, clear forehead beneath the dark hair, which grew low in a "widow's peak" above the arched eyebrows and the vivid blue of the eyes. if there was austerity in the lines of her mouth, her eyes showed gaiety, humour, and tenderness. long ago, before the wreck of her happiness, her father, who had a taste for the striking in comparisons, had said that caroline's eyes were like bluebirds flying. the letter could wait. she was not interested in letters now, rarely as they came to her. it was, she knew, only the call to a patient, and after nearly eight years of nursing, she had learned that nothing varied the monotonous personalities of patients. they were all alike, united in their dreadful pathos by the condition of illness--and as a mere matter of excitement there was little to choose between diphtheria and pneumonia. yet if it were a call, of course she would go, and her brief vacation would be over. turning away from the firelight, she deferred as long as possible the descent from her thoughts to the inevitable bondage of the actuality. beyond the window, veiled in rain, she could see the pale quivering leaves of the aspens on the lawn, and the bend in the cedar avenue, which led to the big white gate and the private road that ran through the farm until it joined the turnpike at the crossroads. ever since she was born, it seemed to her, for almost thirty-two years, she had watched like this for something that might come up that long empty road. even in the years that she had spent away, she had felt that her soul waited there, tense and expectant, overlooking the bend in the avenue and the white gate, and then the road over which "the something different," if it came at all, must come at last to the cedars. nothing, not change, not work, not travel, could detach the invisible tendrils of her life from the eager, brooding spirit of the girl who had once watched there at the window. she had been watching--watching--she remembered, when the letter that broke her heart had come in the old mail pouch, up the road beyond, and through the gate, and on into the shadows and stillness of the avenue. that was how the blow had come to her, without warning, while she waited full of hope and expectancy and the ardent sweetness of dreams. "my poor child, your heart is broken!" her mother had cried through her tears, and the girl, with the letter still in her hands, had faced her defiantly. "yes, but my head and my hands are whole," she had replied with a laugh. then, while the ruins of her happiness lay at her feet, she began rebuilding her house of life with her head and her hands. she would accept failure on its own terms, completely, exultantly, and by the very audacity of her acceptance, she would change defeat into victory. she would make something out of nothing; she would wring peace, not from joy, but from the heart of an incredible cruelty; she would build with courage, not with gladness, but she would build her house toward the stars. "there must be something one can live on besides love," she thought, "or half the world would go famished." "come and read your letter, caroline," called maud, as she reached the end of a row. "there isn't anything for the rest of us." "i am so afraid it is a call, dear," said mrs. meade; and then, as caroline left the window and passed into the firelight, the old lady found herself thinking a little vaguely, "poor child, the hard work is beginning to show in her face--but she has never been the same since that unfortunate experience. i sometimes wonder why a just providence lets such things happen." aloud she added, while her beaming face clouded slightly, "i hope and pray that it isn't anything catching." as caroline bent over the letter, the three younger girls put down their knitting and drew closer, while their charming faces, brown, flushed, and sparkling, appeared to catch and hold the glow of the flames. they were so unlike caroline, that she might have been mistaken, by a stranger, for a woman of a different race. while she bent there in the firelight, her slender figure, in its cambric blouse and skirt of faded blue serge, flowed in a single lovely curve from her drooping dark head to her narrow feet in their worn russet shoes. "it is from an old friend of yours, mother," she said presently, "mrs. colfax." "lucy colfax! why, what on earth is she writing to you about? i hope there isn't anything wrong with her." "read it aloud, caroline," said diana. "mother, this fire will go out before jonas can fix it." "he has to split the wood, dear. look out on the back porch and see if you can find some chips. they'll be nice and dry." mrs. meade spoke with authority, for beneath her cheerful smile there was the heart of a fighter, and like all good fighters, she fought best when she was driven against the wall. "now, caroline, i am listening." "she wants me to take a case. it sounds queer, but i'll read you what she says. 'dear caroline'--she calls me 'caroline.'" "that's natural, dear. we were like sisters, and perhaps she took a fancy to you the time she met you in richmond. it would be just like her to want to do something for you." the sprightly old lady, who was constitutionally incapable of seeing any prospect in subdued colours, was already weaving a brilliant tapestry of caroline's future. "'dear caroline: "'my cousin, angelica blackburn, has asked me to recommend a trained nurse for her little girl, who is delicate, and i am wondering if you would care to take the case. she particularly wishes a self-reliant and capable person, and doctor boland tells me you have inherited your mother's sweet and unselfish nature (i don't see how he knows. everybody is unselfish in a sick-room. one has to be.)'" "well, i'm sure you have a lovely nature," replied mrs. meade tenderly. "i was telling the girls only yesterday that you never seemed to think of yourself a minute." in her own mind she added, "any other girl would have been embittered by that unfortunate experience" (the phrase covered caroline's blighted romance) "and it shows how much character she has that she was able to go on just as if nothing had happened. i sometimes think a sense of humour does as much for you as religion." "'i remember my poor father used to say,'" caroline read on smoothly, "'that in hard dollars and cents carrie warwick's disposition was worth a fortune.'" "that's very sweet of lucy," murmured mrs. meade deprecatingly. "'as you are the daughter of my old friend, i feel i ought not to let you take the case without giving you all the particulars. i don't know whether or not you ever heard of david blackburn--but your mother will remember his wife, for she was a fitzhugh, the daughter of champ fitzhugh, who married bessie ludwell.'" "of course i remember bessie. she was my bosom friend at miss braxton's school in petersburg." "let me go on, mother darling. if you interrupt me so often i'll never get to the interesting part." "very well, go on, my dear, but it does seem just like providence. when the flour gave out in the barrel last night, i knew something would happen." for mrs. meade had begun life with the shining certainty that "something wonderful" would happen to her in the future, and since she was now old and the miracle had never occurred, she had transferred her hopes to her children. her optimism was so elastic that it stretched over a generation without breaking. "'mrs. blackburn--angelica fitzhugh, she was--though her name is really anna jeannette, and they called her angelica as a child because she looked so like an angel--well, mrs. blackburn is the cousin i spoke of, whose little girl is so delicate.' she is all tangled up, isn't she, mother?" "lucy always wrote like that," said mrs. meade. "as a girl she was a scatterbrain." "'i do not know exactly what is wrong with the child,'" caroline resumed patiently, "'but as long as you may go into the family, i think i ought to tell you that i have heard it whispered that her father injured her in a fit of temper when she was small.'" "how horrible!" exclaimed diana. "caroline, you couldn't go there!" "'she has never been able to play with other children, and doctor boland thinks she has some serious trouble of the spine. i should not call her a disagreeable child, or hard to manage, just delicate and rather whining--at least she is whenever i see her, which is not often. her mother is one of the loveliest creatures on earth, and i can imagine no greater privilege than living in the house with her. she is far from strong, but she seems never to think of her health, and all her time is devoted to doing good. doctor boland was telling me yesterday that he had positively forbidden her undertaking any more charitable work. he says her nerves are sensitive, and that if she does not stop and rest she will break down sooner or later. i cannot help feeling--though of course i did not say this to him--that her unhappy marriage is the cause of her ill health and her nervousness. she was married very young, and they were so desperately poor that it was a choice between marriage and school teaching. i cannot blame anybody for not wanting to teach school, especially if they have as poor a head for arithmetic as i have, but if i had been angelica, i should have taught until the day of my death before i should have married david blackburn. if she had not been so young it would be hard to find an excuse for her. of course he has an immense fortune, and he comes of a good old family in southside virginia--your mother will remember his father--but when you have said that, you have said all there is to his credit. the family became so poor after the war that the boy had to go to work while he was scarcely more than a child, and i believe the only education he has ever had was the little his mother taught him, and what he managed to pick up at night after the day's work was over. in spite of his birth he has had neither the training nor the advantages of a gentleman, and nothing proves this so conclusively as the fact that, though he was brought up a democrat, he voted the republican ticket at the last two presidential elections. there is something black in a man, my dear old father used to say, who goes over to the negroes---'" "of course lucy belongs to the old school," said mrs. meade. "she talks just as her father used to--but i cannot see any harm in a man's voting as he thinks right." "'i am telling you all this, my dear caroline, in order that you may know exactly what the position is. the salary will be good, just what you make in other cases, and i am sure that angelica will be kindness itself to you. as for david blackburn, i scarcely think he will annoy you. he treats his wife abominably, i hear, but you can keep out of his way, and it is not likely that he will be openly rude to you when you meet. the papers just now are full of him because, after going over to the republicans, he does not seem satisfied with their ways. "'give my fondest love to your mother, and tell her how thankful i am that she and i are not obliged to live through a second war. one is enough for any woman, and i know she will agree with me--especially if she could read some of the letters my daughter writes from france. i feel every hour i live how thankful we ought to be to a kind providence for giving us a president who has kept us out of this war. robert says if there were not any other reason to vote for mr. wilson, that would be enough--and with mr. hughes in the white house who knows but we should be in the midst of it all very soon. david blackburn is making fiery speeches about the duty of america's going in, but some men can never have enough of a fight, and i am sure the president knows what is best for us, and will do what he thinks is right. "'be sure to telegraph me if you can come, and i will meet your train in angelica's car. "'your affectionate friend, lucy colfax. "'i forgot to tell you that doctor boland says i am prejudiced against david blackburn, but i do not think i am. i tell only what i hear, for the stories are all over richmond.'" as caroline finished the letter she raised her head with a laugh. "it sounds like a good place, and as for bluebeard--well, he can't kill me. i don't happen to be his wife." her figure, with its look of relaxed energy, of delicate yet inflexible strength, straightened swiftly, while her humorous smile played like an edge of light over her features. the old lady, watching her closely, remembered the way caroline's dead father had laughed in his youth. "she is as like him as a girl could be," she thought, with her eyes on her daughter's wide white brow, which had always seemed to her a shade too strong and thoughtful for a woman. only the softly curving line of hair and the large radiant eyes kept the forehead from being almost masculine. "she might be as pretty as maud if only she had more colour and her brow and chin were as soft as her eyes. her mouth isn't full and red like maud's, and her nose isn't nearly so straight, but the girls' father used to say that the best nose after all is a nose that nobody remembers." smiling vaguely at the recollection, mrs. meade readjusted her mental processes with an effort, and took up her work. "i hope lucy is prejudiced against him," she observed brightly. "you know her father was once governor of virginia, and she can't stand anybody who doesn't support the democratic party." "but she says he treats his wife abominably, and that it's all over richmond!" exclaimed maud indignantly. before this challenge mrs. meade quailed. "if she is prejudiced about one thing, she may be about others," she protested helplessly. "well, he can't hurt me," remarked caroline with firmness. "people can't hurt you unless you let them." nothing, she felt, in an uncertain world was more certain than this--no man could ever hurt her again. she knew life now; she had acquired experience; she had learned philosophy; and no man, not even bluebeard himself, could ever hurt her again. "there was something about him in the paper this morning," said margaret, the serious and silent one of the family. "i didn't read it, but i am sure that i saw his name in the headlines. it was about an independent movement in politics." "well, i'm not afraid of independent movements," rejoined caroline gaily, "and i'm not like mrs. colfax--for i don't care what he does to the democratic party." "i hate to have you go there, my dear," mrs. meade's voice shook a little, "but, of course, you must do what you think right." she remembered the empty flour barrel, and the falling fence rails, and the habit of a merciful providence that invariably came to her aid at the eleventh hour. perhaps, after all, there was a design working through it, she reflected, as she recovered her sprightliness, and providence had arranged the case to meet her necessities. "it seems disagreeable, but one never knows," she added aloud. "it isn't the first time i've had a disagreeable case, mother. one can't nurse seven years and see only the pleasant side of people and things." "yes, i know, my child, i know. you have had so much experience." she felt quite helpless before the fact of her daughter's experience. "only if he really does ill treat his wife, and you have to see it----" "if i see it, perhaps i can stop it. i suppose even bluebeard might have been stopped if anybody had gone about it with spirit. it won't be my first sudden conversion." her eyes were still laughing, but her mouth was stern, and between the arched black eyebrows three resolute little lines had appeared. before her "unfortunate experience," mrs. meade thought sadly, there had been no grimness in caroline's humour. "you have a wonderful way of bringing out the good in people, caroline. your uncle clarence was telling me last sunday that he believed you could get the best out of anybody." "then granting that bluebeard has a best, i'd better begin to dig for it as soon as i get there." "i am glad you can take it like that. if you weren't so capable, so resourceful, i'd never be easy about you a minute, but you are too intelligent to let yourself get into difficulties that you can't find a way out of." the old lady brightened as quickly as she had saddened. after all, if caroline had been merely an ordinary girl she could never have turned to nursing so soon after the wreck of her happiness. "if a man had broken my heart when i was a girl, i believe i should have died of it," she told herself. "certainly, i should never have been able to hold up my head and go on laughing like that. i suppose it was pride that kept her up, but it is queer the way that pride affects people so differently. now a generation ago pride would not have made a girl laugh and take up work. it would have killed her." and there flashed through her thoughts, with the sanguine irrelevance of her habit of mind, "what i have never understood is how any man could go off with a little yellow-haired simpleton like that after knowing caroline. yet, i suppose, as clarence said, if she hadn't been a simpleton, it would have been that much worse." "well, i'm going," said caroline so briskly that her mother and sisters looked at her in surprise. "jonas will have to saddle billy and take the telegram to the station, and then you can stop knitting and help me finish those caps. this is my war and i'm going to fight it through to the end." she went out with the telegram, and a little later when she came back and turned again to the window, mrs. meade saw that her eyes were shining. after all, it looked sometimes as if caroline really liked a battle. always when things went wrong or appeared disastrous, this shining light came to her eyes. outside an eddying wind was driving the rain in gusts up the avenue, and the old cedar dashed its boughs, with a brushing sound, against the blurred window panes. as caroline stood there she remembered that her father had loved the cedar, and there drifted into her thoughts the words he had spoken to her shortly before his death. "i haven't much to leave you, daughter, but i leave you one good thing--courage. never forget that it isn't the victory that matters, it is the fight." she heard mrs. meade telling jonas, who was starting to the station, that he must haul a load of wood from pine hill when the rain was over, and while she listened, it seemed to her that she had never really known her mother until this instant--that she had never understood her simple greatness. "she has fought every minute," she thought, "she has had a hard life, and yet no one would know it. it has not kept her from being sweet and gay and interested in every one else. even now in that calico dress, with an apron on, she looks as if she were brimming with happiness." out of the wreck of life, out of poverty and sacrifice and drudgery, she realized that her mother had stood for something fine and clear and permanent--for an ideal order. she had never muddled things under the surface; she had kept in touch with realities; she had looked always through the changing tissue of experience to the solid structure of life. like the old house she had held through all vicissitudes to her high standards. then her thoughts left her mother, and she faced the unknown future with the defiant courage she had won from disillusionment. "if we were not so poor i'd go to france," she reflected, "but how could they possibly do without the hundred dollars a month i can earn?" no, whatever happened she must stick to her task, and her task was keeping the roof from falling in over her mother and the girls. after a month's rest at the cedars, she would start again on the round of uninspiring patients and tedious monotony. the place mrs. colfax offered her seemed to her uninteresting and even sordid, and yet she knew that nothing better awaited her. she hated darkness and mystery, and the house into which she was going appeared to her to be both dark and mysterious. she was sure of her own strength; she had tested her courage and her endurance, and she was not afraid; yet for some vague and inexplicable reason she shrank from the position she had accepted. mrs. colfax's picture of the situation she thought tinged with melodrama, and her honest and lucid intelligence despised the melodramatic. they might all have been on the stage--the good wife, the brutal husband, and the delicate child; they seemed to her as unrelated to actual life as the sombre ghost that stalked through hamlet. "angelica! it is a lovely name," she mused, seizing upon the one charming thing in mrs. colfax's description, "i wonder what she is like?" fair, graceful, suffering, she saw this unknown woman against the background of the unhappy home, in an atmosphere of mystery and darkness. "she must be weak," she thought. "if she were not weak, she would not let him hurt her." and she longed to pour some of her own strength of will, her own independence and determination and philosophy, into the imaginary figure of mrs. blackburn. "it may be that i can help her. if i can only help her a little, it will all be worth while." she tried presently to think of other things--of the caps she must finish, of the uniforms she had intended to make during her vacation, of the piece of white lawn she must cut up into kerchiefs, of the mending she would ask the girls to do for her before they went to bed. there was so much to occupy her time and her thoughts in the one evening that was left to her--yet, do what she would--look where she pleased--the sweet veiled image of mrs. blackburn floated to her through the twilight, up the long, dim road and round the bend in the avenue--as if this stranger with the lovely name were the "something different" she had waited for in the past. by a miracle of imagination she had transferred this single character into actual experience. the sense of mystery was still there, but the unreality had vanished. it was incredible the way a woman whose face she had never seen had entered into her life. "why, she is more real than anything," she thought in surprise. "she is more real even than the war." for the war had not touched her. she stood secure, enclosed, protected from disaster, in her little green corner of southside virginia. her personal life had not been overpowered and submerged in the current of impersonal forces. the age of small things still surrounded her--but the quiver and vibration of great movements, of a world in dissolution, the subdued, insistent undercurrent of new spiritual energies in action--these were reaching her, with the ebb and flow of psychological processes, as they were reaching the virginia in which she lived. the world was changing--changing--while she went toward it. chapter ii the time at midnight, when she was alone in her room, caroline's mind passed from an intense personal realization of the blackburns to a broader conception of the time in which she was living--the time which this generation had helped to create, and which, like some monster of the imagination, was now devouring its happiness. she thought of her father--a man of intellectual abilities who had spent his life out of touch with his environment, in an uncongenial employment. young as she was when he died, she had been for years the solitary confidant of his mind, for he also, like these strangers into whose lives she was about to enter, had been the victim of the illimitable and inscrutable forces which shape the thought of an age. he had been different from his generation, and because he had been different, it had destroyed him. yet his single idea had outlived the multitudinous actions and reactions that surrounded him. he saw not to-day, but to-morrow; and though he was of another mettle from this blackburn of whom she had been reading, he appeared now in her fancy to take a place beside him in the vivid life of the age. the lamp was smoking, and after lowering the wick, she sat gazing into the darkness beyond the loosened shutters, which rattled when the wind shook them. * * * * * it was in the early autumn of nineteen hundred and sixteen, the moment in history when america, hesitating on the verge of war, discovered that it was no longer an anglo-saxon nation; that, in spite of its language and literature, its shell of customs and traditions, a new race had been created out of a complicated mass of diverse interacting sympathies, prejudices, attractions, and repulsions. confronted now with problems demanding a definite expression of the national will, it became evident that the pioneer stock had undergone profound modifications, and that from a mingling of many strains had been born an emphatic american spirit, with aspirations essentially different from those of the races from which its lifeblood was drawn. in the arrogant vigour of youth this spirit resented any disposition on the part of its kindred to dictate or even influence its policy or its purpose. for two years europe had been at war. the outbreak of the struggle had come as a distant thunderbolt to a nation unaccustomed to threatening armies, and ignorant of the triumphant menace of military ideals; and stunned by a calamity which it had believed impossible, america had been inclined at first to condemn indiscriminately those who had permitted the disaster for apparently insignificant causes. there was sympathy with belgium because it had been destroyed; with france because it had been invaded; and with england because it had worked sincerely in the interests of peace; but as early as the autumn of nineteen hundred and sixteen this sympathy was little more than uncrystallized sentiment. to the people the problem was irrelevant and disguised in words. for a century they had been taught that their geographical isolation was indestructible, and that european history concerned them only after it had been successfully transmuted into literature. the effect of these political illusions had been accentuated by the immediate demands upon the thoughts and energies of the nation, by the adventure of conquering a rich and undeveloped continent, and by the gradual adjustment of complex institutions to a rapidly expanding social and economic life. secure in its remoteness, the country had grown careless in its diplomacy. commerce was felt to be vital, but foreign relations were cheerfully left to the president, with the assumption that he was acting under the special guidance of providence, on those memorable occasions when he acted at all. with the sinking of the _lusitania_, the spirit of the country had flamed into a passionate demand for redress or war. then the indignation had been gradually allayed by diplomatic phrases and bewildering technicalities; and the masses of the people, busy with an extravagant war prosperity, resigned international matters into the hands of the government, while, with an uneasy conscience but genuine american optimism, they continued actively to hope for the best. to an aã«rial philosopher the government of the hour might have appeared a composite image of the time--sentimental, evasive of realities, idealistic in speech, and materialistic in purpose and action. dominated by a single strong intellect, it was composed mainly of men who were without knowledge of world questions or experience in world affairs. at the moment war was gathering, yet the demand for preparation was either ignored or ridiculed as hysteria. as the national elections approached both parties avoided the direct issue, and sought by compromise and concession to secure the support of the non-american groups. while the country waited for leadership, the leaders hesitated in the midst of conflicting currents of public sentiment, and endeavoured to win popularity through an irresolute policy of opportunism. to virginians, who thought politically in terms of a party, the great question was resolved into a personal problem. where the president led they would follow. from the beginning there had been many americans who looked beneath the shifting surface of events, and beheld in this war a challenge to the principles which are the foundation-stones of western civilization. they realized that this was a war not of men, not of materials, but of ideals--of ideals which are deeper than nationality since they are the common heritage of the human race. they saw that the ideals assailed were the basis of american institutions, and that if they should be overthrown the american republic could not endure. as in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the problems of european civilization were fought out in the forests of america, so to-day, they felt, the future of america would be decided on the battlefields of europe. the cause was the cause of humanity, therefore it was america's war. and now as the elections drew nearer, these clearer thinkers stood apart and watched the grotesque political spectacle, with its unctuous promises of "peace and prosperity," in the midst of world tragedy. though the struggle would be close, it was already evident that the sentiment of the country was drifting, not so much toward the policies of the administration, as away from the invectives of the opposite party. since neither party stood for principle, nor had the courage to declare fearlessly for the maintenance of american rights, there was a measure of comfort in the reflection that, though the purposes of the government were not wholly approved, they were at least partly known. by the early autumn the campaign had passed through a fog of generalization and settled into a sham battle of personal and sectional issues, while in europe the skies grew darker, and the events of the coming year gathered like vultures before the approaching storm. and always, while america waited and watched, the forces that mould the destinies of men and of nations, were moving, profound, obscure, and impenetrable, beneath the surface of life. * * * * * caroline's lamp flickered and went out, while her thoughts rushed back to the shelter of the house. the room was in darkness, but beyond the shutters, where the wind swept in gusts, the clouds had scattered, and a few stars were shining. chapter iii briarlay in the train caroline sat straight and still, with her eyes on the landscape, which unrolled out of the golden web of the distance. now and then, when her gaze shifted, she could see the pale oval of her face glimmering unsteadily in the window-pane, like a light that is going out slowly. even in the glass, where her eyes were mere pools of darkness, her mouth looked sad and stern, as if it had closed over some tragic and for ever unutterable secret. it was only when one saw her eyes--those eyes which under the arch of her brows and hair made one think of bluebirds flying--it was only when their colour and radiance lighted her features, that her face melted to tenderness. while she sat there she thought of a hundred things, yet never once did she think of herself or her own interests as the centre around which her imagination revolved. if life had repressed and denied her, it had trained her mental processes into lucid and orderly habits. unlike most women, she had learned to think impersonally, and to think in relations. her spirit might beat its wings against the bars of the cage, but she knew that it would never again rise, with a dart of ecstasy, to test its freedom and its flight in the sky. she had had her day of joy. it was short, and it had left only sadness, yet because she had once had it, even for so brief a time, she might be disillusioned, but she could not feel wholly defrauded. through that dead emotion she had reached, for an instant, the heart of life; she had throbbed with its rapture; she had felt, known, and suffered. and in confronting the illusions of life, she had found the realities. because she had learned that thought, not emotion, is the only permanent basis of happiness, she had been able to found her house on a rock. it was worth a good deal of pain to discover that neither desire nor disappointment is among the eternal verities of experience. to-day, as on many other days since she had passed through her training in the hospital, she was leaving home, after a vacation in which she had thought of herself scarcely a minute, for the kind of service in which she would not have time to think of herself at all. work had been the solution of her problem, the immediate restorative; and she knew that it had helped her through the anguish, and--worse than anguish--through the bleakness of her tragedy, as nothing else could have done. "i will not sit down and think of myself," she had said over and over in those first bitter days, and in the years since then, while she was passionately rebuilding her universe, she had kept true to her resolve. she had been active always; she had never brooded among the romantic ruins of the past. if her inner life had grown indifferent, cold, and a little hard, her external sympathies had remained warm, clear, and glowing. the comfort she had denied herself, she had given abundantly to others; the strength she had not wasted in brooding, she had spent freely in a passion of service and pity. in her face there was the beauty and sweetness of a fervent, though disciplined, spirit. "i am so sorry to leave them," she thought, with her eyes on the amber, crimson, and purple of the forest. "mother is no longer young. she needs all the help i can give her, and the girls have so few pleasures. i wish there was something more i could do for them. i would work my fingers to the bone to give them a little happiness." and there floated before her, against the background of the forest, a still yet swiftly fleeting vision, of the fire-lit room, with the girls gathered, knitting, on the hearthrug, and her mother turning to look at her with the good and gentle expression that shone always in her face. beyond the window the rain fell; the cedar brushed its boughs against the panes with a sound like that of ghostly fingers; on the roof above she heard the measured dropping of acorns. in the flickering light the old mahogany gleamed with a bronze and gold lustre, and the high white bed, under its fringed marseilles coverlet, stood, like an embodiment of peace and sleep, in the corner. "it looks so happy, so sheltered," she thought, "and yet--" she was going to add, "and yet unhappiness came up the road, from a great distance, and found me there----" but she shattered the vague idea before it formed in her mind. at the station mrs. colfax was waiting, and though caroline had seen her only once, ten years ago, she recognized her by a bird-like, pecking manner she had never forgotten. as the ruin of a famous beauty the old lady was not without historic distinction. though she was now shrunken and withered, and strung with quaint gold chains, which rattled with echoes of an earlier period, she still retained the gracious social art of the "sixties." her eyes, hollowed under thin grey eyebrows, were black and piercing, and her small aristocratic features looked mashed, as if life had dealt them too hard a blow. "my dear child, i should have known you anywhere, so, you see, i haven't yet lost my memory. it was years ago that i met you, wasn't it?" a man in livery--she discovered afterwards that he was the blackburn's footman--took her bag, and caroline helped mrs. colfax out of the station and into the big limousine at the door. "it was so good of you to meet me," she said, for it was all she could think of, and to the last she had been haunted by the fear that mr. blackburn might decide to come for her. "good of me? why, i wanted to come." as she watched caroline's face, the old lady was thinking shrewdly, "she isn't so pretty as she used to be. i doubt if many men would think twice about her--but she has a lovely expression. i never saw a more spiritual face." once safely started she rambled on while the car shot into franklin street, and ran straight ahead in the direction of monument avenue. "i always meant to meet you, and just as soon as your telegram came, i 'phoned angelica about the car. she wanted to come down herself, but the doctor makes her lie down two hours every afternoon. do you see that new office building at the corner? your mother and i went to school on that spot before we boarded at miss braxton's in petersburg. at that time this part of franklin street was very fashionable, but everything has moved west, and everybody who can afford it is building in the country. it isn't like your mother's day at all. new people have taken possession of the town, and anybody who has money can get into society now. we are coming to monument avenue. all the houses are brand new, but it is nothing to the country outside. the blackburns' place just off the river road is the finest house anywhere about richmond, they tell me. he built it the year before his marriage, and i remember an artist, who came down to lecture before the woman's club, saying to me that briarlay was like its owner--everything big in it was good and everything little in it was bad. i don't know much about such things, but he poked fun at the fireplaces--said they were gothic or italian--i can't remember which--and that the house, of course, is colonial." a fit of coughing stopped her, and while she dived into her black silk bag for a handkerchief, caroline asked curiously, "has mr. blackburn so much money?" "oh, yes, i suppose he is the richest man we have here. he owns the large steel works down by the river, and he discovered some new cheap process, they say, which brought him a fortune. i remember hearing this, but i haven't much of a head for such matters. just now he is having a good deal of trouble with his men, and i'm sure it serves him right for deserting the ways of his father, and going over to the republicans. charles takes up for him because david has always stood by him in business, but of course out of respect for father's memory he couldn't openly sympathize with his disloyalty." "does anybody follow him, or is he all alone?" inquired caroline, less from active interest in the question than from the desire to keep the old lady animated. "you'll have to ask charles, and he will be delighted to answer. in this new-fangled idea about breaking the solid south--did you ever hear such stuff and nonsense?--i believe he has had a very bad influence over a number of young men. then, of late, he has been talking extravagantly about its being our duty to go into this war--as if we had any business mixing ourselves up in other people's quarrels--and that appeals to a lot of fire-eaters and fight-lovers. of course, a man as rich as david blackburn will always have a trail of sycophants and addlepates at his heels. what i say is that if providence had intended us to be in this war, we shouldn't have been given a president wise and strong enough to keep us out of it. if mr. wilson is elected for a second term--and my brother charles says there isn't a doubt of it--it will be because the country feels that he has kept us out of war. there was a long editorial in the paper this morning warning us that, if mr. hughes is elected, we shall be fighting germany within two months. then think of all the destruction and the dreadful high taxes that would follow----" "but i thought there was a great deal of war spirit here? at home we work all the time for the allies." "oh, there is, there is. angelica is president or chairman of two or three societies for helping the wounded, and they even made me head of something--i never can remember the name of it--but it has to do with belgian orphans. everybody wants to help, but that is different from going into the actual fighting, you know, and people are very much divided. a few, like david blackburn, wanted us to declare war the day after the lusitania was destroyed, but most of us feel--especially the wiser heads--that the president knows more about it than any one else----" "i suppose he does," admitted caroline, and she added while she looked at the appointments of the car, "what a beautiful car!" she sighed gently, for she was thinking of the rotting fence rails and the leaking roof at the cedars. how far she could make a few thousand dollars go in repairing the house and the out-buildings! if only the leaks could be mended, and the roof reshingled over the wings! if only they could hire a younger man to help poor old jones, who was growing decrepit! "this car is angelica's," said the old lady, "and everything she has is wonderful. as soon as she was married she began to re-decorate briarlay from garret to cellar. when david first made his money, he went about buying everything he laid eyes on, and she gave whole wagon-loads of furniture to her relatives. there are people who insist that angelica overdoes things in her way as much as her husband does in his--both were poor when they grew up--but i maintain that her taste is perfect--simply perfect. it is all very well for my daughter lucy, who has studied interior decoration in new york, to turn up her nose at walls hung with silk in a country house, but to my mind that pink silk in angelica's parlours is the most beautiful thing she could have, and i reckon i've as good a right to my ideas as lucy has to hers. after all, as i tell her, it is only a question of taste." it was a mild, bright afternoon in october, and as the car turned into the river road, the country spread softly, in undulations of green, gold, and bronze, to the deep blue edge of the horizon. the valley lay in shadow, while above it shreds of violet mist drifted slowly against the golden ball of the sun. near at hand the trees were touched with flame, but, as they went on, the brilliant leaves melted gradually into the multi-coloured blend of the distance. "mrs. blackburn must be so beautiful," said caroline presently. as she approached briarlay--the house of darkness and mystery that she had seen in her imagination--she felt that the appeal of this unknown woman deepened in vividness and pathos, that it rushed to meet her and enveloped her with the intensity and sweetness of a perfume. it was as if the name angelica were not a sound, but a thing composed of colour and fragrance--sky-blue like a cloud and as sweet-scented as lilies. "she was the most beautiful girl who ever came out in richmond," replied mrs. colfax. "the family was so poor that her mother couldn't do anything for her--she didn't even have a coming-out party--but with a girl like that nothing matters. david blackburn saw her at some reception, and lost his head completely. i won't say his heart because i've never believed that he had one. of course he was far and away the best chance she was ever likely to have down here, for it wasn't as if they could have sent her to the white sulphur. they couldn't afford anything, and they were even educating angelica to be a teacher. what she would have done if david blackburn hadn't come along when he did, i cannot imagine--though, as i wrote you, i'd have taught school to my dying day before i'd have married him." "but didn't she care anything for him?" asked caroline, for it was incredible to her that such a woman should have sold herself. mrs. colfax sniffed at her smelling-salts. "of course i haven't the right to an opinion," she rejoined, after a pause, "but as i always reply to charles when he tells me i am talking too much, 'well, i can't help having eyes.' i remember as well as if it were yesterday the way angelica looked when she told me of her engagement. 'i have decided to marry david blackburn, cousin lucy,' she said, and then she added, just as if the words were wrung out of her, 'i loathe the thought of teaching!' it doesn't sound a bit like angelica, but those were her very words. and now, my dear, tell me something about your mother. does she still keep up her wonderful spirits?" after this she asked so many questions that caroline was still answering them when the car turned out of the road and sped up a long, narrow lane, which was thickly carpeted with amber leaves. at the end of the lane, the vista broadened into an ample sweep of lawn surrounding a red brick house with white columns and low wings half hidden in virginia creeper. it was a beautiful house--so beautiful that caroline held her breath in surprise. under the october sky, in the midst of clustering elms, which shed a rain of small bronze leaves down on the bright grass and the dark evergreens, the house appeared to capture and imprison the mellow light of the sunset. it was so still, except for a curving flight of swallows over the roof, and the elm leaves, which fell slowly and steadily in the soft air, that the gleaming windows, the red walls, and the white columns, borrowed, for a moment, the visionary aspect of a place seen in a dream. "there is a formal garden at the back, full of box-borders and cypresses--only they are really red cedars," said mrs. colfax. "from the terrace there is a good view of the river, and lower down angelica has made an old-fashioned garden, with grass walks and rose arbours and mixed flower beds. i never saw such canterbury bells as she had last summer." as they entered the circular drive, a touring car passed them slowly on the way out, and a man leaned forward and bowed to mrs. colfax. from her casual glance caroline received an impression of a strong, sunburned face, with heavy brows and dark hair going a little grey on the temples. "what searching eyes that man has," she observed carelessly, and added immediately, "you know him?" "why, that was david blackburn. i forgot you had never seen him." "he isn't at all what i expected him to be." while caroline spoke she felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment. she scarcely knew what she had expected; yet she realized that he was different from some vague image she had had in her mind. "his face looked so set i'm afraid he has been quarrelling with angelica," said the old lady. "poor child, i feel so distressed." they had reached the house, and as they were about to alight, the door opened, and a girl in a riding habit, with two airedale terriers at her heels, strolled out on the porch. at sight of mrs. colfax, she came quickly forward, and held out her hand. she had a splendid figure, which the riding habit showed to advantage, and though her face was plain, her expression was pleasant and attractive. without the harsh collar and the severe arrangement of her hair, which was braided and tied up with a black ribbon, caroline imagined that she might be handsome. mrs. colfax greeted her as "miss blackburn" and explained immediately that she lived at briarlay with her brother. "she is a great lover of dogs," added the old lady, "and it is a pity that angelica doesn't like to have them about." "oh, they don't mind, they're such jolly beggars," replied the girl in a cheerful, slangy manner, "and besides they get all they want of me. i'm so sorry you didn't come in time for tea. now i'm just starting for a ride with alan." while she was speaking a man on horseback turned from the lane into the drive, and caroline saw her face change and brighten until it became almost pretty. "there he is now!" she exclaimed, and then she called out impulsively, "oh, alan, i've waited for ever!" he shouted back some words in a gay voice, but caroline did not catch them, and before he dismounted, mrs. colfax led her through the open door into the hall. "that's alan wythe," said the old lady in a whisper, and she resumed a moment later when they stood within the pink silk walls of angelica's drawing-room, "mary has been engaged to him for a year, and i never in my life saw a girl so much in love. i suppose it's natural enough--he's charming--but in my day young ladies were more reserved. and now we'll go straight upstairs to angelica. she is sure to be lying down at this hour." as they passed through the wide hall, and up the beautiful colonial staircase, caroline felt that the luxury of the place bewildered her. though the house, except in size, was not unlike country homes she had seen in southside virginia, there was nothing in her memory, unless she summoned back stray recollections of photographs in sunday newspapers, that could compare with the decoration of the drawing-room. "it is beautiful, but there is too much of it," she thought, for her eyes, accustomed to bare surfaces and the formal purity of sheraton and chippendale, were beginning to discriminate. "i want you to notice everything when you have time," said mrs. colfax. "i tell angelica that it is a liberal education just to come inside of this house." "it would take weeks to see it," responded caroline; and then, as she moved toward a long mirror in the hall upstairs, it seemed to her that her reflection, in her severe blue serge suit, with the little round blue hat diana had trimmed, looked as grotesquely out of place as if she had been one of the slender sheraton chairs at the cedars. "if i appear a lady i suppose it is as much as i can hope for," she thought, "and besides nobody will notice me." the humour leaped to her eyes, while mrs. colfax, watching her with a side-long glance, reflected that carrie warwick's daughter had distinction. her grace was not merely the grace of a slender body with flowing lines; it was the grace of word, of glance, of smile, of gesture, that indefinable and intangible quality which is shed by a lovely soul as fragrance is shed by a flower. "even if she lives to be as old as i am, she will still keep her poise and her charm of appearance," thought the old lady, "she will never lose it because it isn't a matter of feature--it isn't dependent on outward beauty. years ago she was prettier than she is to-day, but she wasn't nearly so distinguished." aloud she said presently, "your hair grows in such a nice line on your forehead, my dear, just like your mother's. i remember we always made her brush hers straight back as you do, so she could show her 'widow's peak' in the centre. but yours is much darker, isn't it?" "yes, it is almost black. mother's was the loveliest shade of chestnut. i have a lock of it in an old breast-pin." a door at the end of the hall opened, and a thin woman, in rusty black alpaca, came to meet them. "that's the housekeeper--matty timberlake, the very salt of the earth," whispered mrs. colfax. "she is angelica's cousin." when the housekeeper reached them, she stooped and kissed mrs. colfax before she spoke to caroline. she was a long, narrow, neuralgic woman, with near-sighted eyes, thin grey hair which hung in wisps on her forehead, and a look which seemed to complain always that she was poor and dependent and nobody noticed her. "angelica is lying down," she said, "but she would like to speak to miss meade before i take her to her room." caroline's heart gave a bound. "at last i shall see her," she thought, while she followed mrs. timberlake down the hall and across the threshold of angelica's room. the influence that she had felt first in the twilight at the cedars and again in the drive out from richmond, welcomed her like a caress. her first impression was one of blue and ivory and gold. there was a bed, painted in garlands, with a scalloped canopy of blue silk; and caroline, who was accustomed to mahogany testers or the little iron beds in the hospital, was conscious of a thrill of delight as she looked at it. then her eyes fell on the white bear-skin rug before the fire, and from the rug they passed to the couch on which mrs. blackburn was lying. the woman and the room harmonized so perfectly that one might almost have mistaken angelica for a piece of hand-painted furniture. at first she appeared all blue silk and pale gold hair and small delicate features. then she sat up and held out her hand, and caroline saw that she looked not only human, but really tired and frail. there were faint shadows under her eyes, which were like grey velvet, and her hair, parted softly in golden wings over her forehead, showed several barely perceptible creases between her eyebrows. she was so thin that the bones of her face and neck were visible beneath the exquisite texture of her flesh, yet the modelling was as perfect as if her head and shoulders had been chiselled in marble. "you are caroline meade," she said sweetly. "i am so glad you have come." "i am glad, too. i wanted to come." the vibrant voice, full of warmth and sympathy, trembled with pleasure. for once the reality was fairer than the dream; the woman before her was lovelier than the veiled figure of caroline's imagination. it was one of those unforgettable moments when the mind pauses, with a sensation of delight and expectancy, on the edge of a new emotion, of an undiscovered country. this was not only something beautiful and rare; it was different from anything that had ever happened to her before; it was a part of the romantic mystery that surrounded the unknown. and it wasn't only that mrs. blackburn was so lovely! more than her beauty, the sweetness of her look, the appeal of her delicacy, of her feminine weakness, went straight to the heart. it was as if her nature reached out, with clinging tendrils, seeking support. she was like a fragile white flower that could not live without warmth and sunshine. "the other nurse leaves in the morning," mrs. blackburn was saying in her gentle voice, which carried the merest note of complaint, as if she cherished at heart some secret yet ineradicable grievance against destiny, "so you have come at the right moment to save me from anxiety. i am worried about letty. you can understand that she is never out of my thoughts." "yes, i can understand, and i hope she will like me." "she will love you from the first minute, for she is really an affectionate child, if one knows how to take her. oh, miss meade, you have taken a load off my shoulders! you look so kind and so competent, and i feel that i can rely on you. i am not strong, you know, and the doctor won't let me be much with letty. he says the anxiety is too wearing, though, if i had my way, i should never think of myself." "but you must," said caroline quietly. she felt that the child's illness and the terrible cause of it were wrecking mrs. blackburn's health as well as her happiness. "of course, i must try to take care of myself because in the end it will be so much better for letty." as she answered, angelica slipped her feet into a pair of embroidered blue silk _mules_, and rising slowly from her lace pillows, stood up on the white rug in front of the fire. though she was not tall, her extraordinary slenderness gave her the effect of height and the enchanting lines of one of botticelli's graces. "with you in the house i feel that everything will be easier," she added, after a minute in which she gazed down at the new nurse with a thoughtful, appraising look. "it will be as easy as i can make it. i will do everything that i can." the words were not spoken lightly, for the opportunity of service had brought a glow to caroline's heart, and she felt that her reply was more than a promise to do her best--that it was a vow of dedication from which only the future could release her. she had given her pledge of loyalty, and mrs. blackburn had accepted it. from this instant the bond between them assumed the nature and the obligation of a covenant. a smile quivered and died on angelica's lips, while the pathos in her expression drew the other to her as if there were a visible wound to be healed. "you will be a blessing. i can tell that when i look at you," she murmured; and her speech sounded almost empty after the overflowing sympathy of the silence. to caroline it was a relief when the housekeeper called to her from the doorway, and then led her upstairs to a bedroom in the third storey. it was a delightful room overlooking the circular drive, and for a minute they stood gazing down on the lawn and the evergreens. "everything is so lovely!" exclaimed caroline presently. one could rest here, she thought, even with hard work and the constant strain, which she foresaw, on her sympathies. "yes, it is pretty," answered the housekeeper. already mrs. timberlake had proved that, though she might be the salt of the earth, she was a taciturn and depressing companion--a stranded wreck left over from too voluble a generation of women. "and i never saw any one lovelier than mrs. blackburn," said caroline, "she looks like an angel." "well, i reckon there is mighty little you can say against angelica's looks unless your taste runs to a trifle more flesh," responded mrs. timberlake drily. "she ought to be happy," pursued caroline, with a feeling that was almost one of resentment. "anyone as beautiful as that ought to be happy." mrs. timberlake turned slowly toward her, and caroline was aware of a spasmodic stiffening of her figure, as if she were nerving herself for an outburst. when the explosion came, however, it was in the nature of an anti-climax. "i expect you are going to be very useful to her," she said; and in answer to a hurried summons at the door, she made one of her nervous gestures, and went out into the hall. "it would be perfect," thought caroline, "if i didn't have to meet mr. blackburn"; and she concluded, with a flash of her mother's unquenchable optimism, "well, perhaps i shan't see him to-night!" the sun had set, and almost imperceptibly the afterglow had dissolved into the twilight. outside, the lawn and the evergreens were in shadow; but from the house a misty circle of light fell on the drive, and on a narrow strip of turf, from which each separate blade of grass emerged with exaggerated distinctness as if it were illuminated. within this circle, with its mysterious penumbra, human life also seemed exaggerated by the luminous haze which divided it from the partial shadow of the evening. the house stood enclosed in light as in a garden; and beyond it, where the obscurity began, there was the space and silence of the universe. while she stood there, she felt, with a certainty more profound than a mere mental conviction, that this lighted house contained, for her, all the joy and tragedy of human experience; that her life would be interwoven with these other lives as closely as branches of trees in a forest. the appeal of mrs. blackburn had stirred her heart and intensified her perceptions. from the bleakness of the last seven years, she had awakened with revived emotions. "it is just my fancy," she thought, "but i feel as if something wonderful had really happened--as if life were beginning all over again to-night." the words were still in her mind, when a child's laugh rang out from a window below, and the figure of a man passed from the outlying obscurity across the illuminated grass. though he moved so hurriedly out of the light, she caught the suggestion of a smile; and she had a singular feeling that he was the same man, and yet not the same man, that she had seen in the motor. "i do hope i shan't have to meet him to-night," she repeated at the very instant that a knock fell on her door, and an old coloured woman came in to bring a message from mrs. blackburn. she was a benevolent looking, aristocratic negress, with a fine, glossy skin as brown as a chestnut, and traces of indian blood in her high cheekbones. a white handkerchief was bound over her head like a turban, and her black bombazine dress hung in full, stately folds from her narrow waist line. for a minute, before delivering her message, she peered gravely at caroline by the dim light of the window. "ain't you miss carrie warwick's chile, honey? you ax 'er ef'n she's done forgot de fitzhugh chillun's mammy? i riz all er de fitzhugh chillun." "then you must be mammy riah? mother used to tell me about you when i was a little girl. you told stories just like bible ones." "dat's me, honey, en i sutney is glad ter see you. de chillun dey wuz al'ays pesterin' me 'bout dose bible stories jes' exactly de way letty wuz doin' dis ve'y mawnin'." "tell me something about the little girl. is she really ill?" asked caroline; and it occurred to her, as she put the question, that it was strange nobody had mentioned the child's malady. here again the darkness and mystery of the house she had imagined--that house which was so unlike briarlay--reacted on her mind. the old negress chuckled softly. "naw'm, she ain' sick, dat's jes' some er miss angy's foolishness. dar ain' nuttin' in de worl' de matter wid letty 'cep'n de way dey's brung 'er up. you cyarn' raise a colt ez ef'n hit wuz a rabbit, en dar ain' no use'n tryin'." then she remembered her message. "miss angy sez she sutney would be erbleeged ter you ef'n you 'ould come erlong down ter dinner wid de res' un um. miss molly waver's done 'phone she cyarn' come, en dar ain' nobody else in de house ez kin set in her place." for an instant caroline hesitated. "if i go down, i'll have to meet mr. blackburn," she said under her breath. a gleam of humour shot into the old woman's eyes. "marse david! go 'way f'om yer, chile, whut you skeered er marse david fur?" she rejoined. "he ain' gwine ter hu't you." chapter iv angelica at a quarter of eight o'clock, when caroline was waiting to be called, mrs. timberlake came in to ask if she might fasten her dress. "oh, you're all hooked and ready," she remarked. "i suppose nurses learn to be punctual." "they have to be, so much depends on it." "well, you look sweet. i've brought you a red rose from the table. it will lighten up that black dress a little." "i don't often go to dinner parties," said caroline while she pinned on the rose. "will there be many people?" there was no shyness in her voice or manner; and it seemed to mrs. timberlake that the black gown, with its straight, slim skirt, which had not quite gone out of fashion, made her appear taller and more dignified. her hair, brushed smoothly back from her forehead, gave to her clear profile the look of some delicate etching. there was a faint flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were richer and bluer than they had looked in the afternoon. she was a woman, not a girl, and her charm was the charm not of ignorance, but of intelligence, wisdom, and energy. "only twelve," answered the housekeeper, "sometimes we have as many as twenty." there was an expression of pain in her eyes, due to chronic neuralgia, and while she spoke she pressed her fingers to her temples. "is mr. wythe coming?" asked caroline. "he always comes. it is so hard to find unattached men that the same ones get invited over and over. then there are mr. and mrs. chalmers. they are from new york and the dinner is given to them--and the ashburtons and robert colfax and his wife--who was daisy carter--she is very good looking but a little flighty--and mr. peyton, old mrs. colfax's brother." "i know--'brother charles'--but who are the ashburtons?" "colonel ashburton is very amusing. he is on mr. blackburn's side in politics, and they are great friends. his wife is dull, but she means well, and she is useful on committees because she is a good worker and never knows when she is put upon. well, it's time for you to go down, i reckon. i just ran up from the pantry to see if i could help you." a minute later, when caroline left her room, mary blackburn joined her, and the two went downstairs together. mary was wearing a lovely gown of amber silk, and she looked so handsome that caroline scarcely recognized her. her black hair, piled on the crown of her head, gave her, in spite of her modern dash and frankness, a striking resemblance to one of the old portraits at the cedars. she was in high spirits, for the ride with alan had left her glowing with happiness. "we'd better hustle. they are waiting for us," she said. "i was late getting in, so i tossed on the first dress i could find." then she ran downstairs, and caroline, following her more slowly, found herself presently shaking hands with the dreaded david blackburn. he was so quiet and unassuming that only when he had taken her hand and had asked her a few conventional questions about her trip, did she realize that she was actually speaking to him. in evening clothes, surrounded by the pink silk walls of angelica's drawing-room, his face looked firmer and harder than it had appeared in the motor; but even in this extravagant setting, he impressed her as more carefully dressed and groomed than the average virginian of her acquaintance. she saw now that he was younger than she had at first thought; he couldn't, she surmised, be much over forty. there were deep lines in his forehead; his features had settled into the granite-like immobility that is acquired only through grim and resolute struggle; and his dark, carefully brushed hair showed a silvery gloss on the temples--yet these things, she realized, were the marks of battles, not of years. what struck her most was the quickness with which the touch of arrogance in his expression melted before the engaging frankness of his smile. "i'm glad you've come. i hope you will get on with letty," he said; and then, as he turned away, the vision of angelica, in white chiffon and pearls, floated toward her from a group by the fireplace. "colonel ashburton is an old friend of your mother's, miss meade. he took her to her first cotillion, and he is eager to meet her daughter." there followed swift introductions to the ashburtons, the chalmers, and the colfaxes; and not until caroline was going into the dining-room on the arm of mrs. colfax's "brother charles," was she able to distinguish between the stranger from new york, who looked lean and wiry and strenuous, and the white-haired old gentleman who had taken her mother to the cotillion. she was not confused; and yet her one vivid impression was of angelica, with her pale madonna head, her soft grey eyes under thick lashes, and her lovely figure in draperies of chiffon that flowed and rippled about her. though the house was an inappropriate setting for david blackburn, it was, for all its newness and ornate accessories, the perfect frame for his wife's beauty. she reminded caroline of the allegorical figure of spring in one of the tapestries on the dining-room walls--only she was so much softer, so much more ethereal, as if the floral image had come to life and been endowed with a soul. it was the rare quality of mrs. blackburn's beauty that in looking at her one thought first of her spirit--of the sweetness and goodness which informed and animated her features. the appeal she made was the appeal of an innocent and beautiful creature who is unhappy. against the background of an unfortunate marriage, she moved with the resigned and exalted step of a christian martyr. sitting silently between the flippant "brother charles" and the imposing colonel ashburton, who was still talking of her mother, caroline tried to follow the conversation while she studied the faces and the dresses of the women. mrs. chalmers, who was large and handsome in a superb gown of green velvet, appeared heavy and indifferent, and mrs. ashburton, an over-earnest middle-aged woman, with a classic profile and a look of impersonal yet hungry philanthropy, was so detached that she seemed, when she spoke, to be addressing an invisible audience. in spite of her regular features and her flawless complexion, she was as devoid of charm as an organized charity. on her right sat allan wythe, a clean-cut, good-looking chap, with romantic eyes and the air of a sportsman. though caroline had heard that he wrote plays, she thought that he needed only a gun and a dog to complete his appearance. "he is the only good-looking man here," she concluded. "some people might think mr. blackburn good-looking, but i suppose i know too much about him." and she remembered that her father had said a man's character always showed in his mouth. next to alan there was mrs. robert colfax--a beautiful spanish-looking creature, straight as a young poplar, and as full of silvery lights and shadows. she had no sooner sat down than she began to ask angelica, with an agreeable though flighty animation, if she had seen somebody since he had come back from his wedding trip? for the next quarter of an hour they kept up an excited interchange of gossip, while mr. chalmers listened with polite attention, and caroline tried in vain to discover who the unknown person was, and why his wedding trip should interest anybody so profoundly. "well, i never thought he'd get another wife after his last misadventure," rippled mrs. colfax, "but they tell me he had only to wink an eyelash. i declare i don't know a more discouraging spectacle than the men that some women will marry." at the other end of the table, mrs. blackburn was talking in a low voice to mr. chalmers, and the broken clauses of her conversation were punctuated by the laughter of the irrepressible daisy, who was never silent. though angelica was not brilliant, though she never said anything clever enough for one to remember, she had what her friends called "a sweet way of talking," and a flattering habit, when she was with a man, of ending every sentence with a question. "i'm sure i don't see how we are to keep out of this war, do you, mr. chalmers?" or "i think the simplest way to raise money would be by some tableaux, don't you, colonel ashburton?"; and still a little later there floated to caroline, "i tell mary she rides too much. don't you think it is a pity for a woman to spend half her life in the saddle? of course if she hasn't anything else to do--but in this age, don't you feel, there are so many opportunities of service?" "oh, when it comes to that," protested mrs. colfax, in the tone of airy banter she affected, "there are many more of us trying to serve than there are opportunities of service. i was telling mother only the other day that i couldn't see a single war charity because the vice-presidents are so thick." a lull fell on the table, and for the first time caroline heard blackburn's voice. mrs. chalmers was asking him about the house, and he was responding with a smile that made his face almost young and sanguine. his mouth, when he was not on guard, was sensitive and even emotional, and his eyes lost the sharpness that cut through whatever they looked at. "why, yes, i built it before my marriage," he was saying. "dodson drew the plans. you know dodson?" mrs. chalmers nodded. "he has done some good things in new york. and this lovely furniture," she was plainly working hard to draw him out. "where did you find it?" he met the question lightly. "oh, i had a lot of stuff here that angelica got rid of." from the other end of the table mrs. blackburn's voice floated plaintively, "there isn't a piece of it left," she said. "it made the house look exactly like an italian hotel." the remark struck caroline as so unfortunate that she turned, with a start of surprise, to glance at her hostess. could it be that mrs. blackburn was without tact? could it be that she did not realize the awkwardness of her interruption? yet a single glance at angelica was sufficient to answer these questions. a woman who looked like that couldn't be lacking in social instinct. it must have been a casual slip, nothing more. she was probably tired--hadn't old mrs. colfax said that she was delicate?--and she did not perceive the effect of her words. glancing again in blackburn's direction, caroline saw that his features had hardened, and that the hand on the tablecloth was breaking a piece of bread into crumbs. the change in his manner was so sudden that caroline understood, even before she saw the twitching of his eyebrows, and the gesture of irritation with which he pushed the bread crumbs away, that, in spite of his reserve and his coldness, he was a bundle of over-sensitive nerves. "he was behaving really well," she thought. "it is a pity that she irritated him." though she disliked blackburn, she was just enough to admit that he had started well with mrs. chalmers. of course, no one expected him to appear brilliant in society. a man who had had no education except the little his mother had taught him, and who had devoted his life to making a fortune, was almost as much debarred from social success as a woman who knew only trained nursing. yet, in spite of these defects, she realized that he appeared to advantage at his own table. there was something about him--some latent suggestion of force--which distinguished him from every other man in the room. he looked--she couldn't quite define the difference--as if he could do things. the recollection of his stand in politics came to her while she watched him, and turning to mr. peyton, who was a trifle more human than colonel ashburton, she asked: "what is this new movement mr. blackburn is so much interested in? i've seen a great deal about it in the papers." there was a bluff, kind way about charles peyton, and she liked the natural heartiness of the laugh with which he answered. "you've seen a great deal more than you've read, young lady, i'll warrant. no, it isn't exactly a new movement, because somebody in the north got ahead of him--you may always count on a yankee butting in just before you--but he is organizing the independent voters in virginia, if that's what you mean. at least he thinks he is, though even way down here i've a suspicion that those yankees have been meddling. between you and me, miss meade, it is all humbug--pure humbug. haven't we got one party already, and doesn't that one have a hard enough time looking after the negroes? why do we want to go and start up trouble just after we've got things all nicely settled? why does david want to stir up a hornet's nest among the negroes, i'd like to know?" on the other side of caroline, colonel ashburton became suddenly audible. "ask that rip van winkle, miss meade, if he was asleep while we made a new constitution and eliminated the vote of the negroes? you can't argue with these stand-patters, you know, because they never read the signs of the times." "well, there isn't a better way of proving it's all humbug than by asking two questions," declared the jovial charles--a plethoric, unwieldy old man, with a bald head, and a figure that was continually brimming over his waistcoat. "what i want to know, billy ashburton, is just this--wasn't your father as good a man as you are, and wasn't the democratic party good enough for your father? i put the same to you, miss meade, wasn't the democratic party good enough for your father?" "ah, you're driven to your last trench," observed the colonel, with genial irony, while caroline replied slowly: "yes, it was good enough for father, but i remember he used to be very fond of quoting some lines from pope about 'principles changing with the times.' i suppose the questions are different from what they were in his day." "i'd like to see any questions the democrats aren't able to handle," persisted charles. "they always have handled them to my satisfaction, and i reckon they always will, in spite of blackburn and ashburton." "i wish blackburn could talk to you, miss meade," said colonel ashburton. "he doesn't care much for personalities. he has less small talk than any man i know, but he speaks well if you get him started on ideas. by-the-way, he is the man who won me over. i used to be as strongly prejudiced against any fresh departure in virginia politics as our friend charles there, but blackburn got hold of me, and convinced me, as he has convinced a great many others, against my will. he proved to me that the old forms are worn out--that they can't do the work any longer. you see, blackburn is an idealist. he sees straight through the sham to the truth quicker than any man i've ever known----" "an idealist!" exclaimed caroline, and mentally she added, "is it possible for a man to have two characters? to have a public character that gives the lie to his private one?" "yes, i think you might call him that, though, like you, i rather shy at the word. but it fits blackburn, somehow, for he is literally on fire with ideas. i always say that he ought to have lived in the glorious days when the republic was founded. he belongs to the pure breed of american." "but i understood from the papers that it was just the other way--that he was--that he was----" "i know, my child, i know." he smiled indulgently, for she looked very charming with the flush in her cheeks, and after thirty years of happy companionship with an impeccable character, he preferred at dinner a little amiable weakness in a woman. "you have seen in the papers that he is a traitor to the faith of his fathers. you have even heard this asserted by the logical charles on your right." she lifted her eyes, and to his disappointment he discovered that earnestness, not embarrassment, had brought the colour to her cheeks. "but i thought that this new movement was directed at the democratic party--that it was attempting to undo all that had been accomplished in the last fifty years. it seems the wrong way, but of course there must be a right way toward better things." for a minute he looked at her in silence; then he said again gently, "i wish blackburn could talk to you." since she had come by her ideas honestly, not merely borrowed them from charles colfax, it seemed only chivalrous to treat them with the consideration he accorded always to the fair and the frail. she shook her head. the last thing she wanted was to have mr. blackburn talk to her. "i thought all old-fashioned virginians opposed this movement," she added after a pause. "not that i am very old-fashioned. you remember my father, and so you will know that his daughter is not afraid of opinions." "yes, i remember him, and i understand that his child could not be afraid either of opinions or armies." she smiled up at him, and he saw that her eyes, which had been a little sad, were charged with light. while he watched her he wondered if her quietness were merely a professional habit of reserve which she wore like a uniform. was the warmth and fervour which he read now in her face a glimpse of the soul which life had hidden beneath the dignity of her manner? "but blackburn isn't an agitator," he resumed after a moment. "he has got hold of the right idea--the new application of eternal principles. if we could send him to washington he would do good work." "to washington?" she looked at him inquiringly. "you mean to the senate? not in the place of colonel acton?" "ah, that touches you! you wouldn't like to see the 'odysseus of democracy' dispossessed?" laughter sparkled in her eyes, and he realized that she was more girlish than he had thought her a minute ago. after all, she had humour, and it was a favourite saying of his that ideas without humour were as bad as bread without yeast. "only for another ajax," she retorted merrily. "i prefer the strong to the wise. but does mr. blackburn want the senatorship?" "perhaps not, but he might be made to take it. there is a rising tide in virginia." "is it strong enough to overturn the old prejudices?" "not yet--not yet, but it is strengthening every hour." his tone had lost its gallantry and grown serious. "the war in europe has taught us a lesson. we aren't satisfied any longer, the best thought isn't satisfied, with the old clutter and muddle of ideas and sentiments. we begin to see that what we need in politics is not commemorative gestures, but constructive patriotism." as he finished, caroline became aware again that blackburn was speaking, and that for the first time mrs. chalmers looked animated and interested. "why, that has occurred to me," he was saying with an earnestness that swept away his reserve. "but, you see, it is impossible to do anything in the south with the republican party. the memories are too black. we must think in new terms." "and you believe that the south is ready for another party? has the hour struck?" "can't you hear it?" he looked up as he spoke. "the war abroad has liberated us from the old sectional bondage. it has brought the world nearer, and the time is ripe for the national spirit. the demand now is for men. we need men who will construct ideas, not copy them. we need men strong enough to break up the solid south and the solid north, and pour them together into the common life of the nation. we want a patriotism that will overflow party lines, and put the good of the country before the good of a section. the old phrases, the old gestures, are childish to-day because we have outgrown them----" he stopped abruptly, his face so enkindled that caroline would not have known it, and an instant later the voice of mrs. blackburn was heard saying sweetly but firmly, "david, i am afraid that mrs. chalmers is not used to your melodramatic way of talking." in the hush that followed it seemed as if a harsh light had fallen over blackburn's features. a moment before caroline had seen him inspired and exalted by feeling--the vehicle of the ideas that possessed him--and now, in the sharp flash of angelica's irony, he appeared insincere and theatrical--the claptrap politician in motley. "it is a pity she spoke just when she did," thought caroline, "but i suppose she sees through him so clearly that she can't help herself. she doesn't want him to mislead the rest of us." blackburn's guard was up again, and though he made no reply, his brow paled slowly and his hand--the nervous, restless hand of the emotional type--played with the bread crumbs. "yes, it is a pity," repeated caroline to herself. "it makes things very uncomfortable." it was evident to her that mrs. blackburn watched her husband every instant--that she was waiting all the time to rectify his mistakes, to put him in the right again. then, swiftly as an arrow, there flashed through caroline's mind, "only poor, lovely creature, she achieves exactly the opposite result. she is so nervous she can't see that she puts him always in the wrong. she makes matters worse instead of better every time." from this moment the dinner dragged on heavily to its awkward end. blackburn had withdrawn into his shell; mrs. chalmers looked depressed and bored; while the giddy voice of mrs. colfax sounded as empty as the twitter of a sparrow. it was as if a blight had fallen over them, and in this blight angelica made charming, futile attempts to keep up the conversation. she had tried so hard, her eyes, very gentle and pensive, seemed to say, and all her efforts were wasted. suddenly, in the dull silence, mrs. colfax began asking, in her flightiest manner, about angelica's family. for at least five minutes she had vacillated in her own mind between the weather and roane fitzhugh, who, for obvious reasons, was not a promising topic; and now at last, since the weather was too perfect for comment, she recklessly decided to introduce the unsavoury roane. "we haven't seen your brother recently, angelica. what do you hear from him?" for an instant mrs. blackburn's eyes rested with mute reproach on her husband. then she said clearly and slowly, "he has been away all summer, but we hope he is coming next week. david," she added suddenly in a louder tone, "i was just telling daisy how glad we are that roane is going to spend the autumn at briarlay." it was at that instant, just as mrs. blackburn, smiling amiably on her husband, was about to rise from the table, that the astounding, the incredible thing happened, for blackburn looked up quickly, and replied in a harsh, emphatic manner, "he is not coming to briarlay. you know that we cannot have him here." then before a word was uttered, before mrs. colfax had time to twitter cheerfully above the awkwardness, mrs. blackburn rose from her chair, and the women trailed slowly after her out of the dining-room. as caroline went, she felt that her heart was bursting with sympathy for angelica and indignation against her husband. "how in the world shall i ever speak to him after this?" she thought. "how shall i ever stay under the same roof with him?" and glancing pityingly to where mrs. blackburn's flower-like head drooped against the rosy shade of a lamp, she realized that angelica never looked so lovely as she did when she was hurt. chapter v the first night when the last guest had gone, caroline went upstairs to her room, and sitting down before the little ivory and gold desk, began a letter to her mother. for years, ever since her first night in the hospital, she had poured out her heart after the day's work and the day's self-control and restraint were over. it was a relief to be free sometimes, to break through the discipline of her profession, to live and love for oneself, not for others. the house was very still--only from the darkness outside, where the wind had risen, a few yellow leaves fluttered in through the window. * * * * * i am here, at last, dearest mother, and i have been longing to tell you about it. first of all, i had a good trip, my train was exactly on time, and mrs. colfax met me in the most beautiful car i ever saw, and brought me out to briarlay. she was very nice and kind, but she looks ever so much older than you do, and i cannot help feeling that, in spite of the loss of so many children and father's dreadful disappointments, your life has been happier than hers. as i get older, and see more of the world--and heaven knows i have seen anything but the best of it these last seven or eight years--i understand better and better that happiness is something you have to find deep down in yourself, not in other people or outside things. it shines through sometimes just as yours does and lights up the world around and the dark places, but it never, _never_ comes from them--of this i am very sure. i wish i could describe this house to you, but i cannot--i simply cannot, the words will not come to me. it is big and beautiful, but i think it is too full of wonderful things--there are rooms that make me feel as if i were in a museum because of the tapestries and crowded rugs and french furniture. i like english mahogany so much better, but that may be just because i am used to it. i suppose it is natural that mrs. blackburn should prefer surroundings that are opulent and florid, since they make her look like a lovely flower in a greenhouse. she is even more beautiful than i thought she would be, and she does not seem the least bit snobbish or spoiled or arrogant. i have always said, you remember, that nursing has taught me not to rely on mere impressions whether they are first or last ones--but i have never in my life met any one who attracted me so strongly in the beginning. it is years since i have felt my sympathy so completely drawn out by a stranger. i feel that i would do anything in the world that i could for her; and though i cannot write frankly about what i have observed here, i believe that she needs help and understanding as much as any one i ever saw. the situation seems worse even than we were led to expect. of course i have seen only the surface so far, but my heart has been wrung for her ever since i have been in the house, and this evening there was a very painful scene at the dinner table. i shall not write any more about it, though i imagine it will be spread all over richmond by young mrs. colfax. about mr. blackburn i have not quite made up my mind. i do not doubt that everything mrs. colfax wrote us is true, and i know if i stay on here that i shall make no attempt to conceal from him how much i dislike him. that will be no secret. i simply could not pretend even to him that i was not heart and soul on the side of his wife. it is so perfectly dreadful when one has to take sides with a husband or wife, isn't it? when i think how wonderful a marriage like yours and father's can be, it makes me feel sorry and ashamed for human nature as i see it here. but you cannot become a nurse and keep many illusions about love. the thing that remains after years of such work is no illusion at all--but the clear knowledge of the reality. a nurse sees the best and the worst of humanity--and the very best of it is the love that some people keep to the end. as for this marriage, there is not a person in richmond, nor a servant in the house, who does not know that it is an unhappy one. mrs. blackburn cannot be at fault--one has only to look at her to realize that she is too gentle and sweet to hurt any one--and yet i discovered to-night that she does not know how to treat him, that she says the wrong thing so often without meaning to, and that unconsciously she irritates him whenever she speaks. it is impossible to blame her, for she must have suffered a great many things that no one knows of, and i suppose her nerves are not always under control. but nothing could be more unfortunate than her manner to him at times. strange to say (i do not understand why) some people appear to admire him tremendously. i went down to dinner to-night because one of the guests did not come, and colonel ashburton--he said he used to know you--talked in the most extravagant fashion about mr. blackburn's abilities. the air here is heavy with politics because of the elections, and i tried to listen as closely as i could. i thought how intensely interested father would have been in the discussion. as far as i can understand mr. blackburn's way of thinking is not unlike father's, and but for his behaviour to his wife, this would give me a sympathetic feeling for him. i forgot to tell you that he looked very well to-night--not in the least rough or common. his face is not ugly, only he wears his hair brushed straight back, and this makes his features look sterner than they really are. his eyes are the keenest i ever saw--grey, i think, and yet, funny as it sounds, there are times when they are almost pathetic--and his smile is very nice and reminds me in a way of father's. this may have been why i thought of father all the time i was at dinner--this and the political talk which went on as long as we were at the table. well, i started to tell you about the elections, and i know you are thinking i shall never go on. it seems that mr. blackburn intends to vote for hughes--though i heard him tell mr. chalmers that if he lived in the north he should probably vote with the democrats. voting for a man, he feels, is not nearly so important as voting against a section--at least this is what i gathered. there was a great deal said about the war, but nobody, except mrs. colfax's brother charles, who does not count, seemed to think there was the faintest chance of our being in it. mr. chalmers told me afterwards that if wilson should be re-elected, it would be mainly because of the slogan "he kept us out of war." as far as i could discover mr. chalmers stands firmly by the president, but i heard mr. blackburn tell colonel ashburton that what he hoped for now was conduct so flagrant, on germany's part, that the public conscience would demand a more vigorous policy. by the way, mr. chalmers said that the feeling was so strong in new york that he expected the state to go to the republicans because there was a general impression that to vote with them meant to vote for war. of course, he added, this was mere german propaganda--but that was only another way of saying he did not agree with it. opinions change every hour, and just as soon as a new one begins to be popular, people forget all that they believed just as ardently a few weeks before. don't you remember how complacent we were about our splendid isolation and our pluperfect pacifism and our being "too proud to fight" such a very short while ago? well, nobody remembers now the way we crowed over europe and patted one another on the back, and congratulated ourselves because we could stand aside and wait until history showed who was right. that is over and gone now, and "i didn't raise my boy to be a soldier" has joined the dust of all the other rag-time. if the slow coach of history ever does come up with us, it may find us in the thick of the fight after all, and not waiting by the roadside. mr. chalmers believes that if the president is re-elected, and can get the country behind him, the government will declare that a state of war exists--but mr. blackburn, on the other hand, is convinced that both wilson and hughes are pledged to fulfil their promises of "peace and prosperity." he insists that there was more war spirit over the whole country the week after the _lusitania_ was sunk, than there has ever been since, and that we were as ready to fight then as we shall be after the elections. it is like being in the midst of electric currents to sit still and listen to these men argue. can you imagine anything more unlike father's day when all virginians, except those whom nobody knew, thought exactly alike? now, though the vote is solid still, and the great majority accepts the policies of the democrats as uncritically as it accepts scripture, opinions about secondary issues vary as much as they do anywhere else. there are some who regard the president as greater than george washington--and others who say that the moment is great, not the man. mr. colfax believes that he is a generation ahead of his country, and colonel ashburton believes just as strongly that he is a generation behind it--that it is a case where a wave of destiny is sweeping a man on to greatness. i suppose here again we shall have to wait until history shows who is right. i have not seen the little girl yet--her name is letty. they have to be careful not to excite her in the evening, and the other nurse is still with her. now i must go to bed. your devoted child, caroline. * * * * * she had finished her letter and glanced at her watch on the bureau--it was one o'clock--when a cry or moan reached her from the darkness and silence of the house, and a few minutes afterwards there came the sound of running footsteps on the stairs, and a hasty knock fell on her door. "miss meade, will you please come as quickly as you can?" opening the door, she met the frightened face of a maid. "what has happened? is mrs. blackburn ill?" "i don't know. she hasn't undressed and she is too ill to speak. i left her on the couch, and ran upstairs to call you." they were already in the hall, and while they hurried to the staircase, caroline asked a few questions in a whisper. "is there any medicine that she is accustomed to take?" "i give her ammonia sometimes, but to-night it didn't do any good." "does she faint often?" "i'm not sure. she has these attacks, but only after--after----" the woman paused in confusion, and before she could recover herself, caroline had opened the door and walked swiftly to the prostrate figure, in white chiffon, on the couch in front of the fire. bending over she felt angelica's pulse and lowered her head, with its loosened amber hair, on the pillows. "your pulse is good. do you feel better now?" she asked tenderly, for, in spite of the quiet competence of her professional attitude, her heart was aching with pity. "i was sure i could count on your sympathy." as she answered, mrs. blackburn stretched out her hands until they rested on caroline's arm. "has mary gone out of the room?" "your maid? yes, she has just gone. what can i do for you?" even in the midst of the emotional crisis, angelica's manner had not lost a trace of its charming self-possession, its rather colourless sweetness. her grey eyes, drenched in tears which left no redness on the firm white lids, were as devoid of passion as the eyes of a child. "i cannot tell you--i cannot tell any one," she said after a moment, not in answer to the other's question, but with a plaintive murmur. then she began to cry very gently, while she clung to caroline with her lovely hands which were as soft and fragrant as flowers. "i think i know without your telling me," responded caroline soothingly. "let me help you." all her years of nursing had not enabled her to watch suffering, especially the suffering of helpless things, without a pang of longing to comfort. she was on her knees now by the couch, her smooth dark head bending over angelica's disarranged fair one, her grave, compassionate face gazing down on the other's delicate features, which were softened, not disfigured, by tears. "the worst is about roane--my brother," began angelica slowly. "he came here to-night, but they--" she lingered over the word, "sent him away before i could talk to him. he is downstairs now on the terrace because he is not allowed to come into the house--my brother. i must get this cheque to him, but i do not like to ask one of the servants----" "you wish me to take it to him?" caroline released herself from the clinging hands, and rose quickly to her feet. here at last was a definite call to action. "oh, miss meade, if you would!" already angelica's eyes were dry. "i will go at once. is the cheque written?" "i carried it down with me, but i could not get a chance to give it to roane. poor boy," she added in a low rather than a soft tone, "poor boy, after all, he is more sinned against than sinning!" drawing the cheque from under the lace pillows, she gave it into caroline's hand with a gesture of relief. "go through the dining-room to the terrace, and you will find him outside by the windows. tell him that i will see him as soon as i can, and ask him please not to trouble me again." she had rung for her maid while she was speaking, and when the woman appeared, she rose and waited, with a yawn, for her dress to be unfastened. then suddenly, as if she had forgotten something, she gave caroline a smile full of beauty and pathos. "thank you a thousand tunes, dear miss meade," she exclaimed gratefully. it was dark downstairs, except for a nebulous glow from the hall above and a thin reddish line that ran beneath the closed door of the library. not until she reached the dining-room did caroline dare turn on the electric light, and as soon as she did so, the terrace and the garden appeared by contrast to be plunged in blackness. when she opened one of the long french windows, and stepped out on the brick terrace, her eyes became gradually accustomed to the starlight, and she discerned presently the shrouded outlines of the juniper trees and a marble fountain which emerged like a ghost from the quivering spray of water. as she went quickly down the steps to the lower terrace, she felt as much alone in her surroundings as if the house and mrs. blackburn had receded into a dream. overhead there was the silvery glitter of stars, and before her she divined the simplicity and peace of an autumn garden, where the wind scattered the faint scent of flowers that were already beginning to drop and decay. when she approached the fountain, the figure of a man detached itself from the vague shape of an evergreen, and came toward her. "well, i've waited awhile, haven't i?" he began airily, and the next instant exclaimed with scarcely a change of tone, "who are you? did anna jeannette send you?" "i am letty's new nurse--miss meade." "what! a spirit yet a woman too!" his voice was full of charm. "mrs. blackburn sent me with this." as she held out the cheque, he took it with a gesture that was almost hungry. "she asked me to say that she would see you very soon, and to beg you not to trouble her again." "does she imagine that i do it for pleasure!" he placed the cheque in his pocket book. "she cannot suppose that i came here to-night for the sake of a row." though he was unusually tall, he carried his height with the ease of an invincible dignity and self-possession; and she had already discerned that his sister's pathos had no part in the tempestuous ardour and gaiety of his nature. "she didn't tell me," answered caroline coldly. "there is nothing else, is there?" her features were like marble beneath the silken dusk of her hair which was faintly outlined against the cloudier darkness. "there is a great deal--since you ask me." "nothing, i mean, that i may say to your sister?" "you may say to her that i thank her for her message--and her messenger." he was about to add something more, when caroline turned away from him and moved, without haste, as if she were unaware that he followed her, up the shallow steps of the terrace. when she reached the window, she passed swiftly, like a dissolving shadow, from the darkness into the light of the room. nothing had been said that she found herself able to resent, and yet, in some indefinable way, roane's manner had offended her. "for a trained nurse you are entirely too particular," she said to herself, smiling, as she put out the light and went through the wide doorway into the hall. "you have still a good deal of haughtiness to overcome, miss meade, if you expect every man to treat you as if you wore side curls and a crinoline." the hall, when she entered it, was very dim, but as she approached the door of the library, it opened, and blackburn stood waiting for her on the threshold. behind him the room was illuminated, and she saw the rich sheen of leather bindings and the glow of firelight on the old persian rug by the hearth. "you have been out, miss meade?" "yes, i have been out." as she threw back her head, the light was full on her face while his was in shadow. "do you need anything?" "nothing, thank you." for an instant their eyes met, and in that single glance, charged with an implacable accusation, she made angelica's cause her own. grave, remote, dispassionate, her condemnation was as impersonal as a judgment of the invisible powers. "that is all, then, good-night," he said. "good-night." while he watched her, she turned as disdainfully as she had turned from roane, and ascended the stairs. chapter vi letty in the breakfast room next morning, caroline found the little girl in charge of miss miller, the nurse who was leaving that day. letty was a fragile, undeveloped child of seven years, with the dark hair and eyes of her father, and the old, rather elfish look of children who have been ill from the cradle. her soft, fine hair hung straight to her shoulders, and framed her serious little face, which was charming in spite of its unhealthy pallor. caroline had questioned miss miller about the child's malady, and she had been reassured by the other nurse's optimistic view of the case. "we think she may outgrow the trouble, that's why we are so careful about all the rules she lives by. the doctor watches her closely, and she isn't a difficult child to manage. if you once gain her confidence you can do anything with her, but first of all you must make her believe in you." "was she always so delicate?" "i believe she was born this way. she is stunted physically, though she is so precocious mentally. she talks exactly like an old person sometimes. the things she says would make you laugh if it wasn't so pathetic to know that a child thinks them." yes, it was pathetic, caroline felt, while she watched letty cross the room to her father, who was standing before one of the french windows. as she lifted her face gravely, blackburn bent over and kissed her. "i'm taking a new kind of medicine, father." he smiled down on her. "then perhaps you will eat a new kind of breakfast." "and i've got a new nurse," added letty before she turned away and came over to caroline. "i'm so glad you wear a uniform," she said in her composed manner. "i think uniforms are much nicer than dresses like aunt matty's." mrs. timberlake looked up from the coffee urn with a smile that was like a facial contortion. "anything might be better than my dresses, letty." "but you ought to get something pretty," said the child quickly, for her thoughts came in flashes. "if you wore a uniform you might look happy, too. are all nurses happy, miss miller?" "we try to be, dear," answered miss miller, a stout, placid person, while she settled the little girl in her chair. "it makes things so much easier." blackburn, who had been looking out on the terrace and the formal garden, turned and bowed stiffly as he came to the table. it was evident that he was not in a talkative mood, and as caroline returned his greeting with the briefest acknowledgment, she congratulated herself that she did not have to make conversation for him. mary had not come in from her ride, and since mrs. timberlake used language only under the direct pressure of necessity, the sound of letty's unembarrassed childish treble rippled placidly over the constrained silence of her elders. "can you see the garden?" asked the child presently. "i don't mean the box garden, i mean the real garden where the flowers are?" caroline was helping herself to oatmeal, and raising her eyes from the dish, she glanced through the window which gave on the brick terrace. beyond the marble fountain and a dark cluster of junipers there was an arch of box, which framed the lower garden and a narrow view of the river. "that's where my garden is, down there," letty was saying. "i made it all by myself--didn't i, miss miller?--and my verbenas did better than mother's last summer. would you like to have a garden, father?" she inquired suddenly, turning to blackburn, who was looking over the morning paper while he waited for his coffee. "it wouldn't be a bit more trouble for me to take care of two than one. i'll make yours just like mine if you want me to." blackburn put down his paper. "well, i believe i should like one," he replied gravely, "if you are sure you have time for it. but aren't there a great many more important things you ought to do?" "oh, it doesn't take so much time," returned the child eagerly, "i work all i can, but the doctor won't let me do much. i'll make yours close to mine, so there won't be far to go with the water. i have to carry it in a very little watering-pot because they won't let me lift a big one." a smile quivered for an instant on her father's lips, and caroline saw his face change and soften as it had done the evening before. it was queer, she thought, that he should have such a sensitive mouth. she had imagined that a man of that character would have coarse lips and a brutal expression. "now, it's odd, but i've always had a fancy for a garden of that sort," he responded, "if you think you can manage two of them without over-taxing yourself. i don't want to put you to additional trouble, you know. after all, that's just what i hire peter for, isn't it?" while the child was assuring him that peter had neither the time nor the talent for miniature gardening, miss miller remarked pleasantly, as if she were visited by a brilliant idea, "you ought to make one for your mother also, letty." "oh, mother doesn't want one," returned the child: "the big ones are hers, aren't they, father?" then, as blackburn had unfolded his paper again, she added to caroline, with one of the mature utterances miss miller had called pathetic, "when you have big things you don't care for little things, do you?" as they were finishing breakfast, mary blackburn dashed in from the terrace, with the airedale terriers at her heels. "i was afraid you'd have gone before i got back, david," she said, tossing her riding-crop and gloves on a chair, and coming over to the table. "patrick, put the dogs out, and tell peter to give them their breakfast." then turning back to her brother, she resumed carelessly, "that man stopped me again--that foreman you discharged from the works." blackburn's brow darkened. "ridley? i told him not to come on the place. is he hanging about?" "i met him in the lane. he asked me to bring a message to you. it seems he wants awfully to be reinstated. he is out of work; and he doesn't want to go north for a job." "it's a pity he didn't think of that sooner. he has made more trouble in the plant than any ten men i've ever had. it isn't his fault that there's not a strike on now." "i know," said mary, "but i couldn't refuse to hear him. there's alan now," she added. "ask him about it." she looked up, her face flushing with pride and happiness, as alan wythe opened the window. there was something free and noble in her candour. all the little coquetries and vanities of women appeared to shrivel in the white blaze of her sincerity. "so you've been held up by ridley," remarked blackburn, as the young man seated himself between mary and mrs. timberlake. "did he tell you just what political capital he expects to make out of my discharging him? it isn't the first time he has tried blackmail." alan was replying to mrs. timberlake's question about his coffee--she never remembered, caroline discovered later, just how much sugar one liked--and there was a pause before he turned to blackburn and answered: "i haven't a doubt that he means to make trouble sooner or later--he has some pull, hasn't he?--but at the moment he is more interested in getting his job back. he talked a lot about his family--tried to make mary ask you to take him on again----" blackburn laughed, not unpleasantly, but with a curious bluntness and finality, as if he were closing a door on some mental passage. "well, you may tell him," he rejoined, "that i wouldn't take him back if all the women in creation asked me." alan received this with his usual ease and flippancy. "the fellow appears to have got the wrong impression. he told me that mrs. blackburn was taking an interest in his case, and had promised to speak to you." "he told you that?" said blackburn, and stopped abruptly. for a minute alan looked almost disconcerted. in his riding clothes he was handsomer and more sportsmanlike than he had been the evening before, and caroline told herself that she could understand why mary blackburn had fallen so deeply in love with him. what she couldn't understand--what puzzled her every instant--was the obvious fact that alan had fallen quite as deeply in love with mary. of course the girl was fine and sensible and high-spirited--any one could see that--but she appeared just the opposite of everything that alan would have sought in a woman. she was neither pretty nor feminine; and alan's type was the one of all others to which the pretty and feminine would make its appeal. "he must love her for her soul," thought caroline. "he must see how splendid she is at heart, and this has won him." in a few minutes blackburn left the table, while letty caught caroline's hand and drew her through the window out on the terrace. the landscape, beyond the three gardens, was golden with october sunlight, and over the box maze and the variegated mist of late blooming flowers, they could see the river and the wooded slopes that folded softly into the sparkling edge of the horizon. it was one of those autumn days when the only movement of the world seems to be the slow fall of the leaves, and the quivering of gauzy-winged insects above the flower-beds. perfect as the weather was, there was a touch of melancholy in its brightness that made caroline homesick for the cedars. "it is hard to be where nobody cares for you," she thought. "where nothing you feel or think matters to anybody." then her stronger nature reasserted itself, and she brushed the light cloud away. "after all, life is mine as much as theirs. the battle is mine, and i will fight it. it is just as important that i should be a good nurse as it is that mrs. blackburn should be beautiful and charming and live in a house that is like fairyland." letty called to her, and running down the brick steps from the terrace, the two began a gentle game of hide-and-seek in the garden. the delighted laughter of the child rang out presently from the rose-arbours and the winding paths; and while caroline passed in and out of the junipers and the young yew-trees, she forgot the loneliness she had felt on the terrace. "i'll not worry about it any more," she thought, pursuing letty beyond the marble fountain, where a laughing cupid shot a broken arrow toward the sun. "mother used to say that all the worry in the world would never keep a weasel out of the hen-house." then, as she twisted and doubled about a tall cluster of junipers, she ran directly across the shadow of blackburn. as her feet came to a halt the smile died on her lips, and the reserve she had worn since she reached briarlay fell like a veil over her gaiety. while she put up her hand to straighten her cap, all the dislike she felt for him showed in her look. only the light in her eyes, and the blown strands of hair under her cap, belied her dignity and her silence. "miss meade, i wanted to tell you that the doctor will come about noon. i have asked him to give you directions." "very well." against the dark junipers, in her white uniform, she looked like a statue except for her parted lips and accusing eyes. "letty seems bright to-day, but you must not let her tire herself." "i am very careful. we play as gently as possible." "will you take her to town? i'll send the car back for you." for an instant she hesitated. "mrs. blackburn has not told me what she wishes." he nodded. "letty uses my car in the afternoon. it will be here at three o'clock." in the sunlight, with his hat off, he looked tanned and ruddy, and she saw that there was the power in his face which belongs to expression--to thought and purpose--rather than to feature. his dark hair, combed straight back from his forehead, made his head appear distinctive and massive, like the relief of a warrior on some ancient coin, and his eyes, beneath slightly beetling brows, were the colour of the sea in a storm. though his height was not over six feet, he seemed to her, while he stood there beside the marble fountain, the largest and strongest man she had ever seen. "i know he isn't big, and yet he appears so," she thought: "i suppose it is because he is so muscular." and immediately she added to herself, "i can understand everything about him except his mouth--but his mouth doesn't belong in his face. it is the mouth of a poet. i wonder he doesn't wear a moustache just to hide the way it changes." "i shall be ready at three o'clock," she said. "mrs. colfax asked me to bring letty to play with her children." "she will enjoy that," he answered, "if they are not rough." then, as he moved away, he observed indifferently, "it is wonderful weather." as he went back to the house letty clung to him, and lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the terrace and round the corner where the car waited. for the time at least the play was spoiled, and caroline, still wearing her professional manner, stood watching for letty to come back to her. "i could never like him if i saw him every day for years," she was thinking, when one of the french windows of the dining-room opened, and mary blackburn came down the steps into the garden. "i am so glad to find you alone," she said frankly, "i want to speak to you--and your white dress looks so nice against those evergreens." "it's a pity i have to change it then, but i am going to take letty to town after luncheon. the doctor wants her to be with other children." "i know. she is an odd little thing, isn't she? i sometimes think that she is older and wiser than any one in the house." her tone changed abruptly. "i want to explain to you about last night, miss meade. david seemed so dreadfully rude, didn't he?" caroline gazed back at her in silence while a flush stained her cheeks. after all, what could she answer? she couldn't and wouldn't deny that mr. blackburn had been inexcusably rude to his wife at his own table. "it is so hard to explain when one doesn't know everything," pursued mary, with her unfaltering candour. "if you had ever seen roane fitzhugh, you would understand better than i can make you that david is right. it is quite impossible to have roane in the house. he drinks, and when he was here last summer, he was hardly ever sober. he was rude to everyone. he insulted me." "so that was why----" began caroline impulsively, and checked herself. "yes, that was why. david told him that he must never come back again." "and mrs. blackburn did not understand." mary did not reply, and glancing at her after a moment, caroline saw that she was gazing thoughtfully at a red and gold leaf, which turned slowly in the air as it detached itself from the stem of a maple. "if you want to get the best view of the river you ought to go down to the end of the lower garden," she said carelessly before she went back into the house. in the afternoon, when caroline took letty to mrs. colfax's, a flickering light was shed on the cause of mary's reticence. "oh, miss meade, wasn't it perfectly awful last evening?" began the young woman as soon as the children were safely out of hearing in the yard. "i feel so sorry for angelica!" even in a southern woman her impulsiveness appeared excessive, and when caroline came to know her better, she discovered that daisy colfax was usually described by her friends as "kind-hearted, but painfully indiscreet." "it was my first dinner party at briarlay. as far as i know they may all end that way," responded caroline lightly. "of course i know that you feel you oughtn't to talk," replied mrs. colfax persuasively, "but you needn't be afraid of saying just what you think to me. i know that i have the reputation of letting out everything that comes into my mind--and i do love to gossip--but i shouldn't dream of repeating anything that is told me in confidence." her wonderful dusky eyes, as vague and innocent as a child's, swept caroline's face before they wandered, with their look of indirection and uncertainty, to her mother-in-law, who was knitting by the window. before her marriage daisy had been the acknowledged beauty of three seasons, and now, the mother of two children and as lovely as ever, she managed to reconcile successfully a talent for housekeeping with a taste for diversion. she was never still except when she listened to gossip, and before caroline had been six weeks in richmond, she had learned that the name of mrs. robert colfax would head the list of every dance, ball, and charity of the winter. "if you ask me what i think," observed the old lady tartly, with a watchful eye on the children, who were playing ring-around-the-rosy in the yard. "it is that david blackburn ought to have been spanked and put to bed." "well, of course, angelica had been teasing him about his political views," returned her daughter-in-law. "you know how she hates it all, but she didn't mean actually to irritate him--merely to keep him from appearing so badly. it is as plain as the nose on your face that she doesn't know how to manage him." they were sitting in the library, and every now and then the younger woman would take up the receiver of the telephone, and have a giddy little chat about the marketing or a motor trip she was planning. "but all i've got to say," she added, turning from one of these breathless colloquies, "is that if you have to manage a man, you'd better try to get rid of him." "well, i'd like to see anybody but a bear-tamer manage david blackburn," retorted the old lady. "with angelica's sensitive nature she ought never to have married a man who has to be tamed. she never dares take her eyes off him, poor thing, for fear he'll make some sort of break." "i wonder," began caroline, and hesitated an instant. "i wonder if it wouldn't be better just to let him make his breaks and not notice them? of course, i know how trying it must be for her--she is so lovely and gentle that it wrings your heart to see him rude to her--but it makes every little thing appear big when you call everybody's attention to it. i don't know much about dinner parties," she concluded with a desire to be perfectly fair even to a man she despised, "but i couldn't see that he was doing anything wrong last night. he was getting on very well with mrs. chalmers, who was interested in politics----" she broke off and asked abruptly, "is mrs. blackburn's brother really so dreadful?" "i've often wondered," said the younger mrs. colfax, "if roane fitzhugh is as bad as people say he is?" "well, he has always been very polite to me," commented the old lady. "though brother charles says that you cannot judge a man's morals by his manners. was alan wythe there last night?" "yes, i sat by him," answered daisy. "i wish that old uncle of his in chicago would let him marry mary." this innocent remark aroused caroline's scorn. "to think of a man's having to ask his uncle whom he shall marry!" she exclaimed indignantly. "you wouldn't say that, my dear," replied old mrs. colfax, "if you knew alan. he is a charming fellow, but the sort of talented ne'er-do-well who can do anything but make a living. he has an uncle in chicago who is said to be worth millions--one of the richest men, i've heard, in the west--but he will probably leave his fortune to charity. as it is he doles out a pittance to alan--not nearly enough for him to marry on." "isn't it strange," said caroline, "that the nice people never seem to have enough money and the disagreeable ones seem to have a great deal too much? but i despise a man," she added sweepingly, "who hasn't enough spirit to go out into the world and fight." the old lady's needles clicked sharply as she returned to her work. "i've always said that if the good lord would look after my money troubles, i could take care of the others. now, if angelica's people had not been so poor she would have been spared this dreadful marriage. as it is, i am sure, the poor thing makes the best of it--i don't want you to think that i am saying a word against angelica--but when a woman runs about after so many outside interests, it is pretty sure to mean that she is unhappy at home." "it's a pity," said the younger woman musingly, "that so many of her interests seem to cross david's business. look at this ridley matter, for instance--of course everyone says that angelica is trying to make up for her husband's injustice by supporting the family until the man gets back to work. it's perfectly splendid of her, i know. there isn't a living soul who admires angelica more than i do, but with all the needy families in town, it does seem that she might just as well have selected some other to look after." the old lady, having dropped some stitches, went industriously to work to pick them up. "for all we know," she observed piously, "it may be god's way of punishing david." chapter vii caroline makes discoveries at four o'clock daisy colfax rushed off to a committee meeting at briarlay ("something very important, though i can't remember just which one it is"), and an hour later caroline followed her in blackburn's car, with letty lying fast asleep in her arms. "i am going to do all i can to make it easier for mrs. blackburn," she thought. "i don't care how rude he is to me if he will only spare her. i am stronger than she is, and i can bear it better." already it seemed to her that this beautiful unhappy woman filled a place in her life, that she would be willing to make any sacrifice, to suffer any humiliation, if she could only help her. suddenly letty stirred and put up a thin little hand. "i like you, miss meade," she said drowsily. "i like you because you are pretty and you laugh. mammy says mother never laughs, that she only smiles. why is that?" "i suppose she doesn't think things funny, darling." "when father laughs out loud she tells him to stop. she says it hurts her." "well, she isn't strong, you know. she is easily hurt." "i am not strong either, but i like to laugh," said the child in her quaint manner. "mammy says there isn't anybody's laugh so pretty as yours. it sounds like music." "then i must laugh a great deal for you, letty, and the more we laugh together the happier we'll be, shan't we?" as the car turned into the lane, where the sunlight fell in splinters over the yellow leaves, a man in working clothes appeared suddenly from under the trees. for an instant he seemed on the point of stopping them; then lowering the hand he had raised, he bowed hurriedly, and passed on at a brisk walk toward the road. "his name is ridley, i know him," said letty. "mother took me with her one day when she went to see his children. he has six children, and one is a baby. they let me hold it, but i like a doll better because dolls don't wriggle." then, as the motor raced up the drive and stopped in front of the porch, she sat up and threw off the fur robe. "there are going to be cream puffs for tea, and mammy said i might have one. do you think mother will mind if i go into the drawing-room? she is having a meeting." "i don't know, dear. is it a very important meeting?" "it must be," replied letty, "or mother wouldn't have it. everything she has is important." as the door opened, she inquired of the servant, "moses, do you think this is a very important meeting?" moses, a young light-coloured negro, answered solemnly, "hit looks dat ar way ter me, miss letty, caze patrick's jes' done fotched up de las' plate uv puffs. dose puffs wuz gwine jes' as fast ez you kin count de las' time i tuck a look at um, en de ladies dey wuz all a-settin' roun' in va' yous attitudes en eatin' um up like dey tasted moughty good." "then i'm going in," said the child promptly. "you come with me, miss meade. mother won't mind half so much if you are with me." and grasping caroline's hand she led the way to the drawing-room. "i hope they have left one," she whispered anxiously, "but meetings always seem to make people so hungry." in the back drawing-room, where empty cups and plates were scattered about on little tables, angelica was sitting in a pink and gold chair that vaguely resembled a throne. she wore a street gown of blue velvet, and beneath a little hat of dark fur, her hair folded softly on her temples. at the first glance caroline could see that she was tired and nervous, and her pensive eyes seemed to plead with the gaily chattering women about her. "of course, if you really think it will help the cause," she was saying deprecatingly; then as letty entered, she broke off and held out her arms. "did you have a good time, darling?" the child went slowly forward, shaking hands politely with the guests while her steady gaze, so like her father's, sought the tea table. "may i have a puff and a tart too, mother?" she asked as she curtseyed to mrs. ashburton. "no, only one, dear, but you may choose." "then i'll choose a puff because it is bigger." she was a good child, and when the tart was forbidden her, she turned her back on the plate with a determined gesture. "i saw the man, mother--the one with the baby. he was in the lane." "i know, dear. he came to ask your father to take him back in the works. perhaps if you were to go into the library and ask him very gently, he would do it. it is the case i was telling you about, a most distressing one," explained angelica to mrs. ashburton. "of course david must have reason on his side or he wouldn't take the stand that he does. i suppose the man does drink and stir up trouble, but we women have to think of so much besides mere justice. we have to keep close to the human part that men are so apt to overlook." there was a writing tablet on her knee, and while she spoke, she leaned earnestly forward, and made a few straggling notes with a yellow pencil which was blunt at the point. even her efficiency--and as a chairman she was almost as efficient as mrs. ashburton--was clothed in sweetness. as she sat there, holding the blunt pencil in her delicate, blue-veined hand, she appeared to be bracing herself, with a tremendous effort of will, for some inexorable demand of duty. the tired droop of her figure, the shadow under her eyes, the pathetic little lines that quivered about her mouth--these things, as well as the story of her loveless marriage, awakened caroline's pity. "she bears it so beautifully," she thought, with a rush of generous emotion. "i have never seen any one so brave and noble. i believe she never thinks of herself for a minute." "i always feel," observed mrs. ashburton, in her logical way which was trying at times, "that a man ought to be allowed to attend to his own business." a pretty woman, with a sandwich in her hand, turned from the tea table and remarked lightly, "heaven knows it is the last privilege of which i wish to deprive him!" her name was mallow, and she was a new-comer of uncertain origin, who had recently built a huge house, after the italian style, on the three chopt road. she was very rich, very smart, very dashing, and though her ancestry was dubious, both her house and her hospitality were authentic. alan had once said of her that she kept her figure by climbing over every charity in town; but alan's wit was notoriously malicious. "in a case like this, don't you think, dear mrs. ashburton, that a woman owes a duty to humanity?" asked angelica, who liked to talk in general terms of the particular instance. "miss meade, i am sure, will agree with me. it is so important to look after the children." "but there are so many children one might look after," replied caroline gravely; then feeling that she had not responded generously to angelica's appeal, she added, "i think it is splendid of you, perfectly splendid to feel the way that you do." "that is so sweet of you," murmured angelica gratefully, while mrs. aylett, a lovely woman, with a face like a magnolia flower and a typically southern voice, said gently, "i, for one, have always found angelica's unselfishness an inspiration. with her delicate health, it is simply marvellous the amount of good she is able to do. i can never understand how she manages to think of so many things at the same moment." she also held a pencil in her gloved hand, and wrote earnestly, in illegible figures, on the back of a torn envelope. "of course, we feel that!" exclaimed the other six or eight women in an admiring chorus. "that is why we are begging her to be in these tableaux." it was a high-minded, unselfish group, except for mrs. mallow, who was hungry, and daisy colfax, who displayed now and then an inclination to giddiness. not until caroline had been a few minutes in the room did she discover that the committee had assembled to arrange an entertainment for the benefit of the red cross. though mrs. blackburn was zealous as an organizer, she confined her activities entirely to charitable associations and disapproved passionately of women who "interfered" as she expressed it "with public matters." she was disposed by nature to vague views and long perspectives, and instinctively preferred, except when she was correcting an injustice of her husband's, to right the wrongs in foreign countries. "don't you think she would make an adorable peace?" asked mrs. aylett of caroline. "i really haven't time for it," said angelica gravely, "but as you say, milly dear, the cause is everything, and then david always likes me to take part in public affairs." a look of understanding rippled like a beam of light over the faces of the women, and caroline realized without being told that mrs. blackburn was overtaxing her strength in deference to her husband's wishes. "i suppose like most persons who haven't always had things he is mad about society." "i've eaten it all up, mother," said letty in a wistful voice. "it tasted very good." "did it, darling? well, now i want you to go and ask your father about poor ridley and his little children. you must ask him very sweetly, and perhaps he won't refuse. you would like to do that, wouldn't you?" "may i take miss meade with me?" "yes, she may go with you. there, now, run away, dear. mother is so busy helping the soldiers she hasn't time to talk to you." "why are you always so busy, mother?" "she is so busy because she is doing good every minute of her life," said mrs. aylett. "you have an angel for a mother, letty." the child turned to her with sudden interest. "is father an angel too?" she inquired. a little laugh, strangled abruptly in a cough, broke from daisy colfax, while mrs. mallow hastily swallowed a cake before she buried her flushed face in her handkerchief. only mrs. aylett, without losing her composure, remarked admiringly, "that's a pretty dress you have on, letty." "now run away, dear," urged angelica in a pleading tone, and the child, who had been stroking her mother's velvet sleeve, moved obediently to the door before she looked back and asked, "aren't you coming too, miss meade?" "yes, i'm coming too," answered caroline, and while she spoke she felt that she had never before needed so thoroughly the discipline of the hospital. as she put her arm about letty's shoulders, and crossed the hall to blackburn's library, she hoped passionately that he would not be in the room. then letty called out "father!" in a clear treble, and almost immediately the door opened, and blackburn stood on the threshold. "do you want to come in?" he asked. "i've got a stack of work ahead, but there is always time for a talk with you." he turned back into the room, holding letty by the hand, and as caroline followed silently, she noticed that he seemed abstracted and worried, and that his face, when he glanced round at her, looked white and tired. the red-brown flush of the morning had faded, and he appeared much older. "won't you sit down," he asked, and then he threw himself into a chair, and added cheerfully, "what is it, daughter? have you a secret to tell me?" against the rich brown of the walls his head stood out, clear and fine, and something in its poise, and in the backward sweep of his hair, gave caroline an impression of strength and swiftness as of a runner who is straining toward an inaccessible goal. for the first time since she had come to briarlay he seemed natural and at ease in his surroundings--in the midst of the old books, the old furniture, the old speckled engravings--and she understood suddenly why colonel ashburton had called him an idealist. with the hardness gone from his eyes and the restraint from his thin-lipped, nervous mouth, he looked, as the colonel had said of him, "on fire with ideas." he had evidently been at work, and the fervour of his mood was still visible in his face. "father, won't you please give ridley his work again?" said the child. "i don't want his little children to be hungry." as she stood there at his knee, with her hands on his sleeve and her eyes lifted to his, she was so much like him in every feature that caroline found herself vaguely wondering where the mother's part in her began. there was nothing of angelica's softness in that intense little face, with its look of premature knowledge. bending over he lifted her to his knee, and asked patiently, "if i tell you why i can't take him back, letty, will you try to understand?" she nodded gravely. "i don't want the baby to be hungry." for a moment he gazed over her head through the long windows that opened on the terrace. the sun was just going down, and beyond the cluster of junipers the sky was turning slowly to orange. "miss meade," he said abruptly, looking for the first time in caroline's face, "would you respect a man who did a thing he believed to be unjust because someone he loved had asked him to?" for an instant the swiftness of the question--the very frankness and simplicity of it--took caroline's breath away. she was sitting straight and still in a big leather chair, and she seemed to his eyes a different creature from the woman he had watched in the garden that morning. her hair was smooth now under her severe little hat, her face was composed and stern, and for the moment her look of radiant energy was veiled by the quiet capability of her professional manner. "i suppose not," she answered fearlessly, "if one is quite sure that the thing is unjust." "in this case i haven't a doubt. the man is a firebrand in the works. he drinks, and breeds lawlessness. there are men in jail now who would be at work but for him, and they also have families. if i take him back there are people who would say i do it for a political reason." "does that matter? it seems to me nothing matters except to be right." he smiled, and she wondered how she could have thought that he looked older. "yes, if i am right, nothing else matters, and i know that i am right." then looking down at letty, he said more slowly, "my child, i know another family of little children without a father. wouldn't you just as soon go to see these children?" "is there a baby? a very small baby?" "yes, there is a baby. i am sending the elder children to school, and one of the girls is old enough to learn stenography. the father was a good man and a faithful worker. when he died he asked me to look after his family." "then why doesn't mrs. blackburn know about them?" slipped from caroline's lips. "why hasn't any one told her?" the next instant she regretted the question, but before she could speak again blackburn answered quietly, "she is not strong, and already she has more on her than she should have undertaken." "her sympathy is so wonderful!" almost in spite of her will, against her instinct for reticence where she distrusted, against the severe code of her professional training, she began by taking mrs. blackburn's side in the household. "yes, she is wonderful." his tone was conventional, yet if he had adored his wife he could scarcely have said more to a stranger. there was a knock at the door, and mammy riah inquired querulously through the crack, "whar you, letty? ain't you comin' ter git yo' supper?" "i'm here, i'm coming," responded letty. as she slid hurriedly from her father's knees, she paused long enough to whisper in his ear, "father, what shall i tell mother when she asks me?" "tell her, letty, that i cannot do it because it would not be fair." "because it would not be fair," repeated the child obediently as she reached for caroline's hand. "miss meade is going to have supper with me, father. we are going to play that it is a party and let all the dolls come, and she will have bread and milk just as i do." "will she?" said blackburn, with a smile. "then i'd think she'd be hungry before bed-time." though he spoke pleasantly, caroline was aware that his thoughts had wandered from them, and that he was as indifferent to her presence as he was to the faint lemon-coloured light streaming in at the window. it occurred to her suddenly that he had never really looked at her, and that if they were to meet by accident in the road he would not recognize her. she had never seen any one with so impersonal a manner--so encased and armoured in reserve--and she began to wonder what he was like under that impenetrable surface? "i should like to hear him speak," she thought, "to know what he thinks and feels about the things he cares for--about politics and public questions." he stood up as she rose, and for a minute before letty drew her from the room, he smiled down on the child. "if i were miss meade, i'd demand more than bread and milk at your party, letty." then he turned away, and sat down again at his writing table. an hour or two later, when letty's supper was over, angelica came in to say good-night before she went out to dinner. she was wearing an evening wrap of turquoise velvet and ermine, and a band of diamonds encircled the golden wings on her temples. her eyes shone like stars, and there was a misty brightness in her face that made her loveliness almost unearthly. the fatigue of the afternoon had vanished, and she looked as young and fresh as a girl. "i hope you are comfortable, miss meade," she said, with the manner of considerate gentleness which had won caroline from the first. "i told fanny to move you into the little room next to letty's." "yes, i am quite comfortable. i like to sleep where she can call me." the child was undressing, and as her mother bent over her, she put up her bare little arms to embrace her. "you smell so sweet, mother, just like lilacs." "do i, darling? there, don't hug me so tight or you'll rumple my hair. did you ask your father about ridley?" "he won't do it. he says he won't do it because it wouldn't be fair." as letty repeated the message she looked questioningly into mrs. blackburn's face. "why wouldn't it be fair, mother?" "he will have to tell you, dear, i can't." drawing back from the child's arms, she arranged the ermine collar over her shoulders. "we must do all we can to help them, letty. now, kiss me very gently, and try to sleep well." she went out, leaving a faint delicious trail of lilacs in the air, and while caroline watched mammy riah slip the night-gown over letty's shoulders, her thoughts followed angelica down the circular drive, through the lane, and on the road to the city. she was fascinated, yet there was something deeper and finer than fascination in the emotion mrs. blackburn awakened. there was tenderness in it and there was romance; but most of all there was sympathy. in caroline's narrow and colourless life, so rich in character, so barren of incident, this sympathy was unfolding like some rare and exquisite blossom. "did you ever see any one in your life look so lovely?" she asked enthusiastically of mammy riah. the old woman was braiding letty's hair into a tight little plait, which she rolled over at the end and tied up with a blue ribbon. "i wan' bawn yestiddy, en i reckon i'se done seen er hull pa'cel un um," she replied. "miss angy's de patte'n uv whut 'er ma wuz befo' 'er. dar ain' never been a fitzhugh yit dat wan't ez purty ez a pictur w'en dey wuz young, en miss angy she is jes' like all de res' un um. but she ain' been riz right, dat's de gospel trufe, en i reckon ole miss knows hit now way up yonder in de kingdom come. dey hed a w'ite nuss to nuss 'er de same ez dey's got for letty heah, en dar ain' never been a w'ite nuss yit ez could raise a chile right, nairy a one un um." "but i thought you nursed all the fitzhughs? why did they have a white nurse for mrs. blackburn?" "dy wuz projeckin', honey, like dey is projeckin' now wid dis yer chile. atter i done nuss five er dem chillun ole miss begun ter git sort er flighty in her haid, en ter go plum 'stracted about sto' physick en real doctahs. stop yo' foolishness dis minute, letty. you git spang out er dat baid befo' i mek you, en say yo' pray'rs. yas'm, hit's de gospel trufe, i'se tellin' you," she concluded as letty jumped obediently out of bed and prepared to kneel down on the rug. "ef'n dey hed lemme raise miss angy de fambly wouldn't hev run ter seed de way hit did atter old marster died, en dar 'ouldn't be dese yer low-lifeted doin's now wid marse david." later in the night, lying awake and restless in the little room next to letty's, caroline recalled the old woman's comment. though she had passionately taken angelica's side, it was impossible for her to deny that both mrs. timberlake and mammy riah appeared to lean sympathetically at least in the direction of blackburn. there was nothing definite--nothing particularly suggestive even--to which she could point; yet, in spite of her prejudice, in spite of the sinister stories which circulated so freely in richmond, she was obliged to admit that the two women who knew angelica best--the dependent relative and the old negress--did not espouse her cause so ardently as did the adoring committee. "the things they say must be true. such dreadful stories could never have gotten out unless something or somebody had started them. it is impossible to look in mrs. blackburn's face and not see that she is a lovely character, and that she is very unhappy." then a reassuring thought occurred to her, for she remembered that her mother used to say that a negro mammy always took the side of the father in any discussion. "it must be the same thing here with mrs. timberlake and mammy riah. they are so close to mrs. blackburn that they can't see how lovely she is. it is like staying too long in the room with an exquisite perfume. one becomes at last not only indifferent, but insensible to its sweetness." closing her eyes, she resolutely put the question away, while she lived over again, in all its varied excitement, her first day at briarlay. the strangeness of her surroundings kept her awake, and it seemed to her, as she went over the last twenty-four hours, that she was years older than she had been when she left the cedars. simply meeting mrs. blackburn, she told herself again, was a glorious adventure; it was like seeing and speaking to one of the heroines in the dingy old volumes in her father's library. and the thought that she could really serve her, that she could understand and sympathize where mrs. timberlake and mammy riah failed, that she could, by her strength and devotion, lift a share of the burden from angelica's shoulders--the thought of these things shed an illumination over the bare road of the future. she would do good, she resolved, and in doing good, she would find happiness. the clock struck eleven; she heard the sound of the returning motor; and then, with her mind filled with visions of usefulness, she dropped off to sleep. it might have been a minute later, it might have been hours, when she was awakened by letty's voice screaming in terror. jumping out of bed, caroline slipped into the wrapper of blue flannel diana had made for her, and touching the electric button, flooded the nursery with light. sitting very erect, with wide-open vacant eyes, and outstretched arms, letty was uttering breathless, distracted shrieks. her face was frozen into a mask, and the bones of her thin little body quivered through the cambric of her night-gown. as the shadows leaped out on the walls, which were covered with garlands of pink and blue flowers, she shuddered and crouched back under the blankets. "i am here, letty! i am here, darling!" cried caroline, kneeling beside the bed, and at the same instant the door opened, and mammy riah, half dressed, and without wig or turban, came in muttering, "i'se coming, honey! i'se coming, my lamb!" without noticing them, the child cried out in a loud, clear voice, "where is father? i want father to hold me! i want my father!" then the terror swept over her again like some invisible enemy, and her cries became broken and inarticulate. "is she often like this?" asked caroline of the old woman. "i can't hold her. i am afraid she will have a convulsion." with her arms about letty, who moaned and shivered in her grasp, she added, "letty, darling, shall i send for your mother?" "dar ain' but one thing dat'll quiet dis chile," said the old negress, "en dat is marse david. i'se gwine atter marse david." she hobbled out in her lint slippers, while the girl held letty closer, and murmured a hundred soothing words in her ear. "you may have father and mother too," she said, "you may have everyone, dear, if only you won't be frightened." "i don't want everyone. i want father," cried the child, with a storm of sobs. "i want father because i am afraid. i want him to keep me from being afraid." then, as the door opened, and blackburn came into the room, she held out her arms, and said in a whisper, like the moan of a small hurt animal, "i thought you had gone away, father, and i was afraid of the dark." without speaking, blackburn crossed the room, and dropping into a chair by the bed, laid his arm across the child's shoulders. at his touch her cries changed into shivering sobs which grew gradually fainter, and slipping back on the pillows, she looked with intent, searching eyes in his face. "you haven't gone away, father?" "no, i haven't gone anywhere. you were dreaming." clasping his hand, she laid her cheek on it, and nestled under the cover. "i am afraid to go to sleep because i dream such ugly dreams." "dreams can't hurt you, letty. no matter how ugly they are, they are only dreams." his voice was low and firm, and at the first sound of it the pain and fear faded from letty's face. "were you asleep, father?" "no, i was at work. i am writing a speech. it is twelve o'clock, but i had not gone to bed." he spoke quite reasonably as if she were a grown person, and caroline asked herself if this explained his power over the child. there was no hint of stooping, no pretense of childish words or phrases. he looked very tired and deep lines showed in his face, but there was an inexhaustible patience in his manner. for the first time she thought of him as a man who carried a burden. his very shadow, which loomed large and black on the flowered wall paper, appeared, while she watched it, to bend beneath the pressure of an invisible weight. "has mother come in?" asked letty in a still whisper. "yes, she has gone to bed. you must not wake your mother." "i'll try not to," answered the child, and a minute afterwards she said with a yawn, "i feel sleepy now, father. i'd like to go to sleep, if you'll sit by me." he laughed. "i'll sit by you, if you'll let miss meade and mammy riah go to bed." as if his laugh had driven the last terror from her mind, letty made a soft, breathless sound of astonishment. "miss meade has got on a wrapper," she said, "and her hair is plaited just like mine only there isn't any ribbon. mammy riah, do you think my hair would stay plaited like that if it wasn't tied?" the old woman grunted. "ef'n you don' shet yo' mouf, i'se gwine ter send marse david straight down agin whar he b'longs." "well, i'll go to sleep," replied letty, in her docile way; and a minute later, she fell asleep with her cheek on her father's hand. for a quarter of an hour longer blackburn sat there without stirring, while caroline put out the high lights and turned on the shaded lamp by the bed. then, releasing himself gently, he stood up and said in a whisper, "i think she is all right now." his back was to the lamp, and caroline saw his face by the dim flicker of the waning fire. "i shall stay with her," she responded in the same tone. "it is not necessary. after an attack like this she sleeps all night from exhaustion. she seems fast asleep, but if you have trouble again send for me." he moved softly to the door, and as caroline looked after him, she found herself asking resentfully, "i wonder why letty cried for her father?" chapter viii blackburn a week later, on an afternoon when the october sunshine sparkled like wine beneath a sky that was the colour of day-flowers, caroline sat on the terrace waiting for mrs. blackburn to return from a rehearsal. in the morning angelica had promised letty a drive if she were good, and as soon as luncheon was over the child had put on a new hat and coat of blue velvet, and had come downstairs to listen for the sound of the motor. with a little white fur muff in her hands, she was now marching sedately round the fountain, while she counted her circuits aloud in a clear, monotonous voice. under the velvet hat she was looking almost pretty, and as caroline gazed at her she seemed to catch fleeting glimpses of angelica in the serious little face. "i believe she is going to be really lovely when she grows up. it is a pity she hasn't her mother's colouring, but she gets more like her every day." leaning over, she called in a low, admonishing tone, "letty, don't go too near the fountain. you will get your coat splashed." obedient as she always was, letty drew away from the water, and caroline turned to pick up the knitting she had laid aside while she waited. angelica had promised a dozen mufflers to the war relief association, and since it made her nervous to knit, she gracefully left the work for others to do. now, while caroline's needles clicked busily, and the ball of yarn unwound in her lap, her eyes wandered from the dying beauty of the garden to the wreaths of smoke that hung over the fringed edge of the river. on the opposite side, beyond the glittering band of the water, low grey-green hills melted like shadows into the violet haze of the distance. a roving fragrance of wood-smoke was in the air, and from the brown and russet sweep of the fields rose the chanting of innumerable insects. all the noise and movement of life seemed hushed and waiting while nature drifted slowly into the long sleep of winter. so vivid yet so evanescent was the light on the meadows that caroline stopped her work, lest a stir or a sound might dissolve the perfect hour into darkness. growing suddenly tired of play, letty came to caroline's side and leaned on her shoulder. the child's hat had slipped back, and while she nestled there she sank gradually into the pensive drowsiness of the afternoon. "do you think she has forgotten to come for us?" "no, dear, it is early yet. it can't be much after three o'clock." up through the golden-rod and life-everlasting, along the winding pathway across the fields, alan and mary were strolling slowly toward the lower garden. "they are so happy," mused caroline. "i wonder if she is ever afraid that she may lose him? he doesn't look as if he could be constant." suddenly one of the nearest french windows opened, and the scent of cigar smoke floated out from the library. a moment later she heard the words, "let's get a bit of air," and blackburn, followed by two callers, came out on the terrace. while the three stood gazing across the garden to the river, she recognized one of the callers as colonel ashburton, but the other was a stranger--a tall, slender man, with crisp iron-grey hair and thin, austere features. afterwards she learned that he was joseph sloane of new york, a man of wide political vision, and a recognized force in the industrial life of america. he had a high, dome-like forehead, which vaguely reminded caroline of a tower, and a mouth so tightly locked that it looked as if nothing less rigid than a fact had ever escaped it. yet his voice, when it came, was rich and beautifully modulated. "it is a good view," he remarked indifferently, and then looking at blackburn, as if he were resuming a conversation that had been broken off, he said earnestly, "a few years ago i should have thought it a sheer impossibility, but i believe now that there is a chance of our winning." "with the chance strengthening every hour," observed colonel ashburton, and as he turned his back to the view, his mild and innocent gaze fell on caroline's figure. "it is good to see you, miss meade," he said gallantly, with a bow in which his blue eyes and silvery hair seemed to mingle. "i hope the sound of politics will not frighten you?" caroline looked up with a smile from her knitting. "not at all. i was brought up in the midst of discussions. but are we in the way?" the colonel's gallantry was not without romantic flavour. "it is your eden, and we are the intruders," he answered softly. it was a pity, thought caroline, while she looked at him over letty's head, that a velvet manner like that had almost vanished from the world. it went with plumes and lace ruffles and stainless swords. "i am going to drive, father," called letty, "if mother ever comes." "that's good." blackburn smiled as he responded, and then moving a step or two nearer the garden, drew several deep wicker chairs into the sunshine. for a few minutes after they had seated themselves, the men gazed in silence at the hazy hills on the horizon, and it seemed to caroline that blackburn was drawing strength and inspiration from the radiant, familiar scene. "i have never wanted anything like this," he said at last, speaking very slowly, as if he weighed each separate word before it was uttered. "not for yourself, but for the country," replied the colonel in his musical voice, which sounded always as if it were pitched to arouse sleeping enthusiasm. he had once been in congress, and the habit of oratorical phrasing had never entirely left him. "do you know, blackburn, i sometimes think that you are one of the few statesmen we have left. the others are mixtures of so many ingredients--ambition, prejudice, fanaticism, self-interest--everything but the thought of the country, and the things for which the country should stand. it's the difference, i suppose, between a patriot and a politician." "it is not that i am less selfish," blackburn laughed with embarrassment as he answered, "but perhaps i have had a harder time than the others, and have learned something they haven't. i've seen how little material things or their acquisition matter in life. after all, the idea is the only thing that really counts--an idea big enough to lift a man out of his personal boundaries, big enough to absorb and possess him completely. a man's country may do this, but not a man's self, nor the mere business of living." as he paused, though his head was turned in caroline's direction, she had a queer impression that he was looking beyond her at some glowing vision that was imperceptible to the others. she knew that he was oblivious of her presence, and that, if he saw her at all, she was scarcely more to him than an image painted on air. the golden light of the afternoon enveloped his figure, yet she realized that the illumination in his face was not due to the shifting rays of the sun. she did not like him--the aversion she felt was too strong for her to judge him tolerantly--but she was obliged to admit that his straight, firm figure, with its look of arrested energy, of controlled power, made colonel ashburton and the stranger from the north appear almost commonplace. even his rough brown clothes possessed a distinction apart from the cut of his tailor; and though it was impossible for her to define the quality which seemed to make him stand alone, to put him in a class by himself, she was beginning to discern that his gift of personality, of intellectual dominance, was a kind of undeveloped genius. "he ought to have been a writer or a statesman," she thought, while she looked at his roughened hair, which would never lie flat, at his smoky grey eyes, and his thin, almost colourless lips. it was a face that grew on her as she watched it, a face, she realized, that one must study to understand, not attempt to read by erring flashes of insight. she remembered that colonel ashburton had told her that blackburn had no small talk, but that he spoke well if he were once started on a current of ideas. "it is true. he speaks just as if he had thought it all out years ago," she said to herself while she listened, "just as if every sentence, every word almost, was crystallized." she felt a mild curiosity about his political convictions--a desire to know what he really believed, and why his opinions had aroused the opposition of men like charles peyton and robert colfax. "i used to believe, not long ago, that these things counted supremely," blackburn said presently, with his eyes on the river--those intense grey eyes which seemed always searching for something. "i held as firmly as any man by the gospel of achievement--by the mad scramble to acquire things. i had never had them, and what a man hasn't had, he generally wants. perhaps i travelled the historic road through materialism to idealism, the road america is following this very hour while we are talking. i am not saying that it isn't all for the best, you know. you may call me an optimist, i suppose, down beneath the eternal muddle of things; but i feel that the ambition to acquire is good only as a process, and not as a permanent condition or the ultimate end of life. i haven't a doubt that the frantic struggle in america to amass things, to make great fortunes, has led to discoveries of incalculable benefit to mankind, and has given a splendid impetus to the development of our country. we wanted things so passionately that we were obliged to create them in order to satisfy our desires. this spirit, this single phase of development, is still serving a purpose. we have watched it open the earth, build railroads, establish industries, cut highways over mountains, turn deserts into populous cities; and through these things lay the foundation of the finer and larger social order--the greater national life. we are fond of speaking of the men who have made this possible as money-grubbers or rank materialists. some of them were, perhaps, but not the guiding spirits, the real builders. no man can do great constructive work who is not seeking to express an imperishable idea in material substance. no man can build for to-morrow who builds only with bricks and mortar." he leaned forward to flick the ashes from his cigar, while the sunshine sprinkling through the junipers deepened the rapt and eager look in his face. "it all comes back to this--the whole problem of life," he pursued after a moment. "it all comes back to the builders. we are--with apologies for the platitude--a nation of idealists. it is our ability to believe in the incredible, to dream great dreams, not our practical efficiency, that has held our body politic together. because we build in the sky, i believe we are building to last----" "but our mistakes, our follies, our insanities----?" as blackburn paused the voice of colonel ashburton fell like music on the stillness. "even our fairest dreams--the dream of individual freedom--what has become of it? show me the man who is free among us to-day?" with his bowed white head, his blanched aristocratic features, and his general air of having been crushed and sweetened by adversity, he reminded caroline of one of the perpetual mourners, beside the weeping willow and the classic tomb, on the memorial brooch her great-grandmother used to wear. "i believe you are wrong," replied blackburn slowly, "for, in spite of the voice of the demagogue, america is a land of individual men, not of classes, and the whole theory of the american state rests upon the rights and obligations of the citizen. if the american republic survives, it will be because it is founded upon the level of conscience--not upon the peaks of inspiration. we have no sovereign mind, no governing class, no body of men with artificial privileges and special obligations. every american carries in his person the essential elements of the state, and is entrusted with its duties. to this extent at least, colonel, your man is free." "free to sink, or to swim with the current?" blackburn smiled as he answered. "well, i suppose your pessimism is natural. in colonel ashburton, sloane, you behold a sorrowful survivor of the age of heroes. by jove, there were giants in those days!" then he grew serious again, and went on rapidly, with the earnest yet impersonal note in his voice: "of course, we know that as long as a people is striving for its civil rights, for equality of right before the law, there is a definite objective goal. now, in theory at least, these things have been attained, and we are confronted to-day with the more difficult task of adjusting the interests, without impairing the rights, of the individual man. the tangled skeins of social and economic justice must be unravelled before we can weave them into the fabric of life." "and for the next fifty years this is our business," said sloane, speaking suddenly in the rich, strong voice which seemed to strike with unerring blows at the root of the question. "yes, this is our business for the next fifty years. i believe with you, sloane, that this may be done. i believe that this work will be accomplished when, and only when, the citizen recognizes that he is the state, and is charged with the duties and the obligations of the state to his fellowmen. to reach this end we must overthrow class prejudice, and realize that justice to all alike is the cornerstone of democracy. we must put aside sectional feeling and create a national ideal by merging the state into the nation. we must learn to look beyond the material prosperity of america and discern her true destiny as the champion of the oppressed, the giver of light. it is for us to do this. after all, we are america, you and i and ashburton and the man who works in my garden. when all is said, a nation is only an organized crowd, and can rise no higher, or sink no lower, than its source--the spirit of the men who compose it. as a man thinketh in his heart so his country will be." for a moment there was silence, and then sloane said sharply: "there is one thing that always puzzles me in you southerners, and that is the apparent conflict between the way you think and the way you act, or to put it a trifle more accurately, between your political vision and your habit of voting. you see i am a practical man, an inveterate believer in the fact as the clinching argument in any question, and i confess that i have failed so far to reconcile your theory with your conduct. you are nationalists and idealists in theory, you virginians, yet by your votes you maintain the solid south, as you call it, as if it were not a part of the american republic. you cherish and support this heresy regardless of political issues, and often in defiance of your genuine convictions. i like you virginians. your history fascinates me like some brilliantly woven tapestry; but i can never understand how this people, whose heroic qualities helped to create the union, can remain separated, at least in act, from american purposes and ideals. you give the lie to your great statesmen; you shatter their splendid dream for the sake of a paradox. your one political party battens on the very life of the south--since you preserve its independence in spite of representatives whom you oppose, and, not infrequently, in spite even of principles that you reject. however broad may be our interpretation of recent events, as long as this heresy prevails, the people of the south cannot hope to recover their historic place in the councils of the nation. and this condition," he concluded abruptly, "retards the development of our future. a short while ago--so short a while, indeed, as the year 1896--the security of the nation was endangered by the obsession of a solid and unbreakable south. this danger passed yesterday, but who knows when it may come again?" as he finished, blackburn leaned eagerly forward as if he were bracing himself to meet an antagonist. to the man whose inner life is compacted of ideas, the mental surgery of the man of facts must always appear superficial--a mere trick of technique. a new light seemed to have fallen over him, and, through some penetrating sympathy, caroline understood that he lived in a white blaze not of feeling, but of thought. it was a passion of the mind instead of the heart, and she wondered if he had ever loved angelica as he loved this fugitive, impersonal image of service? "i sometimes doubt," he said gravely, "if a man can ever understand a country unless he was born in it--unless its sun and dust have entered into his being." "and yet we southerners, even old-fashioned ones like myself, see these evils as clearly as you northerners," interposed colonel ashburton while blackburn hesitated. "the difference between us is simply that you discern the evils only, and we go deep enough to strike the root of the trouble. if you want really to understand us, sloane, study the motive forces in english and american history, especially the overpowering influence of racial instinct, and the effect of an injustice on the mind of the anglo-saxon." with the colonel's voice the old sense of familiarity pervaded caroline's memory like a perfume, and she seemed to be living again through one of her father's political discussions at the cedars--only the carefully enunciated phrases of sloane and blackburn were more convincing than the ringing, colloquial tones of the country orators. as she listened she told herself that these men were modern and constructive while her father and his group of confederate soldiers had been stationary and antiquated. they had stood like crumbling landmarks of history, while blackburn and his associates were building the political structure of the future. "of course i admit," sloane was saying frankly, "that mistakes were made in the confusion that followed the civil war. nobody regrets these things more than the intelligent men of the north; but all this is past; a new generation is springing up; and none of us desires now to put your house in order, or force any government upon you. the north is perfectly willing to keep its hands off your domestic affairs, and to leave the race problem to you, or to anybody else who possesses the ability to solve it. it seems to me, therefore, that the time has come to put these things behind us, and to recognize that we are, and have been, at least since 1865, a nation. there are serious problems before us to-day, and the successful solution of these demands unity of thought and purpose." there was a slight ironic twist to his smile as he finished, and he sat perfectly still, with the burned-out cigar in his hand, watching blackburn with a look that was at once sympathetic and merciless. "colonel ashburton has pointed out the only way," rejoined blackburn drily. "you must use the past as a commentary before you can hope clearly to interpret the present." "that is exactly what i am trying to do." the irony had vanished, and a note of solemnity had passed into sloane's voice. "i am honestly trying to understand the source of the trouble, to discover how it may be removed. i see in the solid south not a local question, but a great national danger. there is no sanctity in a political party; it is merely an instrument to accomplish the ends of government through the will of the people. i realize how men may follow one party or another under certain conditions; but no party can always be right, and i cannot understand how a people, jealous of its freedom, intensely patriotic in spirit, can remain through two generations in bondage to one political idea, whether that idea be right or wrong. this seems to me to be beyond mere politics, to rise to the dignity of a national problem. i feel that it requires the best thought of the country for its adjustment. it is because we need your help that i am speaking so frankly. if we go into this war--and there are times when it seems to me that it will be impossible for us to keep out of it--it must be a baptism of fire from which we should emerge clean, whole, and united." "ashburton is fond of telling me," said blackburn slowly, "that i live too much in the next century, yet it does not seem to me unreasonable to believe that the chief end of civilization is the development of the citizen, and of a national life as deeply rooted in personal consciousness as the life of the family. the ideal citizen, after all, is merely a man in whom the patriotic nerve has become as sensitive as the property nerve--a man who brings his country in touch with his actual life, who places the public welfare above his private aims and ambitions. it is because i believe the southern character is rich in the material for such development that i entered this fight two years ago. as you know i am not a democrat. i have broken away from the party, and recently, i have voted the republican ticket at presidential elections----" "this is why i am here to-day," continued sloane. "i am here because we need your help, because we see an opportunity for you to aid in the great work ahead of us. with a nation the power to survive rests in the whole, not in the parts, and america will not become america until she has obliterated the sections." blackburn was gazing at the hills on the horizon, while there flickered and waned in his face a look that was almost prophetic. "well, of course i agree with you," he said in a voice which was so detached and contemplative that it seemed to flow from the autumnal stillness, "but before you can obliterate the sections, the north as well as the south must cease to be sectional--especially must the north, which has so long regarded its control of the federal government as a proprietary right, cease to exclude the south from participation in national affairs and movements. before you can obliterate the sections, you must, above all, understand why the solidarity of the south exists as a political issue--you must probe beneath the tissue of facts to the very bone and fibre of history. truth is sometimes an inconvenient thing, but experience has found nothing better to build on. first of all--for we must clear the ground--first of all, you must remember that we virginians are anglo-saxons, and that we share the sporting spirit which is ready to fight for a principle, and to accept the result whether it wins or loses. when the war was over--to dig no deeper than the greatest fact in our past--when the war was over we virginians, and the people of the south, submitted, like true sportsmen, to the logic of events. we had been beaten on the principle that we had no right to secede from the union, and therefore were still a part of the union. we accepted this principle, and were ready to resume our duties and discharge our obligations; but this was not to be permitted without the harsh provisions of the reconstruction acts. then followed what is perhaps the darkest period in american history, and one of the darkest periods in the history of the english-speaking race----" "i admit all this," interrupted sloane quickly, "and yet i cannot understand----" "you must understand before we work together," replied blackburn stubbornly. "i shall make you understand if it takes me all night and part of to-morrow. politics, after all, is not merely a store of mechanical energy; even a politician is a man first and an automaton afterwards. you can't separate the way a man votes from the way he feels; and the way he feels has its source in the secret springs of his character, in the principles his parents revered, in the victories, the shames, the sufferings and the evasions of history. until you realize that the south is human, you will never understand why it is solid. people are ruled not by intellect, but by feeling; and in a democracy mental expediency is no match for emotional necessity. virginia proved this philosophical truth when she went into the war--when she was forced, through ties of blood and kinship, into defending the institution of slavery because it was strangely associated with the principle of self-government--and she proved it yet again when she began slowly to rebuild the shattered walls of her commonwealth." for a moment he was silent, and colonel ashburton said softly with the manner of one who pours oil on troubled waters with an unsteady hand, "i remember those years more clearly than i remember last month or even yesterday." his voice trailed into silence, and blackburn went on rapidly, without noticing the interruption: "the conditions of the reconstruction period were worse than war, and for those conditions you must remember that the south has always held the republican party responsible. not content with the difficulties which would inevitably result from the liberation of an alien population among a people who had lost all in war, and were compelled to adjust themselves to new economic and social conditions, the federal government, under the influence of intemperate leaders, conferred upon the negroes full rights of citizenship, while it denied these rights to a large proportion of the white population--the former masters. state and local governments were under the control of the most ignorant classes, generally foreign adventurers who were exploiting the political power of the negroes. the south was overwhelmed with debts created for the private gain of these adventurers; the offices of local governments were filled either by alien white men or by negroes; and negro justices of the peace, negro legislators, and even negro members of congress were elected. my own county was represented in the legislature of virginia by a negro who had formerly belonged to my father." "all this sounds now like the ancient history of another continent," remarked sloane with anxious haste, "fifty years can change the purpose of a people or a party!" "often in the past," resumed blackburn, "men who have taken part in revolutions or rebellions have lost their lives as the punishment of failure; but there are wrongs worse than death, and one of these is to subject a free and independent people to the rule of a servile race; to force women and children to seek protection from magistrates who had once been their slaves. the republican party was then in control, and its leaders resisted every effort of the south to re-establish the supremacy of the white race, and to reassert the principles of self-government. we had the civil rights act, and the federal election laws, with federal supervisors of elections to prevent the white people from voting and to give the vote to the negroes. even when thirty years had passed, and the south had gained control of its local governments, the republicans attempted to pass an election law which would have perpetuated negro dominance. you have only to stop and think for a minute, and you will understand that conditions such as i have suggested are the source of that national menace you are trying now to remove." "it is all true, but it is the truth of yesterday," rejoined sloane eagerly. "if we have made mistakes in the past, we wish the more heartily to do right in the present. what can prove this more clearly than the fact that i am here to ask your help in organizing the independent vote in virginia? there is a future for the man who can lead the new political forces." the sun was dropping slowly in the direction of the wooded slopes on the opposite shore; the violet mist on the river had become suddenly luminous; and the long black shadows of the junipers were slanting over the grass walks in the garden. in the lower meadows the chanting rose so softly that it seemed rather a breath than a sound; and this breath, which was the faint quivering stir of october, stole at last into the amber light on the terrace. "if i had not known this," answered blackburn, and again there flickered into his face the look of prophecy and vision which seemed to place him in a separate world from sloane and colonel ashburton, "i should have spoken less frankly. as you say the past is past, and we cannot solve future problems by brooding upon wrongs that are over. the suffrage is, after all, held in trust for the good of the present and the future; and for this reason, since virginia limited her suffrage to a point that made the negro vote a negligible factor, i have felt that the solid south is, if possible, more harmful to the southern people than it is to the nation. this political solidarity prevents constructive thought and retards development. it places the southern states in the control of one political machine; and the aim of this machine must inevitably be self-perpetuation. offices are bestowed on men who are willing to submit to these methods; and freedom of discussion is necessarily discouraged by the dominant party. in the end a governing class is created, and this class, like all political cliques, secures its privileges by raising small men to high public places, and thereby obstructs, if it does not entirely suppress, independent thought and action. i can imagine no more dangerous condition for any people under a republican form of government, and for this reason, i regard the liberation of the south from this political tyranny as the imperative duty of every loyal southerner. as you know, i am an independent in politics, and if i have voted with the republicans, it is only because i saw no other means of breaking the solidarity of the south. yet--and i may as well be as frank at the end as i was at the beginning of our discussion, i doubt the ability of the republican party to win the support of the southern people. the day will come, i believe, when another party will be organized, national in its origin and its purposes; and through this new party, which will absorb the best men from both the republican and the democratic organizations, i hope to see america welded into a nation. in the meantime, and only until this end is clearly in sight," he added earnestly, "i am ready to help you by any effort, by any personal sacrifice. i believe in america not with my mind only, but with my heart--and if the name america means anything, it must mean that we stand for the principle of self-government whatever may be the form. this principle is now in danger throughout the world, and just as a man must meet his responsibilities and discharge his obligations regardless of consequences, so a nation cannot shirk its duties in a time of international peril. we have now reached the cross-roads--we stand waiting where the upward and the downward paths come together. i am willing to cast aside all advantage, to take any step, to face misunderstanding and criticism, if i can only help my people to catch the broader vision of american opportunity and american destiny----" the words were still in the air, when there was a gentle flutter of pink silk curtains, and angelica came out, flushed and lovely, from a successful rehearsal. an afternoon paper was in her hand, and her eyes were bright and wistful, as if she were trying to understand how any one could have hurt her. "letty, dear, i am waiting!" she called; and then, as her gaze fell on sloane, she went toward him with outstretched hand and a charming manner of welcome. "oh, mr. sloane, how very nice to see you in richmond!" the next instant she added seriously, "david, have you seen the paper? you can't imagine what dreadful things they are saying about you." "well, they can call him nothing worse than a traitor," retorted colonel ashburton lightly before blackburn could answer. "surely, the word traitor ought to have lost its harshness to southern ears!" "but robert colfax must have written it!" though she was smiling it was not because the colonel's rejoinder had seemed amusing to her. "i know i am interrupting," she said after a moment. "it will be so nice if you will dine with us, mr. sloane--only you must promise me not to encourage david's political ideas. i couldn't bear to be married to a politician." as she stood there against a white column, she looked as faultless and as evanescent as the sunbeams, and for the first time sloane's face lost its coldness and austerity. "i think your husband could never be a politician," he answered gently, "though he may be a statesman." chapter ix angelica's charity as the car turned into the lane it passed alan and mary, and mrs. blackburn ordered the chauffeur to stop while she leaned out of the window and waited, with her vague, shimmering look, for the lovers to approach. "i wanted to ask you, mr. wythe, about that article in the paper this morning," she began. "do you think it will do david any real harm?" her voice was low and troubled, and she gazed into alan's face with eyes that seemed to be pleading for mercy. "well, i hardly think it will help him if he wants an office," replied alan, reddening under her gaze. "i suppose everything is fair in politics, but it does seem a little underhand of colfax doesn't it? a man has a right to expect a certain amount of consideration from his friends." for the first time since she had known him, caroline felt that alan's nimble wit was limping slightly. in place of his usual light-hearted manner, he appeared uncomfortable and embarrassed, and though his eyes never left angelica's face, they rested there with a look which it was impossible to define. admiration, surprise, pleasure, and a fleeting glimpse of something like dread or fear--all these things caroline seemed to read in that enigmatical glance. could it be that he was comparing angelica with mary, and that, for the moment at least, mary's lack of feminine charm, was estranging him? he looked splendidly vigorous with the flush in his cheeks and a glow in his red-brown eyes--just the man, caroline fancied, with whom any woman might fall in love. "but don't you think," asked angelica hesitatingly, as if she dared not trust so frail a thing as her own judgment, "that it may be a matter of principle with robert? of course i know that david feels that he is right, and there can't be a bit of truth in what people say about the way he runs his works, but, after all, isn't he really harming the south by trying to injure the democratic party? we all feel, of course, that it is so important not to do anything to discredit the democrats, and with robert i suppose there is a great deal of sentiment mixed with it all because his grandfather did so much for virginia. oh, if david could only find some other ambition--something that wouldn't make him appear disloyal and ungrateful! i can't tell you how it distresses me to see him estrange his best friends as he does. i can't feel in my heart that any political honour is worth it!" there was a flute-like quality in her voice, which was singularly lacking in the deeper and richer tones of passion, like the imperfect chords of some thin, sweet music. though angelica had the pensive eyes and the drooping profile of an early italian madonna, her voice, in spite of its lightness and delicacy, was without softness. at first it had come as a surprise to caroline, and even now, after three weeks at briarlay, she was aware of a nervous expectancy whenever mrs. blackburn opened her lips--of a furtive hope that the hard, cold tones might melt in the heat of some ardent impulse. "it isn't ambition with david," said mary, speaking bluntly, and with an arrogant conviction. "he doesn't care a rap for any political honour, and he is doing this because he believes it to be his duty. his country is more to him, i think, than any living creature could be, even a friend." "well, as far as that goes, he has made more friends by his stand than he has lost," observed alan, with unnatural diffidence. "i shouldn't let that worry me a minute, mrs. blackburn. david is a big man, and his influence grows every hour. the young blood is flowing toward him." "oh, but don't you see that this hurts me most of all?" responded angelica. "i wouldn't for the world say this outside, but you are david's friend and almost one of the family, and i know you will understand me." she lifted her eyes to his face--those large, shining eyes as soft as a dove's breast--and after a moment in which he gazed at her without speaking, alan answered gently, "yes, i understand you." "it would grieve me if you didn't because i feel that i can trust you." "yes, you can trust me--absolutely." he looked at mary as he spoke, and she smiled back at him with serene and joyous confidence. "that is just what i tell mary," resumed angelica. "you are so trustworthy that it is a comfort to talk to you, and then we both feel, don't we, dear?" she inquired turning to the girl, "that your wonderful knowledge of human nature makes your judgment of such value." alan laughed, though his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "i don't know about that," he replied, "though my opinion, whatever it may be worth, is at your service." "that is why i am speaking so frankly because i feel that you can help me. if you could only make david see his mistake--if you could only persuade him to give up this idea. it can't be right to overturn all the sacred things of the past--to discredit the principles we virginians have believed in for fifty years. surely you agree with me that it is a deplorable error of judgment?" as she became more flattering and appealing, alan recovered his gay insouciance. "if you want a candid answer, mrs. blackburn," he replied gallantly, "there isn't an ambition, much less a principle on earth, for which i would disagree with you." angelica smiled archly, and she was always at her loveliest when her face was illumined by the glow and colour of her smile. was it possible, caroline wondered while she watched her, that so simple a thing as the play of expression--as the parting of the lips, the raising of the eyebrows--could make a face look as if the light of heaven had fallen over it? "if you get impertinent, i'll make mary punish you!" exclaimed angelica reproachfully; and a minute later the car passed on, while she playfully shook her finger from the window. "how very handsome he is," said caroline as she looked back in the lane. "i didn't know that a man could be so good-looking." angelica was settling herself comfortably under the robe. "yes, he is quite unusual," she returned, and added after a pause, "if his uncle ever dies, and they say he is getting very feeble, alan will inherit one of the largest fortunes in chicago." "i'm so glad. that's nice for miss blackburn." "it's nice for mary--yes." her tone rather than her words, which were merely conventional, made caroline glance at her quickly; but angelica's features were like some faultless ivory mask. for the first time it struck the girl that even a beautiful face could appear vacant in repose. "where are we going now, mother?" asked letty, who had been good and quiet during the long wait in the lane. "to the ridleys', dear. i've brought a basket." there was a moment's delay while she gave a few directions to the footman, and then, as letty snuggled closely against caroline's arm, the car went on rapidly toward the city. the ridleys lived in a small frame house in pine street; and when the car stopped before the door, where a number of freshly washed children were skipping rope on the pavement, angelica alighted and held out her hand to letty. "do you want to come in with me, letty?" "i'd rather watch these children skip, mother. miss meade, may i have a skipping-rope?" behind them the footman stood waiting with a covered basket, and for an instant, while mrs. blackburn looked down on it, a shadow of irritation rippled across her face. "take that up to the second floor, john, and ask mrs. ridley if she got the yarn i sent for the socks?" then, changing her mind as john disappeared into the narrow hall, from which a smell of cabbage floated, she added firmly, "we won't stay a minute, letty, but you and miss meade must come up with me. i always feel," she explained to caroline, "that it does the child good to visit the poor, and contrast her own lot with that of others. young minds are so impressionable, and we never know when the turning-point comes in a life." grasping letty's hand she stepped over the skipping-rope, which the children had lowered in awe to the pavement. "letty has a cold. i'm afraid she oughtn't to go in," said caroline hastily, while the child, rescued in the last extremity, threw a grateful glance at her. "you really think so? well, perhaps next time. ah, there is mr. ridley now! we can speak to him without seeing his wife to-day." instinctively, before she realized the significance of her action, she had drawn slightly aside. a tall man, with a blotched, irascible face and a wad of tobacco in his mouth, lurched out on the porch, and stopped short at the sight of his visitors. he appeared surly and unattractive, and in her first revulsion, caroline was conscious of a sudden sympathy with blackburn's point of view. "he may be right, after all," she admitted to herself. "kind as mrs. blackburn is, she evidently doesn't know much about people. i suppose i shouldn't have known anything either if i hadn't been through the hospital." "i am glad to see you down, mr. ridley," said angelica graciously. "i hope you are quite well again and that you have found the right kind of work." "yes, 'm, i'm well, all right, but there ain't much doing now except down at the works, and you know the way mr. blackburn treats me whenever i go down there." he was making an effort to be ingratiating, and while he talked his appearance seemed to change and grow less repelling. the surliness left his face, his figure straightened from the lurching walk, and he even looked a shade cleaner. "it is wonderful the power she has over people," reflected the girl. "i suppose it comes just from being so kind and lovely." "you mustn't give up hope," mrs. blackburn replied encouragingly. "we never know at what moment some good thing may turn up. it is a pity there isn't more work of the kind in richmond." "well, you see, ma'am, mr. blackburn has cornered the whole lot. that's the way capital treats labour whenever it gets the chance." his face assumed an argumentative expression. "to be sure, mr. blackburn didn't start so very high himself, but that don't seem to make any difference, and the minute a man gets to the top, he tries to stop everybody else that's below him. if he hadn't had the luck to discover that cheap new way to make steel, i reckon he wouldn't be very far over my head to-day. it was all accident, that's what i tell the men down at the works, and luck ain't nothing but accident when you come to look at it." mrs. blackburn frowned slightly. it was plain that she did not care to diminish the space between blackburn and his workmen, and ridley's contemptuous tone was not entirely to her liking. she wanted to stoop, not to stand on a level with the objects of her charity. "the war abroad has opened so many opportunities," she observed, amiably but vaguely. "it's shut down a sight more than it's opened," rejoined ridley, who possessed the advantage of knowing something of what he was talking about. "all the works except the steel and munition plants are laying off men every hour. it's easy enough on men like mr. blackburn, but it's hard on us poor ones, and it don't make it any easier to be sending all of this good stuff out of the country. let the folks in europe look after themselves, that's what i say. there are hungry mouths enough right here in this country without raising the price of everything we eat by shipping the crops over the water. i tell you i'll vote for any man, i don't care what he calls himself, who will introduce a bill to stop sending our provisions to the folks over yonder who are fighting when they ought to be working----." "but surely we must do our best to help the starving women and children of europe. it wouldn't be human, it wouldn't be christian----" angelica paused and threw an appealing glance in the direction of caroline, who shook her head scornfully and looked away to the children on the pavement. why did she stoop to argue with the man? couldn't she see that he was merely the cheapest sort of malcontent? "the first thing you know we'll be dragged into this here war ourselves," pursued ridley, rolling the wad of tobacco in his mouth, "and it's the men like mr. blackburn that will be doing it. there's a lot of fellows down at the works that talk just as he does, but that's because they think they know which side their bread is buttered on! some of 'em will tell you the boss is the best friend they have on earth; but they are talking through their hats when they say so. as for me, i reckon i've got my wits about me, and as long as i have they ain't going to make me vote for nobody except the man who puts the full dinner pail before any darn squabble over the water. i ain't got anything against you, ma'am, but mr. blackburn ain't treated me white, and if my turn ever comes, i'm going to get even with him as sure as my name is james ridley." "i think we'd better go," said caroline sternly. she had suspected from the first that ridley had been drinking, and his rambling abuse was beginning to make her angry. it seemed not only foolish, but wicked to make a martyr of such a man. "yes, we must go," assented mrs. blackburn uneasily. "i won't see mrs. ridley to-day," she added. "tell her to let me know when she has finished the socks, and i will send for them. i am giving her some knitting to do for the war relief." "all right, she may do what she pleases as long as she's paid for it," rejoined ridley with a grin. "i ain't interfering." then, as the procession moved to the car, with the footman and the empty basket making a dignified rear-guard, he added apologetically, "i hope you won't bear me a grudge for my plain speaking, ma'am?" "oh, no, for i am sure you are honest," replied mrs. blackburn, with the manner of affable royalty. at last, to caroline's inexpressible relief, they drove away amid the eager stares of the children that crowded the long straight street. "i always wonder how they manage to bring up such large families," remarked angelica as she gazed with distant benignity out of the window. "oh, i quite forgot. i must speak to mrs. macy about some pillow cases. john, we will stop at mrs. macy's in the next block." in a dark back room just beyond the next corner, they found an elderly woman hemstitching yards of fine thread cambric ruffling. as they entered, she pinned the narrow strip of lawn over her knee, and looked up without rising. she had a square, stolid face, which had settled into the heavy placidity that comes to those who expect nothing. her thin white hair was parted and brushed back from her sunken temples, and her eyes, between chronically reddened lids, gazed at her visitors with a look of passive endurance. "my hip is bad to-day," she explained. "i hope you won't mind my not getting up." she spoke in a flat, colourless voice, as if she had passed beyond the sphere of life in which either surprises or disappointments are possible. suffering had moulded her thought into the plastic impersonal substance of philosophy. "oh, don't think of moving, mrs. macy," returned angelica kindly. "i stopped by to bring you the lace edging you needed, and to ask if you have finished any of the little pillow slips? now, that your son is able to get back to work, you ought to have plenty of spare time for hemstitching." "yes, there's plenty of time," replied mrs. macy, without animation, "but it's slow work, and hard on weak eyes, even with spectacles. you like it done so fine that i have to take twice the trouble with the stitches, and i was just thinking of asking you if you couldn't pay me twenty cents instead of fifteen a yard? it's hard to make out now, with every mouthful you eat getting dearer all the time, and though tom is a good son, he's got a large family to look after, and his eldest girl has been ailing of late, and had to have the doctor before she could keep on at school." a queer look had crept into angelica's face--the prudent and guarded expression of a financier who suspects that he is about to be over-matched, that, if he is not cautious, something will be got from him for nothing. for the instant her features lost their softness, and became sharp and almost ugly, while there flashed through caroline's mind the amazing thought, "i believe she is stingy! yet how could she be when she spends such a fortune on clothes?" then the cautious look passed as swiftly as it had come, and mrs. blackburn stooped over the rocking-chair, and gathered the roll of thread cambric into her gloved hands. "i can have it done anywhere for fifteen cents a yard," she said slowly. "well, i know, ma'am, that used to be the price, but they tell me this sort of work is going up like everything else. when you think i used to pay eight and ten cents a pound for middling, and yesterday they asked me twenty-six cents at the store. flour is getting so high we can barely afford it, and even corn meal gets dearer every day. if the war in europe goes on, they say there won't be enough food left in america to keep us alive. it ain't that i'm complaining, mrs. blackburn, i know it's a hard world on us poor folks, and i ain't saying that anybody's to blame for it, but it did cross my mind, while i was thinking over these things a minute ago, that you might see your way to pay me a little more for the hemstitching." while she talked she went on patiently turning the hem with her blunted thumb, and as she finished, she raised her head for the first time and gazed stoically, not into angelica's face, but at a twisted ailantus tree which grew by the board fence of the backyard.' "i am glad you look at things so sensibly, mrs. macy," observed angelica cheerfully. she had dropped the ruffling to the floor, and as she straightened herself, she recovered her poise and amiability. "one hears so many complaints now among working people, and at a time like this, when the country is approaching a crisis, it is so important"--this was a favourite phrase with her, and she accented it firmly--"it is so important that all classes should stand together and work for the common good. i am sure i try to do my bit. there is scarcely an hour when i am not trying to help, but i do feel that the well-to-do classes should not be expected to make all the sacrifices. the working people must do their part, and with the suffering in europe, and the great need of money for charities, it doesn't seem quite fair, does it, for you to ask more than you've been getting? it isn't as if fifteen cents a yard wasn't a good price. i can easily get it done elsewhere for that, but i thought you really needed the work." "i do," said mrs. macy, with a kind of dry terror. "it's all i've got to live on." "then i'm sure you ought to be thankful to get it and not complain because it isn't exactly what you would like. all of us, mrs. macy, have to put up with things that we wish were different. if you would only stop to think of the suffering in belgium, you would feel grateful instead of dissatisfied with your lot. why, i can't sleep at night because my mind is so full of the misery in the world." "i reckon you're right," mrs. macy replied humbly, and she appeared completely convinced by the argument. "it's awful enough the wretchedness over there, and tom and i have tried to help the little we could. we can't give much, but he has left off his pipe for a month in order to send what he spent in tobacco, and i've managed to do some knitting the last thing at night and the first in the morning. i couldn't stint on food because there wasn't any to spare, so i said to myself, 'well, i reckon there's one thing you can give and that's sleep.' so mrs. miller, she lets me have the yarn, and i manage to go to bed an hour later and get up an hour sooner. when you've got to my age, the thing you can spare best is sleep." "you're right, and i'm glad you take that rational view." mrs. blackburn's manner was kind and considerate. "every gift is better that includes sacrifice, don't you feel? tell your son that i think it is fine his giving up tobacco. he has his old place at the works, hasn't he?" "i wrote straight to mr. blackburn, ma'am, and he made the foreman hold it for him. heaven only knows how we'd have managed but for your husband. he ain't the sort that talks unless he is on the platform, but i don't believe he ever forgets to be just when the chance comes to him. there are some folks that call him a hard man, but tom says it ain't hardness, but justice, and i reckon tom knows. tom says the boss hasn't any use for idlers and drunkards, but he's fair enough to the ones who stand by him and do their work--and all the stuff they are putting in the papers about trouble down at the works ain't anything on earth but a political game." "well, we must go," said mrs. blackburn, who had been growing visibly restless. on her way to the door she paused for an instant and asked, "your son is something of a politician himself, isn't he, mrs. macy?" "yes, 'm, tom has a good deal to do with the federation of labour, and in that way he comes more or less into politics. he has a lot of good hard sense if i do say it, and i reckon there ain't anybody that stands better with the workers than he does." "of course he is a democrat?" "well, he always used to be, ma'am, but of late i've noticed that he seems to be thinking the way mr. blackburn does. it wouldn't surprise me if he voted with him when the time came, and the way tom votes," she added proudly, "a good many others will vote, too. he says just as mr. blackburn does that the new times take new leaders--that's one of tom's sayings--and that both the democratic and republican parties ain't big enough for these days. tom says they are both hitched tight, like two mules, to the past." by this time angelica had reached the door, and as she passed out, with letty's hand in hers, she glanced back and remarked, "i should think the working people would be grateful to any party that keeps them out of the war." mrs. macy looked up from her needle. "well, war is bad," she observed shortly, "but i've lived through one, and i ain't saying that i haven't seen things that are worse." the air was fresh and bracing after the close room, and a little later, as they turned into franklin street, angelica leaned out of the window as if she were drinking deep draughts of sunlight. "the poor are so unintelligent," she observed when she had drawn in her head again. "they seem never able to think with any connection. the war has been going on for a long time now, and yet they haven't learned that it is any concern of theirs." letty had begun coughing, and caroline drew her closer while she asked anxiously, "do you think it is wise to take a child into close houses?" "well, i meant to stay only a moment, but i thought mrs. macy would never stop talking. do you feel badly, darling? come closer to mother." "oh, no, i'm well," answered the child. "it is just my throat that tickles." then her tone changed, and as they stopped at the corner of the park, she cried out with pleasure, "isn't that uncle roane over there? uncle roane, do you see us?" a handsome, rather dissipated looking young man, with a mop of curly light hair and insolent blue eyes, glanced round at the call, and came quickly to the car, which waited under the elms by the sidewalk. the street was gay with flying motors, and long bars of sunshine slanted across the grass of the park, where groups of negro nurses gossiped drowsily beside empty perambulators. "why, anna jeannette!" exclaimed the young man, with genial mockery. "this is a pleasure which i thought your worthy bluebeard had forbidden me!" "get in, and i'll take you for a little drive. this is miss meade. you met her that night at briarlay." "the angel in the house! i remember." he smiled boldly into caroline's face. "well, letty, i'd like to trade my luck for yours. look at your poor uncle, and tell me honestly if i am not the one who needs to be nursed. lend her to me?" "i can't lend you miss meade, uncle roane," replied the child seriously, "because she plays with me; but if you really need somebody, i reckon i can let you have mammy riah for a little while." roane laughed while he bent over and pinched letty's cheek. that he had a bad reputation, caroline was aware, and though she was obliged to admit that he looked as if he deserved it, she could not deny that he possessed the peculiar charm which one of the old novels at the cedars described as "the most dangerous attribute of a rake." "i could never like him, yet i can understand how some women might fall in love with him," she thought. "no, i decline, with thanks, your generous offer," roane was saying. "if i cannot be nursed by an angel, i will not be nursed by a witch." beneath his insolent, admiring gaze a lovely colour flooded caroline's cheeks. in the daylight his manner seemed to her more offensive than ever, and her impulsive recognition of his charm was followed by an instantaneous recoil. "i don't like witches," said letty. "do you think miss meade is an angel, uncle roane?" "from first impressions," retorted roane flippantly, "i should say that she might be." as caroline turned away indignantly, angelica leaned over and gently patted her hand. "you mustn't mind him, my dear, that's just roane's way," she explained. "but i do mind," replied caroline, with spirit. "i think he is very impertinent." "think anything you please, only think of me," rejoined roane, with a gallant air. "you bad boy!" protested angelica. "can't you see that miss meade is provoked with you?" "no woman, anna jeannette, is provoked by a sincere and humble admiration. are you ignorant of the feminine heart?" "if you won't behave yourself, roane, you must get out of the car. and for heaven's sake, stop calling me by that name!" "my dear sister, i thought it was yours." "it is not the one i'm known by." she was clearly annoyed. "by the way, have you got your costume for the tableaux? you were so outrageous at mrs. miller's the other night that if they could find anybody else, i believe that they would refuse to let you take part. why are you so dreadful, roane?" "they require me, not my virtue, sister. go over the list of young men in your set, and tell me if there is another saint george of england among them?" his air of mocking pride was so comic that a smile curved caroline's lips, while angelica commented seriously, "well, you aren't nearly so good-looking as you used to be, and if you go on drinking much longer, you will be a perfect fright." "how she blights my honourable ambition!" exclaimed roane to caroline. "even the cherished career of a tableau favourite is forbidden me." "mother is going to be peace," said letty, with her stately manner of making conversation, "and she will look just like an angel. her dress has come all the way from new york, uncle roane, and they sent a wreath of leaves to go on her head. if i don't get sick, miss meade is going to take me to see her friday night." "well, if i am brother to peace, letty, i must be good. miss meade, how do you like richmond?" "i love it," answered caroline, relieved by his abrupt change of tone. "the people are so nice. there is mrs. colfax now. isn't she beautiful?" they were running into monument avenue, and daisy colfax had just waved to them from a passing car. "yes, i proposed to her twice," replied roane, gazing after daisy's rose-coloured veil which streamed gaily behind her. "but she could not see her way, unfortunately, to accept me. i am not sure, between you and me, that she didn't go farther and fare worse with old robert. i might have broken her heart, but i should never have bored her. speaking of robert, anna jeannette, was he really the author of that slashing editorial in the _free-press_?" "everybody thinks he wrote it, but it doesn't sound a bit like him. wasn't it dreadful, roane?" "oh, well, nothing is fair in politics, but the plum," he returned. "by the way, is it true about blackburn's vaulting ambition, or is it just newspaper stuff?" "of course i know nothing positively, roane, for david never talks to me about his affairs; but he seems to get more and more distracted about politics every day that he lives. i shouldn't like to have it repeated, yet i can't help the feeling that there is a great deal of truth in what the article says about his disloyalty to the south." "well, i shouldn't lose any sleep over that if i were you. no man ever took a step forward on this earth that he didn't move away from something that the rest of the world thought he ought to have stood by. there isn't much love lost between your husband and me, but it isn't a political difference that divides us. he has the bad taste not to admire my character." "i know you never feel seriously about these things," said angelica sadly, "but i always remember how ardently dear father loved the democratic party. he used to say that he could forgive a thief sooner than a traitor." "great scott! what is there left to be a traitor to?" demanded roane, disrespectfully. "a political machine that grinds out jobs isn't a particularly patriotic institution. i am not taking sides with blackburn, my dear sister, only i'd be darned before i'd have acted the part of your precious colfax. it may be good politics, but it's pretty bad sport, i should think. it isn't playing the game." "i suppose robert feels that things are really going too far," observed angelica feebly, for her arguments always moved in a circle. "he believes so strongly, you know, in the necessity of keeping the south solid. of course he may not really have attacked david," she added quickly. "there are other editors." "i am sure there is not one bit of truth in that article," said caroline suddenly, and her voice trembled with resentment. "i know mr. blackburn doesn't oppress his men because we've just been talking with the mother of a man who works in his plant. as for the rest, i was listening to him this afternoon, and i believe he is right." her eyes were glowing as she finished, and her elusive beauty--the beauty of spirit, not of flesh--gave her features the rare and noble grace of a marble diana. her earnestness had suddenly lifted her above them. though she was only a dark, slender woman, with a gallant heart, she seemed to roane as remote and royal as a goddess. he liked the waving line of hair on her clear forehead, where the light gathered in a benediction; he liked her firm red lips, with their ever-changing play of expression, and he liked above all the lovely lines of her figure, which was at once so strong and so light, so feminine and so spirited. it was the beauty of character, he told himself, and, by jove, in a woman, he liked character! "well, he has a splendid champion, lucky dog!" he exclaimed, with his eyes on her face. for an instant caroline wavered as angelica's gaze, full of pained surprise, turned toward her; then gathering her courage, she raised her lashes and met roane's admiring stare with a candid and resolute look. "no, it is not that," she said, "but i can't bear to see people unjust to any one." "you are right," ejaculated roane impulsively, and he added beneath his breath, "by george, i hope you'll stand up for me like that when i am knocked." chapter x other discoveries in the morning letty awoke with a sore throat, and before night she had developed a cold which spent itself in paroxysms of coughing. "oh, miss meade, make me well before friday," she begged, as caroline undressed her. "isn't friday almost here now?" "in three days, dear. you must hurry and get over this cold." "do you think i am going to be well, mammy?" they were in the nursery at letty's bedtime, and mammy riah was heating a cup of camphorated oil over the fire. "you jes' wait twel i git dish yer' red flan'l on yo' chist, en hit's gwinter breck up yo' cough toreckly," replied mammy riah reassuringly. "i'se done soused hit right good in dis hot ile." "i'll do anything you want. i'll swallow it right down if it will make me well." "dar ain't nuttin dat'll breck up a cole quick'n hot ile," said the old woman, "lessen hit's a hot w'iskey toddy." "well, you can't give her that," interposed caroline quickly, "if she isn't better in the morning i'm going to send for doctor boland. i've done everything i could think of. now, jump into bed letty, dear, and let me cover you up warm before i open the window. i am going to sleep on the couch in the corner." "hit pears to me like you en marse david is done gone clean 'stracted 'bout fresh a'r," grumbled mammy riah, as she drew a strip of red flannel out of the oil. "dar ain' nuttin in de worl' de matter wid dis chile but all dis night a'r you's done been lettin' in on 'er w'ile she wuz sleepin'. huh! i knows jes ez much about night a'r ez enny er yo' reel doctahs, en i ain' got er bit er use fur hit, i ain't. hit's a woner to me you all ain' done kilt 'er betweenst you, you and marse david en miss angy, 'en yo' reel doctah. ef'n you ax me, i 'ud let down all dem winders, en stuff up de chinks wid rags twel letty was peart enuff ter be outer dat baid." the danger in night air had been a source of contention ever since the first frost of the season, and though science had at last carried its point, caroline felt that the victory had cost her both the respect and the affection of the old negress. "i ain' never riz noner my chillun on night a'r," she muttered rebelliously, while she brought the soaked flannel over to letty's bed. "i hope it will cure me," said the child eagerly, and she added after a moment in which mammy riah zealously applied the oil and covered her with blankets, "do you think i'd better have all the night air shut out as she says, miss meade?" "no, darling," answered caroline firmly. "fresh air will cure you quicker than anything else." but, in spite of the camphorated oil and the wide-open windows, letty was much worse in the morning. her face was flushed with fever, and she refused her breakfast, when mammy riah brought it, because as she said, "everything hurt her." even her passionate interest in the tableaux had evaporated, and she lay, inert and speechless, in her little bed, while her eyes followed caroline wistfully about the room. "i telephoned for doctor boland the first thing," said caroline to the old woman, "and now i am going to speak to mrs. blackburn. will you sit with letty while i run down for a cup of coffee?" "ef'n i wuz you, i wouldn't wake miss angy," replied the negress. "hit'll mek 'er sick jes ez sho' ez you live. you'd better run along down en speak ter marse david." "i'll tell him at breakfast, but oughtn't letty's mother to know how anxious i am?" "she's gwine ter know soon enuff," responded mammy riah, "but dey don' low none un us ter rouse 'er twell she's hed 'er sleep out. miss angy is one er dem nervous sort, en she gits 'stracted moughty easy." in the dining-room, which was flooded with sunshine, caroline found the housekeeper and blackburn, who had apparently finished his breakfast, and was glancing over a newspaper. there was a pile of half-opened letters by his plate, and his face wore the look of animation which she associated with either politics or business. "i couldn't leave letty until mammy riah came," she explained in an apologetic tone. "her cold is so much worse that i've telephoned for the doctor." at this blackburn folded the paper and pushed back his chair. "how long has she had it?" he inquired anxiously. "i thought she wasn't well yesterday." there was the tender, protecting sound in his voice that always came with the mention of letty. "she hasn't been herself for several days, but this morning she seems suddenly worse. i am afraid it may be pneumonia." "have you said anything to angelica?" asked mrs. timberlake, and her tone struck caroline as strained and non-committal. "mammy riah wouldn't let me wake her. i am going to her room as soon as her bell rings." "well, she's awake. i've just sent up her breakfast." the housekeeper spoke briskly. "she has to be in town for some rehearsals." blackburn had gone out, and caroline sat alone at the table while she hastily swallowed a cup of coffee. it was a serene and cloudless day, and the view of the river had never looked so lovely as it did through the falling leaves and over the russet sweep of autumn grasses. october brooded with golden wings over the distance. "i had noticed that letty had a sort of hacking cough for three days," said mrs. timberlake from the window, "but i didn't think it would amount to anything serious." "yes, i tried to cure it, and last night mammy riah doctored her. the child is so delicate that the slightest ailment is dangerous. it seems strange that she should be so frail. mr. blackburn looks strong, and his wife was always well until recently, wasn't she?" for a moment mrs. timberlake stared through the window at a sparrow which was perched on the topmost branch of a juniper. "i never saw any one hate to have a child as much as angelica did," she said presently in her dry tones. "she carried on like a crazy woman about it. some women are like that, you know." "yes, i know, but she is devoted to letty now." the housekeeper did not reply, and her face grew greyer and harsher than ever. "no one could be sweeter than she is with her," said caroline, after a moment in which she tried to pierce mentally the armour of mrs. timberlake's reserve. "she isn't always so silent," she thought. "i hear her talking by the hour to mammy riah, but it is just as if she were afraid of letting out something if she opened her lips. i wonder if she is really so prejudiced against mrs. blackburn that she can't talk of her?" though caroline's admiration for angelica had waned a little on closer acquaintance, she still thought her kind and beautiful, except in her incomprehensible attitude to the old sewing woman in pine street. the recollection of that scene, which she had found it impossible to banish entirely, was a sting in her memory; and as she recalled it now, her attitude toward angelica changed insensibly from that of an advocate to a judge. "oh, angelica is sweet enough," said the housekeeper suddenly, with a rasping sound, as if the words scraped her throat as she uttered them, "if you don't get in her way." then facing caroline squarely, she added in the same tone, "i'm not saying anything against angelica, miss meade. our grandmothers were sisters, and i am not the sort to turn against my own blood kin, but you'll hear a heap of stories about the way things go on in this house, and i want you to take it from me in the beginning that there are a plenty of worse husbands than david blackburn. he isn't as meek as moses, but he's been a good friend to me, and if i wanted a helping hand, i reckon i'd go to him now a sight quicker than i would to angelica, though she's my kin and he isn't." rising hurriedly, as she finished, she gave a curt little laugh and exclaimed, "well, there's one thing david and i have in common. we're both so mortal shutmouthed because when we once begin to talk, we always let the cat out of the bag. now, if you're through, you can go straight upstairs and have a word with angelica before she begins to dress." she went over to the sideboard, and began counting the silver aloud, while caroline pushed back her chair, and ran impatiently upstairs to mrs. blackburn's room. at her knock the maid, mary, opened the door, and beyond her angelica's voice said plaintively, "oh, miss meade, mary tells me that letty's cold is very bad. i am so anxious about her." a breakfast tray was before her, and while she looked down at the china coffee service, which was exquisitely thin and fragile, she broke off a piece of toast, and buttered it carefully, with the precise attention she devoted to the smallest of her personal needs. it seemed to caroline that she had never appeared so beautiful as she did against the lace pillows, in her little cap and dressing sack of sky-blue silk. "i came to tell you," said caroline. "she complains of pain whenever she moves, and i'm afraid, unless something is done at once, it may turn into pneumonia." "well, i'm coming immediately, just as soon as i've had my coffee. i woke up with such a headache that i don't dare to stir until i've eaten. you have sent for the doctor, of course?" "i telephoned very early, but i suppose he won't be here until after his office hours." having eaten the piece of toast, angelica drank her coffee, and motioned to mary to remove the tray from her knees. "i'll get up at once," she said. "mary, give me my slippers. you told me so suddenly that i haven't yet got over the shock." she looked distressed and frightened, and a little later, when she followed caroline into the nursery and stooped over letty's bed, her attitude was that of an early italian madonna. the passion of motherhood seemed to pervade her whole yearning body, curving the soft lines to an ineffable beauty. "letty, darling, are you better?" the child opened her eyes and stared, without smiling, in her mother's face. "yes, i am better," she answered in a panting voice, "but i wish it didn't hurt so." "the doctor is coming. he will give you some medicine to cure it." "mammy says that it is the night air that makes me sick, but father says that hasn't anything to do with it." from the fire which she was tending, mammy riah looked up moodily. "huh! i reckon marse david cyarn' teach me nuttin' 'bout raisin chillun," she muttered under her breath. "ask the doctor. he will tell you," answered angelica. "do you think it is warm enough in here, miss meade?" "yes, i am careful about the temperature." almost unconsciously caroline had assumed her professional manner, and as she stood there in her white uniform beside letty's bed, she looked so capable and authoritative that even mammy riah was cowed, though she still grumbled in a deep whisper. "of course you know best," said angelica, with the relief she always felt whenever any one removed a responsibility from her shoulders, or assumed a duty which naturally belonged to her. "has she fallen asleep so quickly?" "no, it's stupor. she has a very high fever." "i don't like that blue look about her mouth, and her breathing is so rapid. do you think she is seriously ill, miss meade?" angelica had withdrawn from the bed, and as she asked the question, she lowered her voice until her words were almost inaudible. her eyes were soft and anxious under the drooping lace edge of her cap. "i don't like her pulse," caroline also spoke in a whisper, with an anxious glance at the bed, though letty seemed oblivious of their presence in the room. "i am just getting ready to sponge her with alcohol. that may lower her temperature." for a moment mrs. blackburn wavered between the bed and the door. "i wish i didn't have to go to town," she said nervously. "if it were for anything else except these tableaux i shouldn't think of it. but in a cause like this, when there is so much suffering to be relieved, i feel that one ought not to let personal anxieties interfere. don't you think i am right, miss meade?" "i haven't thought about it," replied caroline with her usual directness. "but i am sure you are the best judge of what you ought to do." "i have the most important part, you see, and if i were to withdraw, it would be such a disappointment to the committee. there isn't any one else they could get at the last moment." "i suppose not. there is really nothing that you can do here." "that is what i thought." angelica's tone was one of relief. "of course if i were needed about anything it would be different; but you are better able than i am to decide what ought to be done. i always feel so helpless," she added sadly, "when there is illness in the house." with the relinquishment of responsibility, she appeared to grow almost cheerful. if she had suddenly heard that letty was much better, or had discovered, after harrowing uncertainty, the best and surest treatment for pneumonia, her face would probably have worn just such a relieved and grateful expression. in one vivid instant, with a single piercing flash of insight, the other woman seemed to look straight through that soft feminine body to mrs. blackburn's thin and colourless soul. "i know what she is now--she is thin," said caroline to herself. "she is thin all through, and i shall never feel the same about her again. she doesn't want trouble, she doesn't want responsibility because it makes her uncomfortable--that is why she turns letty over to me. she is beautiful, and she is sweet when nothing disturbs her, but i believe she is selfish underneath all that softness and sweetness which costs her so little." and she concluded with a merciless judgment, "that is why she wasn't kind to that poor old woman in pine street. it would have cost her something, and she can't bear to pay. she wants to get everything for nothing." the iron in her soul hardened suddenly, for she knew that this moment of revelation had shattered for her the romance of briarlay. she might still be fascinated by mrs. blackburn; she might still pity her and long to help her; she might still blame blackburn bitterly for his hardness--but she could never again wholly sympathize with angelica. "there isn't anything in the world that you can do," she repeated gravely. "i knew you'd say that, and it is so good of you to reassure me." mrs. blackburn smiled from the threshold. "now, i must dress, or i shall be late for the rehearsal. if the doctor comes while i am away, please ask him if he thinks another nurse is necessary. david tells me he telephoned for an extra one for night duty; but, dear miss meade, i feel so much better satisfied when i know that letty is in your charge every minute." "oh, she is in my charge. even if the other nurse comes, i shall still sleep in the room next to her." "you are so splendid!" for an instant angelica shone on her from the hall. then the door closed behind her, and an hour afterwards, as caroline sat by letty's bed, with her hand on her pulse, she heard the motor start down the drive and turn rapidly into the lane. at one o'clock the doctor came, and he was still there a quarter of an hour later, when mrs. blackburn rustled, with an anxious face, into the room. she wore a suit of grey cloth, and, with her stole and muff of silver fox, and her soft little hat of grey velvet, she made caroline think of one of the aspen trees, in a high wind, on the lawn at the cedars. she was all delicate, quivering gleams of silver, and even her golden hair looked dim and shadowy, under a grey veil, as if it were seen through a mist. "oh, doctor, she isn't really so ill, is she?" her eyes implored him to spare her, and while she questioned him, she flung the stole of silver fox away from her throat, as if the weight of the furs oppressed her. "well, you mustn't be too anxious. we are doing all we can, you know. in a day or two, i hope, we'll have got her over the worst." he was a young man, the son of mrs. colfax's friend, old doctor boland, and all his eager youth seemed to start from his eyes while he gazed at angelica. "beauty like that is a power," thought caroline almost resentfully. "it hides everything--even vacancy." all the men she had seen with mrs. blackburn, except her husband, had gazed at her with this worshipful and protecting look; and, as she watched it shine now in doctor boland's eyes, she wondered cynically why david blackburn alone should be lacking in this particular kind of chivalry. "he is the only man who looks at her as if she were a human being, not an angel," she reflected. "i wonder if he used to do it once, and if he has stopped because he has seen deeper than any of the others?" "then it isn't really pneumonia?" asked angelica. he hesitated, still trying to answer the appeal in her eyes, and to spare her the truth if it were possible. "it looks now as if it might be, mrs. blackburn, but children pick up so quickly, you know." he reached out his arm as he answered, and led her to the couch in one corner. "have you some aromatic ammonia at hand, miss meade? i think you might give mrs. blackburn a few drops of it." caroline measured the drops from a bottle on the table by letty's bed. "perhaps she had better lie down," she suggested. "yes, i think i'll go to my room," answered angelica, rising from the couch, as she lifted a grateful face to the young doctor. "a shock always upsets me, and ever since mary told me how ill letty was, i have felt as if i couldn't breathe." she looked really unhappy, and as caroline met her eyes, she reproached herself for her harsh criticism of the morning. after all, angelica couldn't help being herself. after all, she wasn't responsible for her limited intelligence and her coldness of nature! perhaps she felt more in her heart than she was able to express, in spite of her perfect profile and her wonderful eyes. "even her selfishness may be due to her bringing up, and the way everyone has always spoiled her," pursued the girl, with a swift reaction from her severe judgment. when angelica had gone out, doctor boland came over to the bed, and stood gazing thoughtfully down on the child, who stirred restlessly and stared up at him with bright, glassy eyes. it was plain to caroline that he was more disturbed than he had admitted; and his grave young features looked old and drawn while he stood there in silence. he was a thickset man, with an ugly, intelligent face and alert, nearsighted eyes behind enormous glasses with tortoise-shell rims. "if we can manage to keep her temperature down," he said, and added as if he were pursuing his original train of thought, "mrs. blackburn is unusually sensitive." "she is not very strong." "for that reason it is better not to alarm her unnecessarily. i suppose mr. blackburn can always be reached?" "oh, yes, i have his telephone number. he asked me to call him up as soon as i had seen you." after this he gave a few professional directions, and left abruptly with the remark, "i'll look in early to-morrow. there is really nothing we can do except keep up the treatment and have as much fresh air as possible in the room. if all goes well, i hope she will have pulled through the worst by friday--and if i were you," he hesitated and a flush rose to his sandy hair, "i should be careful how i broke any bad news to mrs. blackburn." he went out, closing the door cautiously, as if he feared to make any sound in the house, while caroline sat down to wonder what it was about angelica that made every man, even the doctor, so anxious to spare her? "i believe his chief concern about poor letty is that this illness disturbs her mother," she mused, without understanding. "well, i hope his prophecy will come true, and that the worst will be over by friday. if she isn't, it will be a blow to the entertainment committee." but when friday came, the child was so much worse that the doctor, when he hurried out before his office hours, looked old and grey with anxiety. at eleven o'clock blackburn sent his car back to the garage, and came up, with a book which he did not open, to sit in letty's room. as he entered, angelica rose from the couch on which she had been lying, and laid her hand on his arm. "i am so glad you have come, david. it makes me better satisfied to have you in the house." "i am not going to the works. mayfield is coming to take down some letters, and i shall be here all day." "it is a comfort to know that. i couldn't close my eyes last night, so if you are going to be here, i think i'll try to rest a few minutes." she was pale and tired, and for the first time since she had been in the house, caroline discerned a shade of sympathy in the glances they interchanged. "what a beautiful thing it would be if letty's illness brought them together," she thought, with a wave of happiness in the midst of her apprehension. she had read of men and women who were miraculously ennobled in the crucial moments of life, and her vivid fancy was already weaving a romantic ending to the estrangement of the blackburns. after all, more improbable things had happened, she told herself in one of her mother's favourite phrases. at five o'clock, when doctor boland came, blackburn had gone down to his library, and caroline, who had just slipped into a fresh uniform, was alone in the room. her eyes were unnaturally large and dark; but she looked cool and composed, and her vitality scarcely felt the strain of the three sleepless nights. though the second nurse came on duty at six o'clock, caroline had been too restless and wakeful to stay in her room, and had spent the nights on the couch by the nursery window. "if we can manage to keep up her strength through the night----" the doctor had already looked over the chart, and he held it now in his hand while he waited for a response. "there is a fighting chance, isn't there?" his face was very grave, though his voice still maintained its professional cheerfulness. "with a child there is always a chance, and if she pulls through the night----" "i shall keep my eyes on her every minute." as she spoke she moved back to letty's bed, while the doctor went out with an abrupt nod and the words, "mr. blackburn wishes me to spend the night here. i'll be back after dinner." the door had hardly closed after him, when it opened again noiselessly, and mrs. timberlake thrust her head through the crack. as she peered into the room, with her long sallow face and her look of mutely inviting disaster, there flashed through caroline's mind the recollection of one of her father's freckled engravings of "hecuba gazing over the ruins of troy." "i've brought you a cup of tea. couldn't you manage to drink it?" "yes, i'd like it." there was something touching in the way mrs. timberlake seemed to include her in the distress of the family--to assume that her relation to letty was not merely the professional one of a nurse to a patient. stepping cautiously, as if she were in reality treading on ruins, the housekeeper crossed the room and placed the tray on the table at the bedside. while she leaned over to pour out the tea, she murmured in a rasping whisper, "mammy riah is crying so i wouldn't let her come in. can letty hear us?" "no, she is in a stupor. she has been moaning a good deal, but she is too weak to keep it up. i've just given her some medicine." her gaze went back to the child, who stirred and gave a short panting sob. in her small transparent face, which was flushed with fever, the blue circle about the mouth seemed to start out suddenly like the mark of a blow. she lay very straight and slim under the cover, as if she had shrunken to half her size since her illness, and her soft, fine hair, drawn smoothly back from her waxen forehead, clung as flat and close as a cap. "i'd scarcely know her," murmured the housekeeper, with a catch in her throat. "if she passes the crisis she will pick up quickly. i've seen children as ill as this who were playing about the room a few days afterwards." caroline tried to speak brightly, but in spite of her efforts, there was a note of awe in her voice. "is it really as grave as we fear, miss meade?" caroline met the question frankly. "it is very grave, mrs. timberlake, but with a child, as the doctor told me a minute ago, there is always hope of a sudden change for the better." "have you said anything to angelica?" "she was in here a little while ago, just before the doctor's visit, but i tried not to alarm her. she is so easily made ill." the windows were wide open, and mrs. timberlake went over to the nearest one, and stood gazing out on the lawn and the half-bared elms. a light wind was blowing, and while she stood there, she shivered and drew the knitted purple cape she wore closer about her shoulders. beyond the interlacing boughs the sunlight streamed in a golden shower on the grass, which was still bright and green, and now and then a few sparkling drops were scattered through the broad windows, and rippled over the blanket on letty's bed. "it is hard to get used to these new-fangled ways," observed the housekeeper presently as she moved back to the fire. "in my days we'd have thought a hot room and plenty of whiskey toddy the best things for pneumonia." "the doctor told me to keep the windows wide open." "i heard him say so, but don't you think you had better put on a wrap? it feels chilly." "oh, no, i'm quite warm." caroline finished the cup of tea as she spoke and gave back the tray. "that did me good. i needed it." "i thought so." from the tone in which the words were uttered caroline understood that the housekeeper was gaining time. "are you sure you oughtn't to say something to angelica?" "say something? you mean tell her how ill letty is? why, the doctor gave me my instructions. he said positively that i was not to alarm mrs. blackburn." "i don't think he understood. he doesn't know that she still expects to be in the tableaux to-night." for an instant caroline stared back at her without a word; then she said in an incredulous whisper, "oh, she wouldn't--she couldn't!" "she feels it to be her duty--her sacred duty, she has just told me so. you see, i don't think she in the least realizes. she seems confident that letty is better." "how can she be? she was in here less than an hour ago." "and she said nothing about to-night?" "not a word. i had forgotten about the tableaux, but, of course, i shouldn't have mentioned them. i tried to be cheerful, to keep up her spirit--but she must have seen. she couldn't help seeing." the housekeeper's lips twitched, and she moistened them nervously. "if you knew angelica as well as i do," she answered flatly, "you'd realize that she can help seeing anything on earth except the thing she wants to see." "then you must tell her," rejoined caroline positively. "someone must tell her." "i couldn't." mrs. timberlake was as emphatic as caroline. "and what's more she wouldn't believe me if i did. she'd pretend it was some of my crankiness. you just wait till you try to convince angelica of something she doesn't want to believe." "i'll tell her if you think i ought to--or perhaps it would be better to go straight to mr. blackburn?" mrs. timberlake coughed. "well, i reckon if anybody can convince her, david can," she retorted. "he doesn't mince matters." "the night nurse comes on at six o'clock, and just as soon as she gets here i'll go downstairs to mr. blackburn. that will be time enough, won't it?" "oh, yes, she isn't going until half-past seven. i came to you because i heard her order the car." when she had gone caroline turned back to her watch; but her heart was beating so rapidly that for a moment she confused it with letty's feverish breathing. she reproached herself bitterly for not speaking frankly to mrs. blackburn, for trying to spare her; and yet, recalling the last interview, she scarcely knew what she could have said. "it seemed too cruel to tell her that letty might not live through the night," she thought. "it seemed too cruel--but wasn't that just what mrs. timberlake meant when she said that mr. blackburn 'wouldn't mince matters?'" the night nurse was five minutes late, and during these minutes, the suspense, the responsibility, became almost unbearable. it was as if the whole burden of angelica's ignorance, of her apparent heartlessness, rested on caroline's shoulders. "if she had gone i could never have forgiven myself," she was thinking when miss webster, the nurse, entered with her brisk, ingratiating manner. "i stopped to speak to mrs. blackburn," she explained. "she tells me letty is better." her fine plain face, from which a wealth of burnished red hair was brushed severely back, beamed with interest and sympathy. though she had been nursing private cases for ten years, she had not lost the energy and enthusiasm of a pupil nurse in the hospital. her tall, erect figure, with its tightly confined hips, bent back, like a steel spring, whenever she stooped over the child. caroline shook her head without replying, for letty had opened her eyes and was gazing vacantly at the ceiling. "do you want anything, darling? miss webster is going to sit with you a minute while i run downstairs to speak to father." but the child had closed her eyes again, and it was impossible to tell whether or not the words had penetrated the stupor in which she had been lying for the last two or three hours. a few moments later, as caroline descended the staircase and crossed the hall to blackburn's library, the memory of letty's look floated between her and the object of her errand. "if mrs. blackburn could see that she would know," she told herself while she raised her hand to the panel of the door. "she couldn't help knowing." at the knock blackburn called to her to enter, and when she pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, she saw that he was standing by the window, looking out at the afterglow. beyond the terrace and the dark spires of the junipers, the autumn fields were changing from brown to purple under the flower-like pink of the sky. somewhere in the distance one of the airedale terriers was whining softly. as soon as he caught sight of her, blackburn crossed the floor with a rapid stride, and stood waiting for her to speak. though he did not open his lips, she saw his face grow white, and the corners of his mouth contract suddenly as if a tight cord were drawn. for the first time she noticed that he had a way of narrowing his eyes when he stared fixedly. "there hasn't been any change, mr. blackburn. i wish to speak to you about something else." from the sharp breath that he drew, she could measure the unutterable relief that swept over him. "you say there hasn't been any change?" "not since morning. she is, of course, very ill, but with a child," she had repeated the phrase so often that it seemed to have lost its meaning, "the crisis sometimes comes very quickly. if we can manage to keep up her strength for the next twenty-four hours, i believe the worst will be over." his figure, as he stood there in the dim light, was impressed with a new vividness on her mind, and it was as he looked at this moment that she always remembered him. "do you wish anything?" he asked. "is everything being done that is possible?" "everything. the doctor is coming to spend the night, and i shall sit up with miss webster." "but don't you need rest? can you go without sleep and not lose your strength?" she shook her head. "i couldn't sleep until she is better." a look of gratitude leaped to his eyes, and she became aware, through some subtle wave of perception, that for the first time, she had assumed a definite image in his thoughts. "thank you," he answered simply, but his tone was full of suppressed feeling. while he looked at her the old prejudice, the old suspicion and resentment faded from her face, and she gazed back at him with trusting and friendly eyes. though she was pale and tired, and there were lines of worry and sleeplessness in her forehead, she appeared to him the incarnation of helpfulness. the spirit of goodness and gentleness shone in her smile, and ennobled her slight womanly figure, which drooped a little in its trim uniform. she looked as if she would fight to the death, would wear herself to a shadow, for any one she loved, or for any cause in which she believed. "i came to ask you," she said very quietly, "if it would not be better to tell mrs. blackburn the truth about letty?" he started in amazement. "but she knows, doesn't she?" "she doesn't know everything. she thinks letty is better. miss webster has been talking to her." "and you think she ought to be warned?" her question had evidently puzzled him. "i think it is unfair to leave her in ignorance. she does not in the least realize letty's condition. mrs. timberlake tells me she heard her order the car for half-past seven." "order the car?" he seemed to be groping through a fog of uncertainty. if only heaven had granted intuition to men, thought caroline impatiently, how much time might be saved! "to go to the tableaux. you know the tableaux are to-night." "yes, i had forgotten." his tone changed and grew positive. "of course she must be told. i will tell her." "that is all." she turned away as she spoke, and laid her hand on the knob of the door. "mrs. timberlake and i both felt that i ought to speak to you." "i am glad you did." he had opened the door for her, and following her a step or two into the hall, he added gratefully, "i can never thank you enough." without replying, she hurried to the staircase, and ran up the steps to the second storey. when she reached the door of the nursery, she glanced round before entering, and saw that blackburn had already come upstairs and was on his way to angelica's room. while she watched, she saw him knock, and then open the door and cross the threshold with his rapid step. miss webster was sitting by letty's bed, and after a look at the child, caroline threw herself on the couch and closed her eyes in the hope that she might fall asleep. though she was profoundly relieved by her conversation with blackburn, she was still anxious about angelica, and impatient to hear how she had borne the shock. as the time dragged on, with the interminable passage of the minutes in a sickroom, she found it impossible to lie there in silence any longer, and rising from the couch, she glanced at the clock before going to her room to wash her hands and straighten her hair for dinner. it was exactly half-past seven, and a few minutes later, when she had finished her simple preparations, and was passing the window on her way to the hall, she heard the sound of a motor in the circular drive. "i suppose they forgot to tell john," she thought, "or can it be the doctor so soon?" the hall was empty when she entered it; but before she had reached the head of the stairs, a door opened and shut in the left wing, and the housekeeper joined her. at the bend in the staircase, beneath a copy of the sistine madonna, which had been crowded out of the drawing-room, the elder woman stopped and laid a detaining hand on caroline's arm. even through the starched sleeve her grasp felt dry and feverish. "miss meade, did you get a chance to speak to david?" "why, yes, i spoke to him. i went straight down as soon as miss webster came on duty." "did he say he would tell angelica?" "he came up at once to tell her. i saw him go into her room." mrs. timberlake glanced helplessly up at the sistine madonna. "well, i don't know what he could have said," she answered, "for angelica has gone. that was her motor you heard leaving the door." chapter xi the sacred cult when caroline looked back upon it afterwards, she remembered that dinner as the most depressing meal of her life. while she ate her food, with the dutiful determination of the trained nurse who realizes that she is obliged to keep up her strength, her gaze wandered for diversion to the soft blues and pinks on the wall. the tapestries were so fresh that she wondered if they were modern. more than ever the airy figure of spring, floating in primrose-coloured draperies through a flowery grove, reminded her of angelica. there was the same beauty of line, the same look of sweetness and grace, the same amber hair softly parted under a wreath of pale grey-green leaves. the very vagueness of the features, which left all except the pensive outline to the imagination, seemed to increase rather than diminish this resemblance. "have you ever noticed how much that figure is like mrs. blackburn?" she asked, turning to the housekeeper, for the silence was beginning to embarrass her. mary was away and neither blackburn nor mrs. timberlake had uttered a word during the four short courses, which patrick served as noiselessly as if he were eluding an enemy. mrs. timberlake lifted her eyes to the wall. "yes, it's the living image of her, if you stand far enough off. i reckon that's why she bought it." blackburn, who was helping himself to coffee, glanced up to remark, "i forgot to take sugar, patrick," and when the tray was brought back, he selected a lump of sugar and broke it evenly in half. if he had heard the question, there was no hint of it in his manner. having finished a pear she had been forcing herself to eat, caroline looked inquiringly from blackburn to mrs. timberlake. if only somebody would speak! if only mary, with her breezy chatter, would suddenly return from new york! from a long mirror over the sideboard caroline's reflection, very pale, very grave, stared back at her like a face seen in a fog. "i look like a ghost," she thought. "no wonder they won't speak to me. after all, they are silent because they can think of nothing to say." unlike in everything else, it occurred to her that blackburn and the housekeeper had acquired, through dissimilar experiences, the same relentless sincerity of mind. they might be blunt, but they were undeniably honest; and contrasted with the false values and the useless accessories of the house, this honesty impressed her as entirely admirable. the brooding anxiety in blackburn's face did not change even when he smiled at her, and then rose and stood waiting while she passed before him out of the dining-room. it wasn't, she realized, that he was deliberately inconsiderate or careless in manner; it was merely that the idea of pretending had never occurred to him. the thought was in her mind, when he spoke her name abruptly, and she turned to find that he had followed her to the staircase. "miss meade, i have to see a man on business for a half hour. i shall be in the library. if there is any change, will you send for me?" she bowed. "yes, i shall be with letty all the time." "as soon as baker goes, i'll come up. i asked the doctor to spend the night." "he said he couldn't get here before ten or eleven, but to telephone if we needed him," broke in mrs. timberlake. "mammy riah has gone to the nursery, miss meade. is there any reason why she shouldn't stay?" "none in the world." as caroline turned away and ascended the stairs, she remembered that there had been no question of angelica. "i wish i could understand. i wish i knew what it means," she said to herself in perplexity. she felt smothered by the uncertainty, the coldness, the reserve of the people about her. everybody seemed to speak with tight lips, as if in fear lest something might escape that would help to clear away the obscurity. it was all so different from the cedars, where every thought, every joy, every grief, was lived in a common centre of experience. when she opened the nursery door, mammy riah glanced up from the fire, where she was crouching over the low fender. "i'se mortal feared, honey," she muttered, while she held out her wrinkled palms to the blaze. she had flung a shawl of crimson wool over her shoulders, and the splash of barbaric colour, with her high indian cheek bones and the low crooning sound of her voice, gave her a resemblance to some oriental crooked image of destiny. as the wind rocked the elms on the lawn, she shivered, and rolled her glittering eyes in the direction of letty's bed. "don't give up, mammy riah," said caroline consolingly. "you have nursed children through worse illnesses than this." "yas'm, i know i is, but dar wan' noner dese yer signs dat i see now." the flames leaped up suddenly, illuminating her stooping figure in the brilliant shawl with an intense and sinister glow. "i ain't sayin' nuttin'. naw'm, i ain' lettin' on dat i'se seen whut i'se seen; but dar's somebody done thowed a spell on dis place jes ez sho' ez you live. dar wuz a ring out yonder on de grass de fust thing dis mawnin', en de fros' ain' never so much ez teched it. naw, honey, de fros' hit ain' never come a nigh hit. patrick he seed hit, too, but he ain' let on nuttin' about hit needer, dough de misery is done cotched him in bofe er his feet." "you don't really think we're conjured, mammy?" mammy riah cast a secretive glance over her shoulder, and the dramatic instinct of her race awoke in every fibre of her body as she made a vague, mournful gesture over the ashes. "i 'members, honey, i 'members," she muttered ominously. though caroline had been familiar with such superstitions from infancy, there was a vividness in these mysteries and invocations which excited her imagination. she knew, as she assured herself, that there "wasn't anything in it"; yet, in spite of her reason, the image of the old woman muttering her incantations over the fire, haunted her like a prophetic vision of evil. turning away she went over to letty's bed, and laid her small, cool fingers on the child's pulse. "has there been any change?" miss webster shook her head. "she hasn't stirred." "i don't like her pulse." "it seemed a little stronger after the last medicine, but it was getting more rapid a minute ago. that old woman has been talking a lot of heathen nonsense," she added in a whisper. "she says she found a conjure ball at the front door this morning. i am from the middle west, and it sounds dreadfully uncanny to me." "i know. she thinks we are conjured. that's just their way. don't notice her." "well, i hope she isn't going to sit up all night with me." then, as mammy riah glanced suspiciously round, and began shaking her head until the shadows danced like witches, miss webster added in a more distinct tone, "is mrs. blackburn still hopeful? she is so sweet that i've quite lost my heart to her." "she wasn't at dinner," answered caroline, and going back to the fire, she sat down in a chintz-covered chair, with deep arms, and shaded her eyes from the flames. in some incomprehensible way mammy riah and blackburn and angelica, all seemed to hover in spirit round the glowing hearth. she was still sitting there, and her hand had not dropped from her eyes, when blackburn came in and crossed the floor to a chair at the foot of letty's bed. after a whispered word or two with miss webster, he opened a book he had brought with him, and held it under the night lamp on the candle-stand. when a quarter of an hour had passed caroline noticed that he had not turned a page, and that he appeared to be reading and re-reading the same paragraph, with the dogged determination which was his general attitude toward adversity. his face was worn and lined, and there were heavy shadows under his eyes; but he gave her still the impression of a man who could not be conquered by events. "there is something in him, some vein of iron, that you can't break, you can't even bend," she thought. she remembered that her father had once told her that after the worst had happened you began to take things easier; and this casual recollection seemed to give her a fresh understanding of blackburn. "father knew life," she thought, "i wonder what he would have seen in all this? i wonder how he would have liked mr. blackburn and his political theories?" the profile outlined darkly against the shade of the night lamp, held her gaze in spite of the effort she made, now and then, to avert it. it was a strong face, and seen in this light, with the guard of coldness dropped, it was a noble one. thought and feeling and idealism were there, and the serenity, not of the philosopher, but of the soldier. he had fought hard, she saw, and some deep instinct told her that he had conquered. a phrase read somewhere long ago returned to her as clearly as if it were spoken aloud. "he had triumphed over himself." that was the meaning of his look. that was the thought for which she had been groping. he had triumphed over himself. she started up quickly, and ran with noiseless steps to the bed, for letty had opened her eyes and cried out. "is she awake?" asked blackburn, and closing his book, he moved nearer. caroline's hand was on letty's pulse, and she replied without looking at him, "she is getting restless. miss webster, is it time for the medicine?" "it is not quite half-past ten. that must be the doctor now at the door." rising hurriedly, blackburn went out into the hall, and when he came back, doctor boland was with him. as caroline left the bedside and went to the chair by the fire, she heard blackburn ask sharply, "what does the change mean, doctor?" and doctor boland's soothing response, "wait a while. wait a while." then he stooped to make an examination, while miss webster prepared a stimulant, and letty moaned aloud as if she were frightened. a clock outside was just striking eleven when the doctor said in a subdued tone, too low to be natural, yet too clear to be a whisper, "her pulse is getting weaker." he bent over the bed, and as caroline stood up, she saw letty's face as if it were in a dream--the flat, soft hair, the waxen forehead, the hard, bright eyes, and the bluish circle about the small, quivering mouth. then she crossed the floor like a white shadow, and in a little while the room sank back into stillness. only the dropping of the ashes, and the low crooning of mammy riah, disturbed the almost unendurable silence. for the first hour, while she sat there, caroline felt that the discipline of her training had deserted her, and that she wanted to scream. then gradually the stillness absorbed her, and there swept over her in waves a curious feeling of lightness and buoyancy, as if her mind had detached itself from her body, and had become a part of the very pulse and rhythm of the life that surrounded her. she had always lived vividly, with the complete reaction to the moment of a vital and sensitive nature; and she became aware presently that her senses were responsive to every external impression of the room and the night. she heard the wind in the elms, the whispering of the flames, the muttering of mammy riah, the short, fretful moans that came from letty's bed; and all these things seemed a part, not of the world outside, but of her own inner consciousness. even the few pale stars shining through the window, and the brooding look of the room, with its flickering firelight and its motionless figures, appeared thin and unsubstantial as if they possessed no objective reality. and out of this vagueness and evanescence of the things that surrounded her, there stole over her a certainty, as wild and untenable as a superstition of mammy riah's, that there was a meaning in the smallest incident of the night, and that she was approaching one of the cross-roads of life. a coal dropped on the hearth; she looked up with a start, and found blackburn's eyes upon her. "miss meade, have you the time? my watch has run down." she glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. "it is exactly one o'clock." "thank you." his gaze passed away from her, and she leaned back in her chair, while the sense of strangeness and unreality vanished as quickly as it had come. the old negress was mending the fire with kindling wood, and every now and then she paused and shook her head darkly at the flames. "i ain' sayin' nuttin', but i knows, honey," she repeated. "hadn't you better go to bed, mammy riah?" asked caroline pityingly. "naw'm, i 'ouldn't better git to baid. i'se got ter watch." "there isn't anything that you can do, and i'll call you, if there is a change." but the old woman shook her head stubbornly. "i'se got ter watch, honey," she replied. "dat's one er dem ole squitch-owls out dar now. ain't he hollerin' jes like he knows sump'n?" her mind was plainly wandering, and seeing that persuasion was useless, caroline left her to her crooning grief, and went over to letty's bed. as she passed the door, it opened without sound, as if it were pushed by a ghost, and mrs. timberlake looked in with the question, "is she any better, doctor?" the doctor raised his head and glanced round at her. "she is no better," he answered. "her pulse gets worse all the time." unconsciously, while they spoke, they had drawn together around letty's bed, and stooping over, caroline listened with a rapidly beating heart, to the child's breathing. then, dropping on her knees, she laid her arms about the pillow, as if she would hold the fragile little body to life with all her strength. she was kneeling there, it seemed to her hours later, when the door swung wide on its hinges, and angelica, in her white robes, with the wreath of leaves on her hair, paused on the threshold like some luca della robbia angel. her golden hair made a light on her temples; her eyes were deep and starry with triumph; and a glow hung about her that was like the rosy incandescence of the stage. for a minute she stood there; then, flushed, crowned, radiant, she swept into the room. blackburn had not lifted his head; there was no sign in his stooping figure that he heard her when she cried out. "is letty really so ill? is she worse, doctor boland?" the doctor moved a step from the bed, and reached out a protecting hand. "she has been getting weaker." "i'd sit down and wait, if i were you, angelica," said mrs. timberlake, pushing forward a chair. "there isn't anything else that you can do now." but, without noticing her, angelica had dropped to her knees at caroline's side. a cry that was half a sob burst from her lips, and lifting her head, she demanded with passionate reproach and regret, "why did nobody tell me? oh, why did he let me go?" the words seemed driven from her against her will, and when she had uttered them, she fell forward across the foot of the bed, with her bare arms outstretched before her. the doctor bent over her, and instinctively, as he did so, he glanced up at blackburn, who stood, white and silent, looking down on his wife with inscrutable eyes. he uttered no word of defence, he made no movement to help her, and caroline felt suddenly that the sympathy around him had rushed back like an eddying wave to angelica. "if he would only speak, if he would only defend himself," she thought almost angrily. without turning, she knew that angelica was led to the couch by the window, and she heard mrs. timberlake say in unemotional tones, "i reckon we'd better give her a dose of ammonia." the voices were silent, and except for mrs. blackburn's sobs and letty's rapid breathing, there was no sound in the room. suddenly from somewhere outside there floated the plaintive whining of the dog that caroline had heard in the afternoon. "he must be missing mary," she found herself thinking, while mammy riah murmured uneasily from the hearth, "hit's a bad sign, w'en a dawg howls in de daid er night." the hours dragged on like eternity, and without moving, without stirring or lifting her eyes, caroline knelt there, pouring her strength into the life of the unconscious child. every thought, every feeling, every throbbing nerve, was concentrated upon this solitary consuming purpose--"letty must live." science had done all it could; it remained now for hope and courage to fight the losing fight to the end. "i will never give up," she said sternly under her breath, "i will never give up." if hope and courage could save, if it were possible for the human will to snatch the victory from death, she felt, deep down in the passionate depths of her heart, that, while she watched over her, letty could not die. and then gradually, while she prayed, a change as light as a shadow stole over the face of the child. the little features grew less waxen, the glittering eyes melted to a dewy warmth, and it seemed that the blue circles faded slowly, and even the close brown hair looked less dull and lifeless. as the minutes passed, caroline held her breath in torture, lest the faintest sound, the slightest movement, might check the invisible beneficent current. at last, when the change had come, she rose from her knees, and with her hand on letty's pulse, looked up at blackburn. "the crisis is past. her hand is moist, and her pulse is better," she said. he started up, and meeting her joyous eyes, stood for an instant perfectly motionless, with his gaze on her face. "thank god!" he exclaimed in a whisper. as he turned away and went out of the door, caroline glanced over her shoulder, and saw that there was a glimmer of dawn at the window. chapter xii the world's view of an unfortunate marriage on a cloudy morning in december, caroline ran against daisy colfax as she came out of a milliner's shop in broad street. "oh, miss meade, i've been dying to see you and hear news of letty!" exclaimed the young woman in her vivacious manner. she was wearing a hat of royal purple, with a sweeping wing which intensified the brilliant dusk of her hair and eyes. "she is quite well again, though of course we are very careful. i came in to look for some small artificial flowers for a doll's hat. we are dressing a doll." "it must have been a dreadful strain, and cousin matty timberlake told mother she didn't know what they would have done without you. i think it is wonderful the way you keep looking so well." "oh, the work is easy," responded caroline gravely. "i am sure you are a perfect blessing to them all, especially to poor angelica," pursued daisy, in her rippling, shallow voice. then, in the very centre of the crowded street, regardless of the pedestrians streaming by on either side of her, she added on a higher note: "have you heard what everybody is saying about the way david blackburn behaved? robert insists he doesn't believe a word of it; but then robert never believes anything except the bible, so i told him i was going to ask you the very first chance i got. there isn't a bit of use trying to find out anything from cousin matty timberlake because she is so awfully close-mouthed, and i said to robert only this morning that i was perfectly sure you would understand why i wanted to know. it isn't just gossip. i am not repeating a thing that i oughtn't to; but the stories are all over town, and if they aren't true, i want to be in a position to deny them." "what are the stories?" asked caroline, and she continued immediately, before she was submerged again in the bubbling stream of daisy's narrative, "of course it isn't likely that i can help you. this is the first time i have been in town since letty's illness." "but that is exactly why you ought to know." as daisy leaned nearer her purple wing brushed caroline's face. "it is all over richmond, miss meade," her voice rang out with fluting sweetness, "that david blackburn kept letty's condition from angelica because he was so crazy about her being in those tableaux. they say he simply _made_ her go, and that she never knew the child was in danger until she got back in the night. mrs. mallow declares she heard it straight from an intimate friend of the family, and somebody, who asked me not to mention her name, told me she knew positively that doctor boland hadn't any use in the world for david blackburn. she said, of course, he hadn't said anything outright, but she could tell just by the way he looked. everybody is talking about it, and i said to robert at breakfast that i knew you could tell exactly what happened because we heard from cousin matty that you never left letty's room." "but why should mr. blackburn have wanted her to go? why should he care?" though daisy's sprightly story had confused her a little, caroline gathered vaguely that somebody had been talking too much, and she resolved that she would not contribute a single word to the gossip. "oh, he has always been wild about angelica's being admired. don't you remember hearing her say at that committee meeting at briarlay that her husband liked her to take part in public affairs? i happen to know that he has almost forced her to go into things time and again when doctor boland has tried to restrain her. mother thinks that is really why he married angelica, because he was so ambitious, and he believed her beauty and charm would help him in the world. i suppose it must have been a blow to him to find that she couldn't tolerate his views--for she is the most loyal soul on earth--and there are a great many people who think that he voted with the republicans in the hope of an office, and that he got mad when he didn't get one and turned independent----" the flood of words was checked for a moment, while the chauffeur came to ask for a direction, and in the pause caroline remarked crisply, "i don't believe one word--not one single word of these stories." "you mean you think he didn't make her go?" "i know he didn't. i'm perfectly positive." "you can't believe that angelica really knew letty was so ill?" her tone was frankly incredulous. "of course i can't answer that. i don't know anything about what she thought; but i am certain that if she didn't understand, it wasn't mr. blackburn's fault." afterwards, when she recalled it, her indignant defence of david blackburn amused her. why should she care what people said of him? "but they say she didn't know. mrs. mallow told me she heard from someone who was there that angelica turned on her husband when she came in and asked him why he had kept it from her?" the hopelessness of her cause aroused caroline's fighting blood, and she remembered that her father used to say the best battles of the war were fought after defeat. strange how often his philosophy and experience of life came back to inspirit her! "well, perhaps she didn't understand, but mr. blackburn wasn't to blame. i am sure of it," she answered firmly. mrs. colfax looked at her sharply. "do you like david blackburn?" she inquired without malice. caroline flushed. "i neither like nor dislike him," she retorted courageously, and wondered how long it would take the remark to circulate over richmond. mrs. colfax was pretty, amiable, and amusing; but she was one of those light and restless women, as clear as running water, on whose sparkling memories scandals float like straws. nothing ever sank to the depths--or perhaps there were no depths in the luminous shoals of her nature. "well, the reason i asked," daisy had become ingratiating, "is that you talk exactly like cousin matty." "do i?" caroline laughed. "mrs. timberlake is a very sensible woman." "yes, mother insists that she is as sharp as a needle, even if it is so hard to get anything out of her. oh, i've kept you an age--and, good heavens, it is long past my appointment at the dentist's! i can't tell you how glad i am that i met you, and you may be sure that whenever i hear these things repeated, i am going to say that you don't believe one single word of them. it is splendid of you to stand up for what you think, and that reminds me of the nice things i heard roane fitzhugh saying about you at the mallow's the other night. he simply raved over you. i couldn't make him talk about anything else." "i don't like to be disagreeable, but what he thinks doesn't interest me in the least," rejoined caroline coldly. daisy laughed delightedly. "now, that's too bad, because i believe he is falling in love with you. he told me he went motoring with you and angelica almost every afternoon. take my word for it, miss meade, roane isn't half so black as he is painted, and he's just the sort that would settle down when he met the right woman. good-bye again! i have enjoyed so much my little chat with you." she rushed off to her car, while caroline turned quickly into a cross street, and hastened to meet angelica at the office of a new doctor, who was treating her throat. a few drops of rain were falling, and ahead of her, when she reached franklin street, the city, with its church spires and leafless trees, emerged indistinctly out of the mist. here the long street was almost deserted, except for a blind negro beggar, whose stick tapped the pavement behind her, and a white and liver-coloured setter nosing adventurously in the gutter. then, in the middle of the block, she saw angelica's car waiting, and a minute later, to her disgust, she discerned the face of roane fitzhugh at the window. as she recognized him, the anger that mrs. colfax's casual words had aroused, blazed up in her without warning; and she told herself that she would leave briarlay before she would allow herself to be gossiped about with a man she detested. while she approached, roane opened the door and jumped out. "come inside and wait, miss meade," he said. "anna jeannette is still interviewing old skull and cross-bones." "i'd rather wait in the office, thank you." she swept past him with dignity, but before she reached the steps of the doctor's house, he had overtaken her. "oh, i say, don't crush a chap! haven't you seen enough of me yet to discover that i am really as harmless as i look? you don't honestly think me a rotter, do you?" "i don't think about you." "the unkindest cut of all! now, if you only knew it, your thinking of me would do a precious lot of good. by the way, how is my niece?" "very well. you'd scarcely know she'd been ill." "and she didn't see the tableaux, after all, poor kid. well, anna jeannette was a stunner. i suppose you saw her picture in the papers. the washington _examiner_ spoke of her as the most beautiful woman in virginia. that takes old black, i bet!" caroline had ascended the steps, and as she was about to touch the bell, the door opened quickly, and angelica appeared, lowering a net veil which was covered with a large spiral pattern. she looked slightly perturbed, and when she saw roane a frown drew her delicate eyebrows together. her colour had faded, leaving a sallow tone to her skin, which was of the fine, rose-leaf texture that withers early. "i can't take you to-day, roane," she remarked hastily. "we must go straight back to briarlay. miss meade came in to do some shopping for letty." "you'll have to take me as far as monument avenue." he was as ready as ever. "it is a long way, anna jeannette. i cannot walk, to crawl i am ashamed." "well, get in, and please try to behave yourself." "if behaviour is all that you expect, i shall try to satisfy you. the truth is i'm dead broke, and being broke always makes a christian of me. i feel as blue as old black." "oh, roane, stop joking!" her sweetness was growing prickly. "you don't realize that when you run on like this people think you are serious. i have just heard some silly talk about miss meade and you, and it came from nothing in the world except your habit of saying everything that comes into your mind." "in the first place, my dear anna, nothing that you hear of miss meade could be silly, and in the second place, i've never spoken her name except when i was serious." "well, you ought to be more careful how you talk to daisy colfax. she repeats everything in the world that she hears." he laughed shortly. "you'd say that if you'd heard the hot shot she gave me last night about you and blackburn. look here, anna jeannette, hadn't you better call a halt on the thing?" she flushed indignantly. "i haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." "oh, it's all rot, i know, but how the deuce does such tittle-tattle get started? i beg your pardon, miss meade, i am addressing you not as a woman, but as a fount of justice and equity, and in the presence of anna jeannette, i ask you frankly if you don't think it's a bit rough on old black? we had our quarrel, and i assure you that i have no intention of voting with him; but when it comes to knifing a man in the back, then i must beg the adorable daisy to excuse me. it takes a woman to do that--and, by jove, old black may be a bit of a heavyweight, but he is neither a coward nor a liar." "i think you are right," responded caroline, and it was the first time that she had ever agreed with an opinion of roane's. "i wish i knew what you are talking about," said angelica wearily, "roane, do you get out here?" "i do, with regret." as he glanced back from the pavement, his face, except for the droop of the well-cut lips and the alcoholic puffs under the gay blue eyes, might have been a thicker and grosser copy of angelica's. "will you take me to-morrow?" mrs. blackburn shook her head. "i am obliged to go to a meeting." he appeared to catch at the idea. "then perhaps miss meade and letty may take pity on me?" a worried look sharpened angelica's features, but before she could reply, caroline answered quickly, "we are not going without mrs. blackburn. letty and i would just as soon walk." "ah, you walk, do you? then we may meet some day in the road." though he spoke jestingly, there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice. "we don't walk in the road, and we like to go by ourselves. we are studying nature." as she responded she raised her eyes, and swept his face with a careless and indifferent glance. "take your hand from the door, roane," said mrs. blackburn, "and the next time you see daisy colfax, please remember what i told you." the car started while she was speaking, and a minute later, as roane's figure passed out of sight, she observed playfully, "you mustn't let that bad brother of mine annoy you, miss meade. he doesn't mean all that he says." "i am sure that he doesn't mean anything," returned caroline with a smile, "but, if you don't mind, i'd rather not go to drive with him again." the look of sharpness and worry disappeared from angelica's face. "it is such a comfort, the way you take things," she remarked. "one can always count on your intelligence." "i shouldn't have thought that it required intelligence to see through your brother," retorted caroline gaily. "any old common sense might do it!" "can you understand," angelica gazed at her as if she were probing her soul, "what his attraction is for women?" "no, i can't. i hope you don't mind my speaking the truth?" "not in the least." angelica was unusually responsive. "but you couldn't imagine how many women have been in love with him. it isn't any secret that daisy colfax was wild about him the year she came out. the family broke it up because roane was so dissipated, but everybody knows she still cared for roane when she married robert." "she seems happy now with mr. colfax." "well, i don't mean that she isn't. there are some women who can settle down with almost any man, and though i am very fond of dear daisy, there isn't any use pretending that she hasn't a shallow nature. still there are people, you know, who say that she isn't really as satisfied as she tries to make you believe, and that her rushing about as much as she does is a sign that she regrets her marriage. i am sure, whatever she feels or doesn't feel, that she is the love of poor roane's life." it was not angelica's habit to gossip, and while she ran on smoothly, reciting her irrelevant detail as if it were poetry, caroline became aware that there was a serious motive beneath her apparent flippancy. "i suppose she is trying to warn me away from roane," she thought scornfully, "as if there were any need of it!" after this they were both silent until the car turned into the drive and stopped before the white columns. the happiness caroline had once felt in the mere presence of angelica had long ago faded, though she still thought her lovely and charming, and kind enough if one were careful not to cross her desires. she did not judge her harshly for her absence on the night of letty's illness, partly because letty had recovered, and partly because she was convinced that there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding--that blackburn had failed to speak as plainly as he ought to have done. "of course he thought he did," she had decided, in a generous effort to clear everybody from blame, "but the fact remains that there was a mistake--that mrs. blackburn did not take it just as he meant it." this, in the circumstances, was the best she felt that anybody could do. if neither blackburn nor angelica was to blame, then surely she must shift the responsibility to that flimsy abstraction she defined as "the way things happen in life." upstairs in the nursery they broke in upon a flutter of joyous excitement. mary had just returned after a month's absence, and letty was busily arranging a doll's tea party in honour of her aunt's arrival. the child looked pale and thin, but she had on a new white dress, and had tied a blue bow on her hair, which was combed primly back from her forehead. mammy riah had drawn the nursery table in front of the fire, and she was now placing a row of white and blue cups, and some plates of sponge cake and thinly sliced bread and butter, on the embroidered cloth she had borrowed from mrs. timberlake. the dignified old negress, in her full-waisted dress of black bombazine and her spotless white turban, was so unlike the demented figure that had crouched by the hearth on the night of letty's illness, that, if caroline had been less familiar with the impressionable mind of the negro, she would not have recognized her. "so i'm back," said mary, looking at them with her kind, frank glance, as they entered. she was still in her travelling clothes, and caroline thought she had never seen her so handsome as she was in the smartly cut suit of brown homespun. "letty is going to give me a party, only she must hurry, for if i don't get on a horse soon i'll forget how to sit in the saddle. well, angelica, i hear you were the whole show in the tableaux," she pursued in her nice, slangy manner, which was so perfectly in character with her boyish face and her straight, loose-limbed figure. "your picture was in at least six magazines, though, i must say, they made you look a little too spectral for my taste. how are you feeling? you are just a trifle run down, aren't you?" "of course letty's illness was a great strain," replied angelica. "one never realizes how such shocks tell until they are over." "poor lamb! look here, letty, who is coming to this feast of joy? do you mind if i bolt in the midst of it?" "father's coming and aunt matty," replied the child. "i couldn't have anybody else because mammy thought mother wouldn't like me to ask john. i like john, and he's white anyway." "oh, the footman! well, as long as you haven't invited him, i suppose there'll be only home folks. i needn't stand on formality with your father and cousin matty." "and there's mother--you'll come, won't you, mother?--and miss meade," added letty. "yes, i'll come," responded angelica. "i'm dying for my tea, dear, isn't it ready?" "may i pour it for you? i'll be very careful, and i know just how you like it." "yes, you may pour it, but let mammy riah help you. here's your father now, and cousin matty." "hallo, david!" mary's voice rang out clearly. "you look just a bit seedy, don't you? letty's illness seems to have knocked out everybody except the youngster herself. even miss meade looks as if she'd been giving too much medicine." then she turned to embrace mrs. timberlake, while blackburn crossed the room and sat down near the fireplace. "well, daughter, it isn't a birthday, is it?" letty, with her head bent sideways, and her small mouth screwed up very tight, was pouring angelica's tea with the aid of mammy riah. "you mustn't talk to me while i am pouring, father," she answered seriously. "i am so afraid i shall spill it, and mother can't bear to have it spilt." "all right. i'll talk to your aunt mary. any news, mary?" "yes, there's news, david. alan is coming in for his own, and it looks as if his own were enough for us." "you mean the old man in chicago----?" "he died last week, just as he was celebrating his ninetieth birthday. at ninety one couldn't reasonably have asked for very much more, do you think?" "and is alan his heir?" "his one and only. to be sure he wrote a will a few weeks ago and left every cent of it--i can't begin to remember the millions--to some missionary society, but fortunately he had neglected or forgotten to sign it. so alan gets the whole thing, bless his heart, and he's out there now in chicago having legal bouts with a dozen or more lawyers." for the first time angelica spoke. "is it true that alan will be one of the richest men in the west?" she asked slowly. "thank you, letty, darling, my tea is exactly right." "if he gets it all, and he is going to unless another will and a missionary society come to light. my dear angelica, when you see me a year hence," she continued whimsically, "you won't recognize your dependent sister. alan says he is going to give me a string of pearls even finer than yours." she spoke jestingly, yet as caroline watched angelica's face, it occurred to her that mary was not always tactful. the girl ought to have known by this time that angelica had no sense of humour and could not bear to be teased. "it's funny, isn't it, the way life works out?" said mrs. timberlake. "to think of mary's having more things than angelica! it doesn't seem natural, somehow." "no, it doesn't," assented mary, in her habitual tone of boyish chaffing. "but as far as the 'things' go, angelica needn't begin to worry. give me alan and a good horse, and she may have all the pearls that ever came out of the ocean." "i read an account in some magazine of the jewels old mrs. wythe left," remarked angelica thoughtfully. "she owned the finest emeralds in america." her reflections, whatever they were, brought the thin, cold look to her features. "can you imagine me wearing the finest emeralds in america?" demanded mary. "there's a comfort for you, at any rate, in the thought that they wouldn't be becoming to you. green isn't your colour, my dear, and white stones are really the only ones that suit you. now, i am so big and bold that i could carry off rubies." her laughing tone changed suddenly, "why, angelica, what is the matter? have you a headache?" "i feel very tired. the truth is i haven't quite got over the strain of letty's illness. when does alan come back, dear? i suppose you won't put off the wedding much longer? mother used to say that a long engagement meant an unhappy marriage." "alan gets back next week, i hope, and as for the wedding--well, we haven't talked it over, but i imagine we'll settle on the early summer--june probably. it's a pity it has to be so quiet, or i might have miss meade for a bridesmaid. she'd make an adorable bridesmaid in an orchid-coloured gown and a flower hat, wouldn't she, cousin matty?" "i'd rather dress you in your veil and orange blossoms," laughed caroline. "diana or i have pinned on almost every wedding veil of the last five years in southside virginia." "oh, is aunt mary really going to be married at last?" asked letty, with carefully subdued excitement, "and may i go to church? i do hope i shan't have to miss it as i did mother's tableau," she added wistfully. "you shan't miss it, dearie," said mary, "not if i have to be married up here in the nursery." angelica had risen, and she stooped now to pick up her furs which she had dropped. "your tea was lovely, letty dear," she said gently, "but i'm so tired that i think i'll go and lie down until dinner." "you must pick up before alan gets back," remarked mary lightly. "he thinks you the most beautiful woman in the world, you know." "he does? how very sweet of him!" exclaimed angelica, turning in the doorway, and throwing an animated glance back into the room. her face, which had been wan and listless an instant before, was now glowing, while her rare, lovely smile irradiated her features. when she had gone, mary went to change into her riding clothes, and caroline slipped away to take off her hat. a few minutes later, she came back with some brown yarn in her hand, and found that blackburn was still sitting in the big chintz-covered chair by the hearth. letty had dragged a footstool to the rug, and she was leaning against her father's knee while he questioned her about the stories in her reader. "i know miss meade can tell you," said the child as caroline entered. "miss meade, do you remember the story about the little girl who got lost and went to live with the fairies? is it in my reader? father, what is the difference between an angel and a fairy? mrs. aylett says that mother is an angel. is she a fairy too?" "you'd think she was sometimes to look at her," replied blackburn, smiling. "well, if mother is an angel, why aren't you one? i asked mrs. aylett that, but she didn't tell me." "you could scarcely blame her," laughed blackburn. "it is a hard question." "i asked miss meade, too, but she didn't tell me either." "now, i should have thought better of miss meade." as blackburn lifted his face, it looked young and boyish. "is it possible that she is capable of an evasion?" "what does that word mean, father?" "it means everything, my daughter, that miss meade is not." "you oughtn't to tease the child, david," said mrs. timberlake. "she is so easily excited." caroline and the old lady had both unfolded their knitting; and the clicking of their needles made a cheerful undercurrent to the conversation. the room looked homelike and pleasant in the firelight, and leaning back in his chair, blackburn gazed with half-closed eyes at the two women and the child outlined against the shimmering glow of the flames. "you are like the fates," he said presently after a silence in which letty sank drowsily against him. "do you never put down your knitting?" "well, angelica promised so many, and it makes her nervous to hear the needles," rejoined mrs. timberlake. "it is evidently soothing to you and miss meade." "the difference, i reckon, is that we don't stop to think whether it is or not." mrs. timberlake was always curt when she approached the subject of angelica. "i've noticed that when you can't afford nerves, you don't seem to have them." "that's considerate of nature, to say the least." his voice had borrowed the chaffing tone of mary's. as if in response to his words, mrs. timberlake rolled up the half-finished muffler, thrust her long knitting needles through the mesh, and leaned forward until she met blackburn's eyes. "david," she said in a low, harsh voice, "there is something i want to ask you, and miss meade might as well hear it. is letty asleep?" "she is dozing, but speak guardedly. this daughter of mine is a keen one." "well, she won't understand what i am talking about. did you or did you not think that you had spoken plainly to angelica that evening?" he looked at her through narrowed lids. "what does she say?" "she says she didn't understand. it is all over town that she didn't know letty's condition was serious." "then why do you ask me? if she didn't understand, i must have blundered in the telling. that's the only possible answer to your question." he rose as he spoke, and lifting letty from the footstool, placed her gently between the deep arms of the chair. "isn't there anything that you can say, david?" "no, that seems to be the trouble. there isn't anything that i can say." already he was on his way to the door, and as he glanced back, caroline noticed that, in spite of his tenderness with the child, his face looked sad and stern. "there's a man waiting for me downstairs," he added, "but i'll see you both later. wake letty before long or she won't sleep to-night." then he went out quickly, while mrs. timberlake turned to take up her knitting. "if i didn't know that david blackburn had plenty of sense about some things," she remarked grimly while she drew the needle from the roll, "i'd be tempted to believe that he was a perfect fool." chapter xiii indirect influence in january a heavy snow fell, and letty, who had begun to cough again, was kept indoors for a week. after the morning lessons were over, mammy riah amused the child, while caroline put on her hat and coat, and went for a brisk walk down the lane to the road. once or twice mary joined her, but since alan's return caroline saw the girl less and less, and no one else in the house appeared to have the spirit for exercise. blackburn she met only at breakfast and luncheon, and since christmas he seemed to have become completely engrossed in his plans. after the talk she had heard on the terrace, his figure slowly emerged out of the mist of perplexity in her mind. he was no longer the obscure protagonist of a vague political unrest, for the old dishonourable bond which had linked him, in her imagination, to the southern republicans of her father's day, was broken forever. she was intelligent enough to grasp the difference between the forces of reaction and development; and she understood now that blackburn had worked out a definite theory--that his thinking had crystallized into a constructive social philosophy. "he knows the south, he understands it," she thought. "he sees it, not made, but becoming. that is the whole difference between him and father. father was as patriotic as mr. blackburn, but father's patriotism clung to the past--it was grateful and commemorative--and mr. blackburn's strives toward the future, for it is active and creative. father believed that the south was separate from the union, like one of the sacred old graveyards, with bricked-up walls, in the midst of cornfields, while the younger man, also believing it to be sacred, is convinced that it must be absorbed into the nation--that its traditions and ideals must go to enrich the common soil of america." already she was beginning insensibly to associate blackburn with the great group of early virginians, with the men in whom love of country was a vital and living thing, the men who laid the foundation and planned the structure of the american republic. "do you think mr. blackburn feels as strongly as he talks?" she asked mrs. timberlake one afternoon when they were standing together by the nursery window. it had been snowing hard, and caroline, in an old coat with a fur cap on her head, was about to start for a walk. mrs. timberlake was staring intently through her spectacles at one of the snow-laden evergreens on the lawn. a covering of powdery white wrapped the drive and the landscape, and, now and then, when the wind rattled the ice-coated branches of the elms, there was a sharp crackling noise as of breaking boughs. "i reckon he does," she replied after a pause, "though i can't see to save my life what he expects to get out of it." "do you think it is ambition with him? it seems to me, since i heard him talk, that he really believes he has a message, that he can serve his country. until i met him," caroline added, half humorously, "i had begun to feel that the men of to-day loved their country only for what they could get out of it." "well, i expect david is as disinterested as anybody else," observed mrs. timberlake drily, "but that seems to me all the more reason why he'd better let things jog along as they are, and not try to upset them. but there isn't any use talking. david sets more store by those ideas of his than he does by any living thing in the world, unless it's letty. they are his life, and i declare i sometimes think he feels about them as he used to feel about angelica before he married her--the sort of thing you never expect to see outside of poetry." she had long ago lost her reserve in caroline's presence, and the effect of what she called "bottling up" for so many years, gave a crispness and roundness to her thoughts which was a refreshing contrast to angelica's mental vagueness. "i can understand it," said caroline, "i mean i can understand a man's wanting to have some part in moulding the thought of his time. father used to be like that. only it was virginia, not america, that he cared for. he wanted to help steer virginia over the rapids, he used to say. i was brought up in the midst of politics. that's the reason it sounded so natural to me when mr. blackburn was talking." letty, who had been playing with her dolls on the hearthrug, deserted them abruptly, and ran over to the window. "oh, miss meade, do you think i am going to be well for aunt mary's wedding?" "why, of course you are. this is only january, darling, and the wedding won't be till june." "and is that a very long time?" "months and months. the roses will be blooming, and you will have forgotten all about your cold." "well, i hope i shan't miss that too," murmured the child, going gravely back to her dolls. "i never heard anything like the way that child runs on," said mrs. timberlake, turning away from the window. "are you really going out in this cold? there doesn't seem a bit of sense in getting chilled to the bone unless you are obliged to." "oh, i like it. it does me good." "you've stopped motoring with angelica, haven't you?" "yes, we haven't been for several weeks. for one thing the weather has been so bad." "i got an idea it was because of roane fitzhugh," said the old lady, in her tart way. "i hope you won't think i am interfering, but i'm old and you're young, and so you won't mind my giving you a little wholesome advice. if i were you, my dear, i shouldn't pay a bit of attention to anything that roane says to me." "but i don't. i never have," rejoined caroline indignantly. "how on earth could you have got such an idea?" a look of mystification flickered over mrs. timberlake's face. "well, i am sure i don't mean any harm, my child," she responded soothingly. "i didn't think you would mind a word of warning from an old woman, and i know that roane can have a very taking way when he wants to." "i think he's hateful--perfectly hateful," replied caroline. then, drawing on her heavy gloves, she shook her head with a laugh as she started to the door. "if that's all you have to worry about, you may rest easy," she tossed back gaily. "letty, darling, when i come in i'll tell you all about my adventures and the bears i meet in the lane." the terrace and the garden were veiled in white, and the only sound in the intense frozen stillness was the crackling of elm boughs as the wind rocked them. a heavy cloud was hanging low in the west, and beneath it a flock of crows flew slowly in blue-black curves over the white fields. for a minute or two caroline stood watching them, and, while she paused there, a clear silver light streamed suddenly in rays over the hills, and the snow-covered world looked as if it were imprisoned in crystal. every frosted branch, every delicate spiral on the evergreens, was intensified and illuminated. then the wind swept up with a rush of sound from the river, and it was as if the shining landscape had found a melodious voice--as if it were singing. the frozen fountain and the white trees and the half buried shrubs under the mounds of snow, joined in presently like harps in a heavenly choir. "i suppose it is only the wind," she thought, "but it is just as if nature were praising god with music and prayer." in the lane the trees were silvered, and little darting shadows, like violet birds, chased one another down the long white vista to the open road. walking was difficult on the slippery ground, and caroline went carefully, stopping now and then to look up into the swinging boughs overhead, or to follow the elusive flight of the shadows. when she reached the end of the lane, she paused, before turning, to watch a big motor car that was ploughing through the heavy snowdrifts. a moment later the car stopped just in front of her, a man jumped out into a mound of snow, and she found herself reluctantly shaking hands with roane fitzhugh. "tom benton was taking me into town," he explained, "but as soon as i saw you, i told him he'd have to go on alone. so this is where you walk? lucky trees." "i was just turning." as she spoke she moved back into the lane. "it is a pity you got out." "oh, somebody else will come along presently. i'm in no sort of hurry." his face was flushed and mottled, and she suspected, from the excited look in his eyes, that he had been drinking. even with her first impulse of recoil, she felt the pity of his wasted and ruined charm. with his straight fine features, so like angelica's, his conquering blue eyes, and his thick fair hair, he was like the figure of a knight in some early flemish painting. "it's jolly meeting you this way," he said, a trifle thickly. "by jove, you look stunning--simply stunning." "please don't come with me. i'd rather go back alone," she returned, with chill politeness. "your sister went into richmond an hour ago. i think she is at a reception mrs. colfax is giving." "well, i didn't come to see anna jeannette." he spoke this time with exaggerated care as if he were pronouncing a foreign language. "don't hurry, miss meade. i'm not a tiger. i shan't eat you. are you afraid?" "of you?" she glanced at him scornfully. "how could you hurt me?" "how indeed? but if not of me, of yourself? i've seen women afraid of themselves, and they hurried just as you are doing." unconsciously her steps slackened. "i am not afraid of myself, and if i were, i shouldn't run away." "you mean you'd stay and fight it out?" "i mean i'd stay and get the better of the fear, or what caused it. i couldn't bear to be afraid." his careless gaze became suddenly intense, and before the red sparks that glimmered in his eyes, she drew hastily to the other side of the lane. a wave of physical disgust, so acute that it was like nausea, swept over her. even in the hospital the sight of a drunken man always affected her like this, and now it was much worse because the brute--she thought of him indignantly as "the brute"--was actually trying to make love to her--to her, caroline meade! "then if you aren't afraid of me, why do you avoid me?" he demanded. at this she stopped short in order to face him squarely. "since you wish to know," she replied slowly, "i avoid you because i don't like the kind of man you are." he lowered his eyes for an instant, and when he raised them they were earnest and pleading. "then make me the kind of man you like. you can if you try. you could do anything with me if you cared--you are so good." "i don't care." a temptation to laugh seized her, but she checked it, and spoke gravely. the relations between men and women, which had seemed as natural and harmonious as the interdependence of the planets, had become jangled and discordant. something had broken out in her universe which threatened to upset its equilibrium. "i don't doubt that there are a number of good women who would undertake your regeneration, but i like my work better," she added distantly. she was sure now that he had been drinking, and, as he came nearer and the smell of whiskey reached her, she quickened her steps almost into a run over the frozen ground. some deep instinct told her that at her first movement of flight he would touch her, and she thought quite calmly, with the clearness and precision of mind she had acquired in the hospital, that if he were to touch her she would certainly strike him. she was not frightened--her nerves were too robust for fear--but she was consumed with a still, cold rage, which made even the icy branches feel warm as they brushed her cheek. "now, you are running again, miss meade. why won't you be kind to me? can't you see that i am mad about you? ever since the first day i saw you, you've been in my thoughts every minute. honestly you could make a man out of me, if you'd only be a little bit human. i'll do anything you wish. i'll be anything you please, if you'll only like me." for a moment she thought he was going to break down and cry, and she wondered, with professional concern, if a little snow on his forehead would bring him to his senses. this was evidently the way he had talked to mary when blackburn ordered him out of the house. "i wish you would go back," she said in a tone she used to delirious patients in the hospital. "we are almost at the house, and mr. blackburn wouldn't like your coming to briarlay." "well, the old chap's in town, isn't he?" "it is time for him to come home. he may be here any moment." though she tried to reason the question with him, she was conscious of a vague, uneasy suspicion that they were rapidly approaching the state where reasoning would be as futile as flight. then she remembered hearing somewhere that a drunken man would fall down if he attempted to run, and she considered for an instant making an open dash for the house. "i'll go, if you'll let me come back to-morrow. i'm not a bad fellow, miss meade." a sob choked him. "i've got a really good heart--ask anna jeannette if i haven't----" "i don't care whether you are bad or not. i don't want to know anything about you. only go away. nothing that you can do will make me like you," she threw out unwisely under the spur of anger. "women never think that they can cajole or bully a person into caring--only men imagine they have the power to do that, and it's all wrong because they can't, and they never have. bullying doesn't do a bit more good than whining, so please stop that, too. i don't like you because i don't respect you, and nothing you can say or do will have the slightest effect unless you were to make yourself into an entirely different sort of man--a man i didn't despise." her words pelted him like stones, and while he stood there, blinking foolishly beneath the shower, she realized that he had not taken in a single sentence she had uttered. he looked stunned but obstinate, and a curious dusky redness was beating like a pulse in his forehead. "you can't fight me," he muttered huskily. "don't fight me." "i am not fighting you. i am asking you to go away." "i told you i'd go, if you'd let me come back to-morrow." "of course i shan't. how dare you ask me such a thing? can't you see how you disgust me?" as she spoke she made a swift movement toward the turn in the lane, and the next minute, while her feet slipped on the ice, she felt roane's arms about her, and knew that he was struggling frantically to kiss her lips. for years no man had kissed her, and as she fought wildly to escape, she was possessed not by terror, but by a blind and primitive fury. civilization dropped away from her, and she might have been the first woman struggling against attack in the depths of some tropic jungle. "i'd like to kill you," she thought, and freeing one arm, she raised her hand and struck him between the eyes. "i wonder why some woman hasn't killed him before this? i believe i am stronger than he is." the blow was not a soft one, and his arms fell away from her, while he shook his head as if to prevent a rush of blood to the brain. "you hurt me--i believe you wanted to hurt me," he muttered in a tone of pained and incredulous surprise. then recovering his balance with difficulty, he added reproachfully, "i didn't know you could hit like that. i thought you were more womanly. i thought you were more womanly," he repeated sorrowfully, while he put his hand to his head, and then gazed at it, as if he expected to find blood on his fingers. "now, perhaps you'll go," said caroline quietly. while the words were on her lips, she became aware that a shadow had fallen over the snow at her side, and glancing round, she saw blackburn standing motionless in the lane. her first impression was that he seemed enormous as he stood there, with his hands hanging at his sides, and the look of sternness and immobility in his face. his eyelids were half closed with the trick he had when he was gazing intently, and the angry light seemed to have changed his eyes from grey to hazel. "i am sorry to interrupt you," he said in a voice that had a dangerous quietness, "but i think roane is scarcely in a fit state for a walk." "i'd like to know why i am not?" demanded roane, sobered and resentful. "i'm not drunk. who says i am drunk?" "well, if you aren't, you ought to be." then the anger which blackburn had kept down rushed into his voice. "you had better go!" roane had stopped blinking, and while the redness ebbed from his forehead, he stood staring helplessly not at blackburn, but at caroline. "i'll go," he said at last, "if miss meade will say that she forgives me." but there was little of the sister of mercy in caroline's heart. she had been grossly affronted, and anger devoured her like a flame. her blue eyes shone, her face flushed and paled with emotion, and, for the moment, under the white trees, in the midst of the frosted world, her elusive beauty became vivid and dazzling. "i shall not forgive you, and i hope i shall never see you again," she retorted. "you'd better go, roane," repeated blackburn quietly, and as caroline hurried toward the house, he overtook her with a rapid step, and said in a troubled voice, "it is partly my fault, miss meade. i have intended to warn you." "to warn me?" her voice was crisp with anger. "i felt that you did not understand." "understand what?" she looked at him with puzzled eyes. "i may be incredibly stupid, but i don't understand now." for an instant he hesitated, and she watched a deeper flush rise in his face. "in a way you are under my protection," he said at last, "and for this reason i have meant to warn you against roane fitzhugh--against the danger of these meetings." "these meetings?" light burst on her while she stared on him. "is it possible that you think this was a meeting? do you dream that i have been seeing roane fitzhugh of my own accord? have you dared to think such a thing? to imagine that i wanted to see him--that i came out to meet him?" the note of scorn ended in a sob while she buried her face in her hands, and stood trembling with shame and anger before him. "but i understood. i was told----" he was stammering awkwardly. "isn't it true that you felt an interest--that you were trying to help him?" at this her rage swept back again, and dropping her hands, she lifted her swimming eyes to his face. "how dare you think such a thing of me?" "i am sorry." he was still groping in darkness. "you mean you did not know he was coming to-day?" "of course i didn't know. do you think i should have come out if i had known?" "and you have never met him before? never expected to meet him?" "oh, what are you saying? why can't you speak plainly?" a shiver ran through her. "i understood that you liked him." after her passionate outburst his voice sounded strangely cold and detached. "and that i came out to meet him?" "i was afraid that you met him outside because i had forbidden him to come to briarlay. i wanted to explain to you--to protect you----" "but i don't need your protection." she had thrown back her head, and her shining eyes met his bravely. her face had grown pale, but her lips were crimson, and her voice was soft and rich. "i don't need your protection, and after what you have thought of me, i can't stay here any longer. i can't----" as her words stopped, checked by the feeling of helplessness that swept her courage away, he said very gently, "but there isn't any reason---why, i haven't meant to hurt you. i'm a bit rough, perhaps, but i'd as soon think of hurting letty. no, don't run away until i've said a word to you. let's be reasonable, if there has been a misunderstanding. come, now, suppose we talk it out as man to man." his tone had softened, but in her resentment she barely noticed the change. "no, i'd rather not. there isn't anything to say," she answered hurriedly. then, as she was about to run into the house, she paused and added, "only--only how could you?" he said something in reply, but before it reached her, she had darted up the steps and into the hall. she felt bruised and stiff, as if she had fallen and hurt herself, and the one thought in her mind was the dread of meeting one of the household--of encountering mary or mrs. timberlake, before she had put on her uniform and her professional manner. it seemed impossible to her that she should stay on at briarlay, and yet what excuse could she give angelica for leaving so suddenly? angelica, she surmised, would not look tolerantly upon any change that made her uncomfortable. the dazzling light of the sunset was still in caroline's eyes, and, for the first moment or two after she entered the house, she could distinguish only a misty blur from the open doors of the drawing-room. then the familiar objects started out of the gloom, and she discerned the gilt frame and the softly blended dusk of the sistine madonna over the turn in the staircase. as she reached the floor above, her heart, which had been beating wildly, grew gradually quiet, and she found herself thinking lucidly, "i must go away. i must go away at once--to-night." then the mist of obscurity floated up to envelop the thought. "but what does it mean? could there be any possible reason?" the nursery door was open, and she was about to steal by noiselessly, when mrs. timberlake's long, thin shadow stretched, with a vaguely menacing air, over the threshold. "i wanted to speak to you, my dear. why, what is the matter?" as the housekeeper came out into the hall, she raised her spectacles to her forehead, and peered nervously into caroline's face. "has anybody hurt your feelings?" "i am going away. i can't stay." though caroline spoke clearly and firmly, her lips were trembling, and the marks of tears were still visible under her indignant eyes, which looked large and brilliant, like the eyes of a startled child. "you are going away? what on earth is the reason? has anything happened?" then lowering her voice, she murmured cautiously, "come into my room a minute. letty is playing and won't miss you." putting her lean arm about caroline's shoulders, she led her gently down the hall and to her room in the west wing. not until she had forced her into an easy chair by the radiator, and turned back to close the door carefully, did she say in an urgent tone, "now, my dear, you needn't be afraid to tell me. i am very fond of you--i feel almost as if you were my own child--and i want to help you if you will let me." "there isn't anything except--except there has been a misunderstanding----" caroline looked up miserably from the big chair, with her lips working pathetically. all the spirit had gone out of her. "mr. blackburn seems to have got the idea that i care for roane fitzhugh--that i even went out to meet him." mrs. timberlake, whose philosophy was constructed of the bare bones of experience, stared out of the window with an expression that made her appear less a woman than a cynical point of view. her profile grew sharper and flatter until it gave the effect of being pasted on the glimmering pane. "well, i reckon david didn't make that up in his own mind," she observed with a caustic emphasis. "i met him--i mean roane fitzhugh to-day. of course it was by accident, but he had been drinking and behaved outrageously, and then mr. blackburn found us together," pursued caroline slowly, "and--and he said things that made me see what he thought. he told me that he believed i liked that dreadful man--that i came out by appointment----" "but don't you like him, my dear?" the housekeeper had turned from the sunset and taken up her knitting. "of course i don't. why in the world--how in the world----" "and david told you that he thought so?" the old lady looked up sharply. "he said he understood that i liked him--roane fitzhugh. i didn't know what he meant. he was obliged to explain." after all, the tangle appeared to be without beginning and without end. she realized that she was hopelessly caught in the mesh of it. "well, i thought so, too," said mrs. timberlake, leaning forward and speaking in a thin, sharp voice that pricked like a needle. "you thought so? but how could you?" caroline stretched out her hand with an imploring gesture. "why, i've never seen him alone until to-day--never." "and yet david believed that you were meeting him?" "that is what he said. it sounds incredible, doesn't it?" for a few minutes mrs. timberlake knitted grimly, while the expression, "i know i am a poor creature, but all the same i have feelings" seemed to leap out of her face. when at last she spoke it was to make a remark which sounded strangely irrelevant. "i've had a hard time," she said bluntly, "and i've stood things, but i'm not one to turn against my own blood kin just because they haven't treated me right." then, after another and a longer pause, she added, as if the words were wrung out of her, "if i didn't feel that i ought to help you i'd never say one single word, but you're so trusting, and you'd never see through things unless somebody warned you." "see through things? you mean i'd never understand how mr. blackburn got that impression?" mrs. timberlake twisted the yarn with a jerk over her little finger. "my dear, david never got that idea out of his own head," she repeated emphatically. "somebody put it there as sure as you were born, and though i've nothing in the world but my own opinion to go on, i'm willing to bet a good deal that it was angelica." "but she couldn't have. she knew better. there couldn't have been any reason." "when you are as old as i am, you will stop looking for reasons in the way people act. in the first place, there generally aren't any, and in the second place, when reasons are there, they don't show up on the surface." "but she knew i couldn't bear him." "if you'd liked him, she wouldn't have done it. she'd have been trying too hard to keep you apart." "you mean, then, that she did it just to hurt me?" lifting her slate-coloured eyes, the old lady brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead. "i don't believe angelica ever did a thing in her life just to hurt anybody," she answered slowly. "then you wouldn't think for an instant----" "no, i shouldn't think for an instant that she did it just for that. there was some other motive. i don't reckon angelica would ever do you any harm," she concluded with a charitable intonation, "unless there was something she wanted to gain by it." from her manner she might have been making a point in angelica's favour. "but even then? what could she possibly gain?" "well, i expect david found out that roane had been here--that he had been motoring with you--and angelica was obliged to find some excuse. you see, responsibility is one of the things angelica can't stand, and whoever happens to be about when it is forced on her, usually bears it. sometimes, you know, when she throws it off like that, it chances to light by accident just in the proper place. the strangest thing about angelica, and i can never get used to it, is the way she so often turns out to be right. look at the way it all happened in letty's illness. now, angelica always stuck out that letty wouldn't die, and, as it turned out, she didn't. i declare, it looks, somehow, as if not only people, but circumstances as well, played straight into her hands." "you mean she told him that about me just to spare herself?" caroline's voice was angry and incredulous. "that's how it was, i reckon. i don't believe she would have done it for anything else on earth. you see, my dear, she was brought up that way--most american girls are when they are as pretty as angelica--and the way you're raised seems to become a habit with you. at home the others always sacrificed themselves for her, until she got into the habit of thinking that she was the centre of the universe, and that the world owed her whatever she took a fancy for. even as a girl, roane used to say that her feelings were just inclinations, and i expect that's been true of her ever since. she can want things worse than anybody i've ever seen, but apart from wanting, i reckon she's about as cold as a fish at heart. it may sound mean of me to say it, but i've known cousin abby to sit up at night and sew her eyes out, so the girl might have a new dress for a party, and all the time angelica not saying a word to prevent it. there never was a better mother than cousin abby, and i've always thought it was being so good that killed her." "but even now i can't understand," said caroline thoughtfully. "i felt that she really liked me." "oh, she likes you well enough." mrs. timberlake was counting some dropped stitches. "she wasn't thinking about you a minute. i doubt if she ever in her life thought as long as that about anybody except herself. the curious part is," she supplemented presently, "that considering how shallow she is, so few people ever seem to see through her. it took david five years, and then he had to be married to her, to find out what i could have told him in ten minutes. most of it is the way she looks, i expect. it is so hard for a man to understand that every woman who parts her hair in the middle isn't a madonna." "i knew she was hard and cold," confessed caroline sadly, "but i thought she was good. i never dreamed she could be bad at heart." mrs. timberlake shook her head. "she isn't bad, my dear, that's where you make a mistake. i believe she'd let herself be burned at the stake before she'd overstep a convention. when it comes to that," she commented with acrid philosophy, "i reckon all the bad women on earth could never do as much harm as some good ones--the sort of good ones that destroy everything human and natural that comes near them. we can look out for the bad ones--but i've come to believe that there's a certain kind of virtue that's no better than poison. it poisons everything it touches because all the humanity has passed out of it, just like one of those lovely poisonous flowers that spring up now and then in a swamp. nothing that's made of flesh and blood could live by it, and yet it flourishes as if it were as harmless as a lily. i know i'm saying what i oughtn't to, but i saw you were getting hurt, and i wanted to spare you. it isn't that angelica is wicked, you know, i wouldn't have you believe that for a minute. she is sincere as far as her light goes, and if i hadn't seen david's life destroyed through and through, i suppose i shouldn't feel anything like so bitterly. but i've watched all his trust in things and his generous impulses--there was never a man who started life with finer impulses than david--wither up, one after one, just as if they were blighted." the sunset had faded slowly, and while caroline sat there in the big chair, gazing out on the wintry garden, it seemed to her that the advancing twilight had become so thick that it stifled her. then immediately she realized that it was not the twilight, but the obscurity in her own mind, that oppressed and enveloped her with these heavy yet intangible shadows. her last illusion had perished, and she could not breathe because the smoke of its destruction filled the air. at the moment it seemed to her that life could never be exactly what it was before--that the glow and magic of some mysterious enchantment had vanished. even the garden, with its frozen vegetation and its forlorn skeletons of summer shrubs emerging from mounds of snow, appeared to have undergone a sinister transformation from the ideal back to the actuality. this was the way she had felt years ago, on that autumn day at the cedars. "and he never defended himself--never once," she said after a silence. "he never will, that's not his way," rejoined mrs. timberlake. "she knows he never will, and i sometimes think that makes matters worse." as caroline brooded over this, her face cleared until the light and animation returned. "i know him better," she murmured presently, "but everything else has become suddenly crooked." "i've thought that at times before i stopped trying to straighten out things." mrs. timberlake had put down the muffler, and while she spoke, she smoothed it slowly and carefully over her knee. in the wan light her face borrowed a remote and visionary look, like a face gazing down through the thin, cold air of the heights. she had passed beyond mutable things, this look seemed to say, and had attained at last the bleak security of mind that is never disappointed because it expects nothing. "i reckon that's why i got into the habit of keeping my mouth shut, just because i was worrying myself sick all the time thinking how different things ought to be." a chill and wintry cheerfulness flickered across the arid surface of her manner. "but i don't now. i know there isn't any use, and i get a good deal of pleasure just out of seeing what will happen. now, you take david and angelica. i'm wondering all the time how it will turn out. david is a big man, but even if angelica isn't smart, she's quick enough about getting anything she wants, and i believe she is beginning to want something she hasn't got." "when i came i didn't like mr. blackburn." though the barriers of the old lady's reserve had fallen, caroline was struggling still against an instinct of loyalty. "well, i didn't like him once." mrs. timberlake had risen, and was looking down with her pitiful, tormented smile. "it took me a long time to find out the truth, and i want to spare you all i suffered while i was finding it out. i sometimes think that nobody's experience is worth a row of pins to any one else, but all the same i am trying to help you by telling you what i know. david has his faults. i'm not saying that he is a saint; but he has been the best friend i ever had, and i'm going to stand up for him, angelica or no angelica. there are some men, my poor father used to say, that never really show what they are because they get caught by life and twisted out of shape, and i reckon david is one of these. father said, though i don't like heathen terms, that it was the fate of a man like david always to appear in the wrong and yet always to be in the right. that's a queer way of putting it, but father was a great scholar--he translated the "iliad" before he was thirty--and i reckon he knew what he was talking about. life was against those men, he told me once, but god was for them, and they never failed to win in the end." with the last words she faltered and broke off abruptly. "i have been talking a great deal more than i ought to, but when once i begin i never know when to stop. angelica must have come home long ago." bending over she laid her cheek against caroline's hair. "you won't think of going away now, will you?" surprised and touched by the awkward caress, caroline looked up gratefully. "no, i shan't think of going away now." book second realities chapter i in blackburn's library the fire was burning low, and after blackburn had thrown a fresh log on the andirons, he sat down in one of the big leather chairs by the hearth, and watched the flames as they leaped singing up the brick chimney. it was midnight--the clock in the hall was just striking--and a few minutes before, angelica had gone languidly upstairs, after their belated return from a dinner in town. the drive home had been long and dreary, and he could still see the winter landscape, sketched in vivid outlines of black and white, under a pale moon that was riding high in the heavens. road, fields, and houses, showed as clearly as a pen and ink drawing, and against this stark background his thoughts stood out with an abrupt and startling precision, as if they had detached themselves, one by one, from the naked forms on the horizon. there was no chance of sleep, for the sense of isolation, which had attacked him like physical pain while he drove home with angelica, seemed to make his chaotic memories the only living things in a chill and colourless universe. though it was midnight, he had work to do before he went up to bed--for he had not yet given his final answer to sloane. already blackburn had made his decision. already he had worked out in his own mind the phrases of the letter; yet, before turning to his writing-table, he lingered a moment in order to weigh more carefully the cost of his resolve. it was not an age when political altruism was either mentally convincing or morally expedient, and the quality of his patriotism would be estimated in the public mind, he was aware, by the numbers of his majority. sloane, he was sure, had been sounding him as a possible candidate in some future political venture--yet, while he sat there, it was not of sloane that he was thinking. slowly the depression and bitterness gathered to a single image, and looked out upon him from the pure reticence of angelica's features. it was as if his adverse destiny--that destiny of splendid purpose and frustrated effort--had assumed for an instant the human form through which it had wrought its work of destruction. "well, after all, why should i decline? it is what i have always wanted to do, and i am right." the room was very still, and in this stillness the light quivered in pools on the brown rugs and the brown walls and the old yellowed engravings. from the high bookshelves, which lined the walls, the friendly covers of books shone down on him, with the genial responsiveness that creeps into the aspect of familiar inanimate things. over the mantelpiece hung the one oil painting in the room, a portrait of his mother as a girl, by an unknown painter, who drew badly, but had a genuine feeling for colour. the face was small and heart-shaped, like some delicately tinted flower that has only half opened. the hair lay in bands of twilight on either side of the grave forehead, and framed the large, wistful eyes, which had a flower-like softness that made him think of black pansies. though the mouth was pink and faintly smiling, it seemed to him to express an infinite pathos. it was impossible for him to believe that his mother--the woman with the pallid cameo-like profile and the saintly brow under the thin dark hair--had ever faced life with that touching, expectant smile. there had been a strong soul in that fragile body, but her courage, which was invincible, had never seemed to him the courage of happiness. she had accepted life with the fortitude of the christian, not the joy of the pagan; and her piety was associated in his mind with long summer sundays, with old hymns played softly, with bare spotless rooms, and with many roses in scattered alabaster vases. her intellect, like her character, he recalled as a curious blending of sweetness and strength. if the speculative side of her mind had ever existed, life had long ago hushed it, for her capacity for acquiescence--for unquestioning submission to the will of god--was like the glory of martyrdom. yet, within her narrow field, the field in which religion reigned as a beneficent shade, she had thought deeply, and it seemed to blackburn that she had never thought harshly. her sympathy was as wide as her charity, and both covered the universe. so exquisitely balanced, so finely tempered, was her judgment of life, that after all these years, for she had died while he was still a boy, he remembered her as one whose understanding of the human heart approached the divine. "she always wanted me to do something like this," he thought, "to look forward--to stand for the future. i remember...." * * * * * from the light and warmth of the room there streamed the sunshine and fragrance of an old summer. after a hot day the sun was growing faint over the garden, and the long, slim shadows on the grass were so pale that they quivered between light and darkness, like the gauzy wings of gigantic dragon flies. against a flushed sky a few bats were wheeling. up from the sun-steeped lawn, which was never mown, drifted the mingled scents of sheepmint and box; and this unforgotten smell pervaded the garden and the lane and the porch at the back of the house, where he had stopped, before bringing home the cows, to exchange a word with his mother. the lattice door was open, and she stood there, in her black dress, with the cool, dim hall behind her. "mother," he said, "i have been reading about william wallace. when i grow up, i want to fight kings." she smiled, and her smile was like one of the slow, sad hymns they sang on sunday afternoons. "when you grow up there may be no kings left to fight, dear." "will they be dead, mother?" "they may be. one never knows, my son." all the romance faded suddenly out of the world. "well, if there are any left," he answered resolutely, "i am going to fight them." he could still see her face, thin and sad, and like the closed white flowers he found sometimes growing in hollows where the sun never shone. only her eyes, large and velvet black, seemed glowing with hope. "there are only three things worth fighting for, my son," she said, "your love, your faith, and your country. nothing else matters." "father fought for his country, didn't he?" "your father fought for all three." she waited a moment, and then went on more slowly in a voice that sounded as if she were reciting a prayer, "this is what you must never forget, my boy, that you are your father's son, and that he gave his all for the cause he believed in, and counted it fair service." the scene vanished like one of the dissolving views of a magic lantern, and there rose before him a later summer, and another imperishable memory of his boyhood.... * * * * * it was an afternoon in september--one of those mellow afternoons when the light is spun like a golden web between earth and sky, and the grey dust of summer flowers rises as an incense to autumn. the harvest was gathered; the apples were reddening in the orchard; and along the rail fence by the roadside, sumach and virginia creeper were burning slowly, like a flame that smoulders in the windless blue of the weather. somewhere, very far away, a single partridge was calling, and nearer home, from the golden-rod and life-ever-lasting, rose the slow humming of bees. he lay in the sun-warmed grass, with his bare feet buried in sheepmint. on the long benches, from which the green paint had rubbed off, some old men were sitting, and among them, a small coloured maid, in a dress of pink calico, was serving blackberry wine and plates of the pale yellow cake his mother made every saturday. one of the men was his uncle, a crippled soldier, with long grey hair and shining eyes that held the rapt and consecrated vision of those who have looked through death to immortality. his crutch lay on the grass at his feet, and while he sipped his wine, he said gravely: "a new generation is springing up, david's generation, and this must give, not the south alone, but the whole nation, a leader." at the words the boy looked up quickly, his eyes gleaming, "what must the leader be like, uncle?" the old soldier hesitated an instant. "he must, first of all, my boy, be predestined. no man whom god has not appointed can lead other men right." "and how will he know if god has appointed him?" "he will know by this--that he cannot swerve in his purpose. the man whom god has appointed sees his road straight before him, and he does not glance back or aside." his voice rose louder, over the murmur of the bees, as if it were chanting, "if the woods are filled with dangers, he does not know because he sees only his road. if the bridges have fallen, he does not know because he sees only his road. if the rivers are impassable, he does not know because he sees only his road. from the journey's beginning to its end, he sees only his road...." * * * * * a log, charred through the middle, broke suddenly, scattering a shower of sparks. the multitudinous impressions of his boyhood had gathered into these two memories of summer, and of that earlier generation which had sacrificed all for a belief. it was like a mosaic in his mind, a mosaic in which heroic figures waited, amid a jewelled landscape, for the leader whom god had appointed. the room darkened while he sat there, and from outside he heard the crackling of frost and the ceaseless rustle of wind in the junipers. on the hearthrug, across the glimmering circle of the fire, he watched those old years flock back again, in all the fantastic motley of half-forgotten recollections. he saw the long frozen winters of his childhood, when he had waked at dawn to do the day's work of the farm before he started out to trudge five miles to the little country school, where the stove always smoked and the windows were never opened. before this his mother had taught him his lessons, and his happiest memories were those of the hours when he sat by her side, with an antiquated geography on his knees, and watched her long slender fingers point the way to countries of absurd boundaries and unpronounceable names. she had taught him all he knew--knowledge weak in science, but rich in the invisible graces of mind and heart--and afterwards, in the uninspired method of the little school, he had first learned to distrust the kind of education with which the modern man begins the battle of life. homespun in place of velvet, stark facts instead of the texture of romance! the mornings when, swinging his hoe, he had led his chattering band of little negroes into the cornfields, had been closer to the throbbing pulse of experience. when he was fourteen the break had come, and his life had divided. his mother had died suddenly; the old place had been sold for a song; and the boy had come up to richmond to make his way in a world which was too indifferent to be actually hostile. at first he had gone to work in a tobacco factory, reading after hours as long as the impoverished widow with whom he lived would let the gas burn in his room. always he had meant to "get on"; always he had felt the controlling hand of his destiny. even in those years of unformed motives and misdirected energies, he had been searching--searching. the present had never been more than a brief approach to the future. he had looked always for something truer, sounder, deeper, than the actuality that enmeshed him. suddenly, while he sat there confronting the phantom he had once called himself, he was visited by a rush of thought which seemed to sweep on wings through his brain. yet the moment afterwards, when he tried to seize and hold the vision that darted so gloriously out of the shining distance, he found that it had already dissolved into a sensation, an apprehension, too finely spun of light and shadow to be imprisoned in words. it was as if some incalculable discovery, some luminous revelation, had brushed him for an instant as it sped onward into the world. once or twice in the past such a gleaming moment had just touched him, leaving him with this vague sense of loss, of something missing, of an infinitely precious opportunity which had escaped him. yet invariably it had been followed by some imperative call to action. "i wonder what it means now," he thought, "i suppose the truth is that i have missed things again." the inspiration no longer seemed to exist outside of his own mind; but under the clustering memories, he felt presently a harder and firmer consciousness of his own purpose, just as in his boyhood, he would sometimes, in ploughing, strike a rock half buried beneath the frail bloom of the meadows. it was the sense of reality so strong, so solid, that it brought him up, almost with a jerk of pain, from the iridescent cobwebs of his fancy; and this reality, he understood after a minute, was an acute perception of the great war that men were fighting on the other side of the world. his knowledge of these terrible and splendid issues had broken through the perishable surface of thought. the illusion vanished like the bloom of the meadows; what remained was the bare rocky structure of truth. he had not meant to think of this now. he had left the evening free for his work--for the decision which must be made sooner or later; yet, through some mysterious trend of thought, every personal choice of his life seemed to become a part of the impersonal choice of humanity. the infinite issues had absorbed the finite intentions. every decision was a ripple in the world battle between the powers of good and evil, of light and darkness. and he understood suddenly that the great abstractions for which men lay down their lives are one and indivisible--that there was not a corner of the earth where this fight for liberty could not be fought. "i can fight here as well as over there," he thought, "if i am only big enough." now that his mind had got down to solid facts, to steady thinking, it worked quickly and clearly. it would be a hard fight, with all the odds against him, and yet the very difficulties appealed to him. out of the dense fog of political theories, out of the noise and confusion of the babel of many tongues, he could discern the dim framework of a purer social order. the foundation of the republic was sound, he believed, only the eyes of the builders had failed, the hands of the builders had trembled. that the ideal democracy was not a dream, but an unattained reality, he had never doubted. the failure lay not in the plan, but in the achievement. there was obliquity of vision, there was even blindness, for the human mind was still afflicted by the ancient error which had brought the autocracies of the past to destruction. men and nations had still to learn that in order to preserve liberty it must first be surrendered--that there is no spiritual growth except through sacrifice. but it must be surrendered only to a broader, an ever-growing conception of what liberty means. as in the sun-warmed grass on those sunday afternoons, he still dreamed of america leading the nations. the great virginians of the past had been virginians first; the great virginians of the future would be americans. the urgent need in america, as he saw it, was for unity; and the first step toward this unity, the obliteration of sectional boundaries. in this, he felt, virginia must lead the states. as she had once yielded her land to the nation, she must now yield her spirit. she must point the way by act, not by theory; she must vote right as well as think right. "and to vote right," he said presently, thinking aloud, "we must first live right. people speak of a man's vote as if it were an act apart from the other acts of his life--as if they could detach it from his universal conceptions. there was a grain of truth in uncle carter's saying that he could tell by the way a man voted whether or not he believed in the immortality of the soul." it was uncle carter, he remembered, who had described the chronic malady of american life as a disease of manner that had passed from the skin into the body politic. "take my word for it," the old soldier had said, "there is no such thing as sound morals without sound manners, for manners are only the outer coating--the skin, if you like--of morals. without unselfish consideration for others there can be no morality, and if you have unselfish consideration in your heart, you will have good manners though you haven't a coat on your back. order and sanity and precision, and all the other qualities we need most in this republic, are only the outward forms of unselfish consideration for others, and patriotism, in spite of its plumed attire, is only that on a larger scale. after all, your country is merely a tremendous abstraction of your neighbour." well, perhaps the old chap had been talking sense half the time when people smiled at his words! rising from his chair, he pushed back the last waning ember, and stood gazing down on the ashes. "i will do my best," he said slowly. "i will fight to the last ditch for the things i believe in--for cleaner politics, for constructive patriotism, and for a fairer democracy. these are the big issues, and the little ends will flow from them." as he finished, the clock in the hall struck twice and stopped, and at the same instant the door of the library opened slowly, and, to his amazement, he saw mary standing beyond the threshold. she carried a candle in her hand, and by the wavering light, he saw that she was very pale and that her eyes were red as if she had been weeping. "the lights were out. i thought you had gone upstairs," she said, with a catch in her voice. "do you want anything?" "no, i couldn't sleep, so i came for a book." with a hurried movement, she came over to the table and caught up a book without glancing at the title. "are you ill?" he asked. "is anything the matter?" "no, nothing. i am well, only i couldn't sleep." "there is no trouble about alan, is there? have you quarrelled?" "oh, no, we haven't quarrelled." she was plainly impatient at his questioning. "alan is all right. really, it is nothing." though his affection for her was deep and strong, they had never learned to be demonstrative with each other, perhaps because they had been separated so much in childhood and early youth. it was almost with a hesitating gesture that he put out his hand now and touched her hair. "my dear, you know you can trust me." "yes, i know." the words broke from her with a sob, and turning hastily away, she ran out of the room and back up the stairs. chapter ii readjustments in letty's nursery the next afternoon, blackburn came at last to know caroline without the barrier of her professional manner. the child was playing happily with her paper dolls in one corner, and while she marched them back and forth along a miniature road of blocks, she sang under her breath a little song she had made. oh, my, i'd like to fly very high in the sky, just you and i. "i am very cold," said blackburn, as he entered. "mammy riah has promised me a cup of tea if i am good." "you are always good, father," replied letty politely, but she did not rise from the floor. "i'm sorry i can't stop, but mrs. brown is just taking her little girl to the hospital. if i were to get up the poor little thing might die on the way." "that must not happen. perhaps miss meade will entertain me?" "i will do my best." caroline turned from her writing and took up a half-finished sock. "if you had come an hour earlier you might have seen some of mrs. blackburn's lovely clothes. she was showing us the dress she is going to wear to dinner to-night." "you like pretty clothes." it was a careless effort to make conversation, but as he dropped into the armchair on the hearthrug, his face softened. there was a faint scent of violets in the air from a half-faded little bunch in caroline's lap. she met the question frankly. "on other people." "do you like nothing for yourself? you are so impersonal that i sometimes wonder if you possess a soul of your own." "oh, i like a great many things." mammy riah had brought tea, and caroline put down her knitting and drew up to the wicker table. "i like books for instance. at the cedars we used to read every evening. father read aloud to us as long as he lived." "yet i never see you reading?" "not here." as she shook her head, the firelight touched her close, dark hair, which shone like satin against the starched band of her cap. almost as white as her cap seemed her wide forehead, with the intense black eyebrows above the radiant blue of her eyes. "you see i want to finish these socks." "i thought you were doing a muffler?" "oh, that's gone to france long ago! this is a fresh lot mrs. blackburn has promised, and mrs. timberlake and i are working night and day to get them finished in time. we can't do the large kind of work that mrs. blackburn does," she added, "so we have to make up with our little bit. mrs. timberlake says we are hewers of wood and drawers of water." "you are always busy," he said, smiling. "i believe you would be busy if you were put into solitary confinement." to his surprise a look of pain quivered about her mouth, and he noticed, for the first time, that it was the mouth of a woman who had suffered. "it is the best way of not thinking----" she ended with a laugh, and he felt that, in spite of her kindness and her capability, she was as elusive as thistle-down. "i can knit a little, father," broke in letty, looking up from her dolls. "miss meade is teaching me to knit a muffler--only it gets narrower all the time. i'm afraid the soldiers won't want it." "then give it to me. i want it." "if i give it to you, you might go to fight, and get killed." as the child turned again to her dolls, he said slowly to caroline, "i can't imagine how she picks up ideas like that. someone must have talked about the war before her." "she heard mrs. blackburn talking about it once in the car. she must have caught words without our noticing it." his face darkened. "one has to be careful." "yes, i try to remember." he was quick to observe that she was taking the blame from angelica, and again he received an impression that she was mentally evading him. her soul was closed like a flower; yet now and then, through her reserve and gravity, he felt a charm that was as sweet and fresh as a perfume. she was looking tired and pale, he thought, and he wondered how her still features could have kindled into the beauty he had seen in them on that snowy afternoon. it had never occurred to him before, accustomed as he was to the formal loveliness of angelica, that the same woman could be both plain and beautiful, both colourless and vivid. this was perplexing him, when she clasped her hands over her knitting, and said with the manner of quiet confidence that he had grown to expect in her, "i have always meant to tell you, mr. blackburn, that i listened to everything you said that day on the terrace--that afternoon when you were talking to colonel ashburton and mr. sloane. i didn't mean to listen, but i found myself doing it." "well, i hope you are not any the worse for it, and i am sure you are not any the better." "there is something else i want to tell you." her pale cheeks flushed faintly, and a liquid fire shone in her eyes. "i think you are right. i agree with every word that you said." "traitor! what would your grandmother have thought of you? as a matter of fact i have forgotten almost all that i said, but i can safely assume that it was heretical. i think none of us intended to start that discussion. we launched into it before we knew where we were going." her mind was on his first sentence, and she appeared to miss his closing words. "i can't answer for my grandmother, but father would have agreed with you. he used to say that the state was an institution for the making of citizens." "and he talked to you about such things?" it had never occurred to him that a woman could become companionable on intellectual grounds, yet while she sat there facing him, with the light on her brow and lips, and her look of distinction and remoteness as of one who has in some way been set apart from personal joy or sorrow, he realized that she was as utterly detached as sloane had been when he discoursed on the functions of government. "oh, we talked and talked on sunday afternoons, a few neighbours, old soldiers mostly, and father and i. i wonder why political arguments still make me think of bees humming?" he laughed with a zest she had never heard in his voice before. "and the smell of sheepmint and box!" "i remember--and blackberry wine in blue glasses?" "no, they were red, and there was cake cut in thin slices with icing on the top of it." "doesn't it bring it all back again?" "it brings back the happiest time of my life to me. you never got up at dawn to turn the cows out to pasture, and brought them home in the evening, riding the calf?" "no, but i've cooked breakfast by candlelight." "you've never led a band of little darkeys across a cornfield at sunrise?" "but i've canned a whole patch of tomatoes." "i know you've never tasted the delight of stolen fishing in the creek under the willows?" her reserve had dropped from her like a mask. she looked up with a laugh that was pure music. "it is hard to believe that you ever went without things." "oh, things!" he made a gesture of indifference. "if you mean money--well, it may surprise you to know that it has no value for me to-day except as a means to an end." "to how many ends?" she asked mockingly. "the honest truth is that it wouldn't cost me a pang to give up briarlay, every stock and stone, and go back to the southside to dig for a living. i made it all by accident, and i may lose it all just as easily. it looks now, since the war began, as if i were losing some of it very rapidly. but have you ever noticed that people are very apt to keep the things they don't care about--that they can't shake them off? now, what i've always wanted was the chance to do some work that counted--an opportunity for service that would help the men who come after me. as a boy i used to dream of this. in those days i preferred william wallace to monte cristo." "the opportunity may come now." "if we go into this war--and, by god, we must go into it!--that might be. i'd give ten--no, twenty years of my life for the chance. life! we speak of giving life, but what is life except the means of giving something infinitely better and finer? as if anything mattered but the opportunity to speak the thought in one's brain, to sing it, to build it in stone. there is a little piece of america deep down in me, and when i die i want to leave it somewhere above ground, embodied in the national consciousness. when this blessed republic leaves the mud behind, and goes marching, clean and whole, down the ages, i want this little piece of myself to go marching with it." so she had discovered the real blackburn, the dreamer under the clay! this was the man mrs. timberlake had described to her--the man whose fate it was to appear always in the wrong and to be always in the right. and, womanlike, she wondered if this passion of the mind had drawn its strength and colour from the earlier wasted passion of his heart? would he love america so much if he loved angelica more? as she drew nearer to the man's nature, she was able to surmise how terrible must have been the ruin that angelica had wrought in his soul. that he had once loved her with all the force and swiftness of his character, caroline understood as perfectly as she had come to understand that he now loved her no longer. "if i can cast a shadow of the america in my mind into the sum total of american thought, i shall feel that life has been worth while," he was saying. "the only way to create a democracy,--and i see the immense future outlines of this country as the actual, not the imaginary democracy,--after all, the only way to create a thing is to think it. an act of faith isn't merely a mental process; it is a creative force that the mind releases into the world. germany made war, not by invading belgium, but by thinking war for forty years; and, in the same way, by thinking in terms of social justice, we may end by making a true democracy." he paused abruptly, with the glow of enthusiasm in his face, and then added slowly, in a voice that sounded curiously restrained and distant, "i must have been boring you abominably. it has been so long since i let myself go like this that i'd forgotten where i was and to whom i was talking." it was true, she realized, without resentment; he had forgotten that she was present. since she had little vanity, she was not hurt. it was only one of those delicious morsels that life continually offered to one's sense of humour. "i am not quite so dull, perhaps, as you think me," she responded pleasantly. after all, though intelligence was sometimes out of place, she had discovered that pleasantness was always a serviceable quality. at this he rose from his chair, laughing. "you must not, by the way, get a wrong impression of me. i have been talking as if money did not count, and yet there was a time when i'd willingly have given twenty years of my life for it. money meant to me power--the kind of power one could grasp by striving and sacrifice. why, i've walked the streets of richmond with five cents in my pocket, and the dream of uncounted millions in my brain. when my luck turned, and it turned quickly as luck runs, i thought for a year or two that i'd got the thing that i wanted----" "and you found out that you hadn't?" "oh, yes, i found out that i hadn't," he rejoined drily, as he moved toward the door, "and i've been making discoveries like that ever since. to-day i might tell you that work, not wealth, brings happiness, but i've been wrong often enough before, and who knows that i am not wrong about this." it was the tone of bitterness she had learned to watch for whenever she talked with him--the tone that she recognized as the subtle flavour of angelica's influence. "now i'll find mary," he added, "and ask her if she saw the doctor this morning. the reading i heard as i came up, i suppose was for her benefit?" "i don't know," replied caroline, wondering if she ought to keep him from interrupting a play of alan's. "i think mr. wythe had promised to read something to mrs. blackburn." "oh, well, mary must be about, and i'll find her. she couldn't sleep last night and i thought her looking fagged." "yes, she hasn't been well. mrs. timberlake has tried to persuade her to take a tonic." for a minute he hesitated. "there hasn't been any trouble, i hope. anything i could straighten out?" he looked curiously young and embarrassed as he put the question. "nothing that i know of. i think she feels a little nervous and let-down, that's all." the hesitation had gone now from his manner, and he appeared relieved and cheerful. "i had forgotten that you aren't the keeper of the soul as well as the body. it's amazing the way you manage letty. she is happier than i have ever seen her." then, as the child got up from her play and came over to him, he asked tenderly, "aren't you happy, darling?" "yes, i'm happy, father," answered letty, slowly and gravely, "but i wish mother was happy too. she was crying this morning, and so was aunt mary." a wine-dark flush stained blackburn's face, while the arms that had been about to lift letty from the floor, dropped suddenly to his sides. the pleasure his praise had brought to caroline faded as she watched him, and she felt vaguely disturbed and apprehensive. was there something, after all, that she did not understand? was there a deeper closet and a grimmer skeleton at briarlay than the one she had discovered? "if your mother isn't happy, letty, you must try to make her so," he answered presently in a low voice. "i do try, father, i try dreadfully hard, and so does miss meade. but i think she wants something she hasn't got," she added in a whisper, "i think she wants something so very badly that it hurts her." "and does your aunt mary want something too?" though he spoke jestingly, the red flush was still in his face. letty put up her arms and drew his ear down to her lips. "oh, no, aunt mary cries just because mother does." "well, we'll see what we can do about it," he responded, as he turned away and went out of the door. listening attentively, caroline heard his steps pass down the hall, descend the stairs, and stop before the door of the front drawing-room. "i wonder if mr. wythe is still reading," she thought; and then she went back to her unfinished letter, while letty returned cheerfully to her play in the corner. * * * * * this is an ugly blot, mother dear, but mr. blackburn came in so suddenly that he startled me, and i almost upset my inkstand. he stayed quite a long time, and talked more than he had ever done to me before--mostly about politics. i have changed my opinion of him since i came here. when i first knew him i thought him wooden and hard, but the more i see of him the better i like him, and i am sure that everything we heard about him was wrong. he has an unfortunate manner at times, and he is very nervous and irritable, and little things upset him unless he keeps a tight grip on himself; but i believe that he is really kind-hearted and sincere in what he says. one thing i am positive about--there was not a word of truth in the things mrs. colfax wrote me before i came here. he simply adores letty, and whatever trouble there may be between him and his wife, i do not believe that it is entirely his fault. mrs. timberlake says he was desperately in love with her when he married her, and i can tell, just by watching them together, how terribly she must have made him suffer. of course, i should not say this to any one else, but i tell you everything--i have to tell you--and i know you will not read a single word of this to the girls. i used to hope that letty's illness would bring them together--wouldn't that have been just the way things happen in books?--but everybody blamed him because she went to the tableaux, and, as far as i can see, she lets people think what is false, without lifting a finger to correct them. it is such a pity that she isn't as fine as we once thought her--for she looks so much like an angel that it is hard not to believe that she is good, no matter what she does. if you haven't lived in the house with her, it is impossible to see through her, and even now i am convinced that if she chose to take the trouble, she could twist everyone of us, even mr. blackburn, round her little finger. you remember i wrote you that mr. wythe did not like her? well, she has chosen to be sweet to him of late, and now he is simply crazy about her. he reads her all his plays, and she is just as nice and sympathetic as she can be about his work. i sometimes wish miss blackburn would not be quite so frank and sharp in her criticism. i have heard her snap him up once or twice about something he wrote, and i am sure she hurt his feelings. one afternoon, when i took letty down to the drawing-room to show a new dress to her mother, he was reading, and he went straight on, while we were there, and finished his play. i liked it very much, and so did mrs. blackburn, but miss blackburn really showed some temper because he would not change a line when she asked him to. it was such a pity she was unreasonable because it made her look plain and unattractive, and mrs. blackburn was too lovely for words. she had on a dress of grey crãªpe exactly the colour of her eyes, and her hair looked softer and more golden than ever. it is the kind of hair one never has very much of--as fine and soft as maud's--but it is the most beautiful colour and texture i ever saw. well, i thought that miss blackburn was right when she said the line was all out of character with the speaker; but mrs. blackburn did not agree with us, and when mr. wythe appealed to her, she said it was just perfect as it was, and that he must not dream of changing it. then he said he was going to let it stand, and miss blackburn was so angry that she almost burst into tears. i suppose it hurt her to see how much more he valued the other's opinion; but it would be better if she could learn to hide her feelings. and all the time mrs. blackburn lay back in her chair, in her dove grey dress, and just smiled like a saint. you would have thought she pitied her sister-in-law, she looked at her so sweetly when she said, "mary, dear, we mustn't let you persuade him to ruin it." you know i really began to ask myself if i had not been unjust to her in thinking that she could be a little bit mean. then i remembered that poor old woman in pine street--i wrote you about her last autumn--and i knew she was being sweet because there was something she wanted to gain by it. i don't know what it is she wants, nor why she is wasting so much time on mr. wythe; but it is exactly as if she had bloomed out in the last month like a white rose. she takes more trouble about her clothes, and there is the loveliest glow--there isn't any word but bloom that describes it--about her skin and hair and eyes. she looks years younger than she did when i came here. i wanted to write you about mr. blackburn, but his wife is so much more fascinating. even if you do not like her, you are obliged to think about her, and even if you do not admire her, you are obliged to look at her when she is in the room. she says very little--and as she never says anything clever, i suppose this is fortunate--but somehow she just manages to draw everything to her. i suppose it is personality, but you always say that personality depends on mind and heart, and i am sure her attraction has nothing to do with either of these. it is strange, isn't it, but the whole time mr. blackburn was in here talking to me, i kept wondering if she had ever cared for him? mrs. timberlake says that she never did even when she married him, and that now she is irritated because he is having a good many financial difficulties, and they interfere with her plans. but mr. blackburn seems to worry very little about money. i believe his friends think that some day he may run for the senate--forlorn hope blackburn, colonel ashburton calls him, though he says that he has a larger following among the independent voters than anybody suspects. i shouldn't imagine there was the faintest chance of his election--for he has anything but an ingratiating manner with people; and so much in a political candidate depends upon a manner. you remember all the dreadful speeches that were flung about in the last presidential elections. well, mr. sloane, who was down here from new york the other day, said he really thought the result might have been different if the campaign speakers had had better manners. it seems funny that such a little thing should decide a great question, doesn't it? i suppose, when the time comes for us to go into this war or stay out of it, the decision will rest upon something so small that it will never get into history, not even between the lines. you remember that remark of turgot's--that dear father loved to quote: "the greatest evils in life have their rise from things too small to be attended to." after hearing mr. blackburn talk, i am convinced that he is perfectly honest in everything he says. as far as i can gather he believes, just as we do, that men should go into politics in order to give, not to gain, and he feels that they will give freely of themselves only to something they love, or to some ideal that is like a religion to them. he says the great need is to love america--that we have not loved, we have merely exploited, and he thinks that as long as the sections remain distinct from the nation, and each man thinks first of his own place, the nation will be exploited for the sake of the sections. he says, too, and this sounds like father, that the south is just as much the nation as the north or the west, and that it is the duty of the south to do her share in the building of the future. i know this is put badly, but you will understand what i mean. now, i really must stop. oh, i forgot to tell you that mrs. blackburn wants to know if you could find time to do some knitting for her? she says she will furnish all the wool you need, and she hopes you will make socks instead of mufflers. i told her you knitted the most beautiful socks. i am always thinking of you and wondering about the cedars. your loving, caroline. it looks very much as if we were going to fight, doesn't it? has the president been waiting for the country, or the country for the president? chapter iii man's woman from the second drawing-room, where angelica had tea every afternoon, there drifted the fragrance of burning cedar, and as blackburn walked quickly toward the glow of the fire, he saw his wife in her favourite chair with deep wings, and alan wythe stretched languidly on the white fur rug at her feet. mary was not there. she had evidently just finished tea, for her riding-crop lay on a chair by the door; but when blackburn called her name, alan stopped his reading and replied in his pleasant voice, "i think she has gone out to the stable. william came to tell her that one of the horses had a cough." "then i'll find her. she seems out of sorts, and i'm trying to make her see the doctor." "i am sorry for that." laying aside the book, alan sprang to his feet, and stood gazing anxiously into the other's face. "she always appears so strong that one comes to take her fitness as a matter of course." "yes, i never saw her look badly until the last day or two. have you noticed it, angelica?" without replying to his question, angelica rested her head against the pink velvet cushion, and turned a gentle, uncomprehending stare on his face. it was her most disconcerting expression, for in the soft blankness and immobility of her look, he read a rebuke which she was either too amiable or too well-bred to utter. he wondered what he had done that was wrong, and, in the very instant of wondering, he felt himself grow confused and angry and aggressive. this was always the effect of her stare and her silence--for nature had provided her with an invincible weapon in her mere lack of volubility--and when she used it as deliberately as she did now, she could, without speaking a syllable, goad him to the very limit of his endurance. it was as if her delicate hands played on his nerves and evoked an emotional discord. "have you noticed that mary is not well?" he asked sharply, and while he spoke, he became aware that alan's face had lost its friendliness. "no, i had not noticed it." her voice dropped as softly as liquid honey from her lips. "i thought her looking very well and cheerful at tea." she spoke without movement or gesture; but the patient and resigned droop of her figure, the sad grey eyes, and the hurt quiver of her eyelashes, implied the reproach she had been too gentle to put into words. the contrast with her meekness made him appear rough and harsh; yet the knowledge of this, instead of softening him, only increased his sense of humiliation and bitterness. "perhaps, then, there is no need of my speaking to her?" he said. "it might please her." she was sympathetic now about mary. "i am sure that she would like to know how anxious you are." for the first time since he had entered the room she was smiling, and this slow, rare smile threw a golden radiance over her features. he thought, as caroline had done several afternoons ago, that her beauty, which had grown a little dim and pale during the autumn, had come back with an april colour and freshness. not only her hair and eyes, but the ivory tint of her skin seemed to shine with a new lustre, as if from some hidden fire that was burning within. for a minute the old appeal to his senses returned, and he felt again the beat and quiver of his pulses which her presence used to arouse. then his mind won the victory, and the emotion faded to ashes before its warmth had passed to his heart. "i'll go and find her," he said again, with the awkwardness he always showed when he was with her. her smile vanished, and she leaned forward with an entreating gesture, which flowed through all the slender, exquisite lines of her body. instinctively he knew that she had not finished with him yet; that she was not ready to let him go until he had served some inscrutable purpose which she had had in view from the beginning. his mind was not trained to recognize subtleties of intention or thought; and while he waited for her to reveal herself, he began wondering what she could possibly want with him now? clearly it was all part of some intricate scheme; yet it appeared incredible to his blunter perceptions that she should exhaust the resources of her intelligence merely for the empty satisfaction of impressing mary's lover. "david," she began in a pleading tone, "aren't you going to have tea with me?" "i had it upstairs." he was baffled and at bay before an attack which he could not understand. "in the nursery?" her voice trembled slightly. "yes, in the nursery." as if she had ever expected or desired him to interrupt her amusements! "was cousin matty up there?" though he was still unable to define her motive, his ears detected the faint note of suspense that ruffled the thin, clear quality of her voice. "no, only letty and miss meade." a tremor crossed her face, as if he had struck her; then she said, not reproachfully, but with a pathetic air of self-effacement and humility, "miss meade is very intelligent. i am so glad you have found someone you like to talk to. i know i am dull about politics." and her eyes added wistfully, "it isn't my fault that i am not so clever." "yes, she is intelligent," he answered drily; and then, still mystified and dully resentful because he could not understand, he turned and went out as abruptly as he had entered. while his footsteps passed through the long front drawing-room and across the hall, angelica remained motionless, with her head bent a little sadly, as if she were listening to the echo of some half-forgotten sorrow. then, sighing gently, she looked from alan into the fire, and reluctantly back at alan again. she seemed impulsively, against her will and her conscience, to turn to him for understanding and sympathy; and at the sight of her unspoken appeal, he threw himself on the rug at her feet, and exclaimed in a strangled voice, "you are unhappy!" with these three words, into which he seemed to put infinity, he had broken down the walls of reticence that divide human souls from each other. she was unhappy! before this one torrential discovery all the restraints of habit and tradition, of conscience and honour, vanished like the imperfect structures of man in the rage of the hurricane. she shivered, and looked at him with a long frightened gaze. there was no rebellion, there was only a passive sadness in her face. she was too weak, her eyes said, to contend with unhappiness. some stronger hands than hers must snatch her from her doom if she were to be rescued. "how can i be happy?" the words were wrung slowly from her lips. "you see how it is?" "yes, i see." he honestly imagined that he did. "i see it all, and it makes me desperate. it is unbelievable that any one should make you suffer." she shook her head and answered in a whisper, "it is partly my fault. whatever happens, i always try to remember that, and be just. the first mistake may have been mine." "yours?" he exclaimed passionately, and then dropping his face into his hands, "if only i were not powerless to protect you!" for a moment, after his smothered cry, she said nothing. then, with an exquisite gesture of renunciation, she put the world and its temptations away from her. "we are both powerless," she responded firmly, "and now you must read me the rest of your play, or i shall be obliged to send you home." blackburn, meanwhile, had stopped outside on his way to the stable, and stood looking across the garden for some faint prospect of a clearer to-morrow. overhead the winter sky was dull and leaden; but in the west a thin silver line edged the horizon, and his gaze hung on this thread of light, as if it were prophetic not only of sunshine, but of happiness. already he was blaming himself for the scene with angelica; already he was resolving to make a stronger effort at reconciliation and understanding, to win her back in spite of herself, to be patient, sympathetic, and generous, rather than just, in his judgment of her. in his more philosophical moments he beheld her less as the vehicle of personal disenchantment, than as the unfortunate victim of a false system, of a ruinous upbringing. she had been taught to grasp until grasping had become not so much a habit of gesture, as a reflex movement of soul--an involuntary reaction to the nerve stimulus of her surroundings. though he had learned that the sight of any object she did not own immediately awoke in her the instinct of possession, he still told himself, in hours of tolerance, that this weakness of nature was the result of early poverty and lack of mental discipline, and that disappointment with material things would develop her character as inevitably as it would destroy her physical charm. so far, he was obliged to admit, she had risen superior to any disillusionment from possession, with the ironic exception of that brief moment when she had possessed his adoration; yet, in spite of innumerable failures, it was characteristic of the man that he should cling stubbornly to his belief in some secret inherent virtue in her nature, as he had clung, when love failed him, to the frail sentiments of habit and association. the richness of her beauty had blinded him for so long to the poverty of her heart, that, even to-day, bruised and humiliated as he was, he found himself suddenly hoping that she might some day change miraculously into the woman he had believed her to be. the old half-forgotten yearning for her swept over him while he thought of her, the yearning to kneel at her feet, to kiss her hands, to lift his eyes and see her bending like an angel above him. and in his thoughts she came back to him, not as she was in reality, but as he longed for her to be. with one of those delusive impersonations of memory, which torment the heart after the mind has rejected them, she came back to him with her hands outstretched to bless, not to grasp, and a look of goodness and love in her face. he remembered his first meeting with her--the close, over-heated rooms, the empty faces, the loud, triumphant music; and then suddenly she had bloomed there, like a white flower, in the midst of all that was ineffectual and meaningless. one minute he had been lonely, tired, depressed, and the next he was rested and happy and full of wild, startled dreams of the future. she had been girlish and shy and just a little aloof--all the feminine graces adorned her--and he had surrendered in the traditional masculine way. afterwards he discovered that she had intended from the first instant to marry him; but on that evening he had seen only her faint, reluctant flight from his rising emotion. she had played the game so well; she had used the ancient decoy so cleverly, that it had taken years to tear the veil of illusion from the bare structure of method. for he knew now that she had been methodical, that she had been utterly unemotional; and that her angelic virtue had been mere thinness of temperament. never for a moment had she been real, never had she been natural; and he admitted, in the passing mood of confession, that if she had once been natural--as natural as the woman upstairs--the chances were that she would never have won him. manlike, he would have turned from the blade-straight nature to pursue the beckoning angel of the faint reluctance. if she had stooped but for an instant, if she had given him so much as the touch of her fingers, she might have lost him. life, not instinct, had taught him the beauty of sincerity in woman, the grace of generosity. in his youth, it was woman as mystery, woman as destroyer, to whom he had surrendered. descending the steps from the terrace, he walked slowly along the brick way to the stable, where he found mary giving medicine to her favourite horse. "briar rose has a bad cough, david." he asked a few questions, and then, when the dose was administered, they turned together, and strolled back through the garden. mary looked cross and anxious, and he could tell by the way she spoke in short jerks that her nerves were not steady. her tone of chaffing had lost its ease, and the effort she made to appear flippant seemed to hurt her. "are you all right again, mary?" "quite all right. why shouldn't i be?" "there's no reason that i know of," he replied seriously. "have you decided when you will be married?" she winced as if he had touched a nerve. "no, we haven't decided." for a minute she walked on quickly, then looking up with a defiant smile, she said, "i am not sure that we are ever going to be married." so the trouble was out at last! he breathed heavily, overcome by some indefinable dread. after all, why should mary's words have disturbed him so deeply? the chances were, he told himself, that it was nothing more than the usual lovers' quarrel. "my dear, alan is a good fellow. don't let anything make trouble between you." "oh, i know he is a good fellow--only--only i am not sure we--we should be happy together. i don't care about books, and he doesn't care any longer for horses----" "as if these things mattered! you've got the fundamental thing, haven't you?" "the fundamental thing?" she was deliberately evading him--she, the straightforward mary! "i mean, of course, that you care for each other." at this she broke down, and threw out her hands with a gesture of despair. "i don't know. i used to think so, but i don't know any longer," she answered, and fled from him into the house. as he looked after her he felt the obscure doubt struggling again in his mind, and with it there returned the minor problem of his financial difficulties, and the conversation he must sooner or later have with angelica. nothing in his acquaintance with angelica had surprised him more than the discovery that, except in the embellishment of her own attractions, she could be not only prudent, but stingy. even her extravagance--if a habit of spending that exacted an adequate return for every dollar could be called extravagance--was cautious and cold like her temperament, as if nature had decreed that she should possess no single attribute of soul in abundance. no impulse had ever swept her away, not even the impulse to grasp. she had always calculated, always schemed with her mind, not her senses, always moved slowly and deliberately toward her purpose. she would never speak the truth, he knew, just as she would never over-step a convention, because truthfulness and unconventionality would have interfered equally with the success of her designs. life had become for her only a pedestal which supported an image; and this image, as unlike the actual angelica as a christmas angel is unlike a human being, was reflected, in all its tinselled glory, in the minds of her neighbours. before the world she would be always blameless, wronged, and forgiving. he knew these things with his mind, yet there were moments even now when his heart still desired her. an hour later, when he entered her sitting-room, he found her, in a blue robe, on the sofa in front of the fire. of late he had noticed that she seldom lay down in the afternoon, and as she was not a woman of moods, he was surprised that she had broken so easily through a habit which had become as fixed as a religious observance. "it doesn't look as if you had had much rest to-day," he said, as he entered. she looked up with an expression that struck him as incongruously triumphant. though at another time he would have accepted this as an auspicious omen, he wondered now, after the episode of the afternoon, if she were merely gathering her forces for a fresh attack. he shrank from approaching her on the subject of economy, because experience had taught him that her first idea of saving would be to cut down the wages of the servants; and he had a disturbing recollection that she had met his last suggestion that they should reduce expenses with a reminder that it was unnecessary to employ a trained nurse to look after letty. when she wanted to strike hardest, she invariably struck through the child. though she was not clever, she had been sharp enough to discover the chink in his armour. "did you find mary?" she asked. "yes, she seems out of sorts. what is the trouble between her and alan?" "is there any trouble?" she appeared surprised. "i fear so. she told me she was not sure that they were going to be married." "did she say that?" "she said it, but she may not have meant it. i cannot understand." angelica pondered his words. "well, i've noticed lately that she wasn't very nice to him." "but she was wildly in love with him. she cannot have changed so suddenly." "why not?" she raised her eyebrows slightly. "people do change, don't they?" "not when they are like mary." with a gesture of perplexity, he put the subject away from him. "what i really came to tell you isn't very much better," he said. "of late, since the war began, things have been going rather badly with me. i dare say i'll manage to pull up sooner or later, but every interest in which i am heavily involved has been more or less affected by the condition of the country. if we should go into this war----" she looked up sharply. "don't you think we can manage to keep out of it?" "to keep out of it?" even now there were moments when she astonished him. for the first time in months her impatience got the better of her. "oh, i know, of course, that you would like us to fight germany; but it seems to me that if you stopped to think of all the suffering it would mean----" "i do stop to think." "then there isn't any use talking!" "not about that; but considering the uncertainty of the immediate future, don't you think we might try, in some way, to cut down a bit?" turning away from him, she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "if it is really necessary----?" "it may become necessary at any moment." at this she looked straight up at him. "well, since letty is so much better, i am sure that there is no need for us to keep a trained nurse for her." she had aimed squarely, and he flinched at the blow. "but the child is so happy." "she would be just as happy with any one else." "no other nurse has ever done so much for her. why, she has been like a different child since miss meade came to her." while he spoke he became aware that she was looking at him as she had looked in the drawing-room. "then you refuse positively to let me send miss meade away?" "i refuse positively, once and for all." her blank, uncomprehending stare followed him as he turned and went out of the room. chapter iv the martyr a fortnight later light was thrown on blackburn's perplexity by a shrewd question from mrs. timberlake. for days he had been groping in darkness, and now, in one instant, it seemed to him that his discovery leaped out in a veritable blaze of electricity. how could he have gone on in ignorance? how could he have stumbled, with unseeing eyes, over the heart of the problem? "david," said the housekeeper bluntly, "don't you think that this thing has been going on long enough?" they were in the library, and before putting the question, she had closed the door and even glanced suspiciously at the windows. "this thing?" he looked up from his newspaper, with the vague idea that she was about to discourse upon our diplomatic correspondence with germany. "i am not talking about the president's notes." her voice had grown rasping. "he may write as many as he pleases, if they will make the germans behave themselves without our having to go to war. what i mean is the way mary is eating her heart out. haven't you noticed it?" "i have been worried about her for some time." he laid the paper down on the desk. "but i haven't been able to discover what is the matter." "if you had asked me two months ago, i could have told you it was about that young fool alan." "about wythe? why, i thought she and wythe were particularly devoted." if he were sparring for time, there was no hint of it in his manner. it really looked, the housekeeper told herself grimly, as if he had not seen the thing that was directly before his eyes until she had pointed it out to him. "they were," she answered tartly, "at one time." "well, what is the trouble now? a lovers' quarrel?" it was a guiding principle with mrs. timberlake that when her conscience drove her she never looked at her road; and true to this intemperate practice, she plunged now straight ahead. "the trouble is that alan has been making a fool of himself over angelica." it was the first time that she had implied the faintest criticism of his wife, and as soon as she had uttered the words, her courage evaporated, and she relapsed into her attitude of caustic reticence. even her figure, in its rusty black, looked shrunken and huddled. "so that is it!" his voice was careless and indifferent. "you mean he has been flattered because she has let him read his plays to her?" "he hasn't known when to stop. if something isn't done, he will go on reading them for ever." "well, if angelica enjoys them?" "but it makes mary very unhappy. can't you see that she is breaking her heart over it?" "angelica doesn't know." he might have been stating a fact about one of the belligerent nations. "oh, of course." she grasped at the impersonal note, but it escaped her. "if she only knew, she could so easily stop it." "so you think if someone were to mention it?" "that is why i came to you. i thought you might manage to drop a word that would let angelica see how much it is hurting mary. she wouldn't want to hurt mary just for the sake of a little amusement. the plays can't be so very important, or they would be on the stage, wouldn't they?" "could you tell her, do you think?" it was the first time he had ever attempted to evade a disagreeable duty, and the question surprised her. "angelica wouldn't listen to a word i said. she'd just think i'd made it up, and i reckon it does look like a tempest in a teapot." he met this gravely. "well, it is natural that she shouldn't take a thing like that seriously." "yes, it's natural." she conceded the point ungrudgingly. "i believe angelica would die before she would do anything really wrong." if he accepted this in silence, it was not because the tribute to angelica's character appeared to him to constitute an unanswerable argument. during the weeks when he had been groping his way to firmer ground, he had passed beyond the mental boundaries in which angelica and her standards wore any longer the aspect of truth. he knew them to be not only artificial, but false; and mrs. timberlake's praise was scarcely more than a hollow echo from the world that he had left. that angelica, who would lie and cheat for an advantage, could be held, through mere coldness of nature, to be above "doing anything really wrong," was a fallacy which had once deluded his heart, but failed now to convince his intelligence. once he had believed in the sacred myth of her virtue; now, brought close against the deeper realities, he saw that her virtue was only a negation, and that true goodness must be, above all things, an affirmation of spirit. "i'll see what i can do," he said, and wondered why the words had not worn threadbare. "you mean you'll speak to angelica?" her relief rasped his nerves. "yes, i'll speak to angelica." "don't you think it would be better to talk first to mary?" before replying, he thought over this carefully. "perhaps it would be better. will you tell her that i'd like to see her immediately?" she nodded and went out quickly, and it seemed to him that the door had barely closed before it opened again, and mary came in with a brave step and a manner of unnatural alertness and buoyancy. "david, do you really think we are going to have war?" it was an awkward evasion, but she had not learned either to evade or equivocate gracefully. "i think we are about to break off diplomatic relations----" "and that means war, doesn't it?" "who knows?" he made a gesture of impatience. "you are trying to climb up on the knees of the gods." "i want to go," she replied breathlessly, "whether we have war or not, i want to go to france. will you help me?" "of course i will help you." "i mean will you give me money?" "i will give you anything i've got. it isn't so much as it used to be." "it will be enough for me. i want to go at once--next week--to-morrow." he looked at her attentively, his grave, lucid eyes ranging thoughtfully over her strong, plain face, which had grown pale and haggard, over her boyish figure, which had grown thin and wasted. "mary," he said suddenly, "what is the trouble? is it an honest desire for service or is it--the open door?" for a minute she looked at him with frightened eyes; then breaking down utterly, she buried her face in her hands and turned from him. "oh, david, i must get away! i cannot live unless i get away!" "from briarlay?" "from briarlay, but most of all--oh, most of all," she brought this out with passion, "from alan!" "then you no longer care for him?" instead of answering his question, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and threw back her head with a gesture that reminded him of the old boyish mary. "will you let me go, david?" "not until you have told me the truth." "but what is the truth?" she cried out, with sudden anger. "do you suppose i am the kind of woman to talk of a man's being 'taken away,' as if he were a loaf of bread to be handed from one woman to another? if he had ever been what i believed him, do you imagine that any one could have 'taken' him? is there any man on earth who could have taken me from alan?" "what has made the trouble, mary?" he put the question very slowly, as if he were weighing every word that he uttered. she flung the pretense aside as bravely as she had dashed the tears from her eyes. "of course i have known all along that she was only flirting--that she was only playing the game----" "then you think that the young fool has been taking angelica too seriously?" at this her anger flashed out again. "seriously enough to make me break my engagement!" "all because he likes to read his plays to her?" "all because he imagines her to be misunderstood and unhappy and ill-treated. oh, david, will you never wake up? how much longer are you going to walk about the world in your sleep? no one has said a breath against angelica--no one ever will--she isn't that kind. but unless you wish alan to be ruined, you must send him away." "isn't she the one to send him away?" "then go to her. go to her now, and tell her that she must do it to-day." "yes, i will tell her that." even while he spoke the words which would have once wrung his heart, he was visited by that strange flashing sense of unreality, of the insignificance and transitoriness of angelica's existence. like mrs. timberlake's antiquated standards of virtue, she belonged to a world which might vanish while he watched it and leave him still surrounded by the substantial structure of life. "then tell her now. i hear her in the hall," said mary brusquely, as she turned away. "it is not likely that she will come in here," he answered, but the words were scarcely spoken before angelica's silvery tones floated to them. "david, may i come in? i have news for you." an instant later, as mary went out, with her air of arrogant sincerity, a triumphant figure in grey velvet passed her in the doorway. "i saw robert and cousin charles a moment ago, and they told me that we had really broken off relations with germany----" she had not meant to linger over the news, but while she was speaking, he crossed the room and closed the door gently behind her. "don't you think now we have done all that is necessary?" she demanded triumphantly. "cousin charles says we have vindicated our honour at last." blackburn smiled slightly. the sense of unreality, which had been vague and fugitive a moment before, rolled over and enveloped him. "it is rather like refusing to bow to a man who has murdered one's wife." a frown clouded her face. "oh, i know all you men are hoping for war, even alan, and you would think an artist would see things differently." "do you think alan is hoping for it?" "aren't you every one except cousin charles? robert told me just now that virginia is beginning to boil over. he believes the country will force the president's hand. oh, i wonder if the world will ever be sane and safe again?" he was watching her so closely that he appeared to be drinking in the sound of her voice and the sight of her loveliness; yet never for an instant did he lose the feeling that she was as ephemeral as a tinted cloud or a perfume. "angelica," he said abruptly, "mary has just told me that she has broken her engagement to alan." tiny sparks leaped to her eyes. "well, i suppose they wouldn't have been happy together----" "do you know why she did it?" "do i know why?" she looked at him inquiringly. "how could i know? she has not told me." "has alan said anything to you about it?" "why, yes, he told me that she had broken it." "and did he tell you why?" she was becoming irritated by the cross examination. "no, why should he tell me? it is their affair, isn't it? now, if that is all, i must go. alan has brought the first act of a new play, and he wants my opinion." the finishing thrust was like her, for she could be bold enough when she was sure of her weapons. even now, though he knew her selfishness, it was incredible to him that she should be capable of destroying mary's happiness when she could gain nothing by doing it. of course if there were some advantage---"alan can wait," he said bluntly. "angelica, can't you see that this has gone too far, this nonsense of alan's?" "this nonsense?" she raised her eyebrows. "do you call his plays nonsense?" "i call his plays humbug. what must stop is his folly about you. when mary goes, you must send him away." her smile was like the sharp edge of a knife. "so it is alan now? it was poor roane only yesterday." "it is poor roane to-day as much as it ever was. but alan must stop coming here." "and why, if i may ask?" "you cannot have understood, or you would have stopped it." "i should have stopped what?" he met her squarely. "alan's infatuation--for he is infatuated, isn't he?" "do you mean with me?" her indignant surprise almost convinced him of her ignorance. "who has told you that?" she was holding a muff of silver fox, and she gazed down at it, stroking the fur gently, while she waited for him to answer. he noticed that her long slender fingers--she had the hand as well as the figure of one of botticelli's graces--were perfectly steady. "that was the reason that mary broke her engagement," he responded. "did she tell you that?" "yes, she told me. she said she knew that you had not meant it--that alan had lost his head----" her voice broke in suddenly with a gasp of outraged amazement. "and you ask me to send alan away because you are jealous? you ask me this--after--after----" her attitude of indignant virtue was so impressive that, for a moment, he found himself wondering if he had wronged her--if he had actually misunderstood and neglected her? "you must see for yourself, angelica, that this cannot go on." "you dare to turn on me like this!" she cried out so clearly that he started and looked at the door in apprehension. "you dare to accuse me of ruining mary's happiness--after all i have suffered--after all i have stood from you----" as her voice rose in its piercing sweetness, it occurred to him for the first time that she might wish to be overheard, that she might be making this scene less for his personal benefit than for its effect upon an invisible audience. it was the only time he had ever known her to sacrifice her inherent fastidiousness, and descend to vulgar methods of warfare, and he was keen enough to infer that the prize must be tremendous to compensate for so evident a humiliation. "i accuse you of nothing," he said, lowering his tone in the effort to reduce hers to a conversational level. "for your own sake, i ask you to be careful." but he had unchained the lightning, and it flashed out to destroy him. "you dare to say this to me--you who refused to send miss meade away though i begged you to----" "to send miss meade away?" the attack was so unexpected that he wavered before it. "what has miss meade to do with it?" "you refused to send her away. you positively refused when i asked you." "yes, i refused. but miss meade is letty's nurse. what has she to do with mary and alan?" "oh, are you still trying to deceive me?" for an instant he thought she was going to burst into tears. "you knew you were spending too much time in the nursery--that you went when cousin matty was not there--alan heard you admit it--you knew that i wanted to stop it, and you refused--you insisted----" but his anger had overpowered him now, and he caught her arm roughly in a passionate desire to silence the hideous sound of her words, to thrust back the horror that she was spreading on the air--out into the world and the daylight. "stop, angelica, or----" suddenly, without warning, she shrieked aloud, a shriek that seemed to his ears to pierce, not only the ceiling, but the very roof of the house. as he stood there, still helplessly holding her arm, which had grown limp in his grasp, he became aware that the door opened quickly and alan came into the room. "i heard a cry--i thought----" angelica's eyes were closed, but at the sound of alan's voice, she raised her lids and looked at him with a frightened and pleading gaze. "i cried out. i am sorry," she said meekly. without glancing at blackburn, she straightened herself, and walked, with short, wavering steps, out of the room. for a minute the two men faced each other in silence; then alan made an impetuous gesture of indignation and followed angelica. chapter v the choice "looks as if we were going to war, blackburn." it was the beginning of april, and robert colfax had stopped on the steps of his club. "it has looked that way for the last thirty-two months." "well, beware the anger--or isn't it the fury?--of the patient man. it has to come at last. we've been growling too long not to spring--and my only regret is that, as long as we're going to war, we didn't go soon enough to get into the fight. i'd like to have had a chance at potting a german. every man in town is feeling like that to-day." "you think it will be over before we get an army to france?" "i haven't a doubt of it. it will be nothing more than a paper war to a finish." a good many virginians were thinking that way. blackburn was not sure that he hadn't thought that way himself for the last two or three months. everywhere he heard regrets that it was too late to have a share in the actual whipping of germany--that we were only going to fight a decorous and inglorious war on paper. suddenly, in a night, as it were, the war spirit in virginia had flared out. there was not the emotional blaze--the flaming heat--older men said--of the confederacy; but there was an ever-burning, insistent determination to destroy the roots of this evil black flower of prussian autocracy. there was no hatred of austria--little even of turkey. the prussian spirit was the foe of america and of the world; and it was against the prussian spirit that the militant soul of virginia was springing to arms. men who had talked peace a few months before--who had commended the nation that was "too proud to fight," who had voted for the president because of the slogan "he kept us out of war"--had now swung round dramatically with the _volte-face_ of the government. the president had at last committed himself to a war policy, and all over the world americans were awaiting the great word from congress. in an hour personal interests had dissolved into an impersonal passion of service. in an hour opposing currents of thought had flowed into a single dominant purpose, and the president, who had once stood for a party, stood now for america. for, in a broader vision, the spirit of virginia was the spirit of all america. there were many, it is true, who had not, in the current phrase, begun to realize what war would mean to them; there were many who still doubted, or were indifferent, because the battle had not been fought at their doorstep; but as a whole the country stood determined, quiet, armed in righteousness, and waited for the great word from congress. and over the whole country, from north to south, from east to west, the one question never asked was, "what will america get out of it when it is over?" "by jove, if we do get into any actual fighting, i mean to go," said robert, "i am not yet thirty." blackburn looked at him enviously. "it's rotten on us middle-aged fellows. isn't there a hole of some sort a man of forty-three can stop up?" "of course they've come to more than that in england." "we may come to it here if the war keeps up--but that isn't likely." "no, that isn't likely unless congress dies talking. why, for god's sake, can't we strangle the pacifists for once? nobody would grieve for them." "oh, if liberty isn't for fools, it isn't liberty. i suppose the supreme test of our civilization, is that we let people go on talking when we don't agree with them." it was, in reality, only a few days that congress was taking to define and emphasize the president's policy, but these days were interminable to a nation that waited. talk was ruining the country, people said. thirty-two months of talking were enough even for an american congress. it was as much as a man's reputation was worth to vote against the war; it was more than it was worth to give his reasons for so voting. there was tension everywhere, yet there was a strange muffled quiet--the quiet before the storm. "we are too late for the fun," said robert. "germany will back down as soon as she sees we are in earnest." this was what every one was saying, and blackburn heard it again when he left colfax and went into the club. "the pity is we shan't have time to get a man over to france. it's all up to the navy." "the british navy, you mean? where'd we be now but for the british navy?" "well, thank god, the note writing is over!" there was determination enough; but the older men were right--there was none of the flame and ardour of secession days. the war was realized vaguely as a principle rather than as a fact. it was the difference between fighting for abstract justice and knocking down a man in hot blood because he has affronted one's wife. the will to strike was all there, only one did not see red when one delivered the blow. righteous indignation, not personal rage, was in the mind of america. "we aren't mad yet," remarked an old confederate soldier to blackburn. "just wait till they get us as mad as we were at manassas, and we'll show the germans!" "you mean wait until they drop bombs on new york instead of london?" "good lord, no. just wait until our boys have seen, not read, about the things they are doing." so there were a few who expected an american army to reach france before the end of the war. "never mind about taxes. we must whip the huns, and we can afford to pay the bills!" for here as elsewhere the one question never asked was, "what are we going to get out of it?" prosperity was after all a secondary interest. underneath was the permanent idealism of the american mind. when blackburn reached briarlay, he found letty and caroline walking under the budding trees in the lane, and stopping his car, he got out and strolled slowly back with them to the house. the shimmer and fragrance of spring was in the air, and on the ground crowds of golden crocuses were unfolding. "father, will you go to war if uncle roane does?" asked letty, as she slipped her hand into blackburn's and looked up, with her thoughtful child's eyes, into his face. "uncle roane says he is going to whip the germans for me." "i'll go, if they'll take me, letty. your uncle roane is ten years younger than i am." at the moment the war appeared to him, as it had appeared to mary, as the open door--the way of escape from an intolerable situation; but he put this idea resolutely out of his mind. there was a moral cowardice in using impersonal issues as an excuse for the evasion of personal responsibility. "but you could fight better than he could, father." "i am inclined to agree with you. perhaps the government will think that way soon." "alan is going, too. mother begged him not to, but he said he just had to go. mammy riah says the feeling is in his bones, and he can't help it. when a feeling gets into your bones you have to do what it tells you." "it looks as if mammy riah knew something about it." "but if you go and alan goes and uncle roane goes, what will become of mother?" "you will have to take care of her, letty, you and miss meade." caroline, who had been walking in silence on the other side of the road, turned her head at the words. she was wearing a blue serge suit and a close-fitting hat of blue straw, and her eyes were as fresh and spring-like as the april sky. "there is no doubt about war, is there?" she asked. "it may come at any hour. whether it will mean an american army in france or not, no one can say; but we shall have to furnish munitions, if not men, as fast as we can turn them out." "mr. peyton said this morning it would be impossible to send men because we hadn't the ships." blackburn laughed. "then, if necessary, we will do the impossible." it was the voice of america. everywhere at that hour men were saying, "we will do the impossible." "i should like to go," said caroline. "i should like above all things to go." they had stopped in the road, and still holding letty's hand, he looked over her head at caroline's face. "miss meade, will you make me a promise?" clear and radiant and earnest, her eyes held his gaze. "unconditionally?" "no, the conditions i leave to you. will you promise?" "i will promise." she had not lowered her eyes, and he had not looked away from her. her face was pale, and in the fading sunlight he could see the little blue veins on her temples and the look of stern sweetness that sorrow had chiselled about her mouth. more than ever it seemed to him the face of a strong and fervent spirit rather than the face of a woman. so elusive was her beauty that he could say of no single feature, except her eyes, "her charm lies here--or here----" yet the impression she gave him was one of magical loveliness. there was, he thought, a touch of the divine in her smile, as if her look drew its radiance from an inexhaustible source. "will you promise me," he said, "that whatever happens, as long as it is possible, you will stay with letty?" she waited a moment before she answered him, and he knew from her face that his words had touched the depths of her heart. "i promise you that for letty's sake i will do the impossible," she answered. she gave him her hand, and he clasped it over the head of the child. it was one of those rare moments of perfect understanding and sympathy--of a mental harmony beside which all emotional rapture appears trivial and commonplace. he was aware of no appeal to his senses--life had taught him the futility of all purely physical charm--and the hand that touched caroline's was as gentle and as firm as it had been when it rested on letty's head. here was a woman who had met life and conquered it, who could be trusted, he felt, to fight to the death to keep her spirit inviolate. "only one thing will take me away from letty," she said. "if we send an army and the country calls me." "that one thing is the only thing?" "the only thing unless," she laughed as if she were suggesting an incredible event, "unless you or mrs. blackburn should send me away!" to her surprise the ridiculous jest confused him. "take care of letty," he responded quickly; and then, as they reached the porch, he dropped the child's hand, and went up the steps and into the house. in the library, by one of the windows which looked out on the terrace and the sunset, colonel ashburton was reading the afternoon paper, and as blackburn entered, he rose and came over to the fireplace. "i was a little ahead of you, so i made myself at home, as you see," he observed, with his manner of antiquated formality. in the dim light his hair made a silvery halo above his blanched features, and it occurred to blackburn that he had never seen him look quite so distinguished and detached from his age. "if i'd known you were coming, i should have arranged to get here earlier." "i didn't know it myself until it was too late to telephone you at the works." there was an unnatural constraint in his voice, and from the moment of his entrance, blackburn had surmised that the colonel's visit was not a casual one. the war news might have brought him; but it was not likely that he would have found the war news either disconcerting or embarrassing. "the news is good, isn't it?" inquired blackburn, a little stiffly, because he could think of nothing else to say. "first rate. there isn't a doubt but we'll whip the germans before autumn. it wasn't about the war, however, that i came." "there is something else then?" before he replied colonel ashburton looked up gravely at the portrait of blackburn's mother which hung over the mantelpiece. "very like her, very like her," he remarked. "she was a few years older than i--but i'm getting on now--i'm getting on. that's the worst of being born between great issues. i was too young for the last war--just managed to be in one big battle before lee surrendered--and i'm too old for this one. a peace colonel doesn't amount to much, does he?" then he looked sharply at blackburn. "david," he asked in a curiously inanimate voice, "have you heard the things people are saying about you?" "i have heard nothing except what has been said to my face." "then i may assume that the worst is still to be told you?" "you may safely assume that, i think." again the colonel's eyes were lifted to the portrait of blackburn's mother. "there must be an answer to a thing like this, david," he said slowly. "there must be something that you can say." "tell me what is said." shaking the silvery hair from his forehead, the older man still gazed upward, as if he were interrogating the portrait--as if he were seeking guidance from the imperishable youth of the painted figure. serene and soft as black pansies, the eyes of the picture looked down on him from a face that reminded him of a white roseleaf. "it is said"--he hesitated as if the words hurt him--"that your wife accuses you of cruelty. i don't know how the stories started, but i have waited until they reached a point where i felt that they must be stopped--or answered. for the sake of your future--of your work--you must say something, david." while he listened blackburn had walked slowly to the window, gazing out on the afterglow, where some soft clouds, like clusters of lilacs, hung low above the dark brown edge of the horizon. for a moment, after the voice ceased, he still stood there in silence. then wheeling abruptly, he came back to the hearth where the colonel was waiting. "is that all?" he asked. the colonel made a gesture of despair. "it is rumoured that your wife is about to leave you." blackburn looked at him intently. "if it is only a rumour----" "but a man's reputation may be destroyed by a rumour." "is there anything else?" as he spoke it was evident to the other that his thoughts were not on his words. "i am your oldest friend. i was the friend of your mother--i believe in your vision--in your power of leadership. for the sake of the ideas we both try to serve, i have come to you--hating--dreading my task----" he stopped, his voice quivering as if from an emotion that defied his control, and in the silence that followed, blackburn said quietly, "i thank you." "it is said--how this started no one knows, and i suppose it does not matter--that your wife called in the doctor to treat a bruise on her arm, and that she admitted to him that it came from a blow. daisy colfax was present, and it appears that she told the story, without malice, but indiscreetly, i gathered----" as he paused there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip trembled slightly. it had been a difficult task, but, thank god, he told himself, he had been able to see it through. to his surprise, blackburn's face had not changed. it still wore the look of immobility which seemed to the other to express nothing--and everything. "you must let me make some answer to these charges, david. the time has come when you must speak." for a moment longer blackburn was silent. then he said slowly, "what good will it do?" "but the lie, unless it is given back, will destroy not only you, but your cause. it will be used by your enemies. it will injure irretrievably the work you are trying to do. in the end it will drive you out of public life in virginia." "if you only knew how differently i am coming to think of these things," said blackburn presently, and he added after a pause, "if i cannot bear misunderstanding, how could i bear defeat?--for work like mine must lead to temporary defeat----" "not defeat like this--not defeat that leaves your name tarnished." for the first time blackburn's face showed emotion. "and you think that a public quarrel would clear it?" he asked bitterly. "but surely, without that, there could be a denial----" "there can be no other denial. there is but one way to meet a lie, and that way i cannot take." "then things must go on, as they are, to the--end?" "i cannot stop them by talking. if it rests with me, they must go on." "at the cost of your career? of your power for usefulness? of your obligations to your country?" turning his head, blackburn looked away from him to the window, which had been left open. from the outside there floated suddenly the faint, provocative scent of spring--of nature which was renewing itself in the earth and the trees. "a career isn't as big a thing at forty-three as it is at twenty," he answered, with a touch of irony. "my power for usefulness must stand on its merits alone, and my chief obligation to my country, as i see it, is to preserve the integrity of my honour. we hear a great deal to-day about the personal not counting any longer; yet the fact remains that the one enduring corner-stone of the state is the personal rectitude of its citizens. you cannot build upon any other foundation, and build soundly. i may be wrong--i often am--but i must do what i believe to be right, let the consequences be what they will." now that he had left the emotional issue behind him, the immobility had passed from his manner, and his thoughts were beginning to come with the abundance and richness that the colonel associated with his public speeches. already he had put the question of his marriage aside, as a fact which had been accepted and dismissed from his mind. "in these last few years--or months rather--i have begun to see things differently," he resumed, with an animation and intensity that contrasted strangely with his former constraint and dumbness. "i can't explain how it is, but this war has knocked a big hole in reality. we can look deeper into things than any generation before us, and the deeper we look, the more we become aware of the outer darkness in which we have been groping. i am groping now, i confess it, but i am groping for light." "it will leave a changed world when it is over," assented the colonel, and he spoke the platitude with an accent of relief, as if he had just turned away from a sight that distressed him. "more changed, i believe, for us older ones than for the young who have done the actual fighting. i should like to write a book about that--the effect of the war on the minds of the non-combatants. the fighters have been too busy to think, and it is thought, after all, not action, that leaves the more permanent record. life will spring again over the battle-fields, but the ideas born of the war will control the future destinies of mankind." "i am beginning to see," pursued blackburn, as if he had not heard him, "that there is something far bigger than the beliefs we were working for. because we had got beyond the sections to the country, you and i, we thought we were emancipated from the bondage of prejudice. the chief end of the citizen appeared to us to be the glory of the nation, but i see now--i am just beginning to see--that there is a greater spirit than the spirit of nationality. you can't live through a world war, even with an ocean between--and distance, by the way, may give us all the better perspective, and enable americans to take a wider view than is possible to those who are directly in the path of the hurricane--you can't live through a world war, and continue to think in terms of geographical boundaries. to think about it at all, one must think in universal relations." he hesitated an instant, and then went on more rapidly, "after all, we cannot beat germany by armies alone, we must beat her by thought. for two generations she has thought wrong, and it is only by thinking right--by forcing her to think right--that we can conquer her. the victory belongs to the nation that engraves its ideas indelibly upon the civilization of the future." leaning back in the shadows, colonel ashburton gazed at him with a perplexed and questioning look. was it possible that he had never understood him--that he did not understand him to-day? he had come to speak of an open scandal, of a name that might be irretrievably tarnished--and blackburn had turned it aside by talking about universal relations! chapter vi angelica's triumph caroline wrote a few nights later: dearest mother: so it has come at last, and we really and truly are at war. there is not so much excitement as you would have thought--i suppose because we have waited so long--but everybody has hung out flags--and letty and i have just helped peter put a big beautiful one over briarlay. mrs. blackburn is working so hard over the red cross that we have barely seen her for days, and mary has already gone to new york on her way to france. she is going to work there with one of the war charities, and i think it will be the best thing on earth for her, for any one can see that she has been very unhappy. mr. wythe wants to go into the army, but for some reason he has hesitated about volunteering. i think mrs. blackburn opposes it very strongly, and this is keeping him back. there is a new feeling in the air, though. the world is rushing on--somewhere--somewhere, and we are rushing with it. for days i have wanted to write you about a curious thing, but i have waited hoping that i might have been mistaken about it. you remember how very sweet mrs. blackburn was to me when i first came here. well, for the last month she has changed utterly in her manner. i cannot think of any way in which i could have offended her--though i have racked my brain over it--but she appears to avoid me whenever it is possible, and on the occasions when we are obliged to meet, she does not speak to me unless it is necessary. of course there are things i am obliged to ask her about letty; but this is usually done through the servants, and mrs. blackburn never comes into the nursery. sometimes she sends for letty to come to her, but mammy riah always takes her and brings her back again. i asked mrs. timberlake if she thought i could have done anything mrs. blackburn did not like, and if i had better go to her and demand an explanation. that seems to me the only sensible and straightforward way, but mrs. timberlake does not think it would do any good. she is as much mystified about it as i am, and so is mammy riah. nobody understands, and the whole thing has worried me more than i can ever tell you. if it wasn't for letty, and a promise i made to mr. blackburn not to leave her, i should be tempted to give up the place at the end of the week. it is cowardly to let one's self be vanquished by things like that, especially at a time when the whole world needs every particle of courage that human beings can create; but it is just like fighting an intangible enemy, and not knowing at what moment one may be saying or doing the wrong thing. not a word has been spoken to me that was rude or unkind, yet the very air i breathe is full of something that keeps me apprehensive and anxious all the time. when i am with mr. blackburn or mrs. timberlake, i tell myself that it is all just my imagination, and that i am getting too nervous to be a good nurse; and then, when i pass mrs. blackburn in the hall and she pretends not to see me, the distrust and suspicion come back again. i hate to worry you about this--for a long time i wouldn't mention it in my letters--but i feel to-night that i cannot go on without telling you about it. last night after dinner--when mrs. blackburn is at home mrs. timberlake and i dine in the breakfast-room--i went to look for letty, and found that she had slipped into the drawing-room, where mrs. blackburn and mr. wythe were engaged in their perpetual reading. the child is very fond of mr. wythe--he has a charming way with her--and when i went in, she was asking him if he were really going to war? before answering her he looked for a long time at mrs. blackburn, and then as letty repeated her question, he said, "don't you think i ought to go, letty?" "what is the war about, alan?" asked the child, and he replied, "they call it a war for democracy." then, of course, letty inquired immediately, "what is democracy?" at this alan burst out laughing, "you've got me there, socrates," he retorted, "go inquire of your father." "but father says it is a war to end war," letty replied, and her next question was, "but if you want to fight, why do you want to end war?" she is the keenest thing for her years you can imagine. i had to explain it all to her when i got her upstairs. well, what i started to tell you was that all the time mrs. blackburn said nothing, but kept looking from alan to the child, with that wistful and plaintive expression which makes her the very image of a grieving madonna. she never spoke a word, but i could tell all the time that she was trying to gain something, that she was using every bit of her charm and her pathos for some purpose i could not discover. in a little while she took letty from alan and gave her over to me, and as we went out, i heard alan say to her, "i would give anything on earth to keep you from being hurt any more." of course i shouldn't repeat this to any one else, but he must have known that i couldn't help hearing it. mr. blackburn has been very kind to me, and i know that he would do anything for letty's happiness. he is so impersonal that i sometimes feel that he knows ideas, but not men and women. it is hard for him to break through the wall he has built round himself, but after you once discover what he really is, you are obliged to admit that he is fine and absolutely to be trusted. in a way he is different from any one i have ever known--more sincere and genuine. i can't make what i mean very clear, but you will understand. for the last week i have scarcely seen him for a minute--i suppose he is absorbed in war matters--but before that he used to come in and have tea with letty, and we had some long interesting talks. the child is devoted to him, and you know she loves above all things to set her little table in the nursery, and give tea and bread and butter to whoever happens to come in. mrs. colfax used to drop in very often, and so did mary when she was here; but mrs. blackburn always promises to come, and then is too busy, or forgets all about it, and i have to make excuses for her to letty. i feel sorry for letty because she is lonely, and has no child companions, and i do everything i can to make her friendly with grown people, and to put a little wholesome pleasure into her life. a delicate child is really a very serious problem in many ways besides physical ones. letty has not naturally a cheerful disposition, though she flies off at times into a perfect gale of high spirits. for the last week i can see that she has missed her father, and she is continually asking me where he is. now i must tell you something i have not mentioned to any one except mrs. timberlake, and i spoke of it to her only because she asked me a direct question. something very unfortunate occurred here last winter, and mrs. timberlake told me yesterday that everybody in richmond has been talking about it. as long as it is known so generally--and it appears that young mrs. colfax was the one to let it out--there can't be any harm in my writing frankly to you. i haven't the faintest idea how it all started, but one morning--it must have been two months ago--mrs. blackburn showed young mrs. colfax a bruise on her arm, and she either told her or let her think that it had come from a blow. of course mrs. colfax inferred that mr. blackburn had struck his wife, and, without waiting a minute, she rushed straight out and repeated this to everybody she met. she is so amazingly indiscreet, without meaning the least harm in the world, that you might as well print a thing in the newspaper as tell it to her. no one knows how much she made up and how much mrs. blackburn actually told her; but the town has been fairly ringing, mrs. timberlake says, with the scandal. people even say that he has been so cruel to her that the servants heard her cry out in his study one afternoon, and that alan wythe, who was waiting in the drawing-room, ran in and interfered. it is all a dreadful lie, of course--you know this without my telling you--but mrs. timberlake and i cannot understand what began it, or why mrs. blackburn deliberately allowed daisy colfax to repeat such a falsehood. colonel ashburton told mrs. timberlake that the stories had already done incalculable harm to mr. blackburn's reputation, and that his political enemies were beginning to use them. you will understand better than any one else how much this distresses me, not only because i have grown to like and admire mr. blackburn, but for letty's sake also. as the child grows up this disagreement between her parents will make such a difference in her life. i cannot tell you how i long to be back at the cedars, now that spring is there and all the lilacs will so soon be in bloom. when i shut my eyes i can see you and the girls in the "chamber," and i can almost hear you talking about the war. i am not quite sure that i approve of maud's becoming a nurse. it is a hard life, and all her beauty will be wasted in the drudgery. diana's idea of going to france with the y. m. c. a. sounds much better, but most of all i like margaret's plan of canning vegetables next summer for the market. if she can manage to get an extra man to help jonas with the garden--how would nathan's son abraham do?--i believe she will make a great success of it. i am so glad that you are planting large crops this year. the question of labour is serious, i know, but letting out so much of the land "on shares" has never seemed to turn out very well. it must be almost eleven o'clock, and i have written on and on without thinking. late as it is, i am obliged to run out to peter's cottage by the stable and give his wife, mandy, a hypodermic at eleven o'clock. she was taken very ill this morning, and if she isn't better to-morrow the doctor will take her to the hospital. i promised him i would see her the last thing to-night, and telephone him if she is any worse. she is so weak that we are giving her all the stimulants that we can. i sometimes wish that i could stop being a trained nurse for a time, and just break loose and be natural. i'd like to run out bareheaded in a storm, or have hysterics, or swear like uncle george. dearest love, caroline. * * * * * when caroline reached the cottage, she found mandy in a paroxysm of pain, and after giving the medicine, she waited until the woman had fallen asleep. it was late when she went back to the house, and as she crossed the garden on her way to the terrace, where she had left one of the french windows open, she lingered for a minute to breathe in the delicious roving scents of the spring night. something sweet and soft and wild in the april air awoke in her the restlessness which the spring always brought; and she found herself wishing again that she could cast aside the professional training of the last eight or nine years, and become the girl she had been at the cedars before love had broken her heart. "i am just as young as i was then--only i am so much wiser," she thought, "and it is wisdom--it is knowing life that has caged me and made me a prisoner. i am not an actor, i am only a spectator now, and yet i believe that i could break away again if the desire came--if life really called me. perhaps, it's the spring that makes me restless--i could never, even at the cedars, smell budding things without wanting to wander--but to-night there is a kind of wildness in everything. i am tired of being caged. i want to be free to follow--follow--whatever is calling me. i wonder why the pipes of pan always begin again in the spring?" enchantingly fair and soft, beneath a silver mist that floated like a breath of dawn from the river, the garden melted into the fields and the fields into the quivering edge of the horizon. in the air there was a faint whispering of gauzy wings, and, now and then, as the breeze stirred the veil of the landscape, little pools of greenish light flickered like glow worms in the hollows. "i hate to go in, but i suppose i must," thought caroline, as she went up the steps. "fortunately roane is off after his commission, so they can't accuse me of coming out to meet him." for the first time she noticed that the lights were out in the house, and when she tried the window she had left open, she found that someone--probably patrick--had fastened it. "i ought to have told them i was going out," she thought. "i suppose the servants are all in bed, and if i go to the front and ring, i shall waken everybody." then, as she passed along the terrace, she saw that the light still glimmered beneath the curtains of the library, where blackburn was working late, and stopping before the window, she knocked twice on the panes. at her second knock, she heard a chair pushed back inside and rapid steps cross the floor. an instant later the window was unbolted, and she saw blackburn standing there against the lighted interior, with a look of surprise and inquiry, which she discerned even though his face was in shadow. he did not speak, and she said hurriedly as she entered, "i hated to disturb you, but they had locked me out." "you have been out?" it was the question he had put to her on her first night in the house. "peter's wife has been ill, and i promised the doctor to give her a hypodermic at eleven o'clock. it must be midnight now. they kept me some time at the cottage." he glanced at the clock. "yes, it is after twelve. we are working you overtime." she had crossed the room quickly on her way to the door, when he called her name, and she stopped and turned to look at him. "miss meade, i have wanted to ask you something about letty when she was not with us." "i know," she responded, with ready sympathy. "it isn't easy to talk before her without letting her catch on." "you feel that she is better?" "much better. she has improved every day in the last month or two." "you think now that she may get well in time? there seems to you a chance that she may grow up well and normal?" "with care i think there is every hope that she will. the doctor is greatly encouraged about her. in this age no physical malady, especially in a child, is regarded as hopeless, and i believe, if we keep up the treatment she is having, she may outgrow the spinal weakness that has always seemed to us so serious." for a moment he was silent. "whatever improvement there may be is due to you," he said presently, in a voice that was vibrant with feeling. "i cannot put my gratitude into words, but you have made me your debtor for life." "i have done my best," she replied gravely, "and it has made me happy to do it." "i recognize that. the beauty of it has been that i recognized that from the beginning. you have given yourself utterly and ungrudgingly to save my child. before you came she was misunderstood always, she was melancholy and brooding and self-centred, and you have put the only brightness in her life that has ever been there. all the time she becomes more like other children, more cheerful and natural." "i felt from the first that she needed companionship and diversion. she won my heart immediately, for she is a very lovable child, and if i have done anything over and above my task, it has been because i loved letty." his look softened indescribably, but all he said was, "if i go away, i shall feel that i am leaving her in the best possible care." "you expect to go away?" "i have offered my services, and the government may call on me. i hope there is some work that i can do." "everyone feels that way, i think. i feel that way myself, but as long as i can, i shall stay with letty. it is so hard sometimes to recognize one's real duty. if the call comes, i suppose i shall have to go to france, but i shan't go just because i want to, as long as the child needs me as much as she does now. mother says the duty that never stays at home is seldom to be trusted." "i know you will do right," he answered gravely. "i cannot imagine that you could ever waver in that. for myself the obligation seems now imperative, yet i have asked myself again and again if my reasons for wishing to go are as----" he broke off in amazement, and glanced, with a startled gesture, at the door, for it was opening very slowly, and, as the crack widened, there appeared the lovely disarranged head of angelica. she was wearing a kimono of sky-blue silk, which she had thrown on hastily over her nightgown, and beneath the embroidered folds, caroline caught a glimpse of bare feet in blue slippers. in the hall beyond there was the staring face of the maid, and at the foot of the stairs, the figure of mammy riah emerged, like a menacing spirit, out of the shadow. "i heard mammy riah asking for miss meade. she was not in her room," began angelica in her clear, colourless voice. "we were anxious about her--but i did not know--i did not dream----" she drew her breath sharply, and then added in a louder and firmer tone, "miss meade, i must ask you to leave the house in the morning." in an instant a cold breath blowing over caroline seemed to turn her living figure into a snow image. her face was as white as the band of her cap, but her eyes blazed like blue flames, and her voice, when it issued from her frozen lips, was stronger and steadier than angelica's. "i cannot leave too soon for my comfort," she answered haughtily. "mr. blackburn, if you will order the car, i shall be ready in an hour----" though she saw scarlet as she spoke, she would have swept by angelica with the pride and the outraged dignity of an insulted empress. "you shall not go," said blackburn, and she saw him put out his arm, as if he would keep the two women apart. "i would not stay," replied caroline, looking not at him, but straight into angelica's eyes. "i would not stay if she went on her knees to me. i will not stay even for letty----" "do you know what you have done?" demanded blackburn, in a quivering voice, of his wife. "do you know that you are ruining your child's future--your child's chance----" then, as if words were futile to convey his meaning, he stopped, and looked at her as a man looks at the thing that has destroyed him. "for letty's sake i shut my eyes as long as i could," said angelica, and of the three, she appeared the only one who spoke in sorrow and regret, not in anger. "after to-night i can deceive myself no longer. i can deceive the servants no longer----" her kimono was embroidered in a lavish design of cranes and water-lilies; and while caroline gazed at it, she felt that the vivid splashes of yellow and blue and purple were emblazoned indelibly on her memory. years afterwards--to the very end of her life--the sight of a piece of japanese embroidery was followed by an icy sickness of the heart, and a vision of angelica's amber head against the background of the dimly lighted hall and the curious faces of the maid and mammy riah. "you shall not----" said blackburn, and his face was like the face of a man who has died in a moment of horror. "you shall not dare do this thing----" he was still keeping caroline back with his outstretched hand, and while she looked at him, she forgot her own anger in a rush of pity for the humiliation which showed in every quiver of his features, in every line of his figure. it was a torture, she knew, which would leave its mark on him for ever. "you shall not dare----" he repeated, as if the words he sought would not come to him. beneath his gaze angelica paled slowly. her greatest victories had always been achieved through her dumbness; and the instinct which had guided her infallibly in the past did not fail her in this moment, which must have appeared to her as the decisive hour of her destiny. there was but one way in which she could triumph, and this way she chose, not deliberately, but in obedience to some deep design which had its source in the secret motive-power of her nature. the colour of her skin faded to ivory, her long, slender limbs trembled and wavered, and the pathos of her look was intensified into the image of tragedy. "i tried so hard not to see----" she began, and the next instant she gave a little gasping sob and dropped, like a broken flower, at his feet. for a second caroline looked down on her in silence. then, without stooping, without speaking, she drew her skirt aside, and went out of the room and up the stairs. her scorn was the scorn of the strong who is defeated for the weak who is victorious. chapter vii courage when she reached her room, caroline took off her cap and uniform and laid them smoothly away in her trunk. then she began packing with deliberate care, while her thoughts whirled as wildly as autumn leaves in a storm. outwardly her training still controlled her; but beneath her quiet gestures, her calm and orderly movements, she felt that the veneer of civilization had been stripped from the primitive woman. it was as if she had lived years in the few minutes since she had left angelica lying, lovely and unconscious, on the floor of the library. she was taking her clothes out of the closet when there was a low knock at her door, and mammy riah peered inquiringly into the room. "marse david tole me ter come," she said. "is you gwine away, honey?" before she replied, caroline crossed the floor and closed the door of the nursery. "i am going home on the earliest train in the morning. will you be sure to order the car?" the old woman came in and took the clothes out of caroline's hands. "you set right down, en wait twell i git thoo wid dis yer packin'. marse david, he tole me ter look atter you de same ez i look atter letty, en i'se gwine ter do whut he tells me." she looked a thousand years old as she stood there beside the shaded electric light on the bureau; but her dark and wrinkled face contained infinite understanding and compassion. at the moment, in the midst of caroline's terrible loneliness, mammy riah appeared almost beautiful. "i have to move about, mammy, i can't sit still. you were there. you saw it all." "i seed hit comin' befo' den, honey, i seed hit comin'." "but you knew i'd gone out to see mandy? you knew she was suffering?" "yas'm, i knows all dat, but i knows a heap mo'n dat, too." "you saw mrs. blackburn? you heard?----" "i 'uz right dar all de time. i 'uz right dar at de foot er de steers." "do you know why? can you imagine why she should have done it?" mammy riah wrinkled her brow, which was the colour and texture of stained parchment. "i'se moughty ole, and i'se moughty sharp, chile, but i cyarn' see thoo a fog. i ain' sayin' nuttin' agin miss angy, caze she wuz oner de fitzhugh chillun, ef'n a wi'te nuss did riz 'er. naw'm, i ain' sayin' nuttin 't'all agin 'er--but my eyes dey is done got so po' dat i cyarn' mek out whar she's a-gwine en whut she's a-fishin' fur." "i suppose she was trying to make me leave. but why couldn't she have come out and said so?" "go 'way f'om yer, chile! ain't you knowed miss angy better'n dat? she is jes' erbleeged ter be meally-mouthed en two-faced, caze she wuz brung up dat ar way. all de chillun dat w'ite nuss riz wuz sorter puny en pigeon-breasted inside en out, en miss angy she wuz jes' like de res' un um. she ain' never come right spang out en axed fur whut she gits, en she ain' never gwine ter do hit. naw'm, dat she ain't. she is a-gwine ter look put upon, en meek ez moses, en jes like butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouf, ef'n hit kills 'er. i'se done knowed 'er all 'er lifetime, en i ain' never seed 'er breck loose, nairy oncet. ole miss use'n ter say w'en she wuz live, dat miss angy's temper wuz so slow en poky, she'd git ter woner sometimes ef'n she reely hed a speck er one." "that must be why everybody thinks her a martyr," said caroline sternly. "even to-night she didn't lose her temper. you saw her faint away at my feet?" a shiver shook her figure, as the vision of the scene rushed before her; and bending down, with a dress still in her arms, the old woman patted and soothed her as if she had been a child. "dar now, dar now," she murmured softly. then, raising her head, with sudden suspicion, she said in a sharp whisper, "dat warn' no sho' nuff faintin'. she wuz jes' ez peart ez she could be w'en she flopped down dar on de flo'." "i didn't touch her. i wouldn't have touched her if she had been dying!" declared caroline passionately. mammy riah chuckled. "you is git ter be a reel spit-fire, honey." "i'm not a spit-fire, but i'm so angry that i see red." "cose you is, cose you is, but dat ain' no way ter git erlong in dis worl', perticular wid men folks. you ain' never seed miss angy git ez mad ez fire wid nobody, is you? dar now! i low you ain' never seed hit. you ain' never seed 'er git all in a swivet 'bout nuttin? ain't she al'ays jes' ez sof ez silk, no matter whut happen? dat's de bes' way ter git erlong, honey, you lissen ter me. de mo' open en above boa'd you is, de mo' you is gwine ter see de thing you is atter begin ter shy away f'om you. dar's miss matty timberlake now! ain't she de sort dat ain' got no sof' soap about 'er, en don't she look jes egzactly ez ef'n de buzzards hed picked 'er? naw'm, you teck en watch miss angy, en she's gwine ter sho' you sump'n. she ain' never let on ter nobody, she ain't. dar ain' nobody gwine ter know whut she's a-fishin' fur twell she's done cotched hit." there was an exasperated pride in her manner, as if she respected, even while she condemned, the success of angelica's method. "yas, lawd! i'se knowed all de fitzhughs f'om way back, en i ain' knowed nairy one un um dat could beat miss angy w'en hit comes ter gettin' whut she wants--in perticular ef'n hit belongst ter somebody else. i'se seed 'er wid 'er pa, en i'se seed 'er wid marse david, en dey warn' no mo' den chillun by de time she got thoo wid um. is you ever seed a man, no matter how big he think hisself, dat warn' ready ter flop right down ez' weak ez water, ez soon as she set 'er een on 'im? i'se watched 'er wid marse david way back yonder, befo' he begunst his cotin', en w'en i see 'er sidle up ter 'im, lookin ez sweet ez honey, en pertendin' dat she ain' made up 'er min' yit wedder she is mos' pleased wid 'im er feared un 'im, den i knows hit wuz all up wid 'im, ef'n he warn't ez sharp ez a needle. do you reckon she 'ould ever hev cotched marse david ef'n he'd a knowed whut 't'wuz she wuz atter? naw'm, dat she 'ouldn't, caze men folks dey ain' made dat ar way. deys erbleeged ter be doin' whut dey think you don't want 'um ter do, jes' like chillun, er dey cyarn' git enny spice outer doin' hit. dat's de reason de 'ooman dey mos' often breecks dere necks tryin' ter git is de v'ey las' one dat deys gwinter want ter keep atter deys got 'er. a she fox is a long sight better in de bushes den she is in de kennel; but men folks dey ain' never gwine ter fin' dat out twell she's done bitten um." while she rambled on, she had been busily folding the clothes and packing them into the trunk, and pausing now in her work, she peered into caroline's face. "you look jes' egzactly ez ef'n you'd seed a ha'nt, honey," she said. "git in de baid, en try ter go right straight ter sleep, w'ile i git thoo dis yer packin' in a jiffy." aching in every nerve, caroline undressed and threw herself into bed. the hardest day of nursing had never left her like this--had never exhausted her so utterly in body and mind. she felt as if she had been beaten with rocks; and beneath the sore, bruised feeling of her limbs there was the old half-forgotten quiver of humiliation, which brought back to her the vision of that autumn morning at the cedars--of the deep blue of the sky, the shivering leaves of the aspens, and the long straight road drifting through light and shadow into other roads that led on somewhere--somewhere. could she never forget? was she for ever chained to an inescapable memory? "is you 'bleeged ter go?" inquired the old woman, stopping again in her packing. "yes, i'm obliged to go. i wouldn't stay now if they went down on their knees to me." "you ain't mad wid marse david, is you?" "no, i'm not angry with mr. blackburn. he has been very kind to me, and i am sorry to leave letty." for the first time the thought of the child occurred to her. incredible as it seemed she had actually forgotten her charge. "she sutney is gwine ter miss you." "i think she will, poor little letty. i wonder what they will make of her?" closing her eyes wearily, she turned her face to the wall, and lay thinking of the future. "i will not be beaten," she resolved passionately. "i will not let them hurt me." some old words she had said long ago at the cedars came back to her, and she repeated them over and over, "people cannot hurt you unless you let them. they cannot hurt you unless you submit--unless you deliver your soul into their hands--and i will never submit. life is mine as much as theirs. the battle is mine, and i will fight it." she remembered her first night at briarlay, when she had watched the light from the house streaming out into the darkness, and had felt that strange forewarning of the nerves, that exhilarating sense of approaching destiny, that spring-like revival of her thoughts and emotions. how wonderful mrs. blackburn had appeared then! how ardently she might have loved her! for an instant the veiled figure of her imagination floated before her, and she was tormented by the pang that follows not death, but disillusionment. "i never harmed her. i would have died for her in the beginning. why should she have done it?" opening her eyes she stared up at the wall beside her bed, where mammy riah's shadow hovered like some grotesque bird of prey. "did you order the car, mammy riah?" "yas'm, i tole john jes' like you axed me. now, i'se done got de las' one er dese things packed, en i'se gwine ter let you git some sleep." she put out the light while she spoke, and then went out softly, leaving the room in darkness. "_why should she have done it? why should she have done it?_" asked caroline over and over, until the words became a refrain that beat slowly, with a rhythmic rise and fall, in her thoughts: "_why should she have done it?_ i thought her so good and beautiful. i would have worked my fingers to the bone for her if she had only been kind to me. _why should she have done it?_ i should always have taken her part against mr. blackburn, against mrs. timberlake, against mammy riah. it would have been so easy for her to have kept my love and admiration. it would have cost her nothing. _why should she have done it?_ there is nothing she can gain by this, and it isn't like her to do a cruel thing unless there is something she can gain. she likes people to admire her and believe in her. that is why she has taken so much trouble to appear right before the world, and to make mr. blackburn appear wrong. admiration is the breath of life to her, and--and--oh, why _should she have done it_? i must go to sleep. i must put it out of my mind. if i don't put it out of my mind, i shall go mad before morning. i ought to be glad to leave briarlay. i ought to want to go, but i do not. i do not want to go. i feel as if i were tearing my heart to pieces. i cannot bear the thought of never seeing the place again--of never seeing letty again. _why should she have done it?_----" in the morning, when she was putting on her hat, mrs. timberlake came in with a breakfast tray in her hands. "sit down, and try to eat something, caroline. i thought you would rather have a cup of coffee up here." caroline shook her head. "i couldn't touch a morsel in this house. i feel as if it would choke me." "but you will be sick before you get home. just drink a swallow or two." taking the cup from her, caroline began drinking it so hurriedly that the hot coffee burned her lips. "yes, you are right," she said presently. "i cannot fight unless i keep up my strength, and i will fight to the bitter end. i will not let her hurt me. i am poor and unknown, and i work for my living, but the world is mine as much as hers, and i will not give in. i will not let life conquer me." "you aren't blaming david, are you, dear?" "oh, no, i am not blaming mr. blackburn. he couldn't have helped it." her heart gave a single throb while she spoke; and it seemed to her that, in the midst of the anguish and humiliation, something within her soul, which had been frozen for years, thawed suddenly and grew warm again. it was just as if a statue had come to life, as if what had been marble yesterday had been blown upon by a breath of the divine, and changed into flesh. for eight years she had been dead, and now, in an instant, she was born anew, and had entered afresh into her lost heritage of joy and pain. mrs. timberlake, gazing at her through dulled eyes, was struck by the intensity of feeling that glowed in her pale face and in the burning blue of her eyes. "i didn't know she could look like that," thought the housekeeper. "i didn't know she had so much heart." aloud she said quietly, "david and i are going to the train with you. that is why i put on my bonnet." "is mr. blackburn obliged to go with us?" caroline's voice was almost toneless, but there was a look of wonder and awe in her face, as of one who is standing on the edge of some undiscovered country, of some virgin wilderness. the light that fell on her was the light of that celestial hemisphere where mrs. timberlake had never walked. "he wishes to go," answered the older woman, and she added with an after-thought, "it will look better." "as if it mattered how things look? i'd rather not see him again, but, after all, it makes no difference." "it wasn't his fault, caroline." "no, it wasn't his fault. he has always been good to me." "if anything, it has been harder on him than on you. it is only a few hours of your life, but it is the whole of his. she has spoiled his life from the first, and now she has ruined his career forever. even before this, colonel ashburton told me that all that talk last winter had destroyed david's future. he said he might have achieved almost anything if he had had half a chance, but that he regarded him now merely as a brilliant failure. angelica went to work deliberately to ruin him." "but why?" demanded caroline passionately. "what was there she could gain by it?" mrs. timberlake blinked at the sunlight. "for the first time in my life," she confessed, "i don't know what she is up to. i can't, to save my life, see what she has got in her mind." "she can't be doing it just to pose as an ill-treated wife? the world is on her side already. there isn't a person outside of this house who doesn't look upon her as a saint and martyr." "i know there isn't. that is what puzzles me. i declare, if it didn't sound so far-fetched, i'd be almost tempted to believe that she was trying to get that young fool for good." "mr. wythe? but what would she do with him? she is married already, and you know perfectly well that she wouldn't do anything that the world calls really wrong." "she'd be burned at the stake first. well, i give it up. i've raked my brain trying to find some reason at the bottom of it, but it isn't any use, and i've had to give it up in the end. then, last night after david told me about that scene downstairs--he waked me up to tell me--it suddenly crossed my mind just like that--" she snapped her fingers--"that perhaps she's sharper than we've ever given her credit for being. i don't say it's the truth, because i don't know any more than a babe unborn whether it is or not; but the idea did cross my mind that maybe she felt if she could prove david really cruel and faithless to her--if she could make up a case so strong that people's sympathy would support her no matter what she did--then she might manage to get what she wanted without having to give up anything in return. you know angelica could never bear to give up anything. she has got closets and closets filled with old clothes, which she'd never think of wearing, but just couldn't bear to give away----" "you mean----?" the blackness of the abyss struck caroline speechless. "i don't wonder that you can't take it in. i couldn't at first. it seems so unlike anything that could ever happen in virginia." "it would be so--" caroline hesitated for a word--"so incredibly common." "of course you feel that way about it, and so would angelica's mother. i reckon she would turn in her grave at the bare thought of her daughter's even thinking of a divorce." "you mean she would sacrifice me like this? she would not only ruin her husband, she would try to destroy me, though i've never harmed her?" "that hasn't got anything in the world to do with it. she isn't thinking of you, and she isn't thinking of alan. she is thinking about what she wants. it is surprising how badly you can want a thing even when you have neither feeling nor imagination. angelica isn't any more in love with that young ass than i am; but she wants him just as much as if she were over head and ears in love. there is one thing, however, you may count on--she is going to get him if she can, and she is going to persuade herself and everybody else, except you and david and me, that she is doing her duty when she goes after her inclinations. i don't reckon there was ever anybody stronger on the idea of duty than angelica," she concluded in a tone of acrid admiration. "of course, she will always stand right before the world," assented caroline, "i know that." "well, it takes some sense to manage it, you must admit?" "i wish i'd never come here. i wish i'd never seen briarlay," cried caroline, in an outburst of anger. "there is the car at the door. we'd better go." "won't you tell letty good-bye?" for the first time tears rushed to caroline's eyes. "no, i'd rather not. give her my love after i'm gone." in the hall blackburn was waiting for them, and caroline's first thought, as she glanced at him, was that he had aged ten years since the evening before. a rush of pity for him, not for herself, choked her to silence while she put her hand into his, which felt as cold as ice when she touched it. in that moment she forgot the wrong that she had suffered, she forgot her wounded pride, her anguish and humiliation, and remembered only that he had been hurt far more deeply. "i hope you slept," he said awkwardly, and she answered, "very little. is the car waiting?" then, as he turned to go down the steps, she brushed quickly past him, and entered the car after mrs. timberlake. she felt that her heart was breaking, and she could think of no words to utter. there were trivial things, she knew, that might be said, casual sounds that might relieve the strain of the silence; but she could not remember what they were, and where her thoughts had whirled so wildly all night long, there was now only a terrible vacancy, round which sinister fears moved but into which nothing entered. a strange oppressive dumbness, a paralysis of the will, seized her. if her life had depended on it, she felt that she should have been powerless to put two words together with an intelligible meaning. blackburn got into the car, and a moment later they started round the circular drive, and turned into the lane. "did john put in the bag?" inquired mrs. timberlake nervously. "yes, it is in front." as he replied, blackburn turned slightly, and the sunshine falling aslant the boughs of the maples, illumined his face for an instant before the car sped on into the shadows. in that minute it seemed to caroline that she could never forget the misery in his eyes, or the look of grimness and determination the night had graven about his mouth. every line in his forehead, every thread of grey in his dark hair, would remain in her memory for ever. "he looked so much younger when i came here," she thought. "these last months have cost him his youth and his happiness." "i am so glad you have a good day for your trip," said mrs. timberlake, and almost to her surprise caroline heard her own voice replying distinctly, "yes, it is a beautiful day." "will you telegraph your mother from the station?" "she wouldn't get it. there is no telephone, and we send only once a day for the mail." "then she won't be expecting you?" "no, she won't be expecting me." at this blackburn turned. "what can we do, miss meade, to help you?" again she seemed to herself to answer with her lips before she had selected the words, "nothing, thank you. there is absolutely nothing that you can do." the soft wind had loosened a lock of hair under her veil, and putting up her hand, she pushed it back into place. rain had fallen in the night, and the morning was fresh and fine, with a sky of cloudless turquoise blue. the young green leaves by the roadside shone with a sparkling lustre, while every object in the landscape appeared to quiver and glisten in the spring sunlight. "i shall never see it again--i shall never see it again." suddenly, without warning, caroline's thoughts came flocking back as riotously as they had done through the long, sleepless night. the external world at which she looked became a part of the intense inner world of her mind; and the mental vacancy was crowded in an instant with a vivid multitude of figures. every thought, every sensation, every image of the imagination and of memory, seemed to glitter with a wonderful light and freshness, as the objects in the landscape glittered when the april sunshine streamed over them. "yes, i am leaving it forever. i shall never see it again, but why should i care so much? why does it make me so unhappy, as if it were tearing the heart out of my breast? life is always that--leaving things forever, and giving up what you would rather keep. i have left places i cared for before, and yet i have never felt like this, not even when i came away for the first time from the cedars. every minute i am going farther and farther away. we are in the city now; flags are shining, too, in the sun. i have never seen so many flags--as if flags alone meant war! war! why, i had almost forgotten the war! and yet it is the most tremendous thing that has ever been on the earth, and nothing else really matters--neither briarlay, nor mrs. blackburn, nor my life, nor mr. blackburn's, nor anything that happened last night. it was all so little--as little as the thing mrs. blackburn is trying to get, the thing she calls happiness. it is as little as the thing i have lost--as little as my aching heart----" "do you know," said mrs. timberlake, "i had not realized that we were at war--but look at the flags!" her lustreless eyes were lifted, with a kind of ecstasy, in the sunlight, and then as no one answered, she added softly, "it makes one stop and think." "i must try to remember the war," caroline was telling herself. "if i remember the war, perhaps i shall forget the ache in my heart. the larger pain will obliterate the smaller. if i can only forget myself----" but, in spite of the effort of will, she could not feel the war as keenly as she felt the parting from something which seemed more vital to her than her life. "we are at war," she thought, and immediately, "i shall never see it again--i shall never see it again." the car stopped at the station, and a minute afterwards she followed mrs. timberlake across the pavement and through the door, which blackburn held open. as she entered, he said quickly, "i will get your ticket and meet you at the gate." "has john got the bag?" asked mrs. timberlake, glancing back. "yes, he is coming." caroline was looking after blackburn, and while she did so, she was conscious of a wish that she had spoken to him in the car while she still had the opportunity. "i might at least have been kinder," she thought regretfully, "i might have shown him that i realized it was not his fault--that he was not to blame for anything from the beginning----" a tall countryman, carrying a basket of vegetables, knocked against her, and when she turned to look back again, blackburn had disappeared. "it is too late now. i shall never see him again." the station was crowded; there was a confused rumble of sounds, punctuated by the shrill cries of a baby, in a blue crocheted hood, that was struggling to escape from the arms of a nervous-looking mother. in front of mrs. timberlake, who peered straight ahead at the gate, there was a heavy man, with a grey beard, and beside him a small anxious-eyed woman, who listened, with distracted attention, to the emphatic sentences he was uttering. "why doesn't he stop talking and let us go on," thought caroline. "what difference does it make if the whole world is going to ruin?" even now, if she could only go faster, there might be time for a few words with blackburn before the train started. if only she might tell him that she was not ungrateful--that she understood, and would be his friend always. a hundred things that she wanted to say flashed through her mind, and these things appeared so urgent that she wondered how she could have forgotten them on the long drive from briarlay. "i must tell him. it is the only chance i shall ever have," she kept saying over and over; but when at last she heard his voice, and saw him awaiting them in the crowd, she could recall none of the words that had rushed to her lips the moment before. "it is the only chance i shall ever have," she repeated, though the phrase meant nothing to her any longer. "i tell you it's the farmers that pay for everything, and they are going to pay for the war," declared the grey-bearded man, in a harsh, polemical voice, and the anxious-eyed woman threw a frightened glance over her shoulder, as if the remark had been treasonable. mrs. timberlake had already passed through the gate, and was walking, with a hurried, nervous air, down the long platform. as she followed at blackburn's side, it seemed to caroline that she should feel like this if she were going to execution instead of back to the cedars. she longed with all her heart to utter the regret that pervaded her thoughts, to speak some profound and memorable words that would separate this moment from every other moment that would come in the future--yet she went on in silence toward the waiting train, where the passengers were already crowding into the cars. at the step mrs. timberlake kissed her, and then drew back, wiping her reddened lids. "good-bye, my dear, i shall write to you." "good-bye. i can never forget how kind you have been to me." raising her eyes, she saw blackburn looking down on her, and with an effort to be casual and cheerful, she held out her hand, while a voice from somewhere within her brain kept repeating, "you must say something now that he will remember. it is the last chance you will ever have in your life." "good-bye." her eyes were smiling. "your chair is sixteen. good-bye." it was over; she was on the platform, and the passengers were pushing her into the car. she had lost her last chance, and she had lost it smiling. "it doesn't matter," she whispered. "i am glad to be going home--and life cannot hurt you unless you let it." the smile was still on her lips, but the eyes with which she sought out her chair were wet with tears. chapter viii the cedars no one met her at the little country station, and leaving her bag for old jonas, she started out alone to walk the two miles to the cedars. straight ahead the long, empty road trailed beneath the fresh young foliage of the woods, the little curled red velvet leaves of the oaks shining through the sea-green mist of the hickories and beeches; and she felt that within her soul there was only a continuation of this long, straight emptiness that led on to nothing. overhead flocks of small fleecy clouds, as white as swans-down, drifted across the changeable april sky, while the breeze, passing through the thick woods, stirred the delicate flower-like shadows on the moist ground. "spring is so sad," she thought. "i never understood before how much sadder spring is than autumn." this sadness of budding things, of renewing life, of fugitive scents and ephemeral colours, had become poignantly real. "it makes me want something different--something i have never had; and that is the sharpest desire on earth--the desire for a happiness that hasn't a name." a minute afterwards she concluded resolutely, "that is weakness, and i will not be weak. one must either conquer or be conquered by life--and i will not be conquered. anybody can be miserable, but it takes courage to be happy. it takes courage and determination and intelligence to get the best out of whatever happens, and the only way to begin is to begin by getting the best out of yourself. now i might have been hurt, but i am not because i won't let myself be. i might be unhappy, but i am not because my life is my own, and i can make of it anything that i choose." then suddenly she heard an inner voice saying from a great distance, "it is my last chance. i shall never see him again." with the words her memory was illuminated by a flame; and in the burning light she saw clearly the meaning of everything that had happened--of her sorrow, her dumbness, her longing to speak some splendid and memorable word at the last. it was not to briarlay, it was not even to letty, that her thoughts had clung at the moment of parting. she had wanted david blackburn to remember because it was the separation from him, she knew now, that would make her unhappy. unconsciously, before she had suspected the truth, he had become an inseparable part of her world; unconsciously she had let the very roots of her life entwine themselves about the thought of him. standing there in the deserted road, beneath the changeable blue of the sky, she turned to fight this secret and pitiless enemy. "i will not let it conquer me. i will conquer, as i have conquered worse things than this. i believed myself dead because i had once been disappointed. i believed myself secure because i had once been stabbed to the heart. this is the punishment for my pride--this humiliation and bitterness and longing from which i shall never be free." an unyielding cord stretched from her heart back to briarlay, drawing stronger and tighter with every step of the distance. it would always be there. the pain would not lessen with time. the flame of memory would grow brighter, not paler, with the days, months, and years. the april wind, soft, provocative, sweet-scented, blew in her face as she looked back; and down the long road, between the rose and green of the woods, an unbroken chain of memories stretched toward her. she saw blackburn as he had appeared on that first night at briarlay, standing in the door of his library when she came in from the terrace; she saw him in letty's room at midnight, sitting beside the night lamp on the candle-stand, with the book, which he did not read, open before him; she saw him in the day nursery, his face enkindled with tenderness; she saw him in the midst of the snowy landscape, when there had been rage in his look at the half-drunken roane; and she saw him, most clearly of all, as he looked facing, on that last night, the hour that would leave its mark on him for ever. it was as if this chain of memories, beginning in the vague sunshine and shadow of the distance, grew more distinct, more vivid, as it approached, until at last the images of her mind gathered, like actual presences, in the road before her. she could not escape them, she knew. they were as inevitable as regret, and would follow her through the bitter years ahead, as they had followed her through the hours since she had left him. she must stand her ground, and fight for peace as valiantly as she had ever fought in the past. "i cannot escape it," she said, as she turned to go on, "i must accept it and use it because that is the only way. mine is only one among millions of aching hearts, and all this pain must leave the world either better or worse than it was--all this pain will be used on the side either of light or of darkness. even sorrow may stand in the end for the world's happiness, just as the tragedy of this war may make a greater peace in the future. if i can only keep this thought, i shall conquer--war may bring peace, and pain may bring joy--in the end." beyond the white gate, the old aspens glimmered silver green in the sunlight, and, half-hidden in a dusky cloud of cedars, she saw the red chimneys and the dormer-windows of the house. home at last! and home was good however she came to it. with a smile she drew out the bar, and after replacing it, went on with an energetic and resolute step. the door was open, and looking through the hall, she saw her mother crossing the back porch, with a yellow bowl of freshly churned butter in her hands. mrs meade had grown older in the last six months, and she limped slightly from rheumatism; but her expression of sprightly cheerfulness had not changed, and her full pink face was still pretty. there was something strangely touching in the sight of her active figure, which was beginning at last to stoop, and in her brisk, springy step, which appeared to ignore, without disguising, the limp in her walk. never, it seemed to caroline, had she seen her so closely--with so penetrating a flash of understanding and insight. bare and hard as life had been, she had cast light, not shadow, around her; she had stood always on the side of the world's happiness. "mother, dear, i've come home to see you!" cried caroline gaily. the old lady turned with a cry. "why, caroline, what on earth?" she exclaimed, and carefully set down the bowl she was carrying. the next instant caroline was in her arms, laughing and crying together. "oh, mother, i wanted to see you, so i came home!" "is anything wrong, dear?" "nothing that cannot be made right. nothing in the world that cannot be made right." drawing her out on the porch, mrs. meade gazed earnestly into her face. "you are a little pale. have you been ill, caroline?" "i never had much colour, you know, but i am perfectly well." "and happy, darling?" the dear features, on which time was beginning to trace tender lines of anxiety, beamed on her daughter, with the invincible optimism that life had granted in place of bodily ease. as the wind stirred the silvery hair, caroline noticed that it had grown a little thinner, though it was still as fine and light as spun flax. for the first time she realized that her mother possessed the beauty which is permanent and indestructible--the beauty of a fervent and dominant soul. age could soften, but it could not destroy, the charm that was independent of physical change. caroline smiled brightly. "happy to be with you, precious mother." "maud is in the hospital, you know, and diana is in new york getting ready to sail. only margaret is left with me, and she hasn't been a bit well this winter. she is working hard over her garden." "yes, you wrote me. while i am here, i will help her. i want to work very hard." "can you stay long now? it will be such a comfort to have you. home never seems just right when one of you is away, and now there will be three. you knew old docia was sick, didn't you? we have had to put her daughter perzelia in the kitchen, and she is only a field hand. the cooking isn't very good, but you won't mind. i always make the coffee and the batter bread." "you know i shan't mind, but i must go back to work in a week or two. somebody must keep the dear old roof mended." mrs. meade laughed, and the sound was like music. "it has been leaking all winter." then she added, while the laugh died on her lips, "have you left briarlay for good?" "yes, for good. i shall never go back." "but you seemed so happy there?" "i shall be still happier somewhere else--for i am going to be happy, mother, wherever i am." though she smiled as she answered, her eyes left her mother's face, and sought the road, where the long procession of the aspens shivered like gray-green ghosts in the wind. "i am so glad, dear, but there hasn't been anything to hurt you, has there? i hope mr. blackburn hasn't been disagreeable." "oh, no, he has been very kind. i cannot begin to tell you how kind he has been." her voice trembled for an instant, and then went on brightly, "and so has mrs. timberlake. at first i didn't like her. i thought she was what docia calls 'ficy,' but afterwards, as i wrote you so often, she turned out to be very nice and human. first impressions aren't always reliable. if they were life would be easier, and there wouldn't be so many disappointments--but do you know the most valuable lesson i've learned this winter? well, it is not to trust my first impression--of a cat. the next time old jonas brings me a lot of kittens and asks me what i think of them, i'm going to answer, 'i can't tell, jonas, until i discover their hidden qualities.' it's the hidden qualities that make or mar life, and yet we accept or reject people because of something on the surface--something that doesn't really matter at all." she was gay enough; her voice was steady; her laugh sounded natural; the upward sweep of the black brows was as charming as ever; and the old sunny glance was searching the distance. there was nothing that mrs. meade could point to and say "this is different"; yet the change was there, and the mother felt, with the infallible instinct of love, that the daughter who had come home to her was not the caroline who had left the cedars six months ago. "she is keeping something from me," thought mrs. meade. "for the first time in her life she is keeping something from me." "now i must take off my hat and go to work," said caroline, eagerly, and she added under her breath, "it will rest me to work." the fragrance of spring was in the air, and through the fortnight that she stayed at the cedars, it seemed to her that this inescapable sweetness became a reminder and a torture--a reminder of the beauty and the evanescence of youth, a torture to all the sensitive nerves of her imagination, which conjured up delusive visions of happiness. in the beginning she had thought that work would be her salvation, as it had been when she was younger, that every day, every week, would soften the pain, until at last it would melt into the shadows of memory, and cease to trouble her life. but as the days went by, she realized that this emotion differed from that earlier one as maturity differs from adolescence--not in weakness, but in the sharper pang of its regret. hour by hour, the image of blackburn grew clearer, not dimmer, in her mind; day by day, the moments that she had spent with him appeared to draw closer instead of retreating farther away. because he had never been to the cedars she had believed that she could escape the sharper recollections while she was here; yet she found now that every object at which she looked--the house, the road, the fields, the garden, even the lilacs blooming beneath her window--she found now that all these dear familiar things were attended by a thronging multitude of associations. the place that he had never known was saturated with his presence. "if i could only forget him," she thought. "caring wouldn't matter so much, if i could only stop thinking." but, through some perversity of will, the very effort that she made to forget him served merely to strengthen the power of remembrance--as if the energy of mind were condensed into some clear and sparkling medium which preserved and intensified the thought of him. after hours of work, in which she had buried the memories of briarlay, they would awake more ardently as soon as she raised her head and released her hands from her task. the resolution which had carried her through her first tragedy failed her utterly now, for this was a situation, she found, where resolution appeared not to count. and the bitterest part was that when she looked back now on those last months at briarlay, she saw them, not as they were in reality, filled with minor cares and innumerable prosaic anxieties, but irradiated by the rosy light her imagination had enkindled about them. she had not known then that she was happy; but it seemed to her now that, if she could only recover the past, if she could only walk up the drive again and enter the house and see blackburn and letty, it would mean perfect and unalterable happiness. at night she would dream sometimes of the outside of the house and the drive and the elms, which she saw always shedding their bronze leaves in the autumn; but she never got nearer than the white columns, and the front door remained closed when she rang the bell, and even beat vainly on the knocker. these dreams invariably left her exhausted and in a panic of terror, as if she had seen the door of happiness close in her face. the day afterwards her regret would become almost unendurable, and her longing, which drowned every other interest or emotion, would overwhelm her, like a great flood which had swept away the natural boundaries of existence, and submerged alike the valleys and the peaks of her consciousness. everything was deluged by it; everything surrendered to the torrent--even the past. because she had once been hurt so deeply, she had believed that she could never be hurt in the same way again; but she discovered presently that what she had suffered yesterday had only taught her how to suffer more intensely to-day. nothing had helped her--not blighted love, not disillusionment, not philosophy. all these had been swept like straws on the torrent from which she could not escape. the days were long, but the nights were far longer, for, with the first fall of the darkness, her imagination was set free. while she was working with margaret in the garden, or the kitchen, she could keep her mind on the object before her--she could plant or weed until her body ached from fatigue, and the soft air and the smell of earth and of lilacs, became intermingled. but it was worse in the slow, slow evenings, when the three of them sat and talked, with an interminable airy chatter, before the wood-fire, or round the lamp, which still smoked. then she would run on gaily, talking always against time, longing for the hour that would release her from the presence of the beings she loved best, while some memory of blackburn glimmered in the fire, or in the old portraits, or through the windows, which looked, uncurtained, out on the stars. there were moments even when some quiver of expression on her mother's face or on margaret's, some gleam of laughter or trick of gesture, would remind her of him. then she would ask herself if it were possible that she had loved him before she had ever seen him, and afterwards at briarlay, when she had believed herself to be so indifferent? and sitting close to her mother and sister, divided from them by an idea which was more impregnable than any physical barrier, she began to feel gradually that her soul was still left there in the house which her mind inhabited so persistently--that her real life, her vital and perpetual being, still went on there in the past, and that here, in the present, beside these dear ones, who loved her so tenderly, there was only a continuous moving shadow of herself. "but how do i know that these aren't the shadows of mother and of margaret?" she would demand, startled out of her reverie. at the end of a fortnight a letter came from mrs. timberlake, and she read it on the kitchen porch, where perzelia, the field hand, was singing in a high falsetto, as she bent over the wash-tub. "_we is jew-els--pre-cious--jew-els in--his--c-r-ow-n!_" sang perzelia shrilly, and changing suddenly from hymn to sermon, "yas, lawd, i tells de worl'. i tells de worl' dat ef'n dat nigger 'oman don' stop 'er lies on me, i'se gwine ter cut 'er heart out. i'se gwine ter kill 'er jes' de same ez i 'ould a rat. yas, lawd, i tells 'er dat. '_we is jew-els--pre-cious--jew-els in his c-r-o-w-n._'" mrs. timberlake wrote in her fine italian hand: * * * * * my dear caroline, i have thought of you very often, and wanted to write to you, but ever since you left we have been rather upset, and i have been too busy to settle down to pen and paper. for several weeks after you went away letty was not a bit well. nobody knew what was the matter with her, and doctor boland's medicine did not do her any good. she just seemed to peak and pine, and i said all along it was nothing in the world except missing you that made her sick. now she is beginning to pick up as children will if you do not worry them too much, and i hope she will soon get her colour back and look as natural as she did while you were here. we have a new trained nurse--a miss bradley, from somewhere up in the shenandoah valley, but she is very plain and uninteresting, and, between you and me, i believe she bores letty to death. i never see the child that she does not ask me, "when is miss meade coming back?" we were very anxious to have a word from you after you went away. however, i reckon you felt as if you did not care to write, and i am sure i do not blame you. i suppose you have heard all the gossip that has been going on here--somebody must have written you, for somebody always does write when there is anything unpleasant to say. you know, of course, that angelica left david the very day you went away, and the town has been fairly ringing with all sorts of dreadful scandals. people believe he was cruel to her, and that she bore his ill-treatment just as long as she could before leaving his house. only you and i and mammy riah will ever know what really happened, and nobody would believe us if we were to come out and tell under oath--which, of course, we can never do. i cannot make out exactly what angelica means to do, but she has gone somewhere out west, and i reckon she intends to get a divorce and marry alan, if he ever comes back from the war. you may not have heard that he has gone into the army, and i expect he will be among the very first to be sent to france. roane is going, too. you cannot imagine how handsome he is in his uniform. he has not touched a drop since we went to war, and i declare he looks exactly like a picture of a crusader of the middle ages, which proves how deceptive the best appearances are. david has not changed a particle through it all. you remember how taciturn he always was, and how he never let anybody even mention angelica's name to him? well, it is just the same now, and he is, if possible, more tight-lipped than ever. nobody knows how he feels, or what he thinks of her behaviour--not even colonel ashburton, and you know what close and devoted friends they are. the colonel told me that once, when he first saw how things were going, he tried to open the subject, and that he could never forget how blackburn turned him off by talking about something that was way up in the air and had nothing to do with the subject. i am sure david has been cut to the heart, but he will never speak out, and everybody will believe that angelica has been perfectly right in everything she has done. if it goes on long enough, she will even believe it herself, and that, i reckon, is the reason she is so strong, and always manages to appear sinned against instead of sinning. nothing can shake her conviction that whatever she wants she ought to have. well, my dear, i must stop now and see about dinner. the house is so lonely, though, as far as i can tell, letty hardly misses her mother at all, and this makes it so provoking when people like daisy colfax cry over the child in the street, and carry on about, "poor dear angelica, who is so heartbroken." that is the way daisy goes on whenever i see her, and it is what they are saying all over richmond. they seem to think that david is just keeping letty out of spite, and i cannot make them believe that angelica does not want her, and is glad to be relieved of the responsibility. when i say this they put it down as one of my peculiarities--like blinking eyes, or the habit of stuttering when i get excited. give my love to your mother, though i reckon she has forgotten old matty timberlake, and do drop me a line to let me hear how you are. your affectionate friend, matty timberlake. letty sends her dearest, dearest, dearest love. * * * * * when she had finished the letter, caroline looked over the lilacs by the kitchen porch and the broken well-house, to the road beneath the aspens, which still led somewhere--somewhere--to the unattainable. at one corner of the porch perzelia was singing again, and the sound mingled with the words that mrs. timberlake had written. "_we is jew-els, pre-cious jew-els in his c-r-o-w-n._" a fever of restlessness seized caroline while she listened. the letter, instead of quieting her, had merely sharpened the edge of her longing, and she was filled with hunger for more definite news. in an hour the cedars had become intolerable to her. she felt that she could not endure another day of empty waiting--of waiting without hope--of the monotonous round of trivial details that led to nothing, of the perpetual, interminable effort to drug feeling with fatigue, to thrust the secondary interests and the things that did not matter into the foreground of her life. "he has never wasted a regret on me," she thought. "he never cared for a minute. i was nothing to him except a friend, a woman who could be trusted." the confession was like the twist of a knife in her heart; and springing to her feet, she picked up the letter she had dropped, and ran into the house. "i must go back to work, mother darling," she said. "the money i saved is all gone, and i must go back to work." chapter ix the years ahead toward the close of an afternoon in november, caroline was walking from the hospital to a boarding-house in grace street, where she was spending a few days between cases. all summer she had nursed in richmond; and now that the autumn, for which she had longed, had at last come, she was beginning to feel the strain of hard work and sleepless nights. though she still wore her air of slightly defiant courage, a close observer would have noticed the softer depths in her eyes, the little lines in her face, and the note of sadness that quivered now and then in her ready laughter. it was with an effort now that she moved with her energetic and buoyant step, for her limbs ached, and a permanent weariness pervaded her body. a high wind was blowing, and from the scattered trees on the block, a few brown and wrinkled leaves were torn roughly, and then whirled in a cloud of dust up the street. the block ahead was deserted, except for an aged negro wheeling a handcart full of yellow chrysanthemums, but as caroline approached the crossing, daisy colfax came suddenly from the corner of a church, and hesitated an instant before speaking. the last time that caroline had seen her, old mrs. colfax had been in the car, and they had not spoken; but now that daisy was alone, she pounced upon her with the manner of an affectionate and playful kitten. "oh, i didn't know you at first, miss meade! you are so much thinner. what have you been doing?" she held out her hand, diffusing life, love, joy, with the warmth of her southern charm; and while caroline stood there, holding the soft, gloved hand in her own, a dart of envy pierced the armour of her suffering and her philosophy. how handsome daisy looked! how happy! her hat of the royal purple she favoured made her black hair gleam like velvet; her sealskin coat, with its enormous collar of ermine, wrapped her luxuriously from head to foot; her brilliant complexion had the glow of a peach that is just ready to drop. she also had had an unfortunate romance somewhere in the past; she had married a man whom she did not love; yet she shone, she scintillated, with the genuine lustre of happiness. never had the superior advantages of a shallow nature appeared so incontestable. "i saw you go by yesterday, miss meade, and i said to myself that i was going to stop and speak to you the first chance i got. i took such a fancy to you when you were out at briarlay, and i want to tell you right now that i never believed there was anything queer in your going away like that so early in the morning, without saying a word to anybody. at first people didn't understand why you did it, and, of course, you know that somebody tried to start gossip; but as soon as mrs. timberlake told me your sister was ill, i went straight about telling everybody i saw. you were the last woman on earth, i always said, to want anything like a flirtation with a man, married or single, and i knew you used to sympathize _so_ with angelica. i shall never forget the way you looked at david blackburn the night you came there, when he was so dreadfully rude to her at the table. i told mother afterwards that if a look could have killed, he would have fallen dead on the spot." she paused an instant, adjusted a loosened pin in her lace veil, and glided on smoothly again without a perceptible change in her voice, "poor, dear angelica! all our hearts are broken over her. i never knew david blackburn well, but i always despised him from the beginning. a man who will sit through a whole dinner without opening his mouth, as i've known him to do, is capable of anything. that's what i always say when robert tells me i am prejudiced. i am really not in the least prejudiced, but i just can't abide him, and there's no use trying to make me pretend that i can. even if he hadn't ruined angelica's life, i should feel almost as strongly about him. everybody says that she is going to get a divorce for cruelty, though one of the most prominent lawyers in town--i don't like to mention his name, but you would know it in a minute--told me that she could get it on _any_ grounds that she chose. angelica has such delicacy of feeling that she went out west, where you don't have to make everything so dreadfully public, and drag in all kinds of disgraceful evidence--but they say that david blackburn neglected her from the very first, and that he has had affairs with other women for years and years. he must have selected those nobody had ever heard of, or he couldn't have kept it all so secret, and that only proves, as i said to robert, that his tastes were always low----" "why do people like to believe these things?" demanded caroline resentfully. "why don't they try to find out the truth?" "well, how in the world are they going to find out any more than they are told? i said that to mrs. ashburton--you know they stand up for mr. blackburn through thick and thin--but even they can't find a word to say against angelica, except that she isn't sincere, and that she doesn't really care about letty. there isn't a word of truth in that, and nobody would believe it who had seen angelica after she told letty good-bye. she was heartbroken--simply heartbroken. her face was the loveliest thing i ever looked at, and, as alan wythe said to me the next day--it was the very afternoon before he went off to camp--there was the soul of motherhood in it. i thought that such a beautiful way of putting it, for it suited angelica perfectly. didn't you always feel that she was full of soul?" "i wonder how letty is getting on?" asked caroline, in the pause. "have you heard anything of her?" "oh, she is all right, i think. they have a nurse there who is looking after her until they find a good governess. she must miss her mother terribly, but she doesn't show it a bit. i must say she always seemed to me to be a child of very little feeling. if i go away for a week, my children cry their eyes out, and letty has lost her mother, and no one would ever know it to watch her." "she is a reserved child, but i am sure she has feeling," said caroline. "of course you know her better than i do, and, anyhow, you couldn't expect a child not to show the effects of the kind of home life she has had. i tell robert that our first duty in life is to provide the memory of a happy home for our children. it means so much when you're grown, don't you think, to look back on a pleasant childhood? as for letty she might as well be an orphan now that david blackburn has gone to france----" "to france?" for a minute it seemed to caroline that claws were tearing her heart, and the dull ache which she had felt for months changed into a sharp and unendurable pain. then the grey sky and grey street and grey dust intermingled, and went round and round in a circle. "you hadn't heard? why, he went last week, or it may be that he is going next week--i can't remember which. robert didn't know exactly what he was to do--some kind of constructive work, he said, for the government. i never get things straight, but all i know is that everything seems to be for the government now. i declare, i never worked so hard in my life as i have done in the last six or eight months, and robert has been in washington simply slaving his head off for a dollar a year. it does one good, i suppose. mr. courtland preached a beautiful sermon last sunday about it, and i never realized before how wonderfully we have all grown in spirit since the war began. i said to mrs. mallow, as i came out, that it was so comforting to feel that we had been developing all the time without knowing it, or having to bother about it. of course, we did know that we had been very uncomfortable, but that isn't quite the same, and now i can stand giving up things so much better when i realize that i am getting them all back, even if it's just spiritually. don't you think that is a lovely way to feel about it?" "i must go," said caroline breathlessly. her pulses were hammering in her ears, and she could scarcely hear what daisy was saying. "well, good-bye. i am so glad to have seen you. are you going to france like everybody else?" "i hope so. i have offered my services." "then you are just as wild about war work as i am. i'd give anything on earth to go over with the y. m. c. a., and i tell robert that the only thing that keeps me back is the children." she floated on to her car at the corner, while caroline crossed the street, and walked slowly in the direction of the boarding-house. "it can make no possible difference to me. why should i care?" she asked herself. yet the clutch of pain had not relaxed in her heart, and it seemed to her that all the life and colour had gone out of the town. he was not here. he was across the world. until this instant she had not realized how much it meant to her that he should be in the same city, even though she never saw him. she reached the house, opened the drab iron gate, went up the short brick walk between withered weeds, and rang the bell beside the inhospitable door, from which the sallow paint was peeling in streaks. at the third ring, a frowzy coloured maid, in a soiled apron, which she was still frantically tying, opened the door; and when she saw caroline, a sympathetic grin widened her mouth. "you is done hed a caller, en he lef' his name over dar on de table. i axed 'im ef'n he wouldn't set down en res' his hat, but he jes' shuck his haid en walked right spang out agin." entering the hall, caroline picked up the card, and passed into the shabby living-room, which was empty during the afternoon hours. in the centre of the hideous room, with its damaged victorian furniture, its open stove, its sentimental engravings, and its piles of magazines long out of date--in the midst of the surroundings of a contented and tasteless period, she stared down, with incredulous eyes, at the bit of paper she was holding. so he had been there. he had come at the last moment, probably on his last day in richmond, and she had missed him! life had accorded her one other opportunity, and, with the relentless perversity of her fate, she had lost it by an accident, by a quarter of an hour, by a chance meeting with daisy! it was her destiny to have the things that she desired held within reach, to watch them approach until she could almost touch them, to see them clearly and vividly for a minute, and then to have them withdrawn through some conspiracy of external events. "i didn't ask much," she thought, "only to see him once more--only the chance to let him see that i can still hold my head high and meet the future with courage." in an instant she felt that the utter futility and emptiness of the summer, of every day that she had passed since she left briarlay, enveloped and smothered her with the thickness of ashes. "it is not fair," she cried, in rebellion, "i have had a hard life. i asked so little. it is not fair." going over to the window, she put the cheap curtains aside, and looked out into the street, as if searching the pavement for his vanishing figure. nothing there except emptiness! nothing except the wind and falling leaves and grey dust and the footsteps of a passer-by at the corner. it was like her life, that long, deserted street, filled with dead leaves and the restless sound of things that went by a little way off. for a minute the idea stayed with her. then, raising her head, with a smile, she looked up at the bare trees and the sombre sky over the housetops. "life cannot hurt you unless you let it," she repeated. "i will not let it. i will conquer, if it kills me." and, so inexplicable are the processes of the soul, the resolution arising in her thoughts became interfused not only with her point of view, but with the bleak external world at which she was looking. the will to fight endowed her with the physical power of fighting; the thought created the fact; and she knew that as long as she believed herself to be unconquered, she was unconquerable. the moment of weakness had served its purpose--for the reaction had taught her that destiny lies within, not without; that the raw material of existence does not differ; and that our individual lives depend, not upon things as they are in themselves, but upon the thought with which we have modified or enriched them. "i will not be a coward. i will not let the world cheat me of happiness," she resolved; and the next instant, as she lowered her eyes from the sky, she saw david blackburn looking up at her from the gate. for a moment she felt that life stopped in its courses, and then began again, joyously, exuberantly, drenched with colour and sweetness. she had asked so little. she had asked only to see him again--only the chance to show him that she could be brave--and he stood here at the gate! he was still her friend, that was enough. it was enough to have him stand there and look up at her with his grave, questioning eyes. turning quickly away from the window, she ran out of the house and down the brick walk to the gate. "i thought i had missed you," she said, her eyes shining with happiness. "it is my last day in richmond. i wanted to say good-bye." he had touched her hand with the briefest greeting; but in his face she read his gladness at seeing her; and she felt suddenly that everything had been made right, that he would understand without words, that there was nothing she could add to the joy of the meeting. it was friendship, not love, she knew; and yet, at the moment, friendship was all that she asked--friendship satisfied her heart, and filled the universe with a miraculous beauty. after the torment of the last six months, peace had descended upon her abundantly, ineffably, out of the heavens. all the longing to explain faded now into the knowledge that explanation was futile, and when she spoke again it was to say none of the things with which she had burdened her mind. "how is letty?" she asked, "i think of her so often." "she is very well, but she misses you. will you walk a little way? we can talk better in the street." "yes, the house will soon be full of boarders." weariness had left her. she felt strong, gay, instinct with energy. as she moved up the deserted street, through the autumn dust, laughter rippled on her lips, and the old buoyant grace flowed in her walk. it was only friendship, she told herself, and yet she asked nothing more. she had been born again; she had come to life in a moment. and everything at which she looked appeared to have come to life also. the heavy clouds; the long, ugly street, with the monotonous footsteps of the few passers-by; the wind blowing the dried leaves in swirls and eddies over the brick pavement; the smell of autumn which lingered in the air and the dust--all these things seemed not dead, but as living as spring. the inner radiance had streamed forth to brighten the outward greyness; the april bloom of her spirit was spreading over the earth. "this is my hour," her heart told her. "out of the whole of life i have this single short hour of happiness. i must pour into it everything that is mine, every memory of joy i shall ever have in the future. i must make it so perfect that it will shed a glow over all the drab years ahead. it is only friendship. he has never thought of me except as a friend--but i must make the memory of friendship more beautiful than the memory of love." he looked at her in the twilight, and she felt that peace enveloped her with his glance. "tell me about yourself," he said gently. "what has life done to you?" "everything, and nothing." her voice was light and cheerful. "i have worked hard all summer, and i am hoping to go to france if the war lasts----" "all of us hope that. it is amazing the way the war has gripped us to the soul. everything else becomes meaningless. the hold it has taken on me is so strong that i feel as if i were there already in part, as if only the shell of my body were left over here out of danger." he paused and looked at her closely. "i can talk to you of the things i think--impersonal things. the rest you must understand--you will understand?" her heart rose on wings like a bird. "talk to me of anything," she answered, "i shall understand." "no one, except my mother, has ever understood so completely. i shall always, whatever happens, look back on our talks at briarlay as the most helpful, the most beautiful of my life." her glance was veiled with joy as she smiled up at him. this was more than she had ever demanded even in dreams. it was the bread of life in abundance, and she felt that she could live on it through all the barren years of the future. to have the best in her recognized, to be judged, not by a momentary impulse, but by a permanent ideal--this was what she had craved, and this was accorded her. "for the time i can see nothing but the war," he was saying in a changed voice. "the ground has been cut from under my feet. i am groping through a ruined world toward some kind of light, some kind of certainty. the things i believed in have failed me--and even the things i thought have undergone modifications. i can find but one steadfast resolve in the midst of this fog of disappointment, and that is to help fight this war to a finish. my personal life has become of no consequence. it has been absorbed into the national will, i suppose. it has become a part of america's determination to win the war, let it cost what it may." the old light of vision and prophecy had come back to his face while she watched it; and she realized, with a rush of mental sympathy, that his ideas were still dynamic--that they possessed the vital energy of creative and constructive forces. "talk to me of your work--your life," she said, and she thought exultantly, "if i cannot hold him back, i can follow him. i, too, can build my home on ideas." "you know what i have always felt about my country," he said slowly. "you know that i have always hoped to be of some lasting service in building a better state. as a boy i used to dream of it, and in later years, in spite of disappointments--of almost unbearable disappointments and failures--the dream has come back more vividly. for a time i believed that i could work here, as well as away, for the future of america--for the genuine democracy that is founded not on force, but on freedom. for a little while this seemed to me to be possible. then i was pushed back again from the ranks of the fighters--i became again merely a spectator of life--until the war called me to action. as long as the war lasts it will hold me. when that is over there will be fresh fields and newer problems, and i may be useful." "it is constructive work, not fighting now, isn't it?" "it is the machinery of war--but, after all, what does it matter if it only helps to win?" "and afterwards? when it is over?" his eyes grew very gentle. "if i could only see into the future! words may come to me some day, and i may answer you--but not now--not yet. i know nothing to-day except that there is work for my hand, and i must do it. trust me for the rest. you do trust me?" there was a glory in her face as she answered, "to do right always. until death--and beyond." "if we have trust, we have everything," he said, and a note of sadness had crept into his voice. "life has taught me that without it the rest is only ashes." "i am glad for your sake that you can go," she replied. "it would be harder here." the man's part was his, and though she would not have had it otherwise, she understood that the man's part would be the easier. he would go away; he would do his work; his life would be crowded to the brim with incident, with practical interests; and, though she could trust him not to forget, she knew that he would not remember as she remembered in the place where she had known him. "the work will be worth doing," he answered, "even if the record is soon lost. it will mean little in the way of ambition, but i think that ambition scarcely counts with me now. what i am seeking is an opportunity for impersonal service--a wider field in which to burn up my energy." his voice softened, and she felt, for the first time, that he was talking impersonally because he was afraid of the danger that lay in the silence and the twilight--that he was speaking in casual phrases because the real thought, the true words, were unutterable. she was sure now, she was confident; and the knowledge gave her strength to look with clear eyes on the parting--and afterwards---he began to talk of his work, while they turned and walked slowly back to the boarding-house. "i will write to you," he said, "but remember i shall write only of what i think. i shall write the kind of letters that i should write to a man." "it all interests me," she answered. "your thought is a part of you--it is yourself." "it is the only self i dare follow for the present, and even that changes day by day. i see so many things now, if not differently--well, at least in an altered perspective. it is like travelling on a dark road, as soon as one danger is past, others spring up out of the obscurity. the war has cast a new light on every belief, on every conviction that i thought i possessed. the values of life are changing hourly--they are in a process of readjustment. facts that appeared so steadfast, so clear, to my vision a year ago, are now out of focus. i go on, for i always sought truth, not consistency, but i go on blindly. i am trying to feel the road since i cannot see it. i am searching the distance for some glimmer of dawn--for some light i can travel by. i know, of course, that our first task is winning the war, that until the war is won there can be no security for ideas or mankind, that unless the war is won, there can be no freedom for either individual or national development." as they reached the gate, he broke off, and held out his hand. "but i meant to write you all this. it is the only thing i can write you. you will see letty sometimes?" "whenever i can. mrs. timberlake will bring her to see me." "and you will think of yourself? you will keep well?" he held her hand; her eyes were on his; and though she heard his questions and her answers, she felt that both questions and answers were as trivial as the autumn dust at her feet. what mattered was the look in his eyes, which was like a cord drawing her spirit nearer and nearer. she knew now that he loved her; but she knew it through some finer and purer medium of perception than either speech or touch. if he had said nothing in their walk together, if he had parted from her in silence, she would have understood as perfectly as she understood now. in that moment, while her hand was in his and her radiant look on his face, the pain and tragedy of the last months, the doubt, the humiliation, the haunting perplexity and suspense, the self-distrust and the bitterer distrust of life--all these things, which had so tormented her heart, were swept away by a tide of serene and ineffable peace. she was not conscious of joy. the confidence that pervaded her spirit was as far above joy as it was above pain or distress. what she felt with the profoundest conviction was that she could never really be unhappy again in the future--that she had had all of life in a moment, and that she could face whatever came with patience and fortitude. "stand fast, little friend," he said, "and trust me." then, without waiting for her reply, he turned from her and walked away through the twilight. chapter x the light on the road when caroline entered the house, the sound of clinking plates and rattling knives told her that the boarders had already assembled at supper; and it surprised her to discover that she was hungry for the first time in months. happiness had made everything different, even her appetite for the commonplace fare mrs. dandridge provided. it was just as if an intense physical pain had suddenly ceased to throb, and the relief exhilarated her nerves, and made her eager for the ordinary details which had been so irksome a few hours before. life was no longer distorted and abnormal. her pride and courage had come back to her; and she understood at last that it was not the unfulfilment of love, but the doubt of its reality, that had poisoned her thoughts. since she knew that it was real, she could bear any absence, any pain. the knowledge that genuine love had been hers for an hour, that she had not been cheated out of her heritage, that she had not given gold for sand, as she had done as a girl--the knowledge of these things was the chain of light that would bind together all the dull years before her. already, though her pulses were still beating rapturously, she found that the personal values were gradually assuming their right position and importance in her outlook. there were greater matters, there were more significant facts in the world to-day than her own particular joy or sorrow. she must meet life, and she must meet it with serenity and fortitude. she must help where the immediate need was, without thought of the sacrifice, without thought even of her own suffering. how often in the past eight years had she told herself, "love is the greatest good in the world, but it is not the only good. there are lives filled to overflowing in which love has no place." now she realized that her love must be kept like some jewel in a secret casket, which was always there, always hidden and guarded, yet seldom brought out into the daylight and opened. "i must think of it only for a few minutes of the day," she said, "only when i am off duty, and it will not interfere with my work." and she resolved that she would keep this pledge with all the strength of her will. she would live life whole, not in parts. without taking off her hat, she went into the dining-room, and tried to slip unnoticed into her chair at a small table in one corner. the other seats were already occupied, and a pretty, vivacious girl she had known at the hospital, looked up and remarked, "you look so well, miss meade. have you been for a walk?" "yes, i've been for a walk. that is why i am late." down the centre of the room, beneath the flickering gas chandelier and the fly-specked ceiling, there was a long, narrow table, and at the head of it, mrs. dandridge presided with an air as royal as if she were gracing a banquet. she was a stately, white-haired woman, who had once been beautiful and was still impressive--for adversity, which had reduced her circumstances and destroyed her comfort, had failed to penetrate the majestic armour of her manner. in the midst of drudgery and turmoil and disaster, she had preserved her mental poise as some persons are able to preserve their equilibrium in a rocking boat. nothing disturbed her; she was as superior to accidents as she was to inefficiency or incompetence. her meals were never served at the hour; the food was badly cooked; the table was seldom tidy; and yet her house was always crowded, and there was an unimpeachable tradition that she had never received a complaint from a boarder. as she sat now at the head of her unappetizing table, eating her lukewarm potato soup as if it were terrapin, she appeared gracious, charming, supported by the romantic legends of her beauty and her aristocratic descent. if life had defeated her, it was one of those defeats which the philosopher has pronounced more triumphant than victories. "i spent the afternoon at the red cross rooms," she remarked, regal, serene, and impoverished. "that is why supper was a little late to-night. since i can give nothing else, i feel that it is my duty to give my time. i even ask myself sometimes if i have a moral right to anything we can send over to france?" inadvertently, or through some instinct of tact which was either divine or diabolical, she had touched a responsive cord in the heart of every man or woman at the table. there was no motive beyond impulsive sympathy in the words, for she was as incapable of deliberate design as she was of systematic economy; but her natural kindliness appeared to serve her now more effectively than any machiavellian subtlety could have done. the discontented and dejected look vanished from the faces about her; the distinguished widow, with two sons in the army, stopped frowning at the potato soup; the hungry but polite young man, who travelled for a clothing house, put down the war bread he was in the act of passing; and the studious-looking teacher across the table lost the critical air with which she had been regarding the coloured waitress. as caroline watched the change, she asked herself if the war, which was only a phrase to these people a few months ago, had become at last a reality? "we are in it now, body and soul," she thought, "we are in it just as france and england have been in it from the beginning. it is our war as much as theirs because it has touched our hearts. it has done what nothing has been able to do before--it has made us one people." into these different faces at mrs. dandridge's table, a single idea had passed suddenly, vitalizing and ennobling both the bright and the dull features--the idea of willing sacrifice. something greater than selfish needs or desires had swept them out of themselves on a wave of moral passion that, for the moment, exalted them like a religious conversion. what had happened, caroline knew, was that the patriotism in one of the most patriotic nations on earth had been stirred to the depths. the talk she heard was the kind that was going on everywhere. she had listened to it day after day, as it echoed and re-echoed from the boarding-houses, the hospitals, and the streets--and through the long, bitter months, when coal was scarce and heatless and meatless days kept the blood down, she was aware of it, as of a persistent undercurrent of cheerful noise. there were no complaints, but there were many jests, and the characteristic virginian habit of meeting a difficult situation with a joke, covered the fuel administration with ridicule. for weeks ice lay on the pavements, a famine in coal threatened; and as the winter went by, bread, instead of growing better, became steadily worse. but, after all, people said, these discomforts and denials were so small compared to the colossal sacrifices of europe. things were done badly, but what really counted was that they were done. beneath the waste and extravagance and incompetence, a tremendous spirit was moving; and out of the general aspect of bureaucratic shiftlessness, america was gathering her strength. in the future, as inevitably as history develops from a fact into a fable, the waste would be exalted into liberality, the shiftlessness into efficiency. for it is the law of our life that the means pass, and the end remains, that the act decays, but the spirit has immortality. for the next six months, when the calls were many and nurses were few, caroline kept her jewel in the secret casket. she did not think of herself, because to think of herself was the beginning of weakness, and she had resolved long ago to be strong. when all was said, the final result of her life depended simply on whether she overcame obstacles or succumbed to them. it was not the event, she knew, that coloured one's mental atmosphere; it was the point of view from which one approached it. "it is just as easy to grow narrow and bitter over an unfulfilled love as it is to be happy and cheerful," she thought, "and whether it is easy or not, i am not going to let myself grow narrow and bitter. of course, i might have had more, but, then, i might have had so much less--i might not have had that one hour--or his friendship. i am going to be thankful that i have had so much, and i am going to stop thinking about it at all. i may feel all i want to deep down in my soul, but i must stop thinking. when the whole country is giving up something, i can at least give up selfish regret." the winter passed, filled with work, and not unhappily, for time that is filled with work is seldom unhappy. from blackburn she had heard nothing, though in april a paragraph in the newspaper told her that angelica was about to sue for a divorce in some western state; and daisy colfax, whom she met one day in the waiting-room of the hospital, breezily confirmed the vague announcement. "there really wasn't anything else that she could do, you know. we were all expecting it. poor angelica, she must have had to overcome all her feelings before she could make up her mind to take a step that was so public. her delicacy is the most beautiful thing about her--except, as robert always insists, the wonderful way she has of bringing out the best in people." as the irony of this was obviously unconscious, caroline responded merely with a smile; but that same afternoon, when mrs. timberlake paid one of her rare visits, she repeated daisy's remark. "do you suppose she really believes what she says?" "of course she doesn't. things don't stop long enough in her mind to get either believed or disbelieved. they just sift straight through without her knowing that they are there." they were in the ugly little green-papered room at the hospital, and caroline was holding letty tight in her arms, while she interpolated cryptic phrases into the animated talk. "oh, miss meade, if you would only come back! do you think you will come back when mother and father get home again? i wrote to father the other day, but i had to write in pencil, and i'm so afraid it will all fade out when it goes over the ocean. will it get wet, do you think?" "i am sure it won't, dear, and he will be so glad to hear from you. what did you tell him?" "i told him how cold it was last winter, and that i couldn't write before because doing all the doctor told me took up every single minute, and i had had to leave off my lessons, and that the new nurse made them very dull, anyhow. then i said that i wanted you to come back, and that i hadn't been nearly so strong since you went away." she was looking pale, and after a few moments, caroline sent her, with a pot of flowers, into an adjoining room. "i don't like letty's colour," she said anxiously to the housekeeper, in the child's absence. "she is looking very badly. it is the hard winter, i reckon, but i am not a bit easy about her. she hasn't picked up after the last cold, and we don't seem able to keep her interested. children are so easily bored when they are kept indoors, and letty more easily than most, for she has such a quick mind. i declare i never lived through such a winter--at least not since i was a child in the civil war, and of course that was a thousand times worse. but we couldn't keep briarlay warm, even the few rooms that we lived in. it was just like being in prison--and a cold one at that! i can't help wishing that david would come home, for i feel all the time as if anything might happen. i reckon the winter put my nerves on edge; but the war seems to drag on so slowly, and everybody has begun to talk in such a pessimistic way. it may sound un-christian, but i sometimes feel as if i could hardly keep my hands off the germans. i get so impatient of the way things are going, i'd like to get over in france, and kill a few of them myself. it does look, somehow, as if the lord had forgotten that vengeance belongs to him." "doctor boland told me yesterday that he thought it would last at least five years longer." "then it will outlast us, that's all i've got to say." she cleared her throat, and added with tart irrelevancy, "i had a letter from angelica a few weeks ago." "is it true? what the paper said?" "there wasn't a word about it in the letter. she wrote because she wanted me to send her some summer clothes she had left here, and then she asked me to let her know about letty. she said she had been operated on in chicago a month ago, and that she was just out of the hospital, and feeling like the wreck of herself. everybody told her, she added, how badly she looked, and the letter sounded as if she were very much depressed and out of sorts." "do you think she may really have cared for mr. wythe?" mrs. timberlake shook her head. "it wasn't that, my dear. she just couldn't bear to think of mary's having more than she had. if she had ever liked david, it might have been easier for her to stand it, but she never liked him even when she married him; and though a marriage may sometimes manage very well without love, i've yet to see one that could get along without liking." she rose as letty came back from her errand, and a minute or two later, caroline tucked the child in the car, and stood watching while it started for briarlay. the air was mild and fragrant, for after the hard, cold winter, spring had returned with a profusion of flowers. in the earth, on the trees, and in the hearts of men and women, april was bringing warmth, hope, and a restoration of life. the will to be, to live, and to struggle, was released, with the flowing sap, from the long imprisonment of winter. in the city yards the very grass appeared to shoot up joyously into the light, and the scent of hyacinths was like the perfume of happiness. the afternoon was as soft as a day in summer, and this softness was reflected in the faces of the people who walked slowly, filled with an unknown hope, through the warm sunshine. "love is the greatest good in the world, but it is not the only good," repeated caroline, wondering who had first said the words. it was then, as she turned back to enter the hospital, that the postman put some letters into her hand, and looking down, she saw that one was from blackburn. chapter xi the letter for the rest of the afternoon she carried the letter hidden in her uniform, where, from time to time, she could pause in her task, and put her hand reassuringly on the edge of the envelope. not until evening, when she had left her patient and was back in her room, did she unfold the pages, and begin slowly to read what he had written. the first sentences, as she had expected, were stiff and constrained--she had known that until he could speak freely he would speak no word of love to her--but, as soon as he had passed from the note of feeling to the discussion of impersonal issues, he wrote as earnestly and spontaneously as he had talked to sloane on that october afternoon at briarlay. another woman, she realized, might have been disappointed; but the ironic past had taught her that emotion, far from being the only bond with a man like blackburn, was perhaps the least enduring of the ties that held them together. his love, if it ever came to her, would be the flower, not of transient passion, but of the profound intellectual sympathy which had first drawn their minds, not their hearts, to each other. both had passed through the earlier fires of racial impulse; both had been scorched, not warmed by the flames; and both had learned that the only permanent love is the love that is rooted as deeply in thought as in desire. * * * * * in france. my dear caroline: i have tried to write to you many times, but always something has held me back--some obscure feeling that words would not help things or make them easier, and that your friendship could be trusted to understand all that i was obliged to leave to the silence. you will see how badly i have put this, even though i have rewritten the beginning of this letter several times. but it is just as if i were mentally tongue-tied. i can think of nothing to say that it does not seem better to leave unsaid. then i remembered that when we parted i told you i should write of what i thought, not of what i felt, and this makes it simpler. when i relax my mental grip, the drift of things whirls like a snow-storm across my mind, and i grow confused and bewildered---in the last year i have thought a great deal about the questions before us. i have tried to look at them from a distance and on the outside, as well as from a closer point of view. i have done my best to winnow my convictions from the ephemeral chaff of opinions; and though i am groping still, i am beginning to see more clearly the road we must travel, if we are ever to come out of the jungle of speculation into the open field of political certainty. behind us--behind america, for it is of my own country that i am thinking--the way is strewn with experiments that have met failure, with the bones of political adventurers who have died tilting at the windmill of opportunity. for myself, i see now that, though some of my theories have survived, many of them have been modified or annulled by the war. two years ago you heard me tell sloane that our most urgent need was of unity--the obliteration of sectional lines. i still feel this need, but i feel it now as a necessary part of a far greater unity, of the obliteration of world boundaries of understanding and sympathy. this brings us to the vital question before us as a people--the development of the individual citizen within the democracy, of the national life within the international. here is the problem that america must solve for the nations, for only america, with her larger views and opportunities, can solve it. for the next generation or two this will be our work, and our chance of lasting service. our republic must stand as the great example of the future, as the morning star that heralds the coming of a new day. it is the cause for which our young men have died. with their lives they have secured our democracy, and the only reward that is worthy of them is a social order as fair as their loyalty and their sacrifice. and so we approach our great problem--individuality within democracy, the national order within the world order. already the sectional lines, which once constituted an almost insurmountable obstacle, have been partly dissolved in the common service and sacrifice. already america is changing from a mass of divergent groups, from a gathering of alien races, into a single people, one and indivisible in form and spirit. the war has forged us into a positive entity, and this entity we must preserve as far as may be compatible with the development of individual purpose and character. here, i confess, lies the danger; here is the political precipice over which the governments of the past have almost inevitably plunged to destruction. and it is just here, i see now, in the weakest spot of the body politic, that the south, and the individualism of the south, may become, not a national incubus, but the salvation of our republic. the spirit that fought to the death fifty years ago for the sovereignty of the states, may act to-day as a needed check upon the opposing principle of centralization in government, the abnormal growth of federal power; and in the end may become, like the stone which the builders rejected, the very head of the corner. as i look forward to-day, the great hope for america appears to be the interfusion of the northern belief in solidarity with the ardent southern faith in personal independence and responsibility. in this blending of ideals alone, i see the larger spirit that may redeem nationality from despotism. i am writing as the thoughts rush through my mind, with no effort to clarify or co-ordinate my ideas. from childhood my country has been both an ideal and a passion with me; and at this hour, when it is facing new dangers, new temptations, and new occasions for sacrifice, i feel that it is the duty of every man who is born with the love of a soil in his heart and brain, to cast his will and his vision into the general plan of the future. to see america avoid alike the pitfall of arbitrary power and the morass of visionary socialism; to see her lead the nations, not in the path of selfish conquest, but, with sanity and prudence, toward the promised land of justice and liberty--this is a dream worth living for, and worth dying for, god knows, if the need should ever arise. the form of government which will yield us this ideal union of individualism with nationalism, i confess, lies still uninvented or undiscovered. autocracies have failed, and democracies have been merely uncompleted experiments. the republics of the past have served mainly as stepping-stones to firmer autocracies or oligarchies. socialism as a state of mind, as a rule of conduct, as an expression of pity for the disinherited of the earth--socialism as the embodiment of the humane idea, is wholly admirable. so far as it is an attempt to establish the reign of moral ideas, to apply to the community the command of christ, 'therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them;' so far as it expresses the obscure longing in the human heart for justice and right in the relations of mankind--so far as it embodies the instincts of compassion and sympathy, it must win the approval of every man who has looked deeply into human affairs. the evil of socialism lies not in these things; nor does it rest in the impracticability of its theory--in the generous injustice of "robbing the rich to pay the poor." the evil of it consists in the fact that it would lend itself in practice even more readily than democracy, to the formation of that outer crust of officialism which destroys the blood and fibre of a nation. socialism obeying the law of christ might be a perfect system--but, then, so would despotism, or democracy, or any other form of government man has invented. but all theories, however exalted, must filter down, in application, through the brackish stream of average human nature. the state cannot rest upon a theory, any more than it can derive its true life from the empty husks of authority. the republic of man, like the kingdom of god, is within, or it is nowhere. to-day, alone among the nations, the american republic stands as the solitary example of a state that came into being, not through the predatory impulse of mankind, but, like its constitution, as an act of intellectual creation. in this sense alone it did not grow, it was made; in this sense it was founded, not upon force, but upon moral ideas, upon everlasting and unchanging principles. it sprang to life in the sunrise of liberty, with its gaze on the future--on the long day of promise. it is the heir of all the ages of political experiment; and yet from the past, it has learned little except the things that it must avoid. there was never a people that began so gloriously, that started with such high hearts and clear eyes toward an ideal social contract. since then we have wandered far into the desert. we have followed mirage after mirage. we have listened to the voice of the false prophet and the demagogue. yet our republic is still firm, embedded, as in a rock, in the moral sense of its citizens. for a democracy, my reason tells me, there can be no other basis. when the state seeks other authority than the conscience of its citizens, it ceases to be a democracy, and becomes either an oligarchy or a bureaucracy. then the empty forms of hereditary right, or established officialdom, usurp the sovereignty of moral ideas, and the state decays gradually because the reservoir of its life has run dry. for our republic, standing as it does between hidden precipices, the immediate future is full of darkness. we have shown the giant's strength, and we must resist the temptation to use it like a giant. when the war is won, we shall face the vital and imminent danger, the danger that is not material, but spiritual--for what shall it profit a nation, if it shall gain the whole world, and lose its own soul? in a time of danger arbitrary power wears always a benevolent aspect; and since man first went of his own will into bondage, there has never been absolutism on earth that has not masqueraded in the doctrine of divine origin--whether it be by the custom of kingship, or by the voice of the people. war, which is an abnormal growth on the commonwealth, may require abnormal treatment; but history shows that it is easier to surrender rights in war than it is to recover them in peace, and a temporary good has too often developed into a permanent evil. the freedom of the seas will be a poor substitute for the inalienable rights of the individual american. a league of nations cannot insure these; it is doubtful even if it can insure peace on earth and good will toward men. men can hate as bitterly and fight as fiercely within a league as outside of one. we shall go forth, when victory is won, to enlighten the world with liberty and with far-seeing statesmanship; but just as the far-sighted physical vision perceives distant objects more clearly than near ones, there is, also, a world vision of duty which overlooks immediate obligations while it discerns universal responsibilities. in this mental view the present is invariably sacrificed to the future, the personal rights to the general security. yet to the more normal faculty of vision, it would appear that the perfect whole must result from the perfect parts; and that only by preserving our individual liberties can we make a league of free nations. international treaties are important, but national morality is vital--for the treaty that is not confirmed by the national honour is only a document. and now, after a year's thinking, i have come back to the conviction from which i started--that the only substantial groundwork of a republic is the conscience of its citizens. the future of our democracy rests not in the halls of congress, but in the cradle; and to build for permanency, we must build, not on theory, but on personal rectitude. we hear a great deal said now, and said unthinkingly, about the personal values not counting in a war that is fought for world freedom. yet there was never an age, and i say this with certainty, in which personality was of such supreme significance as it is to-day. for this, after all, is the end to which my thinking has brought me--nationalism is nothing, internationalism is nothing, unless it is an expression of individual aspirations and ideals--for the end of both nationalism and internationalism is the ultimate return to racial character. cultivate the personal will to righteousness, teach the citizen that he is the state, and the general good may take care of itself. and so our first duty appears to be, not national expansion, but the development of moral fibre. before we teach other nations to stand alone, we must learn to walk straight; before we sow the seeds of the future, we must prepare our own ground for planting. national greatness is a flower that has often flourished over a sewer of class oppression and official corruption; and the past teaches us that republics, as well as autocracies, may be founded on slavery and buttressed by inequalities. as i look ahead now, i see that we may win freedom for smaller nations, and yet lose our own liberties to a federal power that is supported by a civilian army of office-holders. for power is never more relentless in exercise than when it has transformed the oppressed of yesterday into the oppressors of to-day; and it is well to remember that democracy means not merely the tyranny of the many instead of the few; it means equal obligations and responsibilities as well as equal rights and opportunities. if we have failed to reach this ideal, it has been because the individual american has grasped at opportunity while he evaded responsibility; and the remedy for the failure lies not in a change of institutions, but in a change of heart. we must realize that america is a faith as well as a fact--that it is, for many, a divine hypothesis. we must realize that it means the forward-looking spirit, the fearless attitude of mind, the belief in the future, the romantic optimism of youth, the will to dare and the nerve to achieve the improbable. this is america, and this is our best and greatest gift to the world--and to the league of free nations. with the end of the war the danger will be threatening; and we must meet it as we met the feebler menace of prussian militarism--but we must meet it and conquer it with intangible weapons. no nation has ever fought for a greater cause; no nation has ever fought more unselfishly; and no nation has ever drawn its sword in so idealistic a spirit. we have entered this war while our hearts were full, while the high and solemn mood was upon us. if we keep to this mood, if we seek in victory the immaterial, not the material advantage, if our only reward is the opportunity for world service, and our only conquered territory the provinces of the free spirit--if we keep fast to this ideal, and embody its meaning in our national life and actions, then we may save the smaller nations because we have first saved our republic. for, if it is a day of peril, it is also a day of glory. the seal of blood is upon us, but it is the prophetic mark of the future, and it has sealed us for the union of justice with liberty. we have given our dead as a pledge of the greater america--the america of invisible boundaries. there is but one monument that we can build in remembrance, and that monument is a nobler republic. if we lose the inspiration of the ideal, if we turn aside from the steady light of democracy to pursue the _ignis fatuus_ of imperialistic enterprise or aggression, then our dead will have died in vain, and we shall leave our building unfinished. for those who build on the dead must build for immortality. physical boundaries cannot contain them; but in the soul of the people, if we make room for them, they will live on forever, and in the spirit we may still have part and place with them. and because the collective soul of the race is only the sum total of individual souls, i can discern no way to true national greatness except through the cultivation of citizenship. experience has proved that there can be no stability either of law or league unless it is sustained by the moral necessity of mankind; and, for this reason, i feel that our first international agreement should be the agreement on a world standard of honour--on a rule of ethical principles in public as well as in private relations. i confess that a paternalism that enfeebles the character appears to me scarcely less destructive than a license that intoxicates. between the two lies the golden mean of power with charity, of enlightened individualism, of christian principles, not applied on the surface, but embodied in the very structure of civilization. though i am not a religious man in the orthodox meaning, the last year has taught me that the world's hope lies not in treaties, but in the law of christ that ye love one another. this splendid dream of the perfectibility of human nature may not have led us very far in the past, but at least it has never once led us wrong. there are ideas that flash by like comets, bearing a trail of light; and such an idea is that of world peace and brotherhood. only those whose eyes are on the heavens behold it; yet these few may become the great adventurers of the spirit, the prophets and seers of the new age for mankind. there has never been a great invention that did not begin as a dream, just as there has never been a great truth that did not begin as a heresy. and, if we look back over history, we find that the sublime moments with men and with nations, are those in which they break free from the anchorage of the past, and set sail toward the unknown seas, on a new spiritual voyage of discovery. it is thus that i would see america, not as schoolmistress or common scold to the nations, but as chosen leader by example, rather than by authority. i would see her, when this crisis is safely past, keeping still to her onward vision, and her high and solemn mood of service and sacrifice; and it is in the spirit of humility, not of pride, that i would have her stretch the hand of friendship alike to the great and the little peoples. she has had no wiser leaders than the founders of this republic, and i would see her return, as far as she can return, to the lonely freedom in which they left her. i would see her enter no world covenant except one that is sustained not by physical force, but by the moral law; and i would, above all, see her follow her own great destiny with free hands and unbandaged eyes. for her true mission is not that of universal pedagogue--her true mission is to prove to the incredulous powers the reality of her own political ideals--to make democracy, not a sublime postulate, but a self-evident truth. i have written as words came to me, knowing that i could write to you freely and frankly, as i could to no one else, of the life of the mind. your friendship i can trust always, in any circumstances; and it is only by thinking impersonally that i can escape the tyranny of personal things. i have not written of my surroundings over here, because i could tell you only what you have read in hundreds of letters--in hundreds of magazines. it is all alike. one and all, we see the same sights. war is not the fine and splendid thing some of us at home believe it to be. there is dirt and cruelty and injustice in france, as well as glory and heroism. i have seen the good and the evil of the battlefields, just as i have seen the good and the evil of peace, and i have learned that the romance of war depends as much upon the thickness of the atmosphere as upon the square miles of the distance. it is pretty prosaic at close range; yet at the very worst of it, i have seen flashes of an almost inconceivable beauty. for it brings one up against the reality, and the reality is not matter, but spirit. i am trying to do the best work of my life, and i am doing it just for my country. god bless you. david blackburn. chapter xii the vision at the end of june, caroline learned from the papers that blackburn had returned to briarlay; and the same day she heard through daisy colfax that alan wythe had been killed in france. "i feel so sorry for poor angelica," said the young woman mournfully. "they were always such devoted friends. but, of course, it is splendid to think that he was a hero, and i know that is the way angelica will look at it." at the moment, though caroline had liked alan, the thing that impressed her most was the way in which the whole world shared in the conspiracy to protect angelica from the consequences of her own acts. evidently no hint of scandal had ever touched her friendship for alan. "i am sorry," said caroline, "i always liked him." "oh, everybody did! you know that mr. blackburn has come home?" "yes, i saw it in the paper." "and cousin matty tells me that you are going away to camp?" "i have just had my call, and i am leaving next week. i hope it means france very soon, but of course no one knows." "well, be sure to take a great deal more than they tell you to. i know a nurse who said she almost froze the first winter. do you really have to wear woollen stockings? i should think they would make your flesh creep." she passed on, blooming and lovely, and caroline, with her bundle of woollen stockings under her arm, left the shop, and turned down a side street on her way to mrs. dandridge's. she was glad of the call, and yet--and yet--she had hoped deep down in her heart, a hope unspoken and unacknowledged, that she should see david again before she left richmond. a moment would be enough--only it might be for the last time, and she felt that she must see him. in the last two months she had thought of him very little. her work had engrossed her, and the hope of going to france had exhilarated her like wine through all the long days of drudgery. she had grown to expect so little of life that every pleasure was magnified into a blessing, and she found, in looking back, that an accumulation of agreeable incidents had provided her with a measure of happiness. underneath it all was the knowledge of blackburn, though love had come at last to take the place of a creed that one believes in, but seldom remembers. yet she still kept the jewel in the casket, and it was only when she stopped now and then to reflect on her life, that she realized how long it had lain in its secret corner where the light of day never shone. as she approached the boarding-house she saw a car by the sidewalk, and a minute afterwards, mrs. timberlake turned away from the door, and came down to the gate. "oh, caroline, i was afraid i had missed you! are you going very soon?" "not until next week." did the housekeeper hear, she wondered, the wild throbbing of her heart? "i came to see if you could come out for the night? letty has been ailing for several days, and the doctor says she has a touch of fever. miss bradley is ill in bed, and we can't get a nurse anywhere until to-morrow. of course mammy riah and i can manage, but david and i would both feel so much easier if you would come." "of course, i'll come. i'll get my bag in a minute. it is already packed." without waiting for mrs. timberlake's reply, she ran into the house, and came out with the suitcase in her hands. "tell me about letty. is her temperature high?" "it has been all day, but you know how it is with children, as i told david this morning. you heard that david was back?" "i saw it in the paper." "he came very unexpectedly. of course he couldn't cable about the boat, and the telegram he sent from new york didn't get to me until after he was in the house. he is looking badly, but i am sure it isn't the work. i believe other things have been worrying him." the car had passed out of grace street, and was running in the direction of monument avenue. as they went on, caroline remembered the april morning when she had come in this same car down the familiar street, where flags were flying so gaily. it seemed a hundred years ago--not one year, but a hundred! life was the same, and yet not the same, since the very heart of it was altered. the same sky shone, deeply blue, overhead; the same sun illuminated the houses; the same flags were flying; the same persons passed under the glittering green of the leaves. it was all just as it had been on that april morning--and yet how different! "i suppose he is anxious about letty?" she said. "even before that i noticed how much he had changed. it was only when he was telling me about roane that he looked a bit like himself. my dear, can you believe that roane has really turned into a hero?" "no, i cannot. it must have been a long turning." she was talking only to make sound. how could it matter to her what roane had turned into? "he's been fighting with the french, and david says he's won every decoration they have to give. he is doing splendid things, like saving lives under fire, and once he even saved a red cross dog at the risk of his life. david says it's the way he makes a jest of it that the french like--as if he were doing it for amusement. that's like roane fitzhugh, isn't it? what do you suppose david meant when he said that beneath it all was a profound disillusionment?" "i don't know, but i never denied that roane had a sense of humour." "you never liked him, and neither did david. he says now that roane isn't really any more of a hero than he always was, but that he has found a background where his single virtue is more conspicuous than his collective vices. i believe he is the only human being i ever knew david to be unjust to." caroline laughed. "there are some virtues it is simply impossible to believe in. whenever i hear of roane fitzhugh--even when i hear things like this--i always remember that he kissed me when he was drunk." "he hasn't touched a drop since the war. david says he is getting all the excitement he wants in other ways." "and i suppose when the war is over he'll have to get it again from drink." it didn't make any difference whether he was a hero or not, she told herself, she should always feel that way about him. after all, he was probably not the first hero who had given a woman good cause to despise him. "oh, i hope not!" unlike caroline, the housekeeper had always had a weakness for roane, though she disapproved of his habits. but a good man, she often said to herself in excuse, might have bad habits, just as a bad man might have good ones. the lord would have to find something else to judge people by at the day of reckoning. "he is the only man i've ever known who could see through angelica," she concluded after a pause. "he began early. she always got everything he wanted when they were children. i've heard him say so." "well, i wrote to him about her the other day. did i tell you i'd heard from cousin fanny baylor, who has been with her in chicago?" "no, you didn't tell me. how long ago was it?" "it couldn't have been more than three weeks. she wrote me that angelica was only the wreck of herself, and that the operation was really much more serious than we had ever been told. the doctor said there was no hope of any permanent cure, though she might linger on, as an invalid, for a good many years." "and does she know? mrs. blackburn, i mean?" "they wouldn't tell her. cousin fanny said the doctors and nurses had all been so careful to keep it from her, and that the surgeon who operated said he could not strike hope out of angelica's heart by telling her. angelica has shown the most beautiful spirit, she wrote, and everybody in the hospital thought her perfectly lovely. she left there some months ago, and, of course, she believed that she was going to get well in time. it's funny, isn't it, that the doctor who is attending her now should be so crazy about her? cousin fanny says he is one of the most distinguished men in chicago, but it sounds to me very much as if he were the sort of fool that alan wythe was." "could the war have changed her? perhaps she is different now since alan wythe was killed?" mrs. timberlake met this with a sound that was between a sniff and a snort. "i expect it's only in books that war, or anything else, makes people over in a minute like that. in real life women like angelica don't get converted, or if they do, it doesn't last overnight. you can't raise a thunderstorm in a soap bubble. no, angelica will go on until she dies being exactly what she has always been, and people will go on until she dies and afterwards, believing that she is different. i reckon it would take more than a world war, it would take a universal cataclysm, to change angelica." for a time they drove on in silence, and when the housekeeper spoke again it was in a less positive tone. "it wouldn't surprise me if she was sorry now that she ever left david." caroline started. "do you mean she would want to come back?" "it wouldn't surprise me," mrs. timberlake repeated firmly. "then she didn't get the divorce?" "no, she didn't get it, and there wouldn't be any use in her beginning all over again, now that alan is dead. if she is really as ill as they say, i reckon she'd be more comfortable at briarlay--even if that doctor out yonder is crazy about her." "well, she could find one here who would be just as crazy." there was an accent of bitterness in caroline's voice. "oh, yes, she wouldn't have to worry about that. the only thing that would seem to stand in her way is david, and i don't know that she has ever paid much attention to him." "not even as an obstacle. but how can she come back if he doesn't want her?" it really appeared a problem to caroline. "oh, she'll make him want her--or try to----" "do you think she can?" mrs. timberlake pondered the question. "no, i don't believe that she can, but she can make him feel sorry for her, and with david that would be half the battle." "that and letty, i suppose." "yes, she has been writing to letty very often, and her letters are so sweet that the child has begun to ask when she is coming home. you know how easily children forget?" caroline sighed under her breath. "oh, i know--but, even then, how could mr. blackburn?" "he wouldn't forget. if he thought it was right, he would do it if it killed him, but he would remember till his dying day. that's how david is made. he is like a rock about his duty, and i sometimes think feelings don't count with him at all." "yet he did love her once." "yes, he loved her once--and, of course," she amended suddenly, reverting to the traditional formula, "nobody believes that angelica ever did anything really wrong." for the rest of the long drive they sat in silence; and it seemed to caroline, while the car turned into the lane and ran the last half mile to the house, that time had stopped and she was back again in the october afternoon when she had first come to briarlay. it was no longer a hundred years ago. in the midst of the june foliage--the soft green of the leaves, the emerald green of the grass, the dark olive green of the junipers--in the midst of the wonderful brightness and richness of summer--she was enveloped, as if by a drifting fragrance, in the atmosphere of that day in autumn. it came to life not as a memory, but as a moment that existed, outside of time, in eternity. it was here, around, within, and above her, a fact like any other fact; yet she perceived it, not through her senses, but through an intuitive recognition to which she could not give a name. under the summer sky she saw again the elm leaves falling slowly; she approached again the red walls in the glimmer of sunset; and she felt again the divine certainty that the house contained for her the whole measure of human experience. then the car stopped; the door opened; and the scene faded like the vision of a clairvoyant. imagination, nothing more! she had stepped from the dream into the actuality, and out of the actuality she heard mrs. timberlake's dry tones remarking that david had not come home from the office. "let me go to letty. i should like to see letty at once," said caroline. "then run straight upstairs to the night nursery. i know she will be almost out of her head with joy." moses had opened the front door, and as caroline entered, she glanced quickly about her, trying to discover if there had been any changes. but the house was unaltered. it was like a greenhouse from which the rarest blossom had been removed, leaving still a subtle and penetrating perfume. all the profusion of detail, the dubious taste, the warmth of colour, and the lavishness of decoration, were still there. from the drawing-room she caught the sheen of pink silk, and she imagined for an instant that angelica's fair head drooped, like a golden lily, among the surroundings she had chosen. there was a lack of discrimination, she saw now even more plainly than on that first afternoon, but there was an abundance of dramatic effect. one might imagine one's self in any character--even the character of an angel--with a background like that! as she drew near to the nursery door she heard letty's voice exclaiming excitedly, "there's miss meade, mammy, i hear miss meade coming!" then mammy riah opened the door, and the next minute the child was stretching out her arms and crying with pleasure. "i asked father to send for you," she said, "i told him you could make me well faster than miss bradley." she appeared to caroline to have grown unnaturally tall and thin, like the picture of alice in wonderland they used to laugh over together. her face was curiously transparent and "peaked," as mrs. timberlake had said, and the flush of fever could not disguise the waxen look of the skin. in her straight little nightgown, which was fastened close at the throat, and with the big blue bow on the top of her smooth brown head, she looked so wistful and pathetic that she brought a lump to caroline's throat. was it any wonder that blackburn was anxious when she gazed up at him like that? "i want to hurry up and get well, miss meade," she began, "because it makes father so unhappy when i am sick. it really hurts father dreadfully." "but you're getting well. there isn't much the matter, is there, mammy?" "she'd be jes ez peart ez i is, ef'n miss matty 'ould quit pokin' physic down 'er thoat. dar ain' nuttin' else in de worl' de matter wid 'er. whut you reckon miss matty know about hit? ain't she done been teckin' physic day in en day out sence befo' de flood, en ain't she all squinched up, en jes ez yaller ez a punkin, now?" "i don't mind the medicine if it will make me well," said the child. "and you take what the doctor gives you too?" "oh, yes, i take that too. between them," she added with a sigh, "there is a great deal to take." "it is because you are growing so fast. you are a big girl now." letty laughed. "father doesn't want me to get much taller. he doesn't want me to be tall when i'm grown up--but i can't help it, if it keeps up. do you think i've grown any since the last time i measured, mammy riah?" "naw, honey, dat you ain't. you ain' growed a winch." "she means an inch," said letty. "some people can't understand her. even father can't sometimes, but i always can." then drawing caroline down on the bed, she began stroking her arm with a soft caressing touch. "do you suppose mother will come back now that you have?" she asked. "when you are here she wouldn't have so much trouble. she used to say that you took trouble off her." "perhaps she will. you would like to see her, darling?" the child thought earnestly for a moment. "i'd like to see her," she answered, "she is so pretty." "it would make you happier if she came back?" a smile, which was like the wise smile of an old person, flickered over letty's features. "wasn't it funny?" she said. "father asked me that this morning." a tremor shook caroline's heart. "and what did you tell him?" "i told him i'd like her to come back if she wanted to very badly. it hurts mother so not to do what she wants to do. it makes her cry." "she says she wants to come back?" "i think she wants to see me. her letters are very sad. they sound as if she wanted to see me very much, don't they mammy? somebody has to read them to me because i can read only plain writing. how long will it be, miss meade, before i can read any kind, even the sort where the letters all look just alike and go right into one another?" "soon, dear. you are getting on beautifully. now i'll run into my room, and put on my uniform. you like me in uniform, don't you?" "i like you any way," answered letty politely. "you always look so fresh, just like a sparkling shower, cousin daisy says. she means the sort of shower you have in summer when the sun shines on the rain." going into her room, caroline bathed her face in cold water, and brushed her hair until it rolled in a shining curve back from her forehead. she was just slipping into her uniform when there was a knock at the door, and mrs. timberlake said, without looking in, "david has come home, and he has asked for you. will you go down to the library?" "in one minute. i am ready." her voice was clear and firm; but, as she left the room and passed slowly down the staircase, by the copy of the sistine madonna, by the ivory walls of the hall and the pink walls of the drawing-room, she understood how the women felt who rode in the tumbril to the guillotine. it was the hardest hour of her life, and she must summon all the courage of her spirit to meet it. then she remembered her father's saying, that after the worst had happened, one began to take things easier, and an infusion of strength flowed from her mind into her heart and her limbs. if the worst was before her now, in a little while it would be over--in a little while she could pass on to hospital wards, and the sounds of the battlefield, and the external horrors that would release her from the torment of personal things. the door of the library was open, and blackburn stood in the faint sunshine by the window--in the very spot where he had stood on the night when she had gone to tell him that angelica had ordered her car to go to the tableaux. as she entered, he crossed the room and held her hand for an instant; then, turning together, they passed through the window, and out on the brick terrace. all the way down the stairs she had wondered what she should say to him in the beginning; but now, while they stood there in the golden light, high above the june splendour of the rose garden, she said only, "oh, how lovely it is! how lovely!" he was looking at her closely. "you are working too hard. your eyes are tired." "i must go on working. what is there in the world except work?" though she tried to speak brightly, there was a ripple of sadness in her voice. her eyes were on the garden, and it seemed to her that it blazed suddenly with an intolerable beauty--a beauty that hurt her quivering senses like sound. all the magic loveliness of the roses, all the reflected wonder and light and colour of the sunset, appeared to mingle and crash through her brain, like the violent crescendo of some triumphant music. she had not wanted colour; she had attuned her life to grey days and quiet backgrounds, and the stark forms of things that were without warmth or life. but beauty, she felt, was unendurable--beauty was what she had not reckoned with in her world. "you are going to france?" he asked. "i am leaving for camp next week. that means france, i hope." "until the end of the war?" "until the end--or as long as i hold out. i shall not give up." for the first time she had turned to look at him, and as she raised her lashes a veil of dry, scorching pain gathered before her eyes. he looked older, he looked changed, and, as mrs. timberlake had said, he looked as if he had suffered. the energy, the force which had always seemed to her dynamic, was still there in his keen brown face, in his muscular figure; only when he smiled did she notice that the youth in his eyes had passed into bitterness--not the bitterness of ineffectual rebellion, but the bitterness that accepts life on its own terms, and conquers. "when i parted from you last autumn," he said suddenly, "i was full of hope. i could look ahead with confidence, and with happiness. i felt, in a way, that the worst was over for both of us--that the future would be better and richer. i never looked forward to life with more trust than i did then," he added, as if the memory of the past were forcing the words out of him. "and i, also," she answered, with her sincere and earnest gaze on his face, "i believed, and i hoped." he looked away from her over the red and white roses. "it is different now. i can see nothing for myself--nothing for my own life. where hope was there is only emptiness." the sunset was reflected in the shining light of her eyes. "life can never be empty for me while i have your friendship and can think of you." by the glow in his face she knew that her words had moved him; yet he spoke, after a moment, as if he had not heard them. "it is only fair that you should know the truth," he said slowly and gravely, "that you should know that i have cared for you, and cared, i think, in the way you would wish me to. nothing in my life has been more genuine than this feeling. i have tested it in the last year, and i know that it is as real as myself. you have been not only an emotion in my heart--you have been a thought in my mind--every minute--through everything----" he stopped, and still without turning his eyes on her, went on more rapidly, "as a lover i might always have been a failure. there have been so many other things. life has had a way of crowding out emotion to make room for other problems and responsibilities. i am telling you this now because we are parting--perhaps for a time, perhaps for ever. the end no one can see----" beyond the rose garden, in one of the pointed red cedars down in the meadow, a thrush was singing; and it seemed to her, while she listened, that the song was in her own heart as well as in the bird's--that it was pouring from her soul in a rapture of wonder and delight. "i can never be unhappy again," she answered. "the memory of this will be enough. i can never be unhappy again." from the cedar, which rose olive black against the golden disc of the sun, the bird sang of hope and love and the happiness that is longer than grief. "the end no one can see," he said, and--it may have been only because of the singing bird in her heart--she felt that the roughness of pain had passed out of his voice. then, before she could reply, he asked hurriedly, "has letty spoken to you of her mother?" "yes, she talked of her the little while that i saw her." "you think the child would be happier if she were here?" for an instant she hesitated. "i think," she replied at last, "that it would be fairer to the child--especially when she is older." "her mother writes to her." "yes. i think letty feels that she wishes to come home." the bird had stopped singing. lonely, silent, still as the coming night, the cedar rose in a darkening spire against the afterglow. "for us there can be no possible life together," he added presently. "we should be strangers as we have been for years. she writes me that she has been ill--that there was a serious operation----" "have the doctors told her the truth?" "i think not. she knows only that she does not regain her strength, that she still suffers pain at times. because of this it may be easier." "you mean easier because you pity her? that i can understand. pity makes anything possible." "i am sorry for her, yes--but pity would not be strong enough to make me let her come back. there is something else." "there is the child." "the child, of course. letty's wish would mean a great deal, but i doubt if that would be strong enough. there is still something else." "i know," she said, "you feel that it is right--that you must do it because of that." he shook his head. "i have tried to be honest. it is that, and yet it is not that alone. i wonder if i can make you understand?" "has there ever been a time when i did not understand?" "god bless you, no. and i feel that you will understand now--that you alone--you only among the people who know me, will really understand." for a time he was silent, and when at last he went on, it was in a voice from which all emotion had faded: "pity might move me, but pity could not drive me to do a thing that will ruin my life--while it lasts. letty's good would weigh more with me; but can i be sure--can you, or any one else, be sure that it is really for letty's good? the doubt in this could so easily be turned into an excuse--an evasion. no, the reason that brings me to it is larger, broader, deeper, and more impersonal than any of these. it is an idea rather than a fact. if i do it, it will be not because of anything that has happened at briarlay; it will be because of things that have happened in france. it will be because of my year of loneliness and thought, and because of the spirit of sacrifice that surrounded me. if one's ideal, if one's country--if the national life, is worth dying for--then surely it is worth living for. if it deserves the sacrifice of all the youth of the world--then surely it deserves every other sacrifice. our young men have died for liberty, and the least that we older ones can do is to make that liberty a thing for which a man may lay down his life unashamed." the emotion had returned now; and she felt, when he went on again, that she was listening to the throbbing heart of the man. "the young have given their future for the sake of a belief," he said slowly, "for the belief that civilization is better than barbarism, that humanity is better than savagery, that democracy has something finer and nobler to give mankind than has autocracy. they died believing in america, and america, unless she is false to her dead, must keep that faith untarnished. if she lowers her standards of personal responsibility, if she turns liberty into lawlessness, if she makes herself unworthy of that ultimate sacrifice--the sacrifice of her best--then spiritual, if not physical, defeat must await her. the responsibility is yours and mine. it belongs to the individual american, and it cannot be laid on the peace table, or turned over to the president. there was never a leader yet that was great enough to make a great nation." as he paused, she lifted her eyes, and looked into his without answering. it was the unseen that guided him, she knew. it would be always the unseen. that was the law of his nature, and she would accept it now, and in the future. "i understand," she said, simply, after a moment. "it is because you understand," he answered, "because i can trust you to understand, that i am speaking to you like this, from my heart. my dear, this was what i meant when i wrote you that nationality is nothing for personality is everything. our democracy is in the making. it is an experiment, not an achievement; and it will depend, not on the size of its navy, but on the character of its citizens, whether or not it becomes a failure. there must be unselfish patriotism; there must be sacrifice for the general good--a willing, instead of a forced, sacrifice. there must be these things, and there must be, also, the feeling that the laws are not for the particular case, but for the abstract class, not for the one, but for the many--that a democracy which has been consecrated by sacrifice must not stoop, either in its citizens, or in its government, to the pursuit of selfish ends. all this must be a matter of personal choice rather than of necessity. i have seen death faced with gladness for a great cause, and, though i am not always strong enough to keep the vision, i have learned that life may be faced, if not with gladness, at least with courage and patience, for a great ideal----" his voice broke off suddenly, and they were both silent. the sun had gone down long ago, and it seemed to caroline that the approaching twilight was flooded with memories. she was ready for the sacrifice; she could meet the future; and at the moment she felt that, because of the hour she had just lived, the future would not be empty. whatever it might bring, she knew that she could face it with serenity--that she was not afraid of life, that she would live it in the whole, not in the part--in its pain as well as in its joy, in its denial as well as in its fulfilment, in its emptiness as well as in its abundance. the great thing was that she should not fall short of what he expected of her, that she should be strong when he needed strength. she looked up at him, hesitating before she answered; and while she hesitated, there was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the library, and mrs. timberlake came through the room to the terrace. "david," she called in a startled voice. "did you know that angelica was coming back?" he answered without turning. "yes, i knew it." "she is here now--in the hall. did you expect her so soon?" "not so soon. she telegraphed me last night." "mrs. mallow met her at the hot springs yesterday, and told her that letty was ill. that brought her down. she has been at the hot springs for several weeks." blackburn had grown white; but, without speaking, he turned away from the terrace, and walked through the library to the hall. near the door angelica was leaning on the arm of a nurse, and as he approached, she broke away from the support, and took a single step forward. "oh, david, i want my child! you cannot keep me away from my child!" she was pale and worn, her face was transparent and drawn, and there were hollows under the grey velvet of her eyes; but she was still lovely--she was still unconquerable. the enchanting lines had not altered. though her colour had been blotted out, as if by the single stroke of a brush, the radiance of her expression was unchanged, and when she smiled her face looked again as if the light of heaven had fallen over it. never, not even in the days of her summer splendour, had caroline felt so strongly the invincible power of her charm and her pathos. "no, i cannot keep you away from her," blackburn answered gently, and at his words angelica moved toward the staircase. "help me, cousin matty. take me to her." abandoning the nurse, she caught mrs. timberlake's arm, clinging to her with all her strength, while the two ascended the stairs together. blackburn turned back into the library, and, for a moment, caroline was left alone with the stranger. "have you known mrs. blackburn long?" asked the other nurse, "she must have been so very beautiful." "for some time. yes, she was beautiful." "of course, she is lovely still. it is the kind of face that nothing could make ugly--but i keep wondering what she was like before she was so dreadfully thin. you can tell just to look at her what a sad life she has had, though she bears it so wonderfully, and there isn't a word of bitterness in anything that she says. i never knew a lovelier nature." she passed up the stairs after the others, her arms filled with angelica's wraps, and her plain young face enkindled with sympathy and compassion. clearly angelica had found another worshipper and disciple. alone in the hall, caroline looked through the library to the pale glimmer of the terrace where blackburn was standing. he was gazing away from her to the rose garden, which was faintly powdered with the silver of dusk; and while she stood there, with her answer to him still unuttered, it seemed to her that, beyond the meadows and the river, light was shining on the far horizon. the end [illustration: colophon] the country life press garden city, n. y. 