THE LION AND THE UNICORN

By Richard Harding Davis

 IN MEMORY OF MANY HOT DAYS AND SOME HOT CORNERS THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO LT. -COL. ARTHUR H. LEE, R. A. British Military Attache with the United States Army

Contents

 THE LION AND THE UNICORN

 ON THE FEVER SHIP

 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT

 THE VAGRANT

 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

Prentiss had a long lease on the house, and because it stood in JermynStreet the upper floors were, as a matter of course, turned intolodgings for single gentlemen; and because Prentiss was a Florist to theQueen, he placed a lion and unicorn over his flowershop, just in frontof the middle window on the first floor. By stretching a little, each ofthem could see into the window just beyond him, and could hear all thatwas said inside; and such things as they saw and heard during the reignof Captain Carrington, who moved in at the same time they did! By daythe table in the centre of the room was covered with maps, and theCaptain sat with a box of pins, with different-colored flags wrappedaround them, and amused himself by sticking them in the maps andmeasuring the spaces in between, swearing meanwhile to himself. It was aselfish amusement, but it appeared to be the Captain's only intellectualpursuit, for at night, the maps were rolled up, and a green cloth wasspread across the table, and there was much company and popping ofsoda-bottles, and little heaps of gold and silver were moved this wayand that across the cloth. The smoke drifted out of the open windows, and the laughter of the Captain's guests rang out loudly in the emptystreet, so that the policeman halted and raised his eyes reprovingly tothe lighted windows, and cabmen drew up beneath them and lay in wait, dozing on their folded arms, for the Captain's guests to depart. TheLion and the Unicorn were rather ashamed of the scandal of it, and theywere glad when, one day, the Captain went away with his tin boxes andgun-cases piled high on a four-wheeler. 

Prentiss stood on the sidewalk and said: "I wish you good luck, sir. "And the Captain said: "I'm coming back a Major, Prentiss. " But he nevercame back. And one day--the Lion remembered the day very well, for onthat same day the newsboys ran up and down Jermyn Street shouting outthe news of "a 'orrible disaster" to the British arms. It was then thata young lady came to the door in a hansom, and Prentiss went out to meether and led her upstairs. They heard him unlock the Captain's door andsay, "This is his room, miss, " and after he had gone they watched herstanding quite still by the centre table. She stood there for a verylong time looking slowly about her, and then she took a photograph ofthe Captain from the frame on the mantel and slipped it into her pocket, and when she went out again her veil was down, and she was crying. Shemust have given Prentiss as much as a sovereign, for he called her "Yourladyship, " which he never did under a sovereign. 

And she drove off, and they never saw her again either, nor could theyhear the address she gave the cabman. But it was somewhere up St. John'sWood way. 

After that the rooms were empty for some months, and the Lion and theUnicorn were forced to amuse themselves with the beautiful ladies andsmart-looking men who came to Prentiss to buy flowers and "buttonholes, "and the little round baskets of strawberries, and even the peachesat three shillings each, which looked so tempting as they lay in thewindow, wrapped up in cotton-wool, like jewels of great price. 

Then Philip Carroll, the American gentleman, came, and they heardPrentiss telling him that those rooms had always let for five guineasa week, which they knew was not true; but they also knew that in theeconomy of nations there must always be a higher price for the richAmerican, or else why was he given that strange accent, except to betrayhim into the hands of the London shopkeeper, and the London cabby?

The American walked to the window toward the west, which was the windownearest the Lion, and looked out into the graveyard of St. James'sChurch, that stretched between their street and Piccadilly. 

"You're lucky in having a bit of green to look out on, " he said toPrentiss. "I'll take these rooms--at five guineas. That's more thanthey're worth, you know, but as I know it, too, your conscience needn'ttrouble you. "

Then his eyes fell on the Lion, and he nodded to him gravely. "How doyou do?" he said. "I'm coming to live with you for a little time. Ihave read about you and your friends over there. It is a hazard of newfortunes with me, your Majesty, so be kind to me, and if I win, I willput a new coat of paint on your shield and gild you all over again. "

Prentiss smiled obsequiously at the American's pleasantry, but the newlodger only stared at him. 

"He seemed a social gentleman, " said the Unicorn, that night, when theLion and he were talking it over. "Now the Captain, the whole time hewas here, never gave us so much as a look. This one says he has read ofus. "

"And why not?" growled the Lion. "I hope Prentiss heard what he said ofour needing a new layer of gilt. It's disgraceful. You can see that Lionover Scarlett's, the butcher, as far as Regent Street, and Scarlett isonly one of Salisbury's creations. He received his Letters-Patent onlytwo years back. We date from Palmerston. "

The lodger came up the street just at that moment, and stopped andlooked up at the Lion and the Unicorn from the sidewalk, before heopened the door with his night-key. They heard him enter the room andfeel on the mantel for his pipe, and a moment later he appeared at theLion's window and leaned on the sill, looking down into the street belowand blowing whiffs of smoke up into the warm night-air. 

It was a night in June, and the pavements were dry under foot and thestreets were filled with well-dressed people, going home from the play, and with groups of men in black and white, making their way to supperat the clubs. Hansoms of inky-black, with shining lamps inside and out, dashed noiselessly past on mysterious errands, chasing close on eachother's heels on a mad race, each to its separate goal. From the crossstreets rose the noises of early night, the rumble of the 'buses, thecreaking of their brakes, as they unlocked, the cries of the "extras, "and the merging of thousands of human voices in a dull murmur. The greatworld of London was closing its shutters for the night, and putting outthe lights; and the new lodger from across the sea listened to it withhis heart beating quickly, and laughed to stifle the touch of fear andhomesickness that rose in him. 

"I have seen a great play to-night, " he said to the Lion, "nobly playedby great players. What will they care for my poor wares? I see that Ihave been over-bold. But we cannot go back now--not yet. "

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and nodded "good-night" to thegreat world beyond his window. "What fortunes lie with ye, ye lights ofLondon town?" he quoted, smiling. And they heard him close the door ofhis bedroom, and lock it for the night. 

The next morning he bought many geraniums from Prentiss and placed themalong the broad cornice that stretched across the front of the houseover the shop window. The flowers made a band of scarlet on either sideof the Lion as brilliant as a Tommy's jacket. 

"I am trying to propitiate the British Lion by placing flowers beforehis altar, " the American said that morning to a visitor. 

"The British public you mean, " said the visitor; "they are each likelyto tear you to pieces. "

"Yes, I have heard that the pit on the first night of a bad play issomething awful, " hazarded the American. 

"Wait and see, " said the visitor. 

"Thank you, " said the American, meekly. 

Every one who came to the first floor front talked about a play. Itseemed to be something of great moment to the American. It was only abundle of leaves printed in red and black inks and bound in brownpaper covers. There were two of them, and the American called them bydifferent names: one was his comedy and one was his tragedy. 

"They are both likely to be tragedies, " the Lion heard one of thevisitors say to another, as they drove away together. "Our young friendtakes it too seriously. "

The American spent most of his time by his desk at the window writing onlittle blue pads and tearing up what he wrote, or in reading over one ofthe plays to himself in a loud voice. In time the number of his visitorsincreased, and to some of these he would read his play; and after theyhad left him he was either depressed and silent or excited and jubilant. The Lion could always tell when he was happy because then he would go tothe side table and pour himself out a drink and say, "Here's to me, " butwhen he was depressed he would stand holding the glass in his hand, andfinally pour the liquor back into the bottle again and say, "What's theuse of that?"

After he had been in London a month he wrote less and was morefrequently abroad, sallying forth in beautiful raiment, and coming homeby daylight. 

And he gave suppers too, but they were less noisy than the Captain's hadbeen, and the women who came to them were much more beautiful, and theirvoices when they spoke were sweet and low. Sometimes one of the womensang, and the men sat in silence while the people in the street belowstopped to listen, and would say, "Why, that is So-and-So singing, " andthe Lion and the Unicorn wondered how they could know who it was whenthey could not see her. 

The lodger's visitors came to see him at all hours. They seemed toregard his rooms as a club, where they could always come for a bite toeat or to write notes; and others treated it like a lawyer's office andasked advice on all manner of strange subjects. Sometimes the visitorwanted to know whether the American thought she ought to take L10 aweek and go on tour, or stay in town and try to live on L8; or whethershe should paint landscapes that would not sell, or racehorses thatwould; or whether Reggie really loved her and whether she really lovedReggie; or whether the new part in the piece at the Court was betterthan the old part at Terry's, and wasn't she getting too old to play"ingenues" anyway. 

The lodger seemed to be a general adviser, and smoked and listenedwith grave consideration, and the Unicorn thought his judgment was mostsympathetic and sensible. 

Of all the beautiful ladies who came to call on the lodger the one theUnicorn liked the best was the one who wanted to know whether she lovedReggie and whether Reggie loved her. She discussed this so interestinglywhile she consumed tea and thin slices of bread that the Unicorn almostlost his balance in leaning forward to listen. Her name was MarionCavendish and it was written over many photographs which stood in silverframes in the lodger's rooms. She used to make the tea herself, whilethe lodger sat and smoked; and she had a fascinating way of doubling thethin slices of bread into long strips and nibbling at them like a mouseat a piece of cheese. She had wonderful little teeth and Cupid's-bowlips, and she had a fashion of lifting her veil only high enough for oneto see the two Cupid-bow lips. When she did that the American used tolaugh, at nothing apparently, and say, "Oh, I guess Reggie loves youwell enough. "

"But do I love Reggie?" she would ask sadly, with her tea-cup heldpoised in air. 

"I am sure I hope not, " the lodger would reply, and she would put downthe veil quickly, as one would drop a curtain over a beautiful picture, and rise with great dignity and say, "if you talk like that I shall notcome again. "

She was sure that if she could only get some work to do her head wouldbe filled with more important matters than whether Reggie loved her ornot. 

"But the managers seem inclined to cut their cavendish very fine justat present, " she said. "If I don't get a part soon, " she announced, "Ishall ask Mitchell to put me down on the list for recitations at eveningparties. "

"That seems a desperate revenge, " said the American; "and besides, Idon't want you to get a part, because some one might be idiotic enoughto take my comedy, and if he should, you must play Nancy. "

"I would not ask for any salary if I could play Nancy, " Miss Cavendishanswered. 

They spoke of a great many things, but their talk always ended by hersaying that there must be some one with sufficient sense to see thathis play was a great play, and by his saying that none but she must playNancy. 

The Lion preferred the tall girl with masses and folds of brown hair, who came from America to paint miniatures of the British aristocracy. Her name was Helen Cabot, and he liked her because she was so brave andfearless, and so determined to be independent of every one, even of thelodger--especially of the lodger, who it appeared had known hervery well at home. The lodger, they gathered, did not wish her to beindependent of him and the two Americans had many arguments and disputesabout it, but she always said, "It does no good, Philip; it only hurtsus both when you talk so. I care for nothing, and for no one but my art, and, poor as it is, it means everything to me, and you do not, and, ofcourse, the man I am to marry, must. " Then Carroll would talk, walkingup and down, and looking very fierce and determined, and telling herhow he loved her in such a way that it made her look even more proud andbeautiful. And she would say more gently, "It is very fine to think thatany one can care for like that, and very helpful. But unless I cared inthe same way it would be wicked of me to marry you, and besides--" Shewould add very quickly to prevent his speaking again--"I don't wantto marry you or anybody, and I never shall. I want to be free and tosucceed in my work, just as you want to succeed in your work. So pleasenever speak of this again. " When she went away the lodger used to sitsmoking in the big arm-chair and beat the arms with his hands, and hewould pace up and down the room while his work would lie untouched andhis engagements pass forgotten. 

Summer came and London was deserted, dull, and dusty, but the lodgerstayed on in Jermyn Street. Helen Cabot had departed on a round ofvisits to country houses in Scotland, where, as she wrote him, she waspainting miniatures of her hosts and studying the game of golf. MissCavendish divided her days between the river and one of the West Endtheatres. She was playing a small part in a farce-comedy. 

One day she came up from Cookham earlier than usual, looking verybeautiful in a white boating frock and a straw hat with a Leanderribbon. Her hands and arms were hard with dragging a punting pole andshe was sunburnt and happy, and hungry for tea. 

"Why don't you come down to Cookham and get out of this heat?" MissCavendish asked. "You need it; you look ill. "

"I'd like to, but I can't, " said Carroll. "The fact is, I paid inadvance for these rooms, and if I lived anywhere else I'd be losing fiveguineas a week on them. "

Miss Cavendish regarded him severely. She had never quite mastered hisAmerican humor. 

"But five guineas--why that's nothing to you, " she said. Something inthe lodger's face made her pause. "You don't mean----"

"Yes, I do, " said the lodger, smiling. "You see, I started in to laysiege to London without sufficient ammunition. London is a largetown, and it didn't fall as quickly as I thought it would. So I ameconomizing. Mr. Lockhart's Coffee Rooms and I are no longer strangers. "

Miss Cavendish put down her cup of tea untasted and leaned toward him

"Are you in earnest?" she asked. "For how long?"

"Oh, for the last month, " replied the lodger; "they are not at allbad--clean and wholesome and all that. "

"But the suppers you gave us, and this, " she cried, suddenly, waving herhands over the pretty tea-things, "and the cake and muffins?"

"My friends, at least, " said Carroll, "need not go to Lockhart's. "

"And the Savoy?" asked Miss Cavendish, mournfully shaking her head. 

"A dream of the past, " said Carroll, waving his pipe through thesmoke. "Gatti's? Yes, on special occasions; but for necessity, theChancellor's, where one gets a piece of the prime roast beef of OldEngland, from Chicago, and potatoes for ninepence--a pot of bittertwopence-halfpenny, and a penny for the waiter. It's most amusing onthe whole. I am learning a little about London, and some things aboutmyself. They are both most interesting subjects. "

"Well, I don't like it, " Miss Cavendish declared helplessly. "When Ithink of those suppers and the flowers, I feel--I feel like a robber. "

"Don't, " begged Carroll. "I am really the most happy of men--that is, asthe chap says in the play, I would be if I wasn't so damned miserable. But I owe no man a penny and I have assets--I have L80 to last methrough the winter and two marvellous plays; and I love, next toyourself, the most wonderful woman God ever made. That's enough. "

"But I thought you made such a lot of money by writing?" asked MissCavendish. 

"I do--that is, I could, " answered Carroll, "if I wrote the things thatsell; but I keep on writing plays that won't. "

"And such plays!" exclaimed Marion, warmly; "and to think that they aregoing begging. " She continued indignantly, "I can't imagine what themanagers do want. "

"I know what they don't want, " said the American. Miss Cavendish drummedimpatiently on the tea-tray. 

"I wish you wouldn't be so abject about it, " she said. "If I were a manI'd make them take those plays. "

"How?" asked the American; "with a gun?"

"Well, I'd keep at it until they read them, " declared Marion. "I'd siton their front steps all night and I'd follow them in cabs, and I'd liein wait for them at the stage-door. I'd just make them take them. "

Carroll sighed and stared at the ceiling. "I guess I'll give up and gohome, " he said. 

"Oh, yes, do, run away before you are beaten, " said Miss Cavendish, scornfully. "Why, you can't go now. Everybody will be back in town soon, and there are a lot of new plays coming on, and some of them are sureto be failures, and that's our chance. You rush in with your piece andsomebody may take it sooner than close the theatre. "

"I'm thinking of closing the theatre myself, " said Carroll. "What's theuse of my hanging on here?" he exclaimed. "It distresses Helen to know Iam in London, feeling about her as I do--and the Lord only knows how itdistresses me. And, maybe, if I went away, " he said, consciously, "shemight miss me. She might see the difference. "

Miss Cavendish held herself erect and pressed her lips together with asevere smile. "If Helen Cabot doesn't see the difference between youand the other men she knows now, " she said, "I doubt if she ever will. Besides--" she continued, and then hesitated. "Well, go on, " urgedCarroll. 

"Well, I was only going to say, " she explained, "that leaving the girlalone never did the man any good unless he left her alone willingly. If she's sure he still cares, it's just the same to her where he is. Hemight as well stay on in London as go to South Africa. It won't helphim any. The difference comes when she finds he has stopped caring. Why, look at Reggie. He tried that. He went away for ever so long, buthe kept writing me from wherever he went, so that he was perfectlymiserable--and I went on enjoying myself. Then when he came back, hetried going about with his old friends again. He used to come to thetheatre with them--oh, with such nice girls--but he always stood in theback of the box and yawned and scowled--so I knew. And, anyway, he'dalways spoil it all by leaving them and waiting at the stage entrancefor me. But one day he got tired of the way I treated him and wentoff on a bicycle tour with Lady Hacksher's girls and some men from hisregiment, and he was gone three weeks and never sent me even a line; andI got so scared; I couldn't sleep, and I stood it for three days more, and then I wired him to come back or I'd jump off London Bridge; and hecame back that very night from Edinburgh on the express, and I was soglad to see him that I got confused, and in the general excitement Ipromised to marry him, so that's how it was with us. "

"Yes, " said the American, without enthusiasm; "but then I still care, and Helen knows I care. "

"Doesn't she ever fancy that you might care for some one else? You havea lot of friends, you know. "

"Yes, but she knows they are just that--friends, " said the American. 

Miss Cavendish stood up to go, and arranged her veil before the mirrorabove the fireplace. 

"I come here very often to tea, " she said. 

"It's very kind of you, " said Carroll. He was at the open window, looking down into the street for a cab. 

"Well, no one knows I am engaged to Reggie, " continued Miss Cavendish, "except you and Reggie, and he isn't so sure. SHE doesn't know it. "

"Well?" said Carroll. 

Miss Cavendish smiled a mischievous kindly smile at him from the mirror. 

"Well?" she repeated, mockingly. Carroll stared at her and laughed. After a pause he said: "It's like a plot in a comedy. But I'm afraid I'mtoo serious for play-acting. "

"Yes, it is serious, " said Miss Cavendish. She seated herself againand regarded the American thoughtfully. "You are too good a man to betreated the way that girl is treating you, and no one knows it betterthan she does. She'll change in time, but just now she thinks she wantsto be independent. She's in love with this picture-painting idea, andwith the people she meets. It's all new to her--the fuss they make overher and the titles, and the way she is asked about. We know she can'tpaint. We know they only give her commissions because she's so youngand pretty, and American. She amuses them, that's all. Well, that cannotlast; she'll find it out. She's too clever a girl, and she is too finea girl to be content with that long. Then--then she'll come back to you. She feels now that she has both you and the others, and she's makingyou wait: so wait and be cheerful. She's worth waiting for; she's young, that's all. She'll see the difference in time. But, in the meanwhile, itwould hurry matters a bit if she thought she had to choose between thenew friends and you. "

"She could still keep her friends, and marry me, " said Carroll; "I havetold her that a hundred times. She could still paint miniatures andmarry me. But she won't marry me. "

"She won't marry you because she knows she can whenever she wants to;"cried Marion. "Can't you see that? But if she thought you were going tomarry some one else now?"

"She would be the first to congratulate me, " said Carroll. He rose andwalked to the fireplace, where he leaned with his arm on the mantel. There was a photograph of Helen Cabot near his hand, and he turned thistoward him and stood for some time staring at it. "My dear Marion, " hesaid at last, "I've known Helen ever since she was as young as that. Every year I've loved her more, and found new things in her to care for;now I love her more than any other man ever loved any other woman. "

Miss Cavendish shook her head sympathetically. 

"Yes, I know, " she said; "that's the way Reggie loves me, too. "

Carroll went on as though he had not heard her. 

"There's a bench in St. James's Park, " he said, "where we used to sitwhen she first came here, when she didn't know so many people. We usedto go there in the morning and throw penny buns to the ducks. That'sbeen my amusement this summer since you've all been away--sitting onthat bench, feeding penny buns to the silly ducks--especially the blackone, the one she used to like best. And I make pilgrimages to all theother places we ever visited together, and try to pretend she is withme. And I support the crossing sweeper at Lansdowne Passage because sheonce said she felt sorry for him. I do all the other absurd things thata man in love tortures himself by doing. But to what end? She knows howI care, and yet she won't see why we can't go on being friends as weonce were. What's the use of it all?"

"She is young, I tell you, " repeated Miss Cavendish, "and she's too sureof you. You've told her you care; now try making her think you don'tcare. "

Carroll shook his head impatiently. 

"I will not stoop to such tricks and pretence, Marion, " he criedimpatiently. "All I have is my love for her; if I have to cheat and totrap her into caring, the whole thing would be degraded. "

Miss Cavendish shrugged her shoulders and walked to the door. "Suchamateurs!" she exclaimed, and banged the door after her. 

Carroll never quite knew how he had come to make a confidante of MissCavendish. Helen and he had met her when they first arrived in London, and as she had acted for a season in the United States, she adoptedthe two Americans--and told Helen where to go for boots and hats, andadvised Carroll about placing his plays. Helen soon made other friends, and deserted the artists, with whom her work had first thrown her. Sheseemed to prefer the society of the people who bought her paintings, andwho admired and made much of the painter. As she was very beautiful andat an age when she enjoyed everything in life keenly and eagerly, togive her pleasure was in itself a distinct pleasure; and the worldlytired people she met were considering their own entertainment quiteas much as hers when they asked her to their dinners and dances, orto spend a week with them in the country. In her way, she was asindependent as was Carroll in his, and as she was not in love, as hewas, her life was not narrowed down to but one ideal. But she was notso young as to consider herself infallible, and she had one excellentfriend on whom she was dependent for advice and to whose directions shesubmitted implicitly. This was Lady Gower, the only person to whom Helenhad spoken of Carroll and of his great feeling for her. Lady Gower, immediately after her marriage, had been a conspicuous and brilliantfigure in that set in London which works eighteen hours a day to keepitself amused, but after the death of her husband she had disappearedinto the country as completely as though she had entered a convent, and after several years had then re-entered the world as a professionalphilanthropist. Her name was now associated entirely with Women'sLeagues, with committees that presented petitions to Parliament, andwith public meetings, at which she spoke with marvellous ease andeffect. Her old friends said she had taken up this new pose as an outletfor her nervous energies, and as an effort to forget the man who alonehad made life serious to her. Others knew her as an earnest woman, acting honestly for what she thought was right. Her success, alladmitted, was due to her knowledge of the world and to her sense ofhumor, which taught her with whom to use her wealth and position, andwhen to demand what she wanted solely on the ground that the cause wasjust. 

She had taken more than a fancy for Helen, and the position of thebeautiful, motherless girl had appealed to her as one filled withdangers. When she grew to know Helen better, she recognized that thesefears were quite unnecessary, and as she saw more of her she learnedto care for her deeply. Helen had told her much of Carroll and of hisdouble purpose in coming to London; of his brilliant work and his lackof success in having it recognized; and of his great and loyal devotionto her, and of his lack of success, not in having that recognized, butin her own inability to return it. Helen was proud that she had beenable to make Carroll care for her as he did, and that there was anythingabout her which could inspire a man whom she admired so much, to believein her so absolutely and for so long a time. But what convinced her thatthe outcome for which he hoped was impossible, was the very fact thatshe could admire him, and see how fine and unselfish his love for herwas, and yet remain untouched by it. 

She had been telling Lady Gower one day of the care he had taken of herever since she was fourteen years of age, and had quoted some of thefriendly and loverlike acts he had performed in her service, until oneday they had both found out that his attitude of the elder brother wasno longer possible, and that he loved her in the old and only way. LadyGower looked at her rather doubtfully and smiled. 

"I wish you would bring him to see me, Helen" she said; "I think Ishould like your friend very much. From what you tell me of him I doubtif you will find many such men waiting for you in this country. Our menmarry for reasons of property, or they love blindly, and are exactingand selfish before and after they are married. I know, because so manywomen came to me when my husband was alive to ask how it was that Icontinued so happy in my married life. "

"But I don't want to marry any one, " Helen remonstrated gently. "American girls are not always thinking only of getting married. "

"What I meant was this, " said Lady Gower, "that, in my experience, Ihave heard of but few men who care in the way this young man seems tocare for you. You say you do not love him; but if he had wanted to gainmy interest, he could not have pleaded his cause better than you havedone. He seems to see your faults and yet love you still, in spite ofthem--or on account of them. And I like the things he does for you. Ilike, for instance, his sending you the book of the moment every weekfor two years. That shows a most unswerving spirit of devotion. And thestory of the broken bridge in the woods is a wonderful story. If I werea young girl, I could love a man for that alone. It was a beautifulthing to do. "

Helen sat with her chin on her hands, deeply considering this new pointof view. 

"I thought it very foolish of him, " she confessed questioningly, "totake such a risk for such a little thing. "

Lady Gower smiled down at her from the height of her many years. 

"Wait, " she said dryly, "you are very young now--and very rich; everyone is crowding to give you pleasure, to show his admiration. You area very fortunate girl. But later, these things which some man has donebecause he loved you, and which you call foolish, will grow large inyour life, and shine out strongly, and when you are discouraged andalone, you will take them out, and the memory of them will make youproud and happy. They are the honors which women wear in secret. "

Helen came back to town in September, and for the first few days was sooccupied in refurnishing her studio and in visiting the shops that sheneglected to send Carroll word of her return. When she found that awhole week had passed without her having made any effort to see him, and appreciated how the fact would hurt her friend, she was filled withremorse, and drove at once in great haste to Jermyn Street, to announceher return in person. On the way she decided that she would soften theblow of her week of neglect by asking him to take her out to luncheon. This privilege she had once or twice accorded him, and she felt that thepleasure these excursions gave Carroll were worth the consternation theycaused to Lady Gower. 

The servant was uncertain whether Mr. Carroll was at home or not, butHelen was too intent upon making restitution to wait for the fact to bedetermined, and, running up the stairs, knocked sharply at the door ofhis study. 

A voice bade her come in, and she entered, radiant and smiling herwelcome. But Carroll was not there to receive it, and instead, MarionCavendish looked up at her from his desk where she was busily writing. Helen paused with a surprised laugh, but Marion sprang up and hailed hergladly. They met half way across the room and kissed each other with themost friendly feeling. 

Philip was out, Marion said, and she had just stepped in for a moment towrite him a note. If Helen would excuse her, she would finish it, as shewas late for rehearsal. 

But she asked over her shoulder, with great interest, if Helen hadpassed a pleasant summer. She thought she had never seen her looking sowell. Helen thought Miss Cavendish herself was looking very well also, but Marion said no; that she was too sunburnt, she would not be able towear a dinner-dress for a month. There was a pause while Marion's quillscratched violently across Carroll's note-paper. Helen felt that in someway she was being treated as an intruder; or worse, as a guest. She didnot sit down, it seemed impossible to do so, but she moved uncertainlyabout the room. She noted that there were many changes, it seemed morebare and empty; her picture was still on the writing-desk, but therewere at least six new photographs of Marion. Marion herself had broughtthem to the room that morning, and had carefully arranged them inconspicuous places. But Helen could not know that. She thought there wasan unnecessary amount of writing scribbled over the face of each. 

Marion addressed her letter and wrote "Immediate" across the envelope, and placed it before the clock on the mantelshelf. "You will find Philiplooking very badly, " she said, as she pulled on her gloves. "He has beenin town all summer, working very hard--he has had no holiday at all. Idon't think he's well. I have been a great deal worried about him, " sheadded. Her face was bent over the buttons of her glove, and when sheraised her blue eyes to Helen they were filled with serious concern. 

"Really, " Helen stammered, "I--I didn't know--in his letters he seemedvery cheerful. "

Marion shook her head and turned and stood looking thoughtfully out ofthe window. "He's in a very hard place, " she began abruptly, and thenstopped as though she had thought better of what she intended to say. Helen tried to ask her to go on, but could not bring herself to do so. She wanted to get away. 

"I tell him he ought to leave London, " Marion began again; "he needs achange and a rest. "

"I should think he might, " Helen agreed, "after three months of thisheat. He wrote me he intended going to Herne Bay or over to Ostend. "

"Yes, he had meant to go, " Marion answered. She spoke with the air ofone who possessed the most intimate knowledge of Carroll's movements andplans, and change of plans. "But he couldn't, " she added. "He couldn'tafford it. Helen, " she said, turning to the other girl, dramatically, "do you know--I believe that Philip is very poor. "

Miss Cabot exclaimed incredulously, "Poor!" She laughed. "Why, what doyou mean?"

"I mean that he has no money, " Marion answered, sharply. "These roomsrepresent nothing. He only keeps them on because he paid for them inadvance. He's been living on three shillings a day. That's poor for him. He takes his meals at cabmen's shelters and at Lockhart's, and he's beendoing so for a month. "

Helen recalled with a guilty thrill the receipt of certain boxes ofLa France roses--cut long, in the American fashion--which had arrivedwithin the last month at various country houses. She felt indignantat herself, and miserable. Her indignation was largely due to therecollection that she had given these flowers to her hostess to decoratethe dinner-table. 

She hated to ask this girl of things which she should have known betterthan any one else. But she forced herself to do it. She felt she mustknow certainly and at once. 

"How do you know this?" she asked. "Are you sure there is no mistake?"

"He told me himself, " said Marion, "when he talked of letting the playsgo and returning to America. He said he must go back; that his money wasgone. "

"He is gone to America!" Helen said, blankly. 

"No, he wanted to go, but I wouldn't let him, " Marion went on. "I toldhim that some one might take his play any day. And this third one he haswritten, the one he finished this summer in town, is the best of all, Ithink. It's a love-story. It's quite beautiful. " She turned andarranged her veil at the glass, and as she did so, her eyes fell on thephotographs of herself scattered over the mantelpiece, and she smiledslightly. But Helen did not see her--she was sitting down now, pullingat the books on the table. She was confused and disturbed by emotionswhich were quite strange to her, and when Marion bade her good-by shehardly noticed her departure. What impressed her most of all in whatMarion had told her, was, she was surprised to find, that Philip wasgoing away. That she herself had frequently urged him to do so, for hisown peace of mind, seemed now of no consequence. Now that he seriouslycontemplated it, she recognized that his absence meant to her a changein everything. She felt for the first time the peculiar place he heldin her life. Even if she had seen him but seldom, the fact that he waswithin call had been more of a comfort and a necessity to her than sheunderstood. 

That he was poor, concerned her chiefly because she knew that, althoughthis condition could only be but temporary, it would distress him not tohave his friends around him, and to entertain them as he had been usedto do. She wondered eagerly if she might offer to help him, but a secondthought assured her that, for a man, that sort of help from a woman wasimpossible. 

She resented the fact that Marion was deep in his confidence; that itwas Marion who had told her of his changed condition and of his plans. It annoyed her so acutely that she could not remain in the room whereshe had seen her so complacently in possession. And after leaving abrief note for Philip, she went away. She stopped a hansom at the door, and told the man to drive along the Embankment--she wanted to be quitealone, and she felt she could see no one until she had thought it allout, and had analyzed the new feelings. 

So for several hours she drove slowly up and down, sunk far back inthe cushions of the cab, and staring with unseeing eyes at the whiteenamelled tariff and the black dash-board. 

She assured herself that she was not jealous of Marion, because, inorder to be jealous, she first would have to care for Philip in the veryway she could not bring herself to do. 

She decided that his interest in Marion hurt her, because it showed thatPhilip was not capable of remaining true to the one ideal of his life. She was sure that this explained her feelings--she was disappointed thathe had not kept up to his own standard; that he was weak enough to turnaside from it for the first pretty pair of eyes. But she was too honestand too just to accept that diagnosis of her feelings as final--she knewthere had been many pairs of eyes in America and in London, and thatthough Philip had seen them, he had not answered them when they spoke. No, she confessed frankly, she was hurt with herself for neglecting herold friend so selfishly and for so long a time; his love gave him claimson her consideration, at least, and she had forgotten that and him, andhad run after strange gods and allowed others to come in and take herplace, and to give him the sympathy and help which she should have beenthe first to offer, and which would have counted more when coming fromher than from any one else. She determined to make amends at oncefor her thoughtlessness and selfishness, and her brain was pleasantlyoccupied with plans and acts of kindness. It was a new entertainment, and she found she delighted in it. She directed the cabman to go toSolomons's, and from there sent Philip a bunch of flowers and a linesaying that on the following day she was coming to take tea with him. She had a guilty feeling that he might consider her friendly advancesmore seriously than she meant them, but it was her pleasure to bereckless: her feelings were running riotously, and the sensation was sonew that she refused to be circumspect or to consider consequences. Whocould tell, she asked herself with a quick, frightened gasp, but that, after all, it might be that she was learning to care? From Solomons'sshe bade the man drive to the shop in Cranbourne Street where she wasaccustomed to purchase the materials she used in painting, and Fate, which uses strange agents to work out its ends, so directed it thatthe cabman stopped a few doors below this shop, and opposite one wherejewelry and other personal effects were bought and sold. At any othertime, or had she been in any other mood, what followed might not haveoccurred, but Fate, in the person of the cabman, arranged it so that thehour and the opportunity came together. 

There were some old mezzotints in the window of the loan shop, a stringof coins and medals, a row of new French posters; and far down to thefront a tray filled with gold and silver cigarette-cases and watches andrings. It occurred to Helen, who was still bent on making restitutionfor her neglect, that a cigarette-case would be more appropriate for aman than flowers, and more lasting. And she scanned the contents ofthe window with the eye of one who now saw in everything only somethingwhich might give Philip pleasure. The two objects of value in the trayupon which her eyes first fell were the gold seal-ring with which Philiphad sealed his letters to her, and, lying next to it, his gold watch!There was something almost human in the way the ring and watch spoke toher from the past--in the way they appealed to her to rescue them fromthe surroundings to which they had been abandoned. She did not know whatshe meant to do with them nor how she could return them to Philip; butthere was no question of doubt in her manner as she swept with a rushinto the shop. There was no attempt, either, at bargaining in the wayin which she pointed out to the young woman behind the counter theparticular ring and watch she wanted. They had not been left ascollateral, the young woman said; they had been sold outright. 

"Then any one can buy them?" Helen asked eagerly. "They are for sale tothe public--to any one?"

The young woman made note of the customer's eagerness, but with anunmoved countenance. 

"Yes, miss, they are for sale. The ring is four pounds and the watchtwenty-five. "

"Twenty-nine pounds!" Helen gasped. 

That was more money than she had in the world, but the fact did notdistress her, for she had a true artistic disregard for ready money, andthe absence of it had never disturbed her. But now it assumed a suddenand alarming value. She had ten pounds in her purse and ten pounds ather studio--these were just enough to pay for a quarter's rent and therates, and there was a hat and cloak in Bond Street which she certainlymust have. Her only assets consisted of the possibility that some onemight soon order a miniature, and to her mind that was sufficient. Someone always had ordered a miniature, and there was no reasonable doubtbut that some one would do it again. For a moment she questioned if itwould not be sufficient if she bought the ring and allowed the watchto remain. But she recognized that the ring meant more to her than thewatch, while the latter, as an old heirloom which had been passed downto him from a great-grandfather, meant more to Philip. It was forPhilip she was doing this, she reminded herself. She stood holding hispossessions, one in each hand, and looking at the young woman blankly. She had no doubt in her mind that at least part of the money he hadreceived for them had paid for the flowers he had sent to her inScotland. The certainty of this left her no choice. She laid the ringand watch down and pulled the only ring she possessed from her ownfinger. It was a gift from Lady Gower. She had no doubt that it was ofgreat value. 

"Can you lend me some money on that?" she asked. It was the first timeshe had conducted a business transaction of this nature, and she felt asthough she were engaging in a burglary. 

"We don't lend money, miss, " the girl said, "we buy outright. I can giveyou twenty-eight shillings for this, " she added. 

"Twenty-eight shillings, " Helen gasped; "why, it is worth--oh, ever somuch more than that!"

"That is all it is worth to us, " the girl answered. She regarded thering indifferently and laid it away from her on the counter. The actionwas final. 

Helen's hands rose slowly to her breast, where a pretty watch dangledfrom a bowknot of crushed diamonds. It was her only possession, and shewas very fond of it. It also was the gift of one of the several greatladies who had adopted her since her residence in London. Helen hadpainted a miniature of this particular great lady which had looked sobeautiful that the pleasure which the original of the portrait derivedfrom the thought that she still really looked as she did in theminiature was worth more to her than many diamonds. 

But it was different with Helen, and no one could count what it cost herto tear away her one proud possession. 

"What will you give me for this?" she asked defiantly. 

The girl's eyes showed greater interest. "I can give you twenty poundsfor that, " she said. 

"Take it, please, " Helen begged, as though she feared if she kept it amoment longer she might not be able to make the sacrifice. 

"That will be enough now, " she went on, taking out her ten-pound note. She put Lady Gower's ring back upon her finger and picked up Philip'sring and watch with the pleasure of one who has come into a greatfortune. She turned back at the door. 

"Oh, " she stammered, "in case any one should inquire, you are not to saywho bought these. "

"No, miss, certainly not, " said the woman. Helen gave the direction tothe cabman and, closing the doors of the hansom, sat looking down at thewatch and the ring, as they lay in her lap. The thought that they hadbeen his most valued possessions, which he had abandoned forever, andthat they were now entirely hers, to do with as she liked, filled herwith most intense delight and pleasure. She took up the heavy gold ringand placed it on the little finger of her left hand; it was much toolarge, and she removed it and balanced it for a moment doubtfully in thepalm of her right hand. She was smiling, and her face was lit with shyand tender thoughts. She cast a quick glance to the left and right asthough fearful that people passing in the street would observe her, andthen slipped the ring over the fourth finger of her left hand. She gazedat it with a guilty smile and then, covering it hastily with her otherhand, leaned back, clasping it closely, and sat frowning far out beforeher with puzzled eyes. 

To Carroll all roads led past Helen's studio, and during the summer, while she had been absent in Scotland it was one of his sad pleasures tomake a pilgrimage to her street and to pause opposite the house and lookup at the empty windows of her rooms. 

It was during this daily exercise that he learned, through the arrivalof her luggage, of her return to London, and when day followed daywithout her having shown any desire to see him or to tell him of herreturn he denounced himself most bitterly as a fatuous fool. 

At the end of the week he sat down and considered his case quite calmly. For three years he had loved this girl, deeply and tenderly. He had beenlover, brother, friend, and guardian. During that time, even though shehad accepted him in every capacity except as that of the prospectivehusband, she had never given him any real affection, nor sympathy, norhelp; all she had done for him had been done without her knowledge orintent. To know her, to love her, and to scheme to give her pleasure hadbeen its own reward, and the only one. For the last few months he hadbeen living like a crossing-sweeper in order to be able to stay inLondon until she came back to it, and that he might still send her thegifts he had always laid on her altar. He had not seen her in threemonths. Three months that had been to him a blank, except for hiswork--which like all else that he did, was inspired and carried on forher. Now at last she had returned and had shown that, even as a friend, he was of so little account in her thoughts, of so little consequence inher life, that after this long absence she had no desire to learn of hiswelfare or to see him--she did not even give him the chance to see her. And so, placing these facts before him for the first time since he hadloved her, he considered what was due to himself. "Was it good enough?"he asked. "Was it just that he should continue to wear out his soul andbody for this girl who did not want what he had to give, who treated himless considerately than a man whom she met for the first time at dinner?"He felt he had reached the breaking-point; that the time had come whenhe must consider what he owed to himself. There could never be any otherwoman save Helen, but as it was not to be Helen, he could no longer, with self-respect, continue to proffer his love only to see it slightedand neglected. He was humble enough concerning himself, but of his lovehe was very proud. Other men could give her more in wealth or position, but no one could ever love her as he did. "He that hath more lethim give, " he had often quoted to her defiantly, as though he werechallenging the world, and now he felt he must evolve a make-shift worldof his own--a world in which she was not his only spring of acts; hemust begin all over again and keep his love secret and sacred until sheunderstood it and wanted it. And if she should never want it he would atleast have saved it from many rebuffs and insults. 

With this determination strong in him, the note Helen had left for himafter her talk with Marion, and the flowers, and the note with them, saying she was coming to take tea on the morrow, failed to move himexcept to make him more bitter. He saw in them only a tardy recognitionof her neglect--an effort to make up to him for thoughtlessness which, from her, hurt him worse than studied slight. 

A new regime had begun, and he was determined to establish it firmly andto make it impossible for himself to retreat from it; and in the notein which he thanked Helen for the flowers and welcomed her to tea, hedeclared his ultimatum. 

"You know how terribly I feel, " he wrote; "I don't have to tell youthat, but I cannot always go on dragging out my love and holding it upto excite your pity as beggars show their sores. I cannot always go onpraying before your altar, cutting myself with knives and calling uponyou to listen to me. You know that there is no one else but you, andthat there never can be any one but you, and that nothing is changedexcept that after this I am not going to urge and torment you. I shallwait as I have always waited--only now I shall wait in silence. You knowjust how little, in one way, I have to offer you, and you know just howmuch I have in love to offer you. It is now for you to speak--some day, or never. But you will have to speak first. You will never hear a wordof love from me again. Why should you? You know it is always waiting foryou. But if you should ever want it, you must come to me, and take offyour hat and put it on my table and say, 'Philip, I have come to stay. 'Whether you can ever do that or not can make no difference in my lovefor you. I shall love you always, as no man has ever loved a woman inthis world, but it is you who must speak first; for me, the rest issilence. "

The following morning as Helen was leaving the house she found thisletter lying on the hall-table, and ran back with it to her rooms. Aweek before she would have let it lie on the table and read it on herreturn. She was conscious that this was what she would have done, and itpleased her to find that what concerned Philip was now to her the thingof greatest interest. She was pleased with her own eagerness--her ownhappiness was a welcome sign, and she was proud and glad that she waslearning to care. 

She read the letter with an anxious pride and pleasure in each word thatwas entirely new. Philip's recriminations did not hurt her, they werethe sign that he cared; nor did his determination not to speak of hislove to her hurt her, for she believed him when he said that he wouldalways care. She read the letter twice, and then sat for some timeconsidering the kind of letter Philip would have written had he knownher secret--had he known that the ring he had abandoned was now upon herfinger. 

She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer, andthen took it out again and re-read the last page. When she had finishedit she was smiling. For a moment she stood irresolute, and then, movingslowly toward the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her and, raising her hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins thatfastened her hat. 

"Philip, " she began in a frightened whisper, "I have--I have come to--"

The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she rushed across the roomas though she were running from herself. She was blushing violently. 

"Never!" she cried, as she pulled open the door; "I could never doit--never!"

The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll decidedthat he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but that hemust be careful to subdue all emotion. 

He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and had it not been that shecame on her own invitation he would not of his own accord have sought tosee her. In consequence, he rather welcomed than otherwise the arrivalof Marion Cavendish, who came a half-hour before Helen was expected, andwho followed a hasty knock with a precipitate entrance. 

"Sit down, " she commanded breathlessly; "and listen. I've been atrehearsal all day, or I'd have been here before you were awake. " Sheseated herself nervously and nodded her head at Carroll in an excitedand mysterious manner. 

"What is it?" he asked. "Have you and Reggie--"

"Listen, " Marion repeated, "our fortunes are made; that is what's thematter--and I've made them. If you took half the interest in your work Ido, you'd have made yours long ago. Last night, " she began impressively, "I went to a large supper at the Savoy, and I sat next to CharleyWimpole. He came in late, after everybody had finished, and I attackedhim while he was eating his supper. He said he had been rehearsing'Caste' after the performance; that they've put it on as a stop-gap onaccount of the failure of the 'Triflers, ' and that he knew revivals wereof no use; that he would give any sum for a good modern comedy. Thatwas my cue, and I told him I knew of a better comedy than any he hadproduced at his theatre in five years, and that it was going begging. He laughed, and asked where was he to find this wonderful comedy, andI said, 'It's been in your safe for the last two months and you haven'tread it. ' He said, 'Indeed, how do you know that?' and I said, 'Becauseif you'd read it, it wouldn't be in your safe, but on your stage. ' So heasked me what the play was about, and I told him the plot and what sortof a part his was, and some of his scenes, and he began to take notice. He forgot his supper, and very soon he grew so interested that he turnedhis chair round and kept eying my supper-card to find out who I was, andat last remembered seeing me in 'The New Boy'--and a rotten part it was, too--but he remembered it, and he told me to go on and tell him moreabout your play. So I recited it, bit by bit, and he laughed in all theright places and got very much excited, and said finally that he wouldread it the first thing this morning. " Marion paused, breathlessly. "Oh, yes, and he wrote your address on his cuff, " she added, with the air ofdelivering a complete and convincing climax. 

Carroll stared at her and pulled excitedly on his pipe. 

"Oh, Marion!" he gasped, "suppose he should? He won't though, " he added, but eying her eagerly and inviting contradiction. 

"He will, " she answered, stoutly, "if he reads it. "

"The other managers read it, " Carroll suggested, doubtfully. 

"Yes, but what do they know?" Marion returned, loftily. "He knows. Charles Wimpole is the only intelligent actor-manager in London. "

There was a sharp knock at the door, which Marion in her excitement hadleft ajar, and Prentiss threw it wide open with an impressive sweep, asthough he were announcing royalty: "Mr. Charles Wimpole, " he said. 

The actor-manager stopped in the doorway bowing gracefully, his hatheld before him and his hand on his stick as though it were resting on afoil. He had the face and carriage of a gallant of the days of Congreve, and he wore his modern frock-coat with as much distinction as if it wereof silk and lace. He was evidently amused. "I couldn't help overhearingthe last line, " he said, smiling. "It gives me a good entrance. "

Marion gazed at him blankly: "Oh, " she gasped, "we--we--were justtalking about you. "

"If you hadn't mentioned my name, " the actor said, "I should never haveguessed it. And this is Mr. Carroll, I hope. "

The great man was rather pleased with the situation. As he read it, itstruck him as possessing strong dramatic possibilities: Carroll was thestruggling author on the verge of starvation: Marion, his sweetheart, flying to him gave him hope; and he was the good fairy arriving in thenick of time to set everything right and to make the young people happyand prosperous. He rather fancied himself in the part of the good fairy, and as he seated himself he bowed to them both in a manner which wascharmingly inclusive and confidential. 

"Miss Cavendish, I imagine, has already warned you that you might expecta visit from me, " he said tentatively. Carroll nodded. He was too muchconcerned to interrupt. 

"Then I need only tell you, " Wimpole continued, "that I got up at anabsurd hour this morning to read your play; that I did read it; that Ilike it immensely--and that if we can come to terms I shall produce it Ishall produce it at once, within a fortnight or three weeks. "

Carroll was staring at him intently and continued doing so after Wimpolehad finished speaking. The actor felt he had somehow missed his point, or that Carroll could not have understood him, and repeated, "I say Ishall put it in rehearsal at once. "

Carroll rose abruptly, and pushed back his chair. "I should be veryglad, " he murmured, and strode over to the window, where he stood withhis back turned to his guests. Wimpole looked after him with a kindlysmile and nodded his head appreciatively. He had produced even a greatereffect than his lines seemed to warrant. When he spoke again, it wasquite simply, and sincerely, and though he spoke for Carroll's benefit, he addressed himself to Marion. 

"You were quite right last night, " he said, "it is a most charming pieceof work. I am really extremely grateful to you for bringing it to mynotice. " He rose, and going to Carroll, put his hand on his shoulder. "My boy, " he said, "I congratulate you. I should like to be your age, and to have written that play. Come to my theatre to-morrow and we willtalk terms. Talk it over first with your friends, so that I sha'n't robyou. Do you think you would prefer a lump sum now, and so be done withit altogether, or trust that the royalties may--"

"Royalties, " prompted Marion, in an eager aside. 

The men laughed. "Quite right, " Wimpole assented, good-humoredly; "it'sa poor sportsman who doesn't back his own horse. Well, then, untilto-morrow. "

"But, " Carroll began, "one moment please. I haven't thanked you. "

"My dear boy, " cried Wimpole, waving him away with his stick, "it is Iwho have to thank you. "

"And--and there is a condition, " Carroll said, "which goes with theplay. It is that Miss Cavendish is to have the part of Nancy. "

Wimpole looked serious and considered for a moment. 

"Nancy, " he said, "the girl who interferes--a very good part. I havecast Miss Maddox for it in my mind, but, of course, if the authorinsists--"

Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped her hands appealinglybefore her. 

"Oh, Mr. Wimpole!" she cried, "you owe me that, at least. "

Carroll leaned over and took both of Marion's hands in one of his. 

"It's all right, " he said; "the author insists. "

Wimpole waved his stick again as though it were the magic wand of thegood fairy. 

"You shall have it, " he said. "I recall your performance in 'The NewBoy' with pleasure. I take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be castfor Nancy. We shall begin rehearsals at once. I hope you are a quickstudy. "

"I'm letter-perfect now{, }" laughed Marion. 

Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to them. They were both so young, so eager, and so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out of it. "Good-by, then, " he said. 

"Good-by, sir, " they both chorussed. And Marion cried after him, "Andthank you a thousand times. "

He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing they hadalready forgotten him. "Bless you, my children, " he said, smiling. Ashe was about to close the door a young girl came down the passage towardit, and as she was apparently going to Carroll's rooms, the actor leftthe door open behind him. 

Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit. They were bothgazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they would askif it were true. 

"It's come at last, Marion, " Philip said, with an uncertain voice. 

"I could weep, " cried Marion. "Philip, " she exclaimed, "I would rathersee that play succeed than any play ever written, and I would ratherplay that part in it than--Oh, Philip, " she ended. "I'm so proud ofyou!" and rising, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on hisshoulder. 

Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her fingersgently. "I owe it to you, Marion, " he said--"all to you. "

This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to MissHelen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and good-will, andwith Philip's ring and watch clasped in her hand. They had not heardher, nor did they see her at the door, so she drew back quickly and ranalong the passage and down the stairs into the street. 

She did not need now to analyze her feelings. They were only tooevident. For she could translate what she had just seen as meaning onlyone thing--that she had considered Philip's love so lightly that she hadnot felt it passing away from her until her neglect had killed it--untilit was too late. And now that it was too late she felt that without ither life could not go on. She tried to assure herself that only the factthat she had lost it made it seem invaluable, but this thought did notcomfort her--she was not deceived by it, she knew that at last shecared for him deeply and entirely. In her distress she blamed herselfbitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly for having failedto wait for her. "He might have known that I must love him in time, " sherepeated to herself again and again. She was so unhappy that her lettercongratulating Philip on his good fortune in having his comedy acceptedseemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as his success meant for him onlywhat it meant to her, he was hurt and grievously disappointed. 

He accordingly turned the more readily to Marion, whose interestsand enthusiasm at the rehearsals of the piece seemed in contrast mostfriendly and unselfish. He could not help but compare the attitude ofthe two girls at this time, when the failure or success of his best workwas still undecided. He felt that as Helen took so little interestin his success he could not dare to trouble her with his anxietiesconcerning it, and she attributed his silence to his preoccupation andinterest in Marion. So the two grew apart, each misunderstanding theother and each troubled in spirit at the other's indifference. 

The first night of the play justified all that Marion and Wimpole hadclaimed for it, and was a great personal triumph for the new playwright. The audience was the typical first-night audience of the class whichCharles Wimpole always commanded. It was brilliant, intelligent, andsmart, and it came prepared to be pleased. 

From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and Lady Gower watched thesuccessful progress of the play with an anxiety almost as keen as thatof the author. To Helen it seemed as though the giving of these lines tothe public--these lines which he had so often read to her, and alteredto her liking--was a desecration. It seemed as though she were losinghim indeed--as though he now belonged to these strange people, all ofwhom were laughing and applauding his words, from the German Princessin the Royal box to the straight-backed Tommy in the pit. Instead of thepainted scene before her, she saw the birch-trees by the river at home, where he had first read her the speech to which they were now listeningso intensely--the speech in which the hero tells the girl he loves her. She remembered that at the time she had thought how wonderful it wouldbe if some day some one made such a speech to her--not Philip--but a manshe loved. And now? If Philip would only make that speech to her now!

He came out at last, with Wimpole leading him, and bowed across aglaring barrier of lights at a misty but vociferous audience that wasshouting the generous English bravo! and standing up to applaud. Heraised his eyes to the box where Helen sat, and saw her staring downat the tumult, with her hands clasped under her chin. Her face wascolorless, but lit with the excitement of the moment; and he saw thatshe was crying. 

Lady Gower, from behind her, was clapping her hands delightedly. 

"But, my dear Helen, " she remonstrated breathlessly, "you never told mehe was so good-looking. "

"Yes, " said Helen, rising abruptly, "he is--very good-looking. "

She crossed the box to where her cloak was hanging, but instead oftaking it down buried her face in its folds. 

"My dear child!" cried Lady Gower, in dismay. "What is it? Theexcitement has been too much for you. "

"No, I am just happy, " sobbed Helen. "I am just happy for him. "

"We will go and tell him so then, " said Lady Gower. "I am sure he wouldlike to hear it from you to-night. "

Philip was standing in the centre of the stage, surrounded by manypretty ladies and elderly men. Wimpole was hovering over him as thoughhe had claims upon him by the right of discovery. 

But when Philip saw Helen, he pushed his way toward her eagerly and tookher hand in both of his. 

"I am so glad, Phil, " she said. She felt it all so deeply that she wasafraid to say more, but that meant so much to her that she was sure hewould understand. 

He had planned it very differently. For a year he had dreamed that, onthe first night of his play, there would be a supper, and that he wouldrise and drink her health, and tell his friends and the world that shewas the woman he loved, and that she had agreed to marry him, and thatat last he was able, through the success of his play, to make her hiswife. 

And now they met in a crowd to shake hands, and she went her way withone of her grand ladies, and he was left among a group of chatteringstrangers. The great English playwright took him by the hand and in thehearing of all, praised him gracefully and kindly. It did not matterto Philip whether the older playwright believed what he said or not; heknew it was generously meant. 

"I envy you this, " the great man was saying. "Don't lose any of it, stay and listen to all they have to say. You will never live through thefirst night of your first play but once. "

"Yes, I hear them, " said Philip, nervously; "they are all too kind. But I don't hear the voice I have been listening for, " he added in awhisper. The older man pressed his hand again quickly. "My dear boy, " hesaid, "I am sorry. "

"Thank you, " Philip answered. 

Within a week he had forgotten the great man's fine words of praise, butthe clasp of his hand he cherished always. 

Helen met Marion as she was leaving the stage door and stopped tocongratulate her on her success in the new part. Marion was radiant. ToHelen she seemed obstreperously happy and jubilant. 

"And, Marion, " Helen began bravely, "I also want to congratulate youon something else. You--you--neither of you have told me yet, " shestammered, "but I am such an old friend of both that I will not be keptout of the secret. " At these words Marion's air of triumphant gayetyvanished; she regarded Helen's troubled eyes closely and kindly. 

"What secret, Helen?" she asked. 

"I came to the door of Philip's room the other day when you did not knowI was there, " Helen answered; "and I could not help seeing how matterswere. And I do congratulate you both--and wish you--oh, such happiness!"Without a word Marion dragged her back down the passage to herdressing-room, and closed the door. 

"Now tell me what you mean, " she said. 

"I am sorry if I discovered anything you didn't want known yet, " saidHelen, "but the door was open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you and had notshut it, and I could not help seeing. "

Marion interrupted her with an eager exclamation of enlightenment. 

"Oh, you were there, then, " she cried. "And you?" she askedeagerly--"you thought Phil cared for me--that we are engaged, and ithurt you; you are sorry? Tell me, " she demanded, "are you sorry?"

Helen drew back and stretched out her hand toward the door. 

"How can you!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "You have no right. "

Marion stood between her and the door. 

"I have every right, " she said, "to help my friends, and I want tohelp you and Philip. And indeed I do hope you ARE sorry. I hope you aremiserable. And I'm glad you saw me kiss him. That was the first andthe last time, and I did it because I was happy and glad for him; andbecause I love him too, but not in the least in the way he loves you. Noone ever loved any one as he loves you. And it's time you found it out. And if I have helped to make you find it out I'm glad, and I don't carehow much I hurt you. "

"Marion!" exclaimed Helen, "what does it mean? Do you mean that you arenot engaged; that--"

"Certainly not, " Marion answered. "I am going to marry Reggie. It is youthat Philip loves, and I am very sorry for you that you don't love him. "

Helen clasped Marion's hands in both of hers. 

"But, Marion!" she cried, "I do, oh, I do!"

There was a thick yellow fog the next morning, and with it rain and asticky, depressing dampness which crept through the window-panes, andwhich neither a fire nor blazing gas-jets could overcome. 

Philip stood in front of the fireplace with the morning papers piledhigh on the centre-table and scattered over the room about him. 

He had read them all, and he knew now what it was to wake up famous, buthe could not taste it. Now that it had come it meant nothing, andthat it was so complete a triumph only made it the harder. In his mostoptimistic dreams he had never imagined success so satisfying as thereality had proved to be; but in his dreams Helen had always held thechief part, and without her, success seemed only to mock him. 

He wanted to lay it all before her, to say, "If you are pleased, I amhappy. If you are satisfied, then I am content. It was done for you, andI am wholly yours, and all that I do is yours. "

And, as though in answer to his thoughts, there was an instant knock atthe door, and Helen entered the room and stood smiling at him across thetable. 

Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke with many emotions, andher cheeks were brilliant with color. He had never seen her look morebeautiful. 

"Why, Helen!" he exclaimed, "how good of you to come. Is there anythingwrong? Is anything the matter?"

She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled at him appealingly. 

"What is it?" he asked in great concern. 

Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at the same moment motioned himaway--and he stepped back and stood watching her in much perplexity. 

With her eyes fixed on his she raised her hands to her head, and herfingers fumbled with the knot of her veil. She pulled it loose, andthen, with a sudden courage, lifted her hat proudly, as though it were acoronet, and placed it between them on his table. 

"Philip, " she stammered, with the tears in her voice and eyes, "if youwill let me--I have come to stay. "

The table was no longer between them. He caught her in his arms andkissed her face and her uncovered head again and again. From outsidethe rain beat drearily and the fog rolled through the street, but insidebefore the fire the two young people sat close together, asking eagerquestions or sitting in silence, staring at the flames with wondering, happy eyes. 

The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only once again. It was a month laterwhen they stopped in front of the shop in a four-wheeler, with theirbaggage mixed on top of it, and steamer-labels pasted over every trunk. 

"And, oh, Prentiss!" Carroll called from the cab-window. "I came nearforgetting. I promised to gild the Lion and the Unicorn if I won out inLondon. So have it done, please, and send the bill to me. For I've wonout all right. " And then he shut the door of the cab, and they droveaway forever. 

"Nice gal, that, " growled the Lion. "I always liked her. I am gladthey've settled it at last. "

The Unicorn sighed, sentimentally. "The other one's worth two of her, "he said. 

ON THE FEVER SHIP

There were four rails around the ship's sides, the three lower ones ofiron and the one on top of wood, and as he looked between them fromthe canvas cot he recognized them as the prison-bars which held him in. Outside his prison lay a stretch of blinding blue water which ended in aline of breakers and a yellow coast with ragged palms. Beyond that againrose a range of mountain-peaks, and, stuck upon the loftiest peak ofall, a tiny block-house. It rested on the brow of the mountain againstthe naked sky as impudently as a cracker-box set upon the dome of agreat cathedral. 

As the transport rode on her anchor-chains, the iron bars around hersides rose and sank and divided the landscape with parallel lines. Fromhis cot the officer followed this phenomenon with severe, painstakinginterest. Sometimes the wooden rail swept up to the very block-houseitself, and for a second of time blotted it from sight. And again itsank to the level of the line of breakers, and wiped them out of thepicture as though they were a line of chalk. 

The soldier on the cot promised himself that the next swell of the seawould send the lowest rail climbing to the very top of the palm-treesor, even higher, to the base of the mountains; and when it failed toreach even the palm-trees he felt a distinct sense of ill use, of havingbeen wronged by some one. There was no other reason for submitting tothis existence, save these tricks upon the wearisome, glaring landscape;and, now, whoever it was who was working them did not seem to be makingthis effort to entertain him with any heartiness. 

It was most cruel. Indeed, he decided hotly, it was not to be endured;he would bear it no longer, he would make his escape. But he knew thatthis move, which could be conceived in a moment's desperation, couldonly be carried to success with great strategy, secrecy, and carefulcunning. So he fell back upon his pillow and closed his eyes, as thoughhe were asleep, and then opening them again, turned cautiously, andspied upon his keeper. As usual, his keeper sat at the foot of thecot turning the pages of a huge paper filled with pictures of the warprinted in daubs of tawdry colors. His keeper was a hard-faced boywithout human pity or consideration, a very devil of obstinacy andfiendish cruelty. To make it worse, the fiend was a person without acollar, in a suit of soiled khaki, with a curious red cross bound by asafety-pin to his left arm. He was intent upon the paper in his hands;he was holding it between his eyes and his prisoner. His vigilance hadrelaxed, and the moment seemed propitious. With a sudden plunge of armsand legs, the prisoner swept the bed sheet from him, and sprang at thewooden rail and grasped the iron stanchion beside it. He had his kneepressed against the top bar and his bare toes on the iron rail beneathit. Below him the blue water waited for him. It was cool and dark andgentle and deep. It would certainly put out the fire in his bones, hethought; it might even shut out the glare of the sun which scorched hiseyeballs. 

But as he balanced for the leap, a swift weakness and nausea swept overhim, a weight seized upon his body and limbs. He could not lift thelower foot from the iron rail, and he swayed dizzily and trembled. Hetrembled. He who had raced his men and beaten them up the hot hill tothe trenches of San Juan. But now he was a baby in the hands of a giant, who caught him by the wrist and with an iron arm clasped him around hiswaist and pulled him down, and shouted, brutally, "Help, some of you'se, quick; he's at it again. I can't hold him. "

More giants grasped him by the arms and by the legs. One of them tookthe hand that clung to the stanchion in both of his, and pulled back thefingers one by one, saying, "Easy now, Lieutenant--easy. "

The ragged palms and the sea and block-house were swallowed up in ablack fog, and his body touched the canvas cot again with a sense ofhome-coming and relief and rest. He wondered how he could have caredto escape from it. He found it so good to be back again that for a longtime he wept quite happily, until the fiery pillow was moist and cool. 

The world outside of the iron bars was like a scene in a theatre setfor some great event, but the actors were never ready. He rememberedconfusedly a play he had once witnessed before that same scene. Indeed, he believed he had played some small part in it; but he remembered itdimly, and all trace of the men who had appeared with him in it wasgone. He had reasoned it out that they were up there behind the rangeof mountains, because great heavy wagons and ambulances and cannon wereemptied from the ships at the wharf above and were drawn away in longlines behind the ragged palms, moving always toward the passes betweenthe peaks. At times he was disturbed by the thought that he should be upand after them, that some tradition of duty made his presence with themimperative. There was much to be done back of the mountains. Some eventof momentous import was being carried forward there, in which he held apart; but the doubt soon passed from him, and he was content to lie andwatch the iron bars rising and falling between the block-house and thewhite surf. 

If they had been only humanely kind, his lot would have been bearable, but they starved him and held him down when he wished to rise; and theywould not put out the fire in the pillow, which they might easily havedone by the simple expedient of throwing it over the ship's side intothe sea. He himself had done this twice, but the keeper had immediatelybrought a fresh pillow already heated for the torture and forced itunder his head. 

His pleasures were very simple, and so few that he could not understandwhy they robbed him of them so jealously. One was to watch a greencluster of bananas that hung above him from the awning twirling on astring. He could count as many of them as five before the bunch turnedand swung lazily back again, when he could count as high as twelve;sometimes when the ship rolled heavily he could count to twenty. It wasa most fascinating game, and contented him for many hours. But when theyfound this out they sent for the cook to come and cut them down, and thecook carried them away to his galley. 

Then, one day, a man came out from the shore, swimming through the bluewater with great splashes. He was a most charming man, who splutteredand dove and twisted and lay on his back and kicked his legs in anexcess of content and delight. It was a real pleasure to watch him;not for days had anything so amusing appeared on the other side of theprison-bars. But as soon as the keeper saw that the man in the waterwas amusing his prisoner, he leaned over the ship's side and shouted, "Sa-ay, you, don't you know there's sharks in there?"

And the swimming man said, "The h--ll there is!" and raced back to theshore like a porpoise with great lashing of the water, and ran up thebeach half-way to the palms before he was satisfied to stop. Thenthe prisoner wept again. It was so disappointing. Life was robbed ofeverything now. He remembered that in a previous existence soldiers whocried were laughed at and mocked. 

But that was so far away and it was such an absurd superstition that hehad no patience with it. For what could be more comforting to a man whenhe is treated cruelly than to cry. It was so obvious an exercise, andwhen one is so feeble that one cannot vault a four-railed barrier it issomething to feel that at least one is strong enough to cry. 

He escaped occasionally, traversing space with marvellous rapidity andto great distances, but never to any successful purpose; and his flightinevitably ended in ignominious recapture and a sudden awakening inbed. At these moments the familiar and hated palms, the peaks and theblock-house were more hideous in their reality than the most terrifyingof his nightmares. 

These excursions afield were always predatory; he went forth always toseek food. With all the beautiful world from which to elect and choose, he sought out only those places where eating was studied and elevatedto an art. These visits were much more vivid in their detail than any hehad ever before made to these same resorts. They invariably began ina carriage, which carried him swiftly over smooth asphalt. One routebrought him across a great and beautiful square, radiating with rows androws of flickering lights; two fountains splashed in the centre of thesquare, and six women of stone guarded its approaches. One of thewomen was hung with wreaths of mourning. Ahead of him the late twilightdarkened behind a great arch, which seemed to rise on the horizon of theworld, a great window into the heavens beyond. At either side stringsof white and colored globes hung among the trees, and the sound of musiccame joyfully from theatres in the open air. He knew the restaurantunder the trees to which he was now hastening, and the fountain besideit, and the very sparrows balancing on the fountain's edge; he knewevery waiter at each of the tables, he felt again the gravel crunchingunder his feet, he saw the maitre d'hotel coming forward smiling toreceive his command, and the waiter in the green apron bowing at hiselbow, deferential and important, presenting the list of wines. But hisadventure never passed that point, for he was captured again and oncemore bound to his cot with a close burning sheet. 

Or else, he drove more sedately through the London streets in the lateevening twilight, leaning expectantly across the doors of the hansom andpulling carefully at his white gloves. Other hansoms flashed past him, the occupant of each with his mind fixed on one idea--dinner. He was oneof a million of people who were about to dine, or who had dined, or whowere deep in dining. 

He was so famished, so weak for food of any quality, that the gallopinghorse in the hansom seemed to crawl. The lights of the Embankment passedlike the lamps of a railroad station as seen from the window of anexpress; and while his mind was still torn between the choice of a thinor thick soup or an immediate attack upon cold beef, he was at the door, and the chasseur touched his cap, and the little chasseur put the wickerguard over the hansom's wheel. As he jumped out he said, "Give himhalf-a-crown, " and the driver called after him, "Thank you, sir. "

It was a beautiful world, this world outside of the iron bars. Every onein it contributed to his pleasure and to his comfort. In this world hewas not starved nor manhandled. He thought of this joyfully as he leapedup the stairs, where young men with grave faces and with their handsheld negligently behind their backs bowed to him in polite surprise athis speed. But they had not been starved on condensed milk. He threw hiscoat and hat at one of them, and came down the hall fearfully and quiteweak with dread lest it should not be real. His voice was shaking whenhe asked Ellis if he had reserved a table. The place was all so real, itmust be true this time. The way Ellis turned and ran his finger downthe list showed it was real, because Ellis always did that, even when heknew there would not be an empty table for an hour. The room was crowdedwith beautiful women; under the light of the red shades they looked kindand approachable, and there was food on every table, and iced drinks insilver buckets. 

It was with the joy of great relief that he heard Ellis say to hisunderling, "Numero cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert. " It was real atlast. Outside, the Thames lay a great gray shadow. The lights of theEmbankment flashed and twinkled across it, the tower of the House ofCommons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the waiter was hurryingtoward him carrying a smoking plate of rich soup with a pungentintoxicating odor. 

And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, the immovable peaks, andthe white surf stood again before him. The iron rails swept up and sankagain, the fever sucked at his bones, and the pillow scorched his cheek. 

One morning for a brief moment he came back to real life again and layquite still, seeing everything about him with clear eyes and for thefirst time, as though he had but just that instant been lifted overthe ship's side. His keeper, glancing up, found the prisoner's eyesconsidering him curiously, and recognized the change. The instinct ofdiscipline brought him to his feet with his fingers at his sides. 

"Is the Lieutenant feeling better?"

The Lieutenant surveyed him gravely. 

"You are one of our hospital stewards. "

"Yes, Lieutenant. "

"Why ar'n't you with the regiment?"

"I was wounded, too, sir. I got it same time you did, Lieutenant. "

"Am I wounded? Of course, I remember. Is this a hospital ship?"

The steward shrugged his shoulders. "She's one of the transports. Theyhave turned her over to the fever cases. "

The Lieutenant opened his lips to ask another question; but his own bodyanswered that one, and for a moment he lay silent. 

"Do they know up North that I--that I'm all right?"

"Oh, yes, the papers had it in--there was pictures of the Lieutenant insome of them. "

"Then I've been ill some time?"

"Oh, about eight days. "

The soldier moved uneasily, and the nurse in him became uppermost. 

"I guess the Lieutenant hadn't better talk any more, " he said. It washis voice now which held authority. 

The Lieutenant looked out at the palms and the silent gloomy mountainsand the empty coast-line, where the same wave was rising and fallingwith weary persistence. 

"Eight days, " he said. His eyes shut quickly, as though with a suddentouch of pain. He turned his head and sought for the figure at the footof the cot. Already the figure had grown faint and was receding andswaying. 

"Has any one written or cabled?" the Lieutenant spoke, hurriedly. 

He was fearful lest the figure should disappear altogether before hecould obtain his answer. "Has any one come?"

"Why, they couldn't get here, Lieutenant, not yet. "

The voice came very faintly. "You go to sleep now, and I'll run andfetch some letters and telegrams. When you wake up, may be I'll have alot for you. "

But the Lieutenant caught the nurse by the wrist, and crushed his handin his own thin fingers. They were hot, and left the steward's skin wetwith perspiration. The Lieutenant laughed gayly. 

"You see, Doctor, " he said, briskly, "that you can't kill me. I can'tdie. I've got to live, you understand. Because, sir, she said she wouldcome. She said if I was wounded, or if I was ill, she would come to me. She didn't care what people thought. She would come any way and nurseme--well, she will come. 

"So, Doctor--old man--" He plucked at the steward's sleeve, and strokedhis hand eagerly, "old man--" he began again, beseechingly, "you'llnot let me die until she comes, will you? What? No, I know I won't die. Nothing made by man can kill me. No, not until she comes. Then, afterthat--eight days, she'll be here soon, any moment? What? You think so, too? Don't you? Surely, yes, any moment. Yes, I'll go to sleep now, andwhen you see her rowing out from shore you wake me. You'll know her; youcan't make a mistake. She is like--no, there is no one like her--but youcan't make a mistake. "

That day strange figures began to mount the sides of the ship, and tooccupy its every turn and angle of space. Some of them fell on theirknees and slapped the bare deck with their hands, and laughed andcried out, "Thank God, I'll see God's country again!" Some of themwere regulars, bound in bandages; some were volunteers, dirty andhollow-eyed, with long beards on boys' faces. Some came on crutches;others with their arms around the shoulders of their comrades, staringahead of them with a fixed smile, their lips drawn back and their teethprotruding. At every second step they stumbled, and the face of each wasswept by swift ripples of pain. 

They lay on cots so close together that the nurses could not walkbetween them. They lay on the wet decks, in the scuppers, and along thetransoms and hatches. They were like shipwrecked mariners clinging toa raft, and they asked nothing more than that the ship's bow be turnedtoward home. Once satisfied as to that, they relaxed into a state ofself-pity and miserable oblivion to their environment, from which hungernor nausea nor aching bones could shake them. 

The hospital steward touched the Lieutenant lightly on the shoulder. 

"We are going North, sir, " he said. "The transport's ordered North toNew York, with these volunteers and the sick and wounded. Do you hearme, sir?"

The Lieutenant opened his eyes. "Has she come?" he asked. 

"Gee!" exclaimed the hospital steward. He glanced impatiently at theblue mountains and the yellow coast, from which the transport wasdrawing rapidly away. 

"Well, I can't see her coming just now, " he said. "But she will, " headded. 

"You let me know at once when she comes. "

"Why, cert'nly, of course, " said the steward. 

Three trained nurses came over the side just before the transportstarted North. One was a large, motherly-looking woman, with a Germanaccent. She had been a trained nurse, first in Berlin, and later in theLondon Hospital in Whitechapel, and at Bellevue. 

The nurse was dressed in white, and wore a little silver medal at herthroat; and she was strong enough to lift a volunteer out of his cot andhold him easily in her arms, while one of the convalescents pulled hiscot out of the rain. Some of the men called her "nurse;" others, whowore scapulars around their necks, called her "Sister;" and the officersof the medical staff addressed her as Miss Bergen. 

Miss Bergen halted beside the cot of the Lieutenant and asked, "Is thisthe fever case you spoke about, Doctor--the one you want moved to theofficers' ward?" She slipped her hand up under his sleeve and felt hiswrist. 

"His pulse is very high, " she said to the steward. "When did you takehis temperature?" She drew a little morocco case from her pocket andfrom that took a clinical thermometer, which she shook up and down, eying the patient meanwhile with a calm, impersonal scrutiny. TheLieutenant raised his head and stared up at the white figure beside hiscot. His eyes opened and then shut quickly, with a startled look, inwhich doubt struggled with wonderful happiness. His hand stole outfearfully and warily until it touched her apron, and then, finding itwas real, he clutched it desperately, and twisting his face and bodytoward her, pulled her down, clasping her hands in both of his, andpressing them close to his face and eyes and lips. He put them from himfor an instant, and looked at her through his tears. 

"Sweetheart, " he whispered, "sweetheart, I knew you'd come. "

As the nurse knelt on the deck beside him, her thermometer slipped fromher fingers and broke, and she gave an exclamation of annoyance. Theyoung Doctor picked up the pieces and tossed them overboard. Neither ofthem spoke, but they smiled appreciatively. The Lieutenant was lookingat the nurse with the wonder and hope and hunger of soul in his eyeswith which a dying man looks at the cross the priest holds up beforehim. What he saw where the German nurse was kneeling was a tall, fairgirl with great bands and masses of hair, with a head rising like a lilyfrom a firm, white throat, set on broad shoulders above a straight backand sloping breast--a tall, beautiful creature, half-girl, half-woman, who looked back at him shyly, but steadily. 

"Listen, " he said. 

The voice of the sick man was so sure and so sane that the young Doctorstarted, and moved nearer to the head of the cot. "Listen, dearest, " theLieutenant whispered. "I wanted to tell you before I came South. But Idid not dare; and then I was afraid something might happen to me, and Icould never tell you, and you would never know. So I wrote it to you inthe will I made at Baiquiri, the night before the landing. If you hadn'tcome now, you would have learned it in that way. You would have readthere that there never was any one but you; the rest were all dreampeople, foolish, silly--mad. There is no one else in the world but you;you have been the only thing in life that has counted. I thought I mightdo something down here that would make you care. But I got shot goingup a hill, and after that I wasn't able to do anything. It was very hot, and the hills were on fire; and they took me prisoner, and kept me tieddown here, burning on these coals. I can't live much longer, but nowthat I have told you I can have peace. They tried to kill me before youcame; but they didn't know I loved you, they didn't know that men wholove you can't die. They tried to starve my love for you, to burn it outof me; they tried to reach it with their knives. But my love for youis my soul, and they can't kill a man's soul. Dear heart, I have livedbecause you lived. Now that you know--now that you understand--what doesit matter?"

Miss Bergen shook her head with great vigor. "Nonsense, " she said, cheerfully. "You are not going to die. As soon as we move you out ofthis rain, and some food cook--"

"Good God!" cried the young Doctor, savagely. "Do you want to kill him?"

When she spoke the patient had thrown his arms heavily across his face, and had fallen back, lying rigid on the pillow. 

The Doctor led the way across the prostrate bodies, apologizing as hewent. "I am sorry I spoke so quickly, " he said, "but he thought you werereal. I mean he thought you were some one he really knew--"

"He was just delirious, " said the German nurse, calmly. 

The Doctor mixed himself a Scotch and soda and drank it with a singlegesture. 

"Ugh!" he said to the ward-room. "I feel as though I'd been openinganother man's letters. "

The transport drove through the empty seas with heavy, clumsyupheavals, rolling like a buoy. Having been originally intended for thefreight-carrying trade, she had no sympathy with hearts that beat fora sight of their native land, or for lives that counted their remainingminutes by the throbbing of her engines. Occasionally, without apparentreason, she was thrown violently from her course: but it was invariablythe case that when her stern went to starboard, something splashed inthe water on her port side and drifted past her, until, when it hadcleared the blades of her propeller, a voice cried out, and she wasswung back on her home-bound track again. 

The Lieutenant missed the familiar palms and the tiny block-house; andseeing nothing beyond the iron rails but great wastes of gray water, hedecided he was on board a prison-ship, or that he had been strapped toa raft and cast adrift. People came for hours at a time and stood at thefoot of his cot, and talked with him and he to them--people he had lovedand people he had long forgotten, some of whom he had thought were dead. One of them he could have sworn he had seen buried in a deep trench, andcovered with branches of palmetto. He had heard the bugler, with tearschoking him, sound "taps;" and with his own hand he had placed the deadman's campaign hat on the mound of fresh earth above the grave. Yet herehe was still alive, and he came with other men of his troop to speak tohim; but when he reached out to them they were gone--the real and theunreal, the dead and the living--and even She disappeared whenever hetried to take her hand, and sometimes the hospital steward drove heraway. 

"Did that young lady say when she was coming back again?" he asked thesteward. 

"The young lady! What young lady?" asked the steward, wearily. 

"The one who has been sitting there, " he answered. He pointed with hisgaunt hand at the man in the next cot. 

"Oh, that young lady. Yes, she's coming back. She's just gone below tofetch you some hard-tack. "

The young volunteer in the next cot whined grievously. 

"That crazy man gives me the creeps, " he groaned. "He's always waking meup, and looking at me as though he was going to eat me. "

"Shut your head, " said the steward. "He's a better man crazy than you'llever be with the little sense you've got. And he has two Mauser holesin him. Crazy, eh? It's a damned good thing for you that there was aboutfour thousand of us regulars just as crazy as him, or you'd never seenthe top of the hill. "

One morning there was a great commotion on deck, and all theconvalescents balanced themselves on the rail, shivering in theirpajamas, and pointed one way. The transport was moving swiftly andsmoothly through water as flat as a lake, and making a great noise withher steam-whistle. The noise was echoed by many more steam-whistles; andthe ghosts of out-bound ships and tugs and excursion steamers ran pasther out of the mist and disappeared, saluting joyously. All of theexcursion steamers had a heavy list to the side nearest the transport, and the ghosts on them crowded to that rail and waved handkerchiefsand cheered. The fog lifted suddenly, and between the iron rails theLieutenant saw high green hills on either side of a great harbor. 

Houses and trees and thousands of masts swept past like a panorama;and beyond was a mirage of three cities, with curling smoke-wreaths andsky-reaching buildings, and a great swinging bridge, and a giant statueof a woman waving a welcome home. 

The Lieutenant surveyed the spectacle with cynical disbelief. He wasfar too wise and far too cunning to be bewitched by it. In his heart hepitied the men about him, who laughed wildly, and shouted, and climbedrecklessly to the rails and ratlines. He had been deceived too often notto know that it was not real. He knew from cruel experience that ina few moments the tall buildings would crumble away, the thousands ofcolumns of white smoke that flashed like snow in the sun, the busy, shrieking tug-boats, and the great statue would vanish into the sea, leaving it gray and bare. He closed his eyes and shut the vision out. Itwas so beautiful that it tempted him; but he would not be mocked, and heburied his face in his hands. They were carrying the farce too far, hethought. It was really too absurd; for now they were at a wharf whichwas so real that, had he not known by previous suffering, he would havebeen utterly deceived by it. And there were great crowds of smiling, cheering people, and a waiting guard of honor in fresh uniforms, androws of police pushing the people this way and that; and these men abouthim were taking it all quite seriously, and making ready to disembark, carrying their blanket-rolls and rifles with them. 

A band was playing joyously, and the man in the next cot, who was beinglifted to a stretcher, said, "There's the Governor and his staff; that'shim in the high hat. " It was really very well done. The Custom-houseand the Elevated Railroad and Castle Garden were as like to life as aphotograph, and the crowd was as well handled as a mob in a play. Hisheart ached for it so that he could not bear the pain, and he turned hisback on it. It was cruel to keep it up so long. His keeper lifted himin his arms, and pulled him into a dirty uniform which had belonged, apparently, to a much larger man--a man who had been killed probably, for there were dark-brown marks of blood on the tunic and breeches. Whenhe tried to stand on his feet, Castle Garden and the Battery disappearedin a black cloud of night, just as he knew they would; but when heopened his eyes from the stretcher, they had returned again. It was amost remarkably vivid vision. They kept it up so well. Now the youngDoctor and the hospital steward were pretending to carry him down agang-plank and into an open space; and he saw quite close to him a longline of policemen, and behind them thousands of faces, some of themwomen's faces--women who pointed at him and then shook their heads andcried, and pressed their hands to their cheeks, still looking at him. Hewondered why they cried. He did not know them, nor did they know him. Noone knew him; these people were only ghosts. 

There was a quick parting in the crowd. A man he had once known shovedtwo of the policemen to one side, and he heard a girl's voice speakinghis name, like a sob; and She came running out across the open space andfell on her knees beside the stretcher, and bent down over him, and hewas clasped in two young, firm arms. 

"Of course it is not real, of course it is not She, " he assured himself. "Because She would not do such a thing. Before all these people Shewould not do it. "

But he trembled and his heart throbbed so cruelly that he could not bearthe pain. 

She was pretending to cry. 

"They wired us you had started for Tampa on the hospital ship, " She wassaying, "and Aunt and I went all the way there before we heard you hadbeen sent North. We have been on the cars a week. That is why I missedyou. Do you understand? It was not my fault. I tried to come. Indeed, Itried to come. "

She turned her head and looked up fearfully at the young Doctor. 

"Tell me, why does he look at me like that?" she asked. "He doesn't knowme. Is he very ill? Tell me the truth. " She drew in her breath quickly. "Of course you will tell me the truth. "

When she asked the question he felt her arms draw tight about hisshoulders. It was as though she was holding him to herself, and fromsome one who had reached out for him. In his trouble he turned to hisold friend and keeper. His voice was hoarse and very low. 

"Is this the same young lady who was on the transport--the one you usedto drive away?"

In his embarrassment, the hospital steward blushed under his tan, andstammered. 

"Of course it's the same young lady, " the Doctor answered briskly. "AndI won't let them drive her away. " He turned to her, smiling gravely. "Ithink his condition has ceased to be dangerous, madam, " he said. 

People who in a former existence had been his friends, and Her brother, gathered about his stretcher and bore him through the crowd and liftedhim into a carriage filled with cushions, among which he sank lowerand lower. Then She sat beside him, and he heard Her brother say to thecoachman, "Home, and drive slowly and keep on the asphalt. "

The carriage moved forward, and She put her arm about him and his headfell on her shoulder, and neither of them spoke. The vision had lastedso long now that he was torn with the joy that after all it might bereal. But he could not bear the awakening if it were not, so he raisedhis head fearfully and looked up into the beautiful eyes above him. Hisbrows were knit, and he struggled with a great doubt and an awful joy. 

"Dearest, " he said, "is it real?"

"Is it real?" she repeated. 

Even as a dream, it was so wonderfully beautiful that he was satisfiedif it could only continue so, if but for a little while. 

"Do you think, " he begged again, trembling, "that it is going to lastmuch longer?"

She smiled, and, bending her head slowly, kissed him. 

"It is going to last--always, " she said. 

THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT

The mass-meeting in the Madison Square Garden which was to help setCuba free was finished, and the people were pushing their way out ofthe overheated building into the snow and sleet of the streets. Theyhad been greatly stirred and the spell of the last speaker still hung soheavily upon them that as they pressed down the long corridor they werestill speaking loudly in his praise. 

A young man moved eagerly amongst them, and pushed his way to wherever avoice was raised above the rest. He strained forward, listening openly, as though he tried to judge the effect of the meeting by the verdict ofthose about him. 

But the words he overheard seemed to clash with what he wished them tobe, and the eager look on his face changed to one of doubt and of gravedisappointment. When he had reached the sidewalk he stopped and stoodlooking back alternately into the lighted hall and at the hurryingcrowds which were dispersing rapidly. He made a movement as though hewould recall them, as though he felt they were still unconvinced, asthough there was much still left unsaid. 

A fat stranger halted at his elbow to light his cigar, and glancing upnodded his head approvingly. 

"Fine speaker, Senator Stanton, ain't he?" he said. 

The young man answered eagerly. "Yes, " he assented, "he is a greatorator, but how could he help but speak well with such a subject?"

"Oh, you ought to have heard him last November at Tammany Hall, " the fatstranger answered. "He wasn't quite up to himself to-night. He wasn't sointerested. Those Cubans are foreigners, you see, but you ought toheard him last St. Patrick's day on Home Rule for Ireland. Then he wastalking! That speech made him a United States senator, I guess. I don'tjust see how he expects to win out on this Cuba game. The Cubans haven'tgot no votes. "

The young man opened his eyes in some bewilderment. 

"He speaks for the good of Cuba, for the sake of humanity, " he ventured. 

"What?" inquired the fat stranger. "Oh, yes, of course. Well, I must begetting on. Good-night, sir. "

The stranger moved on his way, but the young man still lingereduncertainly in the snow-swept corridor shivering violently with the coldand stamping his feet for greater comfort. His face was burned to a deepred, which seemed to have come from some long exposure to a tropicalsun, but which held no sign of health. His cheeks were hollow and hiseyes were lighted with the fire of fever and from time to time he wasshaken by violent bursts of coughing which caused him to reach towardone of the pillars for support. 

As the last of the lights went out in the Garden, the speaker of theevening and three of his friends came laughing and talking down the longcorridor. Senator Stanton was a conspicuous figure at any time, and evenin those places where his portraits had not penetrated he was at oncerecognized as a personage. Something in his erect carriage and anunusual grace of movement, and the power and success in his face, mademen turn to look at him. He had been told that he resembled theearly portraits of Henry Clay, and he had never quite forgotten thecoincidence. 

The senator was wrapping the collar of his fur coat around his throatand puffing contentedly at a fresh cigar, and as he passed, the nightwatchman and the ushers bowed to the great man and stood looking afterhim with the half-humorous, half-envious deference that the Americanvoter pays to the successful politician. At the sidewalk, the policemenhurried to open the door of his carriage and in their eagerness made adouble line, through which he passed nodding to them gravely. The youngman who had stood so long in waiting pushed his way through the line tohis side. 

"Senator Stanton, " he began timidly, "might I speak to you a moment? Myname is Arkwright; I am just back from Cuba, and I want to thank you foryour speech. I am an American, and I thank God that I am since you aretoo, sir. No one has said anything since the war began that compareswith what you said to-night. You put it nobly, and I know, for I've beenthere for three years, only I can't make other people understand it, andI am thankful that some one can. You'll forgive my stopping you, sir, but I wanted to thank you. I feel it very much. "

Senator Stanton's friends had already seated themselves in his carriageand were looking out of the door and smiling with mock patience. But thesenator made no move to follow them. Though they were his admirers theywere sometimes skeptical, and he was not sorry that they should hearthis uninvited tribute. So he made a pretence of buttoning his long coatabout him, and nodded encouragingly to Arkwright to continue. "I'm gladyou liked it, sir, " he said with the pleasant, gracious smile thathad won him a friend wherever it had won him a vote. "It is verysatisfactory to know from one who is well informed on the subject thatwhat I have said is correct. The situation there is truly terrible. Youhave just returned, you say? Where were you--in Havana?"

"No, in the other provinces, sir, " Arkwright answered. "I have been allover the island, I am a civil engineer. The truth has not been halftold about Cuba, I assure you, sir. It is massacre there, not war. It ispartly so through ignorance, but nevertheless it is massacre. And whatmakes it worse is, that it is the massacre of the innocents. That iswhat I liked best of what you said in that great speech, the part aboutthe women and children. "

He reached out his hands detainingly, and then drew back as though inapology for having already kept the great man so long waiting in thecold. "I wish I could tell you some of the terrible things I have seen, "he began again, eagerly as Stanton made no movement to depart. "They aremuch worse than those you instanced to-night, and you could make so muchbetter use of them than any one else. I have seen starving women nursingdead babies, and sometimes starving babies sucking their dead mother'sbreasts; I have seen men cut down in the open roads and while diggingin the fields--and two hundred women imprisoned in one room withoutfood and eaten with small-pox, and huts burned while the people in themslept--"

The young man had been speaking impetuously, but he stopped as suddenly, for the senator was not listening to him. He had lowered his eyesand was looking with a glance of mingled fascination and disgust atArkwright's hands. In his earnestness the young man had stretched themout, and as they showed behind the line of his ragged sleeves the otherscould see, even in the blurred light and falling snow, that the wristsof each hand were gashed and cut in dark-brown lines like the skin of amulatto, and in places were a raw red, where the fresh skin had but justclosed over. The young man paused and stood shivering, still holding hishands out rigidly before him. 

The senator raised his eyes slowly and drew away. 

"What is that?" he said in a low voice, pointing with a gloved finger atthe black lines on the wrists. 

A sergeant in the group of policemen who had closed around the speakersanswered him promptly from his profound fund of professional knowledge. 

"That's handcuffs, senator, " he said importantly, and glanced atStanton as though to signify that at a word from him he would take thissuspicious character into custody. The young man pulled the frayed cuffsof his shirt over his wrists and tucked his hands, which the cold hadfrozen into an ashy blue, under his armpits to warm them. 

"No, they don't use handcuffs in the field, " he said in the same low, eager tone; "they use ropes and leather thongs; they fastened me behinda horse and when he stumbled going down the trail it jerked me forwardand the cords would tighten and tear the flesh. But they have had a longtime to heal now. I have been eight months in prison. "

The young men at the carriage window had ceased smiling and werelistening intently. One of them stepped out and stood beside thecarriage door looking down at the shivering figure before him with aclose and curious scrutiny. 

"Eight months in prison!" echoed the police sergeant with a note oftriumph; "what did I tell you?"

"Hold your tongue!" said the young man at the carriage door. There wassilence for a moment, while the men looked at the senator, as thoughwaiting for him to speak. 

"Where were you in prison, Mr. Arkwright?" he asked. 

"First in the calaboose at Santa Clara for two months, and thenin Cabanas. The Cubans who were taken when I was, were shot by thefusillade on different days during this last month. Two of them, theEzetas, were father and son, and the Volunteer band played all the timethe execution was going on, so that the other prisoners might not hearthem cry 'Cuba Libre' when the order came to fire. But we heard them. "

The senator shivered slightly and pulled his fur collar up fartheraround his face. "I'd like to talk with you, " he said, "if you havenothing to do to-morrow. I'd like to go into this thing thoroughly. Congress must be made to take some action. "

The young man clasped his hands eagerly. "Ah, Mr. Stanton, if youwould, " he cried, "if you would only give me an hour! I could tell youso much that you could use. And you can believe what I say, sir--it isnot necessary to lie--God knows the truth is bad enough. I can give younames and dates for everything I say. Or I can do better than that, sir. I can take you there yourself--in three months I can show you all youneed to see, without danger to you in any way. And they would not knowme, now that I have grown a beard, and I am a skeleton to what I was. I can speak the language well, and I know just what you should see, andthen you could come back as one speaking with authority and not have tosay, 'I have read, ' or 'have been told, ' but you can say, 'These are thethings I have seen'--and you could free Cuba. "

The senator coughed and put the question aside for the moment with awave of the hand that held his cigar. "We will talk of that to-morrowalso. Come to lunch with me at one. My apartments are in the Berkeleyon Fifth Avenue. But aren't you afraid to go back there?" he askedcuriously. "I should think you'd had enough of it. And you've got atouch of fever, haven't you?" He leaned forward and peered into theother's eyes. 

"It is only the prison fever, " the young man answered; "food and thiscold will drive that out of me. And I must go back. There is so much todo there, " he added. "Ah, if I could tell them, as you can tell them, what I feel here. " He struck his chest sharply with his hand, and on theinstant fell into a fit of coughing so violent that the young man atthe carriage door caught him around the waist, and one of the policemensupported him from the other side. 

"You need a doctor, " said the senator kindly. "I'll ask mine to have alook at you. Don't forget, then, at one o'clock to-morrow. We will gointo this thing thoroughly. " He shook Arkwright warmly by the hand andstooping stepped into the carriage. The young man who had stood at thedoor followed him and crowded back luxuriously against the cushions. The footman swung himself up beside the driver, and said "UptownDelmonico's, " as he wrapped the fur rug around his legs, and witha salute from the policemen and a scraping of hoofs on the slipperyasphalt the great man was gone. 

"That poor fellow needs a doctor, " he said as the carriage rolled upthe avenue, "and he needs an overcoat, and he needs food. He needs aboutalmost everything, by the looks of him. "

But the voice of the young man in the corner of the carriage objecteddrowsily--

"On the contrary, " he said, "it seemed to me that he had the one thingneedful. "

By one o'clock of the day following, Senator Stanton, having read thereports of his speech in the morning papers, punctuated with "Cheers, ""Tremendous enthusiasm" and more "Cheers, " was still in a willing frameof mind toward Cuba and her self-appointed envoy, young Mr. Arkwright. 

Over night he had had doubts but that the young man's enthusiasm wouldbore him on the morrow, but Mr. Arkwright, when he appeared, developed, on the contrary, a practical turn of mind which rendered his suggestionsboth flattering and feasible. He was still terribly in earnest, buthe was clever enough or serious enough to see that the motives whichappealed to him might not have sufficient force to move a successfulstatesman into action. So he placed before the senator only thosearguments and reasons which he guessed were the best adapted tosecure his interest and his help. His proposal as he set it forth wassimplicity itself. 

"Here is a map of the island, " he said; "on it I have marked the placesyou can visit in safety, and where you will meet the people you ought tosee. If you leave New York at midnight you can reach Tampa on the secondday. From Tampa we cross in another day to Havana. There you can visitthe Americans imprisoned in Morro and Cabanas, and in the streets youcan see the starving pacificos. From Havana I shall take you by rail toJucaro, Matanzas, Santa Clara and Cienfuegos. You will not be ableto see the insurgents in the fields--it is not necessary that youshould--but you can visit one of the sugar plantations and some of theinsurgent chiefs will run the forts by night and come in to talk withyou. I will show you burning fields and houses, and starving men andwomen by the thousands, and men and women dying of fevers. You can seeCuban prisoners shot by a firing squad and you can note how these rebelsmeet death. You can see all this in three weeks and be back in New Yorkin a month, as any one can see it who wishes to learn the truth. Why, English members of Parliament go all the way to India and BritishColumbia to inform themselves about those countries, they travelthousands of miles, but only one member of either of our houses ofCongress has taken the trouble to cross these eighty miles of water thatlie between us and Cuba. You can either go quietly and incognito, asit were, or you can advertise the fact of your going, which would bebetter. And from the moment you start the interest in your visit willgrow and increase until there will be no topic discussed in any of ourpapers except yourself, and what you are doing and what you mean to do. 

"By the time you return the people will be waiting, ready and eager tohear whatever you may have to say. Your word will be the last word forthem. It is not as though you were some demagogue seeking notoriety, ora hotel piazza correspondent at Key West or Jacksonville. You are theonly statesman we have, the only orator Americans will listen to, and Itell you that when you come before them and bring home to them asonly you can the horrors of this war, you will be the only man in thiscountry. You will be the Patrick Henry of Cuba; you can go down tohistory as the man who added the most beautiful island in the seas tothe territory of the United States, who saved thousands of innocentchildren and women, and who dared to do what no other politician hasdared to do--to go and see for himself and to come back and speak thetruth. It only means a month out of your life, a month's trouble anddiscomfort, but with no risk. What is a month out of a lifetime, whenthat month means immortality to you and life to thousands? In a monthyou would make a half dozen after-dinner speeches and cause your friendsto laugh and applaud. Why not wring their hearts instead, and hold thisthing up before them as it is, and shake it in their faces? Show it tothem in all its horror--bleeding, diseased and naked, an offence to ourhumanity, and to our prated love of liberty, and to our God. "

The young man threw himself eagerly forward and beat the map with hisopen palm. But the senator sat apparently unmoved gazing thoughtfullyinto the open fire, and shook his head. 

While the luncheon was in progress the young gentleman who the nightbefore had left the carriage and stood at Arkwright's side, had enteredthe room and was listening intently. He had invited himself to somefresh coffee, and had then relapsed into an attentive silence, followingwhat the others said with an amused and interested countenance. Stantonhad introduced him as Mr. Livingstone, and appeared to take it forgranted that Arkwright would know who he was. He seemed to regard himwith a certain deference which Arkwright judged was due to some fixedposition the young man held, either of social or of political value. 

"I do not know, " said Stanton with consideration, "that I am prepared toadvocate the annexation of the island. It is a serious problem. "

"I am not urging that, " Arkwright interrupted anxiously; "theCubans themselves do not agree as to that, and in any event it is anafterthought. Our object now should be to prevent further bloodshed. Ifyou see a man beating a boy to death, you first save the boy's lifeand decide afterward where he is to go to school. If there were any oneelse, senator, " Arkwright continued earnestly, "I would not trouble you. But we all know your strength in this country. You are independent andfearless, and men of both parties listen to you. Surely, God has givenyou this great gift of oratory, if you will forgive my speaking so, touse only in a great cause. A grand organ in a cathedral is placed thereto lift men's thoughts to high resolves and purposes, not to make peopledance. A street organ can do that. Now, here is a cause worthy of yourgreat talents, worthy of a Daniel Webster, of a Henry Clay. "

The senator frowned at the fire and shook his head doubtfully. 

"If they knew what I was down there for, " he asked, "wouldn't they putme in prison too?"

Arkwright laughed incredulously. 

"Certainly not, " he said; "you would go there as a private citizen, asa tourist to look on and observe. Spain is not seeking complicationsof that sort. She has troubles enough without imprisoning United Statessenators. "

"Yes; but these fevers now, " persisted Stanton, "they're no respecterof persons, I imagine. A United States senator is not above smallpox orcholera. "

Arkwright shook his head impatiently and sighed. 

"It is difficult to make it clear to one who has not been there, " hesaid. "These people and soldiers are dying of fever because they areforced to live like pigs, and they are already sick with starvation. Ahealthy man like yourself would be in no more danger than you would bein walking through the wards of a New York hospital. "

Senator Stanton turned in his armchair, and held up his handimpressively. 

"If I were to tell them the things you have told me, " he said warningly, "if I were to say I have seen such things--American property in flames, American interests ruined, and that five times as many women andchildren have died of fever and starvation in three months in Cuba asthe Sultan has massacred in Armenia in three years--it would mean warwith Spain. "

"Well?" said Arkwright. 

Stanton shrugged his shoulders and sank back again in his chair. 

"It would either mean war, " Arkwright went on, "or it might mean thesending of the Red Cross army to Cuba. It went to Constantinople, fivethousand miles away, to help the Armenian Christians--why has it waitedthree years to go eighty miles to feed and clothe the Cuban women andchildren? It is like sending help to a hungry peasant in Russia while aman dies on your doorstep. "

"Well, " said the senator, rising, "I will let you know to-morrow. If it is the right thing to do, and if I can do it, of course it mustbe done. We start from Tampa, you say? I know the presidents of allof those roads and they'll probably give me a private car for the tripdown. Shall we take any newspaper men with us, or shall I wait until Iget back and be interviewed? What do you think?"

"I would wait until my return, " Arkwright answered, his eyes glowingwith the hope the senator's words had inspired, "and then speak to amass-meeting here and in Boston and in Chicago. Three speeches will beenough. Before you have finished your last one the American warshipswill be in the harbor of Havana. "

"Ah, youth, youth!" said the senator, smiling gravely, "it is no lightresponsibility to urge a country into war. "

"It is no light responsibility, " Arkwright answered, "to know youhave the chance to save the lives of thousands of little children andhelpless women and to let the chance pass. "

"Quite so, that is quite true, " said the senator. "Well, good-morning. Ishall let you know to-morrow. "

Young Livingstone went down in the elevator with Arkwright, and whenthey had reached the sidewalk stood regarding him for a moment insilence. 

"You mustn't count too much on Stanton, you know, " he said kindly; "hehas a way of disappointing people. "

"Ah, he can never disappoint me, " Arkwright answered confidently, "nomatter how much I expected. Besides, I have already heard him speak. "

"I don't mean that, I don't mean he is disappointing as a speaker. Stanton is a great orator, I think. Most of those Southerners are, andhe's the only real orator I ever heard. But what I mean is, that hedoesn't go into things impulsively; he first considers himself, and thenhe considers every other side of the question before he commits himselfto it. Before he launches out on a popular wave he tries to find outwhere it is going to land him. He likes the sort of popular wave thatcarries him along with it where every one can see him; he doesn't fancybeing hurled up on the beach with his mouth full of sand. "

"You are saying that he is selfish, self-seeking?" Arkwright demandedwith a challenge in his voice. "I thought you were his friend. "

"Yes, he is selfish, and yes, I am his friend, " the young man answered, smiling; "at least, he seems willing to be mine. I am saying nothingagainst him that I have not said to him. If you'll come back with me upthe elevator I'll tell him he's a self-seeker and selfish, and withno thought above his own interests. He won't mind. He'd say I cannotcomprehend his motives. Why, you've only to look at his record. When theVenezuelan message came out he attacked the President and declared hewas trying to make political capital and to drag us into war, and thatwhat we wanted was arbitration; but when the President brought out theArbitration Treaty he attacked that too in the Senate and destroyedit. Why? Not because he had convictions, but because the President hadrefused a foreign appointment to a friend of his in the South. He hasbeen a free silver man for the last ten years, he comes from a freesilver state, and the members of the legislature that elected him wereall for silver, but this last election his Wall Street friends got holdof him and worked on his feelings, and he repudiated his party, hisstate, and his constituents and came out for gold. "

"Well, but surely, " Arkwright objected, "that took courage? To own thatfor ten years you had been wrong, and to come out for the right at thelast. "

Livingstone stared and shrugged his shoulders. "It's all a question ofmotives, " he said indifferently. "I don't want to shatter your idol; Ionly want to save you from counting too much on him. "

When Arkwright called on the morrow Senator Stanton was not at home, and the day following he was busy, and could give him only a briefinterview. There were previous engagements and other difficulties in theway of his going which he had not foreseen, he said, and he feared heshould have to postpone his visit to Cuba indefinitely. He asked if Mr. Arkwright would be so kind as to call again within a week; he would thenbe better able to give him a definite answer. 

Arkwright left the apartment with a sensation of such keendisappointment that it turned him ill and dizzy. He felt that the greatpurpose of his life was being played with and put aside. But he had notselfish resentment on his own account; he was only the more determinedto persevere. He considered new arguments and framed new appeals; andone moment blamed himself bitterly for having foolishly discouraged thestatesman by too vivid pictures of the horrors he might encounter, andthe next, questioned if he had not been too practical and so failedbecause he had not made the terrible need of immediate help his soleargument. Every hour wasted in delay meant, as he knew, the sacrificeof many lives, and there were other, more sordid and more practical, reasons for speedy action. For his supply of money was running low andthere was now barely enough remaining to carry him through the month oftravel he had planned to take at Stanton's side. What would happen tohim when that momentous trip was over was of no consequence. He wouldhave done the work as far as his small share in it lay, he would haveset in motion a great power that was to move Congress and the people ofthe United States to action. If he could but do that, what became of himcounted for nothing. 

But at the end of the week his fears and misgivings were scatteredgloriously and a single line from the senator set his heart leaping andbrought him to his knees in gratitude and thanksgiving. On returning oneafternoon to the mean lodging into which he had moved to save his money, he found a telegram from Stanton and he tore it open trembling betweenhope and fear. 

"Have arranged to leave for Tampa with you Monday, at midnight" it read. "Call for me at ten o'clock same evening. --STANTON. "

Arkwright read the message three times. There was a heavy, suffocatingpressure at his heart as though it had ceased beating. He sank backlimply upon the edge of his bed and clutching the piece of paper in histwo hands spoke the words aloud triumphantly as though to assure himselfthat they were true. Then a flood of unspeakable relief, of happinessand gratitude, swept over him, and he turned and slipped to the floor, burying his face in the pillow, and wept out his thanks upon his knees. 

A man so deeply immersed in public affairs as was Stanton and withsuch a multiplicity of personal interests, could not prepare to absenthimself for a month without his intention becoming known, and on theday when he was to start for Tampa the morning newspapers proclaimed thefact that he was about to visit Cuba. They gave to his mission allthe importance and display that Arkwright had foretold. Some of thenewspapers stated that he was going as a special commissioner of thePresident to study and report; others that he was acting in behalfof the Cuban legation in Washington and had plenipotentiary powers. Opposition organs suggested that he was acting in the interests ofthe sugar trust, and his own particular organ declared that it was hisintention to free Cuba at the risk of his own freedom, safety, and evenlife. 

The Spanish minister in Washington sent a cable for publication toMadrid, stating that a distinguished American statesman was aboutto visit Cuba, to investigate, and, later, to deny the truth of thedisgraceful libels published concerning the Spanish officials on theisland by the papers of the United States. At the same time he cabledin cipher to the captain-general in Havana to see that the distinguishedstatesman was closely spied upon from the moment of his arrival untilhis departure, and to place on the "suspect" list all Americans andCubans who ventured to give him any information. 

The afternoon papers enlarged on the importance of the visit and on thegood that would surely come of it. They told that Senator Stanton hadrefused to be interviewed or to disclose the object of his journey. Butit was enough, they said, that some one in authority was at last to seekout the truth, and added that no one would be listened to with greaterrespect than would the Southern senator. On this all the editorialwriters were agreed. 

The day passed drearily for Arkwright. Early in the morning he packedhis valise and paid his landlord, and for the remainder of the daywalked the streets or sat in the hotel corridor waiting impatiently foreach fresh edition of the papers. In them he read the signs of the greatupheaval of popular feeling that was to restore peace and health andplenty to the island for which he had given his last three years ofenergy and life. 

He was trembling with excitement, as well as with the cold, when at teno'clock precisely he stood at Senator Stanton's door. He had forgottento eat his dinner, and the warmth of the dimly lit hall and the odor ofrich food which was wafted from an inner room touched his senses withtantalizing comfort. 

"The senator says you are to come this way, sir, " the servant directed. He took Arkwright's valise from his hand and parted the heavy curtainsthat hid the dining-room, and Arkwright stepped in between them and thenstopped in some embarrassment. He found himself in the presence of anumber of gentlemen seated at a long dinner-table, who turned theirheads as he entered and peered at him through the smoke that floated inlight layers above the white cloth. The dinner had been served, but thesenator's guests still sat with their chairs pushed back from a tablelighted by candles under yellow shades, and covered with beautifulflowers and with bottles of varied sizes in stands of quaint andintricate design. Senator Stanton's tall figure showed dimly through thesmoke, and his deep voice hailed Arkwright cheerily from the farther endof the room. "This way, Mr. Arkwright, " he said. "I have a chair waitingfor you here. " He grasped Arkwright's hand warmly and pulled him intothe vacant place at his side. An elderly gentleman on Arkwright's otherside moved to make more room for him and shoved a liqueur glass towardhim with a friendly nod and pointed at an open box of cigars. He was afine-looking man, and Arkwright noticed that he was regarding him witha glance of the keenest interest. All of those at the table were men oftwice Arkwright's age, except Livingstone, whom he recognized andwho nodded to him pleasantly and at the same time gave an order to aservant, pointing at Arkwright as he did so. Some of the gentlemenwore their business suits, and one opposite Arkwright was still in hisovercoat, and held his hat in his hand. These latter seemed to havearrived after the dinner had begun, for they formed a second lineback of those who had places at the table; they all seemed to know oneanother and were talking with much vivacity and interest. 

Stanton did not attempt to introduce Arkwright to his guestsindividually, but said: "Gentlemen, this is Mr. Arkwright, of whom Ihave been telling you, the young gentleman who has done such magnificentwork for the cause of Cuba. " Those who caught Arkwright's eye nodded tohim, and others raised their glasses at him, but with a smile thathe could not understand. It was as though they all knew somethingconcerning him of which he was ignorant. He noted that the faces of somewere strangely familiar, and he decided that he must have seen theirportraits in the public prints. After he had introduced Arkwright, thesenator drew his chair slightly away from him and turned in what seemedembarrassment to the man on his other side. The elderly gentleman nextto Arkwright filled his glass, a servant placed a small cup of coffee athis elbow, and he lit a cigar and looked about him. 

"You must find this weather very trying after the tropics, " his neighborsaid. 

Arkwright assented cordially. The brandy was flowing through his veinsand warming him; he forgot that he was hungry, and the kind, interestedglances of those about him set him at his ease. It was a propitiousstart, he thought, a pleasant leave-taking for the senator and himself, full of good will and good wishes. 

He turned toward Stanton and waited until he had ceased speaking. 

"The papers have begun well, haven't they?" he asked, eagerly. 

He had spoken in a low voice, almost in a whisper, but those about thetable seemed to have heard him, for there was silence instantly and whenhe glanced up he saw the eyes of all turned upon him and he noticed ontheir faces the same smile he had seen there when he entered. 

"Yes, " Stanton answered constrainedly. "Yes, I--" he lowered his voice, but the silence still continued. Stanton had his eyes fixed on thetable, but now he frowned and half rose from his chair. 

"I want to speak with you, Arkwright, " he said. "Suppose we go into thenext room. I'll be back in a moment, " he added, nodding to the others. 

But the man on his right removed his cigar from his lips and said in anundertone, "No, sit down, stay where you are;" and the elderly gentlemanat Arkwright's side laid his hand detainingly on his arm. "Oh, you won'ttake Mr. Arkwright away from us, Stanton?" he asked, smiling. 

Stanton shrugged his shoulders and sat down again, and there was amoment's pause. It was broken by the man in the overcoat, who laughed. 

"He's paying you a compliment, Mr. Arkwright, " he said. He pointed withhis cigar to the gentleman at Arkwright's side. 

"I don't understand, " Arkwright answered doubtfully. 

"It's a compliment to your eloquence--he's afraid to leave you alonewith the senator. Livingstone's been telling us that you are a bettertalker than Stanton. " Arkwright turned a troubled countenance toward themen about the table, and then toward Livingstone, but that young man hadhis eyes fixed gravely on the glasses before him and did not raise them. 

Arkwright felt a sudden, unreasonable fear of the circle ofstrong-featured, serene and confident men about him. They seemed tobe making him the subject of a jest, to be enjoying something amongthemselves of which he was in ignorance, but which concerned himclosely. He turned a white face toward Stanton. 

"You don't mean, " he began piteously, "that--that you are not going? Isthat it--tell me--is that what you wanted to say?"

Stanton shifted in his chair and muttered some words between his lips, then turned toward Arkwright and spoke quite clearly and distinctly. 

"I am very sorry, Mr. Arkwright, " he said, "but I am afraid I'll have todisappoint you. Reasons I cannot now explain have arisen which make mygoing impossible--quite impossible, " he added firmly--"not only now, butlater, " he went on quickly, as Arkwright was about to interrupt him. 

Arkwright made no second attempt to speak. He felt the muscles of hisface working and the tears coming to his eyes, and to hide his weaknesshe twisted in his chair and sat staring ahead of him with his backturned to the table. He heard Livingstone's voice break the silence withsome hurried question, and immediately his embarrassment was hidden in amurmur of answers and the moving of glasses as the men shifted in theirchairs and the laughter and talk went on as briskly as before. Arkwrightsaw a sideboard before him and a servant arranging some silver on one ofthe shelves. He watched the man do this with a concentrated interestas though the dull, numbed feeling in his brain caught at the trifle inorder to put off, as long as possible, the consideration of the truth. 

And then beyond the sideboard and the tapestry on the wall above it, hesaw the sun shining down upon the island of Cuba, he saw the royal palmswaving and bending, the dusty columns of Spanish infantry crawling alongthe white roads and leaving blazing huts and smoking cane-fields intheir wake; he saw skeletons of men and women seeking for food among therefuse of the street; he heard the order given to the firing squad, thesplash of the bullets as they scattered the plaster on the prison wall, and he saw a kneeling figure pitch forward on its face, with a uselessbandage tied across its sightless eyes. 

Senator Stanton brought him back with a sharp shake of the shoulder. Hehad also turned his back on the others, and was leaning forward withhis elbows on his knees. He spoke rapidly, and in a voice only slightlyraised above a whisper. 

"I am more than sorry, Arkwright, " he said earnestly. "You mustn't blameme altogether. I have had a hard time of it this afternoon. I wanted togo. I really wanted to go. The thing appealed to me, it touched me, itseemed as if I owed it to myself to do it. But they were too many forme, " he added with a backward toss of his head toward the men around histable. 

"If the papers had not told on me I could have got well away, " he wenton in an eager tone, "but as soon as they read of it, they came herestraight from their offices. You know who they are, don't you?"he asked, and even in his earnestness there was an added touch ofimportance in his tone as he spoke the name of his party's leader, ofmen who stood prominently in Wall Street and who were at the head ofgreat trusts. 

"You see how it is, " he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "They haveenormous interests at stake. They said I would drag them into war, thatI would disturb values, that the business interests of the country wouldsuffer. I'm under obligations to most of them, they have advised mein financial matters, and they threatened--they threatened to makeit unpleasant for me. " His voice hardened and he drew in his breathquickly, and laughed. "You wouldn't understand if I were to tell you. It's rather involved. And after all, they may be right, agitation maybe bad for the country. And your party leader after all is your partyleader, isn't he, and if he says 'no' what are you to do? My sympathiesare just as keen for these poor women and children as ever, but as thesemen say, 'charity begins at home, ' and we mustn't do anything to bringon war prices again, or to send stocks tumbling about our heads, mustwe?" He leaned back in his chair again and sighed. "Sympathy is anexpensive luxury, I find, " he added. 

Arkwright rose stiffly and pushed Stanton away from him with his hand. He moved like a man coming out of a dream. 

"Don't talk to me like that, " he said in a low voice. The noise aboutthe table ended on the instant, but Arkwright did not notice that it hadceased. "You know I don't understand that, " he went on; "what does itmatter to me!" He put his hand up to the side of his face and held itthere, looking down at Stanton. He had the dull, heavy look in his eyesof a man who has just come through an operation under some heavy drug. "'Wall Street, ' 'trusts, ' 'party leaders, '" he repeated, "what are theyto me? The words don't reach me, they have lost their meaning, it is alanguage I have forgotten, thank God!" he added. He turned and moved hiseyes around the table, scanning the faces of the men before him. 

"Yes, you are twelve to one, " he said at last, still speaking dully andin a low voice, as though he were talking to himself. "You have won anoble victory, gentlemen. I congratulate you. But I do not blame you, weare all selfish and self-seeking. I thought I was working only for Cuba, but I was working for myself, just as you are. I wanted to feel that itwas I who had helped to bring relief to that plague-spot, that it wasthrough my efforts the help had come. Yes, if he had done as I asked, Isuppose I would have taken the credit. "

He swayed slightly, and to steady himself caught at the back of hischair. But at the same moment his eyes glowed fiercely and he heldhimself erect again. He pointed with his finger at the circle of greatmen who sat looking up at him in curious silence. 

"You are like a ring of gamblers around a gaming table, " he criedwildly, "who see nothing but the green cloth and the wheel and the pilesof money before them, who forget in watching the money rise andfall, that outside the sun is shining, that human beings are sick andsuffering, that men are giving their lives for an idea, for a sentiment, for a flag. You are the money-changers in the temple of this greatrepublic and the day will come, I pray to God, when you will be scourgedand driven out with whips. Do you think you can form combines and dealsthat will cheat you into heaven? Can your 'trusts' save your souls--is'Wall Street' the strait and narrow road to salvation?"

The men about the table leaned back and stared at Arkwright in as greatamazement as though he had violently attempted an assault upon theirpockets, or had suddenly gone mad in their presence. Some of themfrowned, and others appeared not to have heard, and others smiled grimlyand waited for him to continue as though they were spectators at a play. 

The political leader broke the silence with a low aside to Stanton. "Does the gentleman belong to the Salvation Army?" he asked. 

Arkwright whirled about and turned upon him fiercely. 

"Old gods give way to new gods, " he cried. "Here is your brother. I amspeaking for him. Do you ever think of him? How dare you sneer at me?"he cried. "You can crack your whip over that man's head and turn himfrom what in his heart and conscience he knows is right; you can crackyour whip over the men who call themselves free-born American citizensand who have made you their boss--sneer at them if you like, but youhave no collar on my neck. If you are a leader, why don't you lead yourpeople to what is good and noble? Why do you stop this man in the workGod sent him here to do? You would make a party hack of him, a politicalprostitute, something lower than the woman who walks the streets. Shesells her body--this man is selling his soul. "

He turned, trembling and quivering, and shook his finger above theupturned face of the senator. 

"What have you done with your talents, Stanton?" he cried. "What haveyou done with your talents?"

The man in the overcoat struck the table before him with his fist sothat the glasses rang. 

"By God, " he laughed, "I call him a better speaker than Stanton!Livingstone's right, he IS better than Stanton--but he lacks Stanton'sknack of making himself popular, " he added. He looked around the tableinviting approbation with a smile, but no one noticed him, nor spoke tobreak the silence. 

Arkwright heard the words dully and felt that he was being mocked. Hecovered his face with his hands and stood breathing brokenly; his bodywas still trembling with an excitement he could not master. 

Stanton rose from his chair and shook him by the shoulder. "Are you mad, Arkwright?" he cried. "You have no right to insult my guests or me. Becalm--control yourself. "

"What does it matter what I say?" Arkwright went on desperately. "I ammad. Yes, that is it, I am mad. They have won and I have lost, and itdrove me beside myself. I counted on you. I knew that no one else couldlet my people go. But I'll not trouble you again. I wish you good-night, sir, and good-bye. If I have been unjust, you must forget it. "

He turned sharply, but Stanton placed a detaining hand on his shoulder. "Wait, " he commanded querulously; "where are you going? Will you, still--?"

Arkwright bowed his head. "Yes, " he answered. "I have but just time nowto catch our train--my train, I mean. "

He looked up at Stanton and taking his hand in both of his, drew the mantoward him. All the wildness and intolerance in his manner had passed, and as he raised his eyes they were full of a firm resolve. 

"Come, " he said simply; "there is yet time. Leave these people behindyou. What can you answer when they ask what have you done with yourtalents?"

"Good God, Arkwright, " the senator exclaimed angrily, pulling his handaway; "don't talk like a hymn-book, and don't make another scene. Whatyou ask is impossible. Tell me what I can do to help you in any otherway, and--"

"Come, " repeated the young man firmly. 

"The world may judge you by what you do to-night. "

Stanton looked at the boy for a brief moment with a strained and eagerscrutiny, and then turned away abruptly and shook his head in silence, and Arkwright passed around the table and on out of the room. 

A month later, as the Southern senator was passing through thereading-room of the Union Club, Livingstone beckoned to him, and handinghim an afternoon paper pointed at a paragraph in silence. 

The paragraph was dated Sagua la Grande, and read:

"The body of Henry Arkwright, an American civil engineer, was broughtinto Sagua to-day by a Spanish column. It was found lying in a roadthree miles beyond the line of forts. Arkwright was surprised by aguerilla force while attempting to make his way to the insurgent camp, and on resisting was shot. The body has been handed over to the Americanconsul for interment. It is badly mutilated. "

Stanton lowered the paper and stood staring out of the window at thefalling snow and the cheery lights and bustling energy of the avenue. 

"Poor fellow, " he said, "he wanted so much to help them. And he didn'taccomplish anything, did he?"

Livingstone stared at the older man and laughed shortly. 

"Well, I don't know, " he said. "He died. Some of us only live. "

THE VAGRANT

His Excellency Sir Charles Greville, K. C M. G. , Governor of theWindless Islands, stood upon the veranda of Government House surveyingthe new day with critical and searching eyes. Sir Charles had beenso long absolute monarch of the Windless Isles that he had assumedunconsciously a mental attitude of suzerainty over even the glitteringwaters of the Caribbean Sea, and the coral reefs under the waters, and the rainbow skies that floated above them. But on this particularmorning not even the critical eye of the Governor could distinguish asingle flaw in the tropical landscape before him. 

The lawn at his feet ran down to meet the dazzling waters of the bay, the blue waters of the bay ran to meet a great stretch of absinthegreen, the green joined a fairy sky of pink and gold and saffron. Islands of coral floated on the sea of absinthe, and derelict clouds ofmother-of-pearl swung low above them, starting from nowhere and goingnowhere, but drifting beautifully, like giant soap-bubbles of light andcolor. Where the lawn touched the waters of the bay the cocoanut-palmsreached their crooked lengths far up into the sunshine, and as thesea-breeze stirred their fronds they filled the hot air with whispersand murmurs like the fluttering of many fans. Nature smiled boldly uponthe Governor, confident in her bountiful beauty, as though she said, "Surely you cannot but be pleased with me to-day. " And, as though inanswer, the critical and searching glance of Sir Charles relaxed. 

The crunching of the gravel and the rattle of the sentry's musket atsalute recalled him to his high office and to the duties of the morning. He waved his hand, and, as though it were a wand, the sentry movedagain, making his way to the kitchen-garden, and so around GovernmentHouse and back to the lawn-tennis court, maintaining in his solitarypilgrimage the dignity of her Majesty's representative, as well as herMajesty's power over the Windless Isles. 

The Governor smiled slightly, with the ease of mind of one who findsall things good. Supreme authority, surroundings of endless beauty, therespectful, even humble, deference of his inferiors, and never even anoccasional visit from a superior, had in four years lowered him into abed of ease and self-satisfaction. He was cut off from the world, andyet of it. Each month there came, via Jamaica, the three weeks' old copyof The Weekly Times; he subscribed to Mudie's Colonial Library; andfrom the States he had imported an American lawn-mower, the mechanism ofwhich no one as yet understood. Within his own borders he had createda healthy, orderly seaport out of what had been a sink of fever and arefuge for all the ne'er-do-wells and fugitive revolutionists of CentralAmerica. 

He knew, as he sat each evening on his veranda, looking across thebay, that in the world beyond the pink and gold sunset men were stillpanting, struggling, and starving; crises were rising and passing;strikes and panics, wars and the rumors of wars, swept from continent tocontinent; a plague crept through India; a filibuster with five hundredmen at his back crossed an imaginary line and stirred the world fromCape Town to London; Emperors were crowned; the good Queen celebratedthe longest reign; and a captain of artillery imprisoned in a swampyisland in the South Atlantic caused two hemispheres to clamor forhis rescue, and lit a race war that stretched from Algiers to theboulevards. 

And yet, at the Windless Isles, all these happenings seemed to SirCharles like the morning's memory of a dream. For these things nevercrossed the ring of the coral reefs; he saw them only as pictures in anillustrated paper a month old. And he was pleased to find that thiswas so. He was sufficient to himself, with his own responsibilities andsocial duties and public works. 

He was a man in authority, who said to others, "Come!" and "Go!" Underhim were commissioners, and under the commissioners district inspectorsand boards of education and of highways. For the better health of thecolony he had planted trees that sucked the malaria from the air;for its better morals he had substituted as a Sunday amusementcricket-matches for cock-fights; and to keep it at peace he had createda local constabulary of native negroes, and had dressed them in thecast-off uniforms of London policemen. His handiwork was everywhere, and his interest was all sunk in his handiwork. The days passed gorgeouswith sunshine, the nights breathed with beauty. It was an existenceof leisurely occupation, and one that promised no change, and he wascontent. 

As it was Thursday, the Council met that morning, and some questionsof moment to the colony were to be brought up for consideration. The question of the dog-tax was one which perplexed Sir Charles mostparticularly. The two Councillors elected by the people and the threeappointed by the crown had disagreed as to this tax. Of the five hundredBritish subjects at the seaport, all but ten were owners of dogs, and ithad occurred to Sassoon, the chemist, that a tax of half-a-crown ayear on each of these dogs would meet the expense of extending theoyster-shell road to the new cricket-grounds. To this Snellgrove, whoheld the contract for the narrow-gauge railroad, agreed; but the threecrown Councillors opposed the tax vigorously, on the ground that asscavengers alone the dogs were a boon to the colony and should beencouraged. The fact that each of these gentlemen owned not only one, but several dogs of high pedigree made their position one of greatdelicacy. 

There was no way by which the Governor could test the popular willin the matter, except through his secretary, Mr. Clarges, who, at thecricket-match between the local eleven and the officers and crew ofH. M. S. Partridge, had been informed by the other owners of severalfox-terriers that, in their opinion, the tax was a piece of "condemnedtommy-rot. " From this the Governor judged that it would not prove apopular measure. As he paced the veranda, drawing deliberately on hiscigar, and considering to which party he should give the weight ofhis final support, his thoughts were disturbed by the approach of astranger, who advanced along the gravel walk, guarded on either sideby one of the local constabulary. The stranger was young and of poorappearance. His bare feet were bound in a pair of the rope sandals wornby the natives, his clothing was of torn and soiled drill, and he fannedhis face nonchalantly with a sombrero of battered and shapeless felt. 

Sir Charles halted in his walk, and holding his cigar behind his back, addressed himself to the sergeant. 

"A vagrant?" he asked. 

The words seemed to bear some amusing significance to the stranger, forhis face lit instantly with a sweet and charming smile, and while heturned to hear the sergeant's reply, he regarded him with a kindly andaffectionate interest. 

"Yes, your Excellency. "

The Governor turned to the prisoner. 

"Do you know the law of this colony regarding vagrants?"

"I do not, " the young man answered. His tone was politely curious, andsuggested that he would like to be further informed as to the localpeculiarities of a foreign country. 

"After two weeks' residence, " the Governor recited, impressively, "allable-bodied persons who will not work are put to work or deported. Haveyou made any effort to find work?"

Again the young man smiled charmingly. He shook his head and laughed. "Oh dear no, " he said. 

The laugh struck the Governor as impertinent. 

"Then you must leave by the next mail-steamer, if you have any money topay your passage, or, if you have no money, you must go to work on theroads. Have you any money?"

"If I had, I wouldn't--be a vagrant, " the young man answered. His voicewas low and singularly sweet. It seemed to suit the indolence of hisattitude and the lazy, inconsequent smile. "I called on our consularagent here, " he continued, leisurely, "to write a letter home for money, but he was disgracefully drunk, so I used his official note-paper towrite to the State Department about him, instead. "

The Governor's deepest interest was aroused. The American consular agentwas one of the severest trials he was forced to endure. 

"You are not a British subject, then? Ah, I see--and--er--yourrepresentative was unable to assist you?"

"He was drunk, " the young man repeated, placidly. "He has been drunkever since I have been here, particularly in the mornings. "

He halted, as though the subject had lost interest for him, and gazedpleasantly at the sunny bay and up at the moving palms. 

"Then, " said the Governor, as though he had not been interrupted, "asyou have no means of support, you will help support the colony until youcan earn money to leave it. That will do, sergeant. "

The young man placed his hat upon his head and turned to move away, butat the first step he swayed suddenly and caught at the negro's shoulder, clasping his other hand across his eyes. The sergeant held him by thewaist, and looked up at the Governor with some embarrassment. 

"The young gentleman has not been well, Sir Charles, " he said, apologetically. 

The stranger straightened himself up and smiled vaguely. "I'm allright, " he murmured. "Sun's too hot. "

"Sit down, " said the Governor. 

He observed the stranger more closely. He noticed now that beneath thetan his face was delicate and finely cut, and that his yellow hair clungclosely to a well-formed head. 

"He seems faint. Has he had anything to eat?" asked the Governor. 

The sergeant grinned guiltily. "Yes, Sir Charles; we've been feeding himat the barracks. It's fever, sir. "

Sir Charles was not unacquainted with fallen gentlemen, "beach-combers, ""remittance men, " and vagrants who had known better days, and there hadbeen something winning in this vagrant's smile, and, moreover, he hadreported that thorn in his flesh, the consular agent, to the properauthorities. 

He conceived an interest in a young man who, though with naked feet, didnot hesitate to correspond with his Minister of Foreign Affairs. 

"How long have you been ill?" he asked. 

The young man looked up from where he had sunk on the steps, and rousedhimself with a shrug. "It doesn't matter, " he said. "I've had a touchof Chagres ever since I was on the Isthmus. I was at work there on therailroad. "

"Did you come here from Colon?"

"No; I worked up the Pacific side. I was clerking with Rossner Brothersat Amapala for a while, because I speak a little German, and then Ifooted it over to Puerto Cortez and got a job with the lottery people. They gave me twenty dollars a month gold for rolling the tickets, andI put it all in the drawing, and won as much as ten. " He laughed, andsitting erect, drew from his pocket a roll of thin green papers. "Theseare for the next drawing, " he said. "Have some?" he added. He heldthem towards the negro sergeant, who, under the eye of the Governor, resisted, and then spread the tickets on his knee like a hand at cards. "I stand to win a lot with these, " he said, with a cheerful sigh. "Yousee, until the list's published I'm prospectively worth twentythousand dollars. And, " he added, "I break stones in the sun. " He roseunsteadily, and saluted the Governor with a nod. "Good-morning, sir, " hesaid, "and thank you. "

"Wait, " Sir Charles commanded. A new form of punishment had suggesteditself, in which justice was tempered with mercy. "Can you work one ofyour American lawn-mowers?" he asked. 

The young man laughed delightedly. "I never tried, " he said, "but I'veseen it done. "

"If you've been ill, it would be murder to put you on the shellroad. " The Governor's dignity relaxed into a smile. "I don't desireinternational complications, " he said. "Sergeant, take this--him--to thekitchen, and tell Corporal Mallon to give him that American lawn-mowingmachine. Possibly he may understand its mechanism. Mallon only cutsholes in the turf with it. " And he waved his hand in dismissal, and asthe three men moved away he buried himself again in the perplexities ofthe dog-tax. 

Ten minutes later the deliberations of the Council were disturbed by aloud and persistent rattle, like the whir of a Maxim gun, which proved, on investigation, to arise from the American lawn-mower. The vagrant waspropelling it triumphantly across the lawn, and gazing down at it withthe same fond pride with which a nursemaid leans over the perambulatorto observe her lusty and gurgling charge. 

The Councillors had departed, Sir Charles was thinking of breakfast, theMaxim-like lawn-mower still irritated the silent hush of midday, whenfrom the waters of the inner harbor there came suddenly the sharp reportof a saluting gun and the rush of falling anchor-chains. There wasstill a week to pass before the mail-steamer should arrive, and H. M. S. Partridge had departed for Nassau. Besides these ships, no other vesselhad skirted the buoys of the bay in eight long smiling months. Mr. Clarges, the secretary, with an effort to appear calm, and the orderly, suffocated with the news, entered through separate doors at the sameinstant. 

The secretary filed his report first. "A yacht's just anchored in thebay, Sir Charles, " he said. 

The orderly's face fell. He looked aggrieved. "An American yacht, " hecorrected. 

"And much larger than the Partridge, " continued the secretary. 

The orderly took a hasty glance back over his shoulder. "She has herlaunch lowered already, sir, " he said. 

Outside the whir of the lawn-mower continued undisturbed. Sir Charlesreached for his marine-glass, and the three men hurried to the veranda. 

"It looks like a man-of-war, " said Sir Charles. "No, " he added, adjusting the binocular; "she's a yacht. She flies the New York YachtClub pennant--now she's showing the owner's absent pennant. He must haveleft in the launch. He's coming ashore now. "

"He seems in a bit of a hurry, " growled Mr. Clarges. 

"Those Americans always--" murmured Sir Charles from behind thebinocular. He did not quite know that he enjoyed this sudden onslaughtupon the privacy of his harbor and port. 

It was in itself annoying, and he was further annoyed to find that itcould in the least degree disturb his poise. 

The launch was growing instantly larger, like an express trainapproaching a station at full speed; her flags flew out as flat aspieces of painted tin; her bits of brass-work flashed like fire. Alreadythe ends of the wharves were white with groups of natives. 

"You might think he was going to ram the town, " suggested the secretary. 

"Oh, I say, " he exclaimed, in remonstrance, "he's making in for yourprivate wharf. "

The Governor was rearranging the focus of the glass with nervousfingers. "I believe, " he said, "no--yes--upon my word, there are--thereare ladies in that launch!"

"Ladies, sir!" The secretary threw a hasty glance at the binocular, butit was in immediate use. 

The clatter of the lawn-mower ceased suddenly, and the relief of itssilence caused the Governor to lower his eyes. He saw the lawn-mowerlying prostrate on the grass. The vagrant had vanished. 

There was a sharp tinkle of bells, and the launch slipped up to thewharf and halted as softly as a bicycle. A man in a yachting-suit jumpedfrom her, and making some laughing speech to the two women in the stern, walked briskly across the lawn, taking a letter from his pocket as hecame. Sir Charles awaited him gravely; the occupants of the launch hadseen him, and it was too late to retreat. 

"Sir Charles Greville, I believe, " said the yachtsman. He bowed, and ranlightly up the steps. "I am Mr. Robert Collier, from New York, " he said. "I have a letter to you from your ambassador at Washington. If you'llpardon me, I'll present it in person. I had meant to leave it, butseeing you--" He paused, and gave the letter in his hand to Sir Charles, who waved him towards his library. 

Sir Charles scowled at the letter through his monocle, and then shookhands with his visitor. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Collier, " hesaid. "He says here you are preparing a book on our colonies in the WestIndies. " He tapped the letter with his monocle. "I am sure I shall bemost happy to assist you with any information in my power. "

"Well, I am writing a book--yes, " Mr. Collier observed, doubtfully, "but it's a logbook. This trip I am on pleasure bent, and I also wishto consult with you on a personal matter. However, that can wait. " Heglanced out of the windows to where the launch lay in the sun. "My wifecame ashore with me, Sir Charles, " he said, "so that in case there wasa Lady Greville, Mrs. Collier could call on her, and we could ask if youwould waive etiquette and do us the honor to dine with us to-night onthe yacht--that is, if you are not engaged. "

Sir Charles smiled. "There is no Lady Greville, " he said, "and Ipersonally do not think I am engaged elsewhere. " He paused in thought, as though to make quite sure he was not. "No, " he added, "I have noother engagement. I will come with pleasure. "

Sir Charles rose and clapped his hands for the orderly. "Possibly theladies will come up to the veranda?" he asked. "I cannot allow them toremain at the end of my wharf. " He turned, and gave directions to theorderly to bring limes and bottles of soda and ice, and led the wayacross the lawn. 

Mrs. Collier and her friend had not explored the grounds of GovernmentHouse for over ten minutes before Sir Charles felt that many years agohe had personally arranged their visit, that he had known them for evena longer time, and that, now that they had finally arrived, they mustnever depart. 

To them there was apparently nothing on his domain which did not thrillwith delightful interest. They were as eager as two children at apantomime, and as unconscious. As a rule, Sir Charles had found itrather difficult to meet the women of his colony on a path which theywere capable of treading intelligently. In fairness to them, hehad always sought out some topic in which they could take an equalpart--something connected with the conduct of children, or the betterventilation of the new school-house and chapel. But these new-comers didnot require him to select topics of conversation; they did not even waitfor him to finish those which he himself introduced. They flitted fromone end of the garden to the other with the eagerness of two midshipmenon shore leave, and they found something to enjoy in what seemed tothe Governor the most commonplace of things. The Zouave uniform of thesentry, the old Spanish cannon converted into peaceful gate-posts, theaviary with its screaming paroquets, the botanical station, and even theice-machine were all objects of delight. 

On the other hand, the interior of the famous palace, which had beensent out complete from London, and which was wont to fill the wives ofthe colonials with awe or to reduce them to whispers, for some reasonfailed of its effect. But they said they "loved" the large gold V. R. 'son the back of the Councillors' chairs, and they exclaimed aloud overthe red leather despatch-boxes and the great seal of the colony, and themysterious envelopes marked "On her Majesty's service. "

"Isn't it too exciting, Florence?" demanded Mrs. Collier. "This isthe table where Sir Charles sits and writes letters' on her Majesty'sservice, ' and presses these buttons, and war-ships spring up in perfectshoals. Oh, Robert, " she sighed, "I do wish you had been a Governor!"

The young lady called Florence stood looking down into the greatarm-chair in front of the Governor's table. 

"May I?" she asked. She slid fearlessly in between the oak arms of thechair and smiled about her. Afterwards Sir Charles remembered her as sheappeared at that moment with the red leather of the chair behind her, with her gloved hands resting on the carved oak, and her head on oneside, smiling up at him. She gazed with large eyes at the blue linenenvelopes, the stiff documents in red tape, the tray of black sand, andthe goose-quill pens. 

"I am now the Countess Zika, " she announced; "no, I am Diana of theCrossways, and I mean to discover a state secret and sell it to theDaily Telegraph. Sir Charles, " she demanded, "if I press this electricbutton is war declared anywhere, or what happens?"

"That second button, " said Sir Charles, after deliberate scrutiny, "isthe one which communicates with the pantry. "

The Governor would not consider their returning to the yacht forluncheon. 

"You might decide to steam away as suddenly as you came, " he said, gallantly, "and I cannot take that chance. This is Bachelor's Hall, soyou must pardon my people if things do not go very smoothly. " He himselfled them to the great guest-chamber, where there had not been a guestfor many years, and he noticed, as though for the first time, thatthe halls through which they passed were bare, and that the floor waslittered with unpacked boxes and gun-cases. He also observed for thefirst time that maps of the colony, with the coffee-plantations andmahogany belt marked in different inks, were not perhaps so decorativeas pictures and mirrors and family portraits. And he could have wishedthat the native servants had not stared so admiringly at the guests, nor directed each other in such aggressive whispers. On those otheroccasions, when the wives of the Councillors came to the semi-annualdinners, the native servants had seemed adequate to all that wasrequired of them. He recollected with a flush that in the town thesesemi-annual dinners were described as banquets. He wondered if to thesevisitors from the outside world it was all equally provincial. 

But their enjoyment was apparently unfeigned and generous. It wasevident that they had known each other for many years, yet they receivedevery remark that any of them made as though it had been pronounced by anew and interesting acquaintance. Sir Charles found it rather difficultto keep up with the talk across the table, they changed the subjectso rapidly, and they half spoke of so many things without waiting toexplain. He could not at once grasp the fact that people who had noother position in the world save that of observers were speaking soauthoritatively of public men and public measures. He found, to hisdelight, that for the first time in several years he was not presidingat his own table, and that his guests seemed to feel no awe of him. 

"What's the use of a yacht nowadays?" Collier was saying--"what's theuse of a yacht, when you can go to sleep in a wagon-lit at the Gare duNord, and wake up at Vladivostok? And look at the time it saves; elevendays to Gib, six to Port Said, and fifteen to Colombo--there you are, only half-way around, and you're already sixteen days behind the man inthe wagon-lit. "

"But nobody wants to go to Vladivostok, " said Miss Cameron, "or anywhereelse in a wagon-lit. But with a yacht you can explore out-of-the-wayplaces, and you meet new and interesting people. We wouldn't have metSir Charles if we had waited for a wagon-lit. " She bowed her head tothe Governor, and he smiled with gratitude. He had lost Mr. Colliersomewhere in the Indian Ocean, and he was glad she had brought them backto the Windless Isles once more. 

"And again I repeat that the answer to that is, 'Why not? said the MarchHare, '" remarked Mr. Collier, determinedly. 

The answer, as an answer, did not strike Sir Charles as a very good one. But the ladies seemed to comprehend, for Miss Cameron said: "Did I tellyou about meeting him at Oxford just a few months before his death--ata children's tea-party? He was so sweet and understanding with them!Two women tried to lionize him, and he ran away and played with thechildren. I was more glad to meet him than any one I can think of. Notas a personage, you know, but because I felt grateful to him. "

"Yes, that way, distinctly, " said Mrs. Collier. "I should have felt thatway towards Mrs. Ewing more than any one else. "

"I know, 'Jackanapes, '" remarked Collier, shortly; "a brutal assaultupon the feelings, I say. "

"Some one else said it before you, Robert, " Mrs. Collier commented, calmly. "Perhaps Sir Charles met him at Apia. " They all turned andlooked at him. He wished he could say he had met him at Apia. He didnot quite see how they had made their way from a children's tea partyat Oxford to the South Pacific islands, but he was anxious to join insomewhere with a clever observation. But they never seemed to settle inone place sufficiently long for him to recollect what he knew of it. Hehoped they would get around to the west coast of Africa in time. He hadbeen Governor of Sierra Leone for five years. 

His success that night at dinner on the yacht was far better. The othersseemed a little tired after the hours of sight-seeing to which he hadtreated them, and they were content to listen. In the absence of Mr. Clarges, who knew them word by word, he felt free to tell his threestories of life at Sierra Leone. He took his time in the telling, andcould congratulate himself that his efforts had never been more keenlyappreciated. He felt that he was holding his own. 

The night was still and warm, and while the men lingered below at thetable, the two women mounted to the deck and watched the lights ofthe town as they vanished one by one and left the moon in unchallengedpossession of the harbor. For a long time Miss Cameron stood silent, looking out across the bay at the shore and the hills beyond. A fishsplashed near them, and the sound of oars rose from the mist thatfloated above the water, until they were muffled in the distance. Thepalms along the shore glistened like silver, and overhead the SouthernCross shone white against a sky of purple. The silence deepened andcontinued for so long a time that Mrs. Collier felt its significance, and waited for the girl to end it. 

Miss Cameron raised her eyes to the stars and frowned. "I am notsurprised that he is content to stay here, " she said. "Are you? It is sobeautiful, so wonderfully beautiful. "

For a moment Mrs. Collier made no answer. "Two years is a long time, Florence, " she said; "and he is all I have; he is not only my onlybrother, he is the only living soul who is related to me. That makesit harder. "

The girl seemed to find some implied reproach in the speech, for sheturned and looked at her friend closely. "Do you feel it is my fault, Alice?" she asked. 

The older woman shook her head. "How could it be your fault?" sheanswered. "If you couldn't love him enough to marry him, you couldn't, that's all. But that is no reason why he should have hidden himself fromall of us. Even if he could not stand being near you, caring as he did, he need not have treated me so. We have done all we can do, and Roberthas been more than fine about it. He and his agents have written toevery consul and business house in Central America, and I don't believethere is a city that he hasn't visited. He has sent him money andletters to every bank and to every post-office--"

The girl raised her head quickly. 

"--but he never calls for either, " Mrs. Collier continued, "for I knowthat if he had read my letters he would have come home. "

The girl lifted her head as though she were about to speak, and thenturned and walked slowly away. After a few moments she returned, andstood, with her hands resting on the rail, looking down into the water. "I wrote him two letters, " she said. In the silence of the night hervoice was unusually clear and distinct. "I--you make me wonder--if theyever reached him. "

Mrs. Collier, with her eyes fixed upon the girl, rose slowly from herchair and came towards her. She reached out her hand and touched MissCameron on the arm. 

"Florence, " she said, in a whisper, "have you--"

The girl raised her head slowly, and lowered it again. "Yes, " sheanswered; "I told him to come back--to come back to me. Alice, " shecried, "I--I begged him to come back!" She tossed her hands apart andagain walked rapidly away, leaving the older woman standing motionless. 

A moment later, when Sir Charles and Mr. Collier stepped out upon thedeck, they discovered the two women standing close together, two white, ghostly figures in the moonlight, and as they advanced towards them theysaw Mrs. Collier take the girl for an instant in her arms. 

Sir Charles was asking Miss Cameron how long she thought an immigrantshould be made to work for his freehold allotment, when Mr. Collier andhis wife rose at the same moment and departed on separate errands. Theymet most mysteriously in the shadow of the wheel-house. 

"What is it? Is anything wrong with Florence?" Collier asked, anxiously. "Not homesick, is she?"

Mrs. Collier put her hands on her husband's shoulders and shook herhead. 

"Wrong? No, thank Heaven! it's as right as right can be!" she cried. "She's written to him to come back, but he's never answered, and so--andnow it's all right. "

Mr. Collier gazed blankly at his wife's upturned face. "Well, I don'tsee that, " he remonstrated. "What's the use of her being in love withhim now when he can't be found? What? Why didn't she love him two yearsago when he was where you could get at him--at her house, for instance. He was there most of his time. She would have saved a lot of trouble. However, " he added, energetically, "this makes it absolutely necessaryto find that young man and bring him to his senses. We'll search thisplace for the next few days, and then we'll try the mainland again. Ithink I'll offer a reward for him, and have it printed in Spanish, andpaste it up in all the plazas. We might add a line in English, 'She haschanged her mind. ' That would bring him home, wouldn't it?"

"Don't be unfeeling, Robert, " said Mrs. Collier. 

Her husband raised his eyes appealingly, and addressed himself to themoon. "I ask you now, " he complained, "is that fair to a man whohas spent six months on muleback trying to round up a prodigalbrother-in-law?"

That same evening, after the ladies had gone below, Mr. Collier askedSir Charles to assist him in his search for his wife's brother, andSir Charles heartily promised his most active co-operation. There wereseveral Americans at work in the interior, he said, as overseers onthe coffee-plantations. It was possible that the runaway might be amongthem. It was only that morning, Sir Charles remembered, that an Americanhad been at work "repairing his lawn-mower, " as he consideratelyexpressed it. He would send for him on the morrow. 

But on the morrow the slave of the lawn-mower was reported on the listof prisoners as "missing, " and Corporal Mallon was grieved, but refusedto consider himself responsible. Sir Charles himself had allowed thevagrant unusual freedom, and the vagrant had taken advantage of it, andprobably escaped to the hills, or up the river to the logwood camp. 

"Telegraph a description of him to Inspector Garrett, " Sir Charlesdirected, "and to the heads of all up stations. And when he returns, bring him to me. "

So great was his zeal that Sir Charles further offered to join Mr. Collier in his search among the outlying plantations; but Mr. Collierpreferred to work alone. He accordingly set out at once, armed withletters to the different district inspectors, and in his absencedelegated to Sir Charles the pleasant duty of caring for the wants ofMiss Cameron and his wife. Sir Charles regarded the latter as deservingof all sympathy, for Mr. Collier, in his efforts to conceal the factfrom the Governor that Florence Cameron was responsible, or in anyway concerned, in the disappearance of the missing man, had been toomysterious. Sir Charles was convinced that the fugitive had swindled hisbrother-in-law and stolen his sister's jewels. 

The days which followed were to the Governor days and nights of strangediscoveries. He recognized that the missionaries from the great outsideworld had invaded his shores and disturbed his gods and temples. Theirreligion of progress and activity filled him with doubt and unrest. 

"In this century, " Mr. Collier had declared, "nothing can stand still. It's the same with a corporation, or a country, or a man. We must eithermarch ahead or fall out. We can't mark time. What?"

"Exactly--certainly not, " Sir Charles had answered. But in his hearthe knew that he himself had been marking time under these soft tropicalskies while the world was pushing forward. The thought had not disturbedhim before. Now he felt guilty. He conceived a sudden intolerance, ifnot contempt, for the little village of whitewashed houses, for therafts of mahogany and of logwood that bumped against the pier-heads, forthe sacks of coffee piled high like barricades under the corrugated zincsheds along the wharf. Each season it had been his pride to note theincrease in these exports. The development of the resources of hiscolony had been a work in which he had felt that the Colonial Secretarytook an immediate interest. He had believed that he was one of theimportant wheels of the machinery which moved the British Empire: andnow, in a day, he was undeceived. It was forced upon him that to theeyes of the outside world he was only a greengrocer operating on a largescale; he provided the British public with coffee for its breakfast, with drugs for its stomach, and with strange woods for itsdining-room furniture and walking-sticks. He combated this ignominiouscharacterization of his position indignantly. The new arrivals certainlygave him no hint that they considered him so lightly. This thoughtgreatly comforted him, for he felt that in some way he was summoningto his aid all of his assets and resources to meet an expert and finalvaluation. As he ranged them before him he was disturbed and happy tofind that the value he placed upon them was the value they would havein the eyes of a young girl--not a girl of the shy, mother-obeying, man-worshipping English type, but a girl such as Miss Cameron seemed tobe, a girl who could understand what you were trying to say before yousaid it, who could take an interest in rates of exchange and presideat a dinner table, who was charmingly feminine and clever, and who wasrespectful of herself and of others. In fact, he decided, with a flush, that Miss Cameron herself was the young girl he had in his mind. 

"Why not?" he asked. 

The question came to him in his room, the sixth night of their visit, and he strode over to the long pier-glass and stood studying himselfcritically for the first time in years. He was still a fine-looking, well-kept man. His hair was thin, but that fact did not show; and hiswaist was lost, but riding and tennis would set that right. He had meansoutside of his official salary, and there was the title, such as it was. Lady Greville the wife of the birthday knight sounded as well as LadyGreville the marchioness. And Americans cared for these things. Hedoubted whether this particular American would do so, but he was addingup all he had to offer, and that was one of the assets. He was sureshe would not be content to remain mistress of the Windless Isles. Nor, indeed, did he longer care to be master there, now that he had inhaledthis quick, stirring breath from the outer world. He would resign, andreturn and mix with the world again. He would enter Parliament; a manso well acquainted as himself with the Gold Coast of Africa and withthe trade of the West Indies must always be of value in the Lower House. This value would be recognized, no doubt, and he would become atfirst an Under-Secretary for the Colonies, and then, in time, ColonialSecretary and a cabinet minister. She would like that, he thought. Andafter that place had been reached, all things were possible. For yearshe had not dreamed such dreams--not since he had been a clerk in theForeign Office. They seemed just as possible now as they had seemed realthen, and just as near. He felt it was all absolutely in his own hands. 

He descended to the dining-room with the air of a man who already feltthe cares of high responsibility upon his shoulders. His head was erectand his chest thrown forward. He was ten years younger; his manner wasalert, assured, and gracious. As he passed through the halls he wasimpatient of the familiar settings of Government House; they seemedto him like the furnishings of a hotel where he had paid his bill, andwhere his luggage was lying strapped for departure in the hallway. 

In his library he saw on his table a number of papers lying open waitingfor his signature, the dog-tax among the others. He smiled to rememberhow important it had seemed to him in the past--in that past ofindolence and easy content. Now he was on fire to put this rekindledambition to work, to tell the woman who had lighted it that it was allfrom her and for her, that without her he had existed, that now he hadbegun to live. 

They had never found him so delighful{sic} as he appeared that night. He was like a man on the eve of a holiday. He made a jest of his pastefforts; he made them see, as he now saw it for the first time, thatside of the life of the Windless Isles which was narrow and petty, even ridiculous. He talked of big men in a big way; he criticised, andexpounded, and advanced his own theories of government and the propercontrol of an empire. 

Collier, who had returned from his unsuccessful search of theplantations, shook his head. 

"It's a pity you are not in London now, " he said, sincerely. "They needsome one there who has been on the spot. They can't direct the coloniesfrom what they know of them in Whitehall. "

Sir Charles fingered the dinner cloth nervously, and when he spoke, fixed his eyes anxiously upon Miss Cameron. 

"Do you know, " he said, "I have been thinking of doing that very thing, of resigning my post here and going back, entering Parliament, and allthe rest of it. "

His declaration met with a unanimous chorus of delight. Miss Cameronnodded her head with eager approval. 

"Yes, if I were a man, that is where I should wish to be, " she said, "atthe heart of it. Why, whatever you say in the House of Commons is heardall over the world the next morning. "

Sir Charles felt the blood tingle in his pulses. He had not been sostirred in years. Her words ran to his head like wine. 

Mr. Collier raised his glass. 

"Here's to our next meeting, " he said, "on the terrace of the House ofCommons. "

But Miss Cameron interrupted. "No; to the Colonial Secretary, " sheamended. 

"Oh yes, " they assented, rising, and so drank his health, smiling downupon him with kind, friendly glances and good-will. 

"To the Colonial Secretary, " they said. Sir Charles clasped the armsof his chair tightly with his hands; his eyes were half closed, and hislips pressed into a grim, confident smile. He felt that a single wordfrom her would make all that they suggested possible. If she cared forsuch things, they were hers; he had them to give; they were ready lyingat her feet. He knew that the power had always been with him, lyingdormant in his heart and brain. It had only waited for the touch of thePrincess to wake it into life. 

The American visitors were to sail for the mainland the next day, but hehad come to know them so well in the brief period of their visit that hefelt he dared speak to her that same night. At least he could giveher some word that would keep him in her mind until they met again inLondon, or until she had considered her answer. He could not expect herto answer at once. She could take much time. What else had he to do nowbut to wait for her answer? It was now all that made life. 

Collier and his wife had left the veranda and had crossed the lawntowards the water's edge. The moonlight fell full upon them with all thesplendor of the tropics, and lit the night with a brilliant, dazzlingradiance. From where Miss Cameron sat on the veranda in the shadow, SirCharles could see only the white outline of her figure and the indolentmovement of her fan. Collier had left his wife and was returning slowlytowards the step. Sir Charles felt that if he meant to speak he mustspeak now, and quickly. He rose and placed himself beside her in theshadow, and the girl turned her head inquiringly and looked up at him. 

But on the instant the hush of the night was broken by a sharpchallenge, and the sound of men's voices raised in anger; there was thenoise of a struggle on the gravel, and from the corner of the house thetwo sentries came running, dragging between them a slight figure thatfought and wrestled to be free. 

Sir Charles exclaimed with indignant impatience, and turning, strodequickly to the head of the steps. 

"What does this mean?" he demanded. "What are you doing with that man?Why did you bring him here?"

As the soldiers straightened to attention, their prisoner ceased tostruggle, and stood with his head bent on his chest. His sombrero waspulled down low across his forehead. 

"He was crawling through the bushes, Sir Charles, " the soldier panted, "watching that gentleman, sir, "--he nodded over his shoulder towardsCollier. "I challenged, and he jumped to run, and we collared him. Heresisted, Sir Charles. "

The mind of the Governor was concerned with other matters thantrespassers. 

"Well, take him to the barracks, then, " he said. "Report to me in themorning. That will do. "

The prisoner wheeled eagerly, without further show of resistance, andthe soldiers closed in on him on either side. But as the three men movedaway together, their faces, which had been in shadow, were now turnedtowards Mr. Collier, who was advancing leisurely, and with silentfootsteps, across the grass. He met them face to face, and as he did sothe prisoner sprang back and threw out his arms in front of him, withthe gesture of a man who entreats silence. Mr. Collier halted as thoughstruck to stone, and the two men confronted each other without moving. 

"Good God!" Mr. Collier whispered. 

He turned stiffly and slowly, as though in a trance, and beckoned to hiswife, who had followed him. 

"Alice!" he called. He stepped backwards towards her, and taking herhand in one of his, drew her towards the prisoner. "Here he is!" hesaid. 

They heard her cry "Henry!" with the fierceness of a call for help, and saw her rush forward and stumble into the arms of the prisoner, andtheir two heads were bent close together. 

Collier ran up the steps and explained breathlessly. 

"And now, " he gasped, in conclusion, "what's to be done? What's hearrested for? Is it bailable? What?"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Sir Charles, miserably. "It is my faultentirely. I assure you I had no idea. How could I? But I should haveknown, I should have guessed it. " He dismissed the sentries with agesture. "That will do, " he said. "Return to your posts. "

Mr. Collier laughed with relief. 

"Then it is not serious?" he asked. 

"He--he had no money, that was all, " exclaimed Sir Charles. "Serious?Certainly not. Upon my word, I'm sorry--"

The young man had released himself from his sister's embrace, and wascoming towards them; and Sir Charles, eager to redeem himself, advancedhurriedly to greet him. But the young man did not see him; he waslooking past him up the steps to where Miss Cameron stood in the shadow. 

Sir Charles hesitated and drew back. The young man stopped at the footof the steps, and stood with his head raised, staring up at the whitefigure of the girl, who came slowly forward. 

It was forced upon Sir Charles that in spite of the fact that the youngman before them had but just then been rescued from arrest, that inspite of his mean garments and ragged sandals, something about him--theglamour that surrounds the prodigal, or possibly the moonlight--gave himan air of great dignity and distinction. 

As Miss Cameron descended the stairs, Sir Charles recognized for thefirst time that the young man was remarkably handsome, and he resentedit. It hurt him, as did also the prodigal's youth and his assuredbearing. He felt a sudden sinking fear, a weakening of all his vitalforces, and he drew in his breath slowly and deeply. But no one noticedhim; they were looking at the tall figure of the prodigal, standing withhis hat at his hip and his head thrown back, holding the girl with hiseyes. 

Collier touched Sir Charles on the arm, and nodded his head towards thelibrary. "Come, " he whispered, "let us old people leave them together. They've a good deal to say. " Sir Charles obeyed in silence, and crossingthe library to the great oak chair, seated himself and leaned wearilyon the table before him. He picked up one of the goose quills and beganseparating it into little pieces. Mr. Collier was pacing up and down, biting excitedly on the end of his cigar. "Well, this has certainly beena great night, " he said. "And it is all due to you, Sir Charles--all dueto you. Yes, they have you to thank for it. "

"They?" said Sir Charles. He knew that it had to come. He wanted the manto strike quickly. 

"They? Yes--Florence Cameron and Henry, " Mr. Collier answered. "Henrywent away because she wouldn't marry him. She didn't care for him then, but afterwards she cared. Now they're reunited, --and so they're happy;and my wife is more than happy, and I won't have to bother any more; andit's all right, and all through you. "

"I am glad, " said Sir Charles. There was a long pause, which the men, each deep in his own thoughts, did not notice. 

"You will be leaving now, I suppose?" Sir Charles asked. He was lookingdown, examining the broken pen in his hand. 

Mr. Collier stopped in his walk and considered. "Yes, I suppose theywill want to get back, " he said. "I shall be sorry myself. And you? Whatwill you do?"

Sir Charles started slightly. He had not yet thought what he would do. His eyes wandered over the neglected work, which had accumulated on thedesk before him. Only an hour before he had thought of it as petty andlittle, as something unworthy of his energy. Since that time what changehad taken place in him?

For him everything had changed, he answered, but in him there had beenno change; and if this thing which the girl had brought into his lifehad meant the best in life, it must always mean that. She had been aninspiration; she must remain his spring of action. Was he a slave, heasked himself, that he should rebel? Was he a boy, that he could turnhis love to aught but the best account? He must remember her not as thewoman who had crushed his spirit, but as she who had helped him, who hadlifted him up to something better and finer. He would make sacrifice inher name; it would be in her name that he would rise to high places andaccomplish much good. 

She would not know this, but he would know. 

He rose and brushed the papers away from him with an impatient sweep ofthe hand. 

"I shall follow out the plan of which I spoke at dinner, " he answered. "I shall resign here, and return home and enter Parliament. "

Mr. Collier laughed admiringly. "I love the way you English take yourshare of public life, " he said, "the way you spend yourselves for yourcountry, and give your brains, your lives, everything you have--all forthe empire. "

Through the open window Sir Charles saw Miss Cameron half hidden by thevines of the veranda. The moonlight falling about her transformed herinto a figure which was ideal, mysterious, and elusive, like a woman ina dream. He shook his head wearily. 

"For the empire?" he asked. 

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

A SKETCH CONTAINING THREE POINTS OF VIEW

What the Poet Laureate wrote. 

 "There are girls in the Gold Reef City There are mothers and children too! And they cry 'Hurry up for pity!' So what can a brave man do?

 "I suppose we were wrong, were mad men, Still I think at the Judgment Day, When God sifts the good from the bad men, There'll be something more to say. "

What more the Lord Chief Justice found to say. 

"In this case we know the immediate consequence of your crime. It hasbeen the loss of human life, it has been the disturbance of publicpeace, it has been the creation of a certain sense of distrust of publicprofessions and of public faith.... The sentence of this Court thereforeis that, as to you, Leander Starr Jameson, you be confined for a periodof fifteen months without hard labor; that you, Sir John Willoughby, have ten months' imprisonment; and that you, etc. , etc. "

London Times, July 29th. 

What the Hon. "Reggie" Blake thought about it. 

"H. M. HOLLOWAY PRISON, "July 28th. 

"I am going to keep a diary while I am in prison, that is, if they willlet me. I never kept one before because I hadn't the time; when I washome on leave there was too much going on to bother about it, and whenI was up country I always came back after a day's riding so tired that Iwas too sleepy to write anything. And now that I have the time, I won'thave anything to write about. I fancy that more things happened to metoday than are likely to happen again for the next eight months, so Iwill make this day take up as much room in the diary as it can. I amwriting this on the back of the paper the Warder uses for his officialreports, while he is hunting up cells to put us in. We came down on himrather unexpectedly and he is nervous. 

"Of course, I had prepared myself for this after a fashion, but now Isee that somehow I never really did think I would be in here, and allmy friends outside, and everything going on just the same as though Iwasn't alive somewhere. It's like telling yourself that your horse can'tpossibly pull off a race, so that you won't mind so much if he doesn't, but you always feel just as bad when he comes in a loser. A man can'tfool himself into thinking one way when he is hoping the other. 

"But I am glad it is over, and settled. It was a great bore not knowingyour luck and having the thing hanging over your head every morningwhen you woke up. Indeed it was quite a relief when the counsel got allthrough arguing over those proclamations, and the Chief Justice summedup, but I nearly went to sleep when I found he was going all over itagain to the jury. I didn't understand about those proclamations myselfand I'll lay a fiver the jury didn't either. The Colonel said he didn't. I couldn't keep my mind on what Russell was explaining about, and Igot to thinking how much old Justice Hawkins looked like the counsel in'Alice in Wonderland' when they tried the knave of spades for stealingthe tarts. He had just the same sort of a beak and the same sort of awig, and I wondered why he had his wig powdered and the others didn't. Pollock's wig had a hole in the top; you could see it when he bent overto take notes. He was always taking notes. I don't believe he understoodabout those proclamations either; he never seemed to listen, anyway. 

"The Chief Justice certainly didn't love us very much, that's sure; andhe wasn't going to let anybody else love us either. I felt quite theChristian Martyr when Sir Edward was speaking in defence. He made itsound as though we were all a lot of Adelphi heroes and ought to bepromoted and have medals, but when Lord Russell started in to read theRiot Act at us I began to believe that hanging was too good for me. I'msure I never knew I was disturbing the peace of nations; it seems likesuch a large order for a subaltern. 

"But the worst was when they made us stand up before all those people tobe sentenced. I must say I felt shaky about the knees then, not becauseI was afraid of what was coming, but because it was the first time Ihad ever been pointed out before people, and made to feel ashamed. Andhaving those girls there, too, looking at one. That wasn't just fair tous. It made me feel about ten years old, and I remembered how the HeadMaster used to call me to his desk and say, 'Blake Senior, two pages ofHorace and keep in bounds for a week. ' And then I heard our names andthe months, and my name and 'eight months' imprisonment, ' and there wasa bustle and murmur and the tipstaves cried, 'Order in the Court, ' andthe Judges stood up and shook out their big red skirts as though theywere shaking off the contamination of our presence and rustled away, and I sat down, wondering how long eight months was, and wishing they'dgiven me as much as they gave Jameson. 

"They put us in a room together then, and our counsel said how sorrythey were, and shook hands, and went off to dinner and left us. Ithought they might have waited with us and been a little late for dinnerjust that once; but no one waited except a lot of costers outside whomwe did not know. It was eight o'clock and still quite light when we cameout, and there was a line of four-wheelers and a hansom ready for us. I'd been hoping they would take us out by the Strand entrance, justbecause I'd like to have seen it again, but they marched us insteadthrough the main quadrangle--a beastly, gloomy courtyard that echoed, and out, into Carey Street--such a dirty, gloomy street. The costers andclerks set up a sort of a cheer when we came out, and one of them cried, 'God bless you, sir, ' to the doctor, but I was sorry they cheered. Itseemed like kicking against the umpire's decision. The Colonel and I gotinto a hansom together and we trotted off into Chancery Lane and turnedinto Holborn. Most of the shops were closed, and the streets lookedempty, but there was a lighted clock-face over Mooney's public-house, and the hands stood at a quarter past eight. I didn't know whereHolloway was, and was hoping they would have to take us through somedecent streets to reach it; but we didn't see a part of the city thatmeant anything to me, or that I would choose to travel through again. 

"Neither of us talked, and I imagined that the people in the streetsknew we were going to prison, and I kept my eyes on the enamel card onthe back of the apron. I suppose I read, 'Two-wheeled hackney carriage:if hired and discharged within the four-mile limit, 1s. ' at least ahundred times. I got more sensible after a bit, and when we had turnedinto Gray's Inn Road I looked up and saw a tram in front of us with'Holloway Road and King's X, ' painted on the steps, and the Colonel sawit about the same time I fancy, for we each looked at the other, and theColonel raised his eyebrows. It showed us that at least the cabman knewwhere we were going. 

"'They might have taken us for a turn through the West End first, Ithink, ' the Colonel said. 'I'd like to have had a look around, wouldn'tyou? This isn't a cheerful neighborhood, is it?'

"There were a lot of children playing in St. Andrew's Gardens, and acrowd of them ran out just as we passed, shrieking and laughing overnothing, the way kiddies do, and that was about the only pleasant sightin the ride. I had quite a turn when we came to the New Hospital justbeyond, for I thought it was Holloway, and it came over me what eightmonths in such a place meant. I believe if I hadn't pulled myself upsharp, I'd have jumped out into the street and run away. It didn't lastmore than a few seconds, but I don't want any more like them. I wasafraid, afraid--there's no use pretending it was anything else. I was ina dumb, silly funk, and I turned sick inside and shook, as I have seena horse shake when he shies at nothing and sweats and trembles down hissides. 

"During those few seconds it seemed to be more than I could stand; Ifelt sure that I couldn't do it--that I'd go mad if they tried to forceme. The idea was so terrible--of not being master over your own legs andarms, to have your flesh and blood and what brains God gave you buriedalive in stone walls as though they were in a safe with a time-lock onthe door set for eight months ahead. There's nothing to be afraid of ina stone wall really, but it's the idea of the thing--of not being freeto move about, especially to a chap that has always lived in the open asI have, and has had men under him. It was no wonder I was in a funk fora minute. I'll bet a fiver the others were, too, if they'll only own upto it. I don't mean for long, but just when the idea first laid hold ofthem. Anyway, it was a good lesson to me, and if I catch myself thinkingof it again I'll whistle, or talk to myself out loud and think ofsomething cheerful. And I don't mean to be one of those chaps who spendshis time in jail counting the stones in his cell, or training spiders, or measuring how many of his steps make a mile, for madness lies thatway. I mean to sit tight and think of all the good times I've had, andgo over them in my mind very slowly, so as to make them last longer andremember who was there and what we said, and the jokes and all that;I'll go over house-parties I have been on, and the times I've had in theRiviera, and scouting parties Dr. Jim led up country when we were takingMatabele Land. 

"They say that if you're good here they give you things to read after amonth or two, and then I can read up all those instructive books that afellow never does read until he's laid up in bed. 

"But that's crowding ahead a bit; I must keep to what happened to-day. We struck York Road at the back of the Great Western Terminus, and Ihalf hoped we might see some chap we knew coming or going away: I wouldlike to have waved my hand to him. It would have been fun to have seenhis surprise the next morning when he read in the paper that he hadbeen bowing to jail-birds, and then I would like to have cheated thetipstaves out of just one more friendly good-by. I wanted to say good-byto somebody, but I really couldn't feel sorry to see the last of anyone of those we passed in the streets--they were such a dirty, unhappy-looking lot, and the railroad wall ran on forever apparently, and we might have been in a foreign country for all we knew of it. Therewere just sooty gray brick tenements and gas-works on one side, andthe railroad cutting on the other, and semaphores and telegraph wiresoverhead, and smoke and grime everywhere, it looked exactly like thesort of street that should lead to a prison, and it seemed a pity totake a smart hansom and a good cob into it. 

"It was just a bit different from our last ride together--when we rodethrough the night from Krugers-Dorp with hundreds of horses' hoofspounding on the soft veldt behind us, and the carbines clanking againstthe stirrups as they swung on the sling belts. We were being huntedthen, harassed on either side, scurrying for our lives like the DerbyDog in a race-track when every one hoots him and no man steps out tohelp--we were sick for sleep, sick for food, lashed by the rain, and weknew that we were beaten; but we were free still, and under open skieswith the derricks of the Rand rising like gallows on our left, andJohannesburg only fifteen miles away. "