THE ART OF DISAPPEARING

 _By_ John Talbot Smith

 _AUTHOR:_

 "SARANAC" "HIS HONOR THE MAYOR, " "A WOMAN OF CULTURE, " "SOLITARY ISLAND, " "TRAINING OF A PRIEST, " ETC. , ETC. 

 NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: BENZIGER BROTHERS PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE. 

 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY JOHN TALBOT SMITH

 _All Rights Reserved_

CONTENTS. 

 DISAPPEARANCE. 

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. The Holy Oils 1

 II. The Night at the Tavern 7

 III. The Abysses of Pain 16

 IV. The Road to Nothingness 25

 V. The Door is Closed 33

 AMONG THE EXILES. 

 VI. Another Man's Shoes 40

 VII. The Dillon Clan 55

 VIII. The Wearin' o' the Green 68

 IX. The Villa at Coney Island 77

 X. The Humors of Election 87

 XI. An Endicott Heir 100

 THE GREEN AGAINST THE RED. 

 XII. The Hate of Hannibal 107

 XIII. Anne Dillon's Felicity 119

 XIV. Aboard the "Arrow" 128

 XV. The Invasion of Ireland 137

 XVI. Castle Moyna 147

 XVII. The Ambassador 158

 AN ESCAPED NUN. 

 XVIII. Judy Visits the Pope 170

 XIX. La Belle Colette 177

 XX. The Escaped Nun 190

 XXI. An Anxious Night 199

 XXII. The End of a Melodrama 208

 XXIII. The First Blow 218

 XXIV. Anne Makes History 227

 XXV. The Cathedral 236

 XXVI. The Fall of Livingstone 248

 THE TEST OF DISAPPEARANCE. 

 XXVII. A Problem of Disappearance 258

 XXVIII. A First Test 266

 XXIX. The Nerve of Anne 274

 XXX. Under the Eyes of Hate 283

 XXXI. The Heart of Honora 296

 XXXII. The Pauline Privilege 304

 XXXIII. Love is Blind 312

 XXXIV. A Harpy at the Feast 320

 XXXV. Sonia Consults Livingstone 327

 XXXVI. Arthur's Appeal 335

 XXXVII. The End of Mischief 344

XXXVIII. A Tale Well Told 351

 XXXIX. Three Scenes 360

DISAPPEARANCE. 

THE ART OF DISAPPEARING. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE HOLY OILS. 

Horace Endicott once believed that life began for him the day he marriedSonia Westfield. The ten months spent with the young wife were of a hueso roseate as to render discussion of the point foolish. His youth hadbeen a happy one, of the roystering, innocent kind: noisy with yachting, baseball, and a moderate quantity of college beer, but clean, as if hismother had supervised it; yet he had never really lived in histwenty-five years, until the blessed experience of a long honeymoon anda little housekeeping with Sonia had woven into his life the light ofsun and moon and stars together. However, as he admitted longafterwards, his mistake was as terrible as convincing. Life began forhim that day he sat in the railway carriage across the aisle fromdistinguished Monsignor O'Donnell, prelate of the Pope's household, doctor in theology, and vicar-general of the New York diocese. The trainbeing on its way to Boston, and the journey dull, Horace whiled away aslow hour watching the Monsignor, and wondering what motives govern theactivity of the priests of Rome. The priest was a handsome man of fifty, dark-haired, of an ascetic pallor, but undoubtedly practical, as hisquick and business-like movements testified. His dark eyes were of finecolor and expression, and his manners showed the gentleman. 

"Some years ago, " thought Horace, "I would have studied his person forindications of hoofs and horns--so strangely was I brought up. He isjust a poor fellow like myself--it is as great a mistake to make thesemen demi-gods as to make them demi-devils--and he denies himself a wifeas a Prohibitionist denies himself a drink. He goes through hismummeries as honestly as a parson through his sermons or a dervishthrough his dances--it's all one, and we must allow for it in themake-up of human nature. One man has his parson, another his priest, athird his dervish--and I have Sonia. "

This satisfactory conclusion he dwelt upon lovingly, unconscious thatthe Monsignor was now observing him in turn. 

"A fine boy, " the priest thought, "with _man_ written all over him. Honest face, virtuous expression, daring too, loving-hearted, lovable, clever, I'm sure, and his life has been too easy to develop any markedcharacter. Too young to have been in the war, but you may be sure hewanted to go, and his mother had to exercise her authority to keep himat home. He has been enjoying me for an hour.... I'm as pleasant as apuzzle to him ... He preferred to read me rather than Dickens, and Igather from his expression that he has solved me. By this time I amrated in his mind as an impostor. Oh, the children of the Mayflower, howhard for them to see anything in life except through the portholes ofthat ship. "

With a sigh the priest returned to his book, and the two gentlemen, having had their fill of speculation, forgot each other directly andforever. At this point the accident occurred. The slow train ran into atrain ahead, which should have been farther on at that moment. All thepassengers rose up suddenly, without any ceremony, quite speechless, andflew up the car like sparrows. Then the car turned on its left side, andHorace rolled into the outstretched arms and elevated legs of MonsignorO'Donnell. He was kicked and embraced at the same moment, receivingthese attentions in speechless awe, as he could not recall who was toblame for the introduction and the attitude. For a moment he reasonedthat they had become the object of most outrageous ridicule from theother passengers; for these latter had suddenly set up a shouting andscreeching very scandalous. Horace wondered if the priest would help himto resent this storm of insult, and he raised himself off theMonsignor's face, and removed the rest of his person from theMonsignor's body, in order the more politely to invite him to thebattle. Then he discovered the state of things in general. Theoverthrown car was at a stand-still. That no one was hurt seemed happilyclear from the vigorous yells of everybody, and the fine scramblethrough the car-windows. The priest got up leisurely and felt himself. Next he seized his satchel eagerly. 

"Now it was more than an accident that I brought the holy oils along, "said he to Horace. "I was vexed to find them where they shouldn't be, yet see how soon I find use for them. Someone must be badly hurt in thisdisaster, and of course it'll be one of my own. "

"I hope, " said the other politely, "that I did you no harm in falling onyou. I could not very well help it. "

"Fortune was kinder to you than if the train rolled over the other way. Don't mention it, my son. I'll forgive you, if you will find me the wayout, and learn if any have been injured. "

The window was too small for a man of the Monsignor's girth, but throughthe rear door the two crawled out comfortably, Monsignor dragging thesatchel and murmuring cheerfully: "How lucky! the holy oils!" It wasjust sundown, and the wrecked train lay in a meadow, with a prettystream running by, whose placid ripplings mocked the tumult of themortals examining their injuries in the field. Yet no one had beenseriously injured. Bruises and cuts were plentiful, some fainted fromshock, but each was able to do for himself, not so much as a bone havingbeen broken. For a few minutes the Monsignor rejoiced that he would haveno use for what he called the holy oils. Then a trainman came running, white and broken-tongued, crying out: "There was a priest on thetrain--who has seen him?" It turned out that the fireman had been caughtin the wrecked locomotive, and crushed to death. 

"And it's a priest he's cryin' for, sir, " groaned the trainman, as hecame up to the Monsignor. The dying man lay in the shade of some treesbeside the stream, and a lovely woman had his head in her lap, and weptsilently while the poor boy gasped every now and then "mother" and "thepriest. " She wiped the death-dew from his face, from which the soot hadbeen washed with water from the stream, and moistened his lips with acordial. He was a youth, of the kind that should not die too early, sovigorous was his young body, so manly and true his dear face; but it wasonly a matter of ten minutes stay beside the little stream for TimHurley. The group about him made way for Monsignor, who sank on hisknees beside him, and held up the boy's face to the fading light. 

"The priest is here, Tim, " he said gently, and Endicott saw the recedinglife rush back with joy into the agonized features. With something likea laugh he raised his inert hands, and seized the hands of the priest, which he covered with kisses. 

"I shall die happy, thanks be to God, " he said weakly; "and, father, don't forget to tell my mother. It's her last consolation, poor dear. "

"And I have the holy oils, Tim, " said Monsignor softly. 

Another rush of light to the darkening face!

"Tell her that, too, father dear, " said Tim. 

"With my own lips, " answered Monsignor. 

The bystanders moved away a little distance, and the lady resigned herplace, while Tim made his last confession. Endicott stood and wonderedat the sight; the priest holding the boy's head with his left arm, closeto his bosom and Tim grasping lovingly the hand of his friend, while hewhispered in little gasps his sins and his repentance; briefly, for timewas pressing. Then Monsignor called Horace and bade him support thelad's head; and also the lovely lady and gave her directions "for hismother's sake. " She was woman and mother both, no doubt, by the way sheserved another woman's son in his fatal distress. The men brought herwater from the stream. With her own hands she bared his feet, bathed andwiped them, washed his hands, and cried tenderly all the time. Horaceshuddered as he dried the boy's sweating forehead, and felt the chill ofthat death which had never yet come near him. He saw now what the priestmeant by the holy oils. Out of his satchel Monsignor took a goldencylinder, unscrewed the top, dipped his thumb in what appeared to be anoily substance, and applied it to Tim's eyes, to his ears, his nose, hismouth, the palms of his hands, and the soles of his feet, distinctlyrepeating certain Latin invocations as he worked. Then he read for sometime from a little book, and finished by wiping his fingers in cottonand returning all to the satchel again. There was a look of supremesatisfaction on his face. 

"You are all right now, Tim, " he said cheerfully. 

"All right, father, " repeated the lad faintly, "and don't forget to tellmother everything, and say I died happy, praising God, and that shewon't be long after me. And let Harry Cutler"--the engineer came forwardand knelt by his side--"tell her everything. She knew how he liked meand a word from him was more----"

His voice faded away. 

"I'll tell her, " murmured the engineer brokenly, and slipped away inunbearable distress. The priest looked closer into Tim's face. 

"He's going fast, " he said, "and I'll ask you all to kneel and say amento the last prayers for the boy. "

The crowd knelt by the stream in profound silence, and the voice of thepriest rose like splendid music, touching, sad, yet to Horaceunutterably pathetic and grand. 

"Go forth, O Christian soul, " the Monsignor read, "in the name of Godthe Father Almighty, who created thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, Sonof the living God, who suffered for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who was poured forth upon thee; in the name of the Angels andArchangels; in the name of the Thrones and Dominations; in the name ofthe Principalities and Powers; in the name of the Cherubim and Seraphim;in the name of the Patriarchs and Prophets; in the name of the holyApostles and Evangelists; in the name of the holy Martyrs andConfessors; in the name of the holy Monks and Hermits; in the name ofthe holy Virgins and of all the Saints of God; may thy place be this dayin peace, and thy abode in holy Sion. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. "

Then came a pause and the heavy sigh of the dying one shook all hearts. Endicott did not dare to look down at the mournful face of the fireman, for a terror of death had come upon him, that he should be holding thehead of one condemned to the last penalty of nature; at the same momenthe could not help thinking that a king might not have been more noblysent forth on his journey to judgment than humble Tim Hurley. Monsignortook another look at the lad's face, then closed his book, and took offthe purple ribbon which had hung about his neck. 

"It's over. The man's dead, " he announced to the silent crowd. There wasa general stir, and a movement to get a closer look at the quiet bodylying on the grass. Endicott laid the head down and rose to his feet. The woman who had ministered to the dying so sweetly tied up his chinand covered his face, murmuring with tears, "His poor mother. "

"Ah, there is the heart to be pitied, " sighed the Monsignor. "This heartaches no more, but the mother's will ache and not die for many a yearperhaps. "

Endicott heard his voice break, and looking saw that the tears werefalling from his eyes, he wiping them away in the same matter-of-factfashion which had marked his ministrations to the unfortunate fireman. 

"Death is terrible only to those who love, " he added, and the words senta pang into the heart of Horace. It had never occurred to him that deathwas love's most dreaded enemy, --that Sonia might die while love wasyoung. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE NIGHT AT THE TAVERN. 

The travelers of the wrecked train spent the night at the nearestvillage, whither all went on foot before darkness came on. Monsignortook possession of Horace, also of the affections of the tavern-keeper, and of the best things which belonged to that yokel and his hostelry. Itwas prosperity in the midst of disaster that he and Endicott should havea room on the first floor, and find themselves comfortable in tenminutes after their arrival. By the time they had enjoyed a refreshingmeal, and discussed the accident to the roots, Horace Endicott felt thathis soul was at ease with the Monsignor, who at no time had displayedany other feeling than might arise from a long acquaintance with theyoung man. One would have pronounced the two men, as they settled downinto the comfort of their room, two collegians who had traveled muchtogether. 

"It was an excellent thing that I brought the holy oils along, "Monsignor said, as if Endicott had no other interest in life than thisparticular form of excellence. To a polite inquiry he explained thehistory, nature, and use of the mysterious oils. 

"I can understand how a ceremony of that kind would soothe the lasthours of Tim Hurley, " said the pagan Endicott, "but I am curious, if youwill pardon me, to know if the holy oils would have a similar effect onMonsignor O'Donnell. "

"The same old supposition, " chuckled the priest, "that there is one lawfor the crowd, the mob, the diggers, and another for the illuminati. Now, let me tell you, Mr. Endicott, that with all his faith Tim Hurleycould not have welcomed priest and oils more than I shall when I needthem. The anguish of death is very bitter, which you are too young toknow, and it is a blessed thing to have a sovereign ready for thatanguish in the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. The Holy Oils are the thingwhich Macbeth desired when he demanded so bitterly of the physician. 

 Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow?

That is my conviction. So if you are near when I am going to judgment, come in and see how emphatically I shall demand the holy oils, evenbefore a priest be willing to bring them. "

"It seems strange, " Horace commented, "very strange. I cannot get atyour point of view at all. "

Then he went on to ask questions rapidly, and Monsignor had to explainthe meaning of his title, a hundred things connected with hispriesthood, and to answer many objections to his explanations; until thenight had worn on to bedtime, and the crowd of guests began to departfrom the verandahs. It was all so interesting to Horace. In the priestand his conversation he had caught a glimpse of a new world both strangeand fascinating. Curious too was the profound indifference of men likehimself--college men--to its existence. It did not seem possible thatthe Roman idea could grow into proportions under the bilious eyes of theomniscient Saxon, and not a soul be aware of its growth! However, Monsignor was a pleasant man, a true college lad, an interesting talker, with music in his voice, and a sincere eye. He was not acontroversialist, but a critic, and he did not seem to mind when Horacewent off into a dream of Sonia, and asked questions far from thesubject. 

Long afterwards Endicott recalled a peculiarity of this night, whichescaped his notice at the time: his sensitiveness to every detail oftheir surroundings, to the colors of the room, to the shades of meaningin the words of the Monsignor, to his tricks of speech and tone, quiteunusual in Horace's habit. Sonia complained that he never could tell heranything clear or significant of places he had seen. The room which hadbeen secured from the landlord was the parlor of the tavern; long andlow, colonial in the very smell of the tapestry carpet, with doors andmantel that made one think of John Adams and General Washington. Thewalls had a certain terror in them, a kind of suspense, as when a jurysits petrified while their foreman announces a verdict of death. A longline of portraits in oil produced this impression. The faces of ancientneighbors, of the Adams, the Endicotts, the Bradburys, severe Puritans, for whom the name of priest meant a momentary stoppage of the heart, looked coldly and precisely straight out from their frames on theMonsignor. Horace fancied that they exchanged glances. What fun it wouldhave been to see the entire party move out from their frames, and putthe wearer of the Roman purple to shameful flight. 

"I'll bet they don't let you sleep to-night, " he said to the priest, wholaughed at the conceit. 

A cricket came out on the window-sill, chirped at Horace's elbow, andfled at the sound of near voices. Through the thick foliage of thechestnut trees outside he could see stars at times that made him thinkof Sonia's eyes. The wind shook the branches gently, and made littlemoans and whispers in the corners, as if the ghosts of the portraitswere discussing the sacrilege of the Monsignor's presence. Horacethought at the time his nerves were strung tight by the incidents of theday, and his interest deeply stirred by the conversation of the priest;since hitherto he had always thought of wind as a thing that blewdisagreeably except at sea, noisy insects as public nuisances to becaught and slain, and family portraits the last praiseworthy attempt ofancestors to disturb the sleep of their remote heirs. When he hadsomewhat tired of asking his companion questions, it occurred to himthat the Monsignor had asked none in return, and might waive his rightto this privilege of good-fellowship. He mentioned the matter. 

"Thank you, " said Monsignor, "but I know all about you. See now if Igive you a good account of your life and descent. "

He was promenading the room before the picture-jury frowning on him. Helooked at them a moment solemnly. 

"Indeed I know what I would have to expect from you, " he said to theportraits, "if you were to sit upon my case to-night. Your descendanthere is more merciful. "

They laughed together. 

"Well, " to Horace, "you asked me many questions, because you knownothing about me or mine, although we have been on the soil this halfcentury. The statesmen of your blood disdain me. This scorn is in theair of New England, and is part of your marrow. Here is an example ofit. Once on a vacation I spent a few weeks in the house of a Puritanlady, who learned of my faith and blood only a week before my leaving. She had been very kind, and when I bade her good-by I assured her that Iwould remember her in my prayers. 'You needn't mind, ' she replied, 'myown prayers are much better than any you can say. ' This temper explainswhy you have to ask questions about me, and I have none to askconcerning you. "

Horace had to admit the contention. 

"Life began for you near the river that turned the wheel of the oldsawmill. Ah, that river! It was the beginning of history, of time, oflife! It came from the beyond and it went over the rim of the wonderfulhorizon, singing and laughing like a child. How often you dreamed offollowing it to its end, where you were certain a glory, felt only inyour dreams, filled the land. The fishes only could do that, for theyhad no feet to be tired by walking. Your first mystery was that wheelwhich the water turned: a monstrous thing, a giant, ugly and deadly, whose first movement sent you off in terror. How could it be that thegentle, smiling, yielding water, which took any shape from a baby hand, had power to speed that giant! The time came when you bathed in thestream, mastered it, in spite of the terror which it gave you one daywhen it swallowed the life of a comrade. Do you remember this?"

Monsignor held up his hand with two fingers stretched out beyond theothers, and gave a gentle war-whoop. Horace laughed. 

"I suppose every boy in the country invited his chums to a swim thatway, " he said. 

"Just so. The sign language was universal. The old school on the villagegreen succeeded the river and the mill in your history. Miss Primbytaught it, dear old soul, gentler than a mother even, and you laughed ather curls, and her funny ways, which hid from child's eyes a nobleheart. It was she who bound up your black eye after the battle withBouncer, the bully, whose face and reputation you wrecked in the samehour for his oppression of the most helpless boy in school. That featmade you the leader of the secret society which met at awful hours inthe deserted shanty just below the sawmill. What a creep went up anddown your spine as in the chill of the evening the boys came stealingout of the undergrowth one by one, and greeted their chief with thepassword, known by every parent in town. The stars looked down upon youas they must have looked upon all the great conspirators of time sincethe world began. You felt that the life of the government hung by athread, when such desperate characters took the risk of conspiringagainst it. What a day was July the Fourth--what wretches were theBritish--what a hero was General Washington! What land was like thiscountry of the West? Its form on the globe was a promontory while allothers lay very low on the plane. "

"In that spirit you went to Harvard and ran full against some greatquestions of life. The war was on, and your father was at the front. Only your age, your father's orders, and your mother's need held youback from the fight. You were your mother's son. It is written all overyou, --and me. And your father loved you doubly that you were his son andowned her nature. He fell in battle, and she was slain by a cruellerfoe, the grief that, seizing us, will not let us live even for those welove. God rest the faithful dead, give peace to their souls, andcomplete their love and their labors! My father and mother are livingyet--the sweetest of blessings at my time of life. You grieved as youthgrieves, but life had its compensations. You are a married man, and youlove as your parents loved, with the fire and tenderness of both. Happyman! Fortunate woman!"

He stopped before the nearest portrait, and stared at it. 

"Well, what do you think of my acquaintance with your history?" heasked. 

"Very clever, Monsignor, " answered Horace impressed. "It is likenecromancy, though I see how the trick is done. "

"Precisely. It is my own story. It is the story of thousands of boyswhom your set will not regard as American boys, unless when they arelooking for fighting material. Everything and anything that could carrya gun in the recent war was American with a vengeance. The BostonCoriolanus kissed such an one and swore that he must have come over inthe Mayflower. But enough--I am not holding a brief for anybody. Thedescription I have just given you of your life and mine is also----"

"One moment--pardon me, " said Horace, "how did you know I was married?"

"And happy?" said Monsignor. "Well, that was easy. When we were talkingto-night at tea about the hanging of Howard Tims, what disgust in yourtone when you cried out, there should be no pity for the wretch thatkills his wife. "

"And there should not. "

"Of course. But I knew Tims. I met him for an hour, and I did not feellike hanging him. "

"You are a celibate. "

"Therefore unprejudiced. But he was condemned by a jury of unmarriedmen. A clever fellow he is, and yet he made some curious blunders in hisattempt to escape the other night. I would like to have helped him. Ihave a theory of disappearing from the sight of men, which would helpthe desperate much. This Tims was a lad of your own appearance, disposition, history even. I had a feeling that he ought not to die. What a pity we are too wise to yield always to our feelings. "

"But about your theory, Monsignor?" said Horace. "A theory ofdisappearing?"

"A few nights ago some friends of mine were discussing the possiblemethods by which such a man as Tims might make his escape sure. You knowthat the influences at his command were great, and tremendous effortswere made to spare his family the disgrace of the gallows. The officersof the law were quite determined that he should not escape. If he hadescaped, the pursuit would have been relentless and able. He would havebeen caught. And as I maintained, simply because he would never think ofusing his slight acquaintance with me. You smile at that. So did myfriends. I have been reading up the escapes of famous criminals--it isquite a literature. I learned therein one thing: that they were allcaught again because they could not give up connection with their past:with the people, the scenes, the habits to which they had beenaccustomed. So they left a little path from their hiding-place to thepast, and the clever detectives always found it. Thinking over thismatter I discovered that there is an art of disappearing, a real art, which many have used to advantage. The principle by which this art maybe formulated is simple: the person disappearing must cut himself offfrom his past as completely as if he had been secretly drowned inmid-ocean. "

"They all seem to do that, " said Horace, "and yet they are caught aseasily as rats with traps and cheese. "

"I see you think this art means running away to Brazil in a wig and bluespectacles, as they do in a play. Let me show some of the consequences apoor devil takes upon himself who follows the art like an artist. Hemust escape, not only from his pursuers--that's easy--but from hisfriends--not so easy--and chiefly from himself--there's the rub. He whoflies from the relentless pursuit of the law must practically die. Hemust change his country, never meet friend or relative again, get a newlanguage, a new trade, a new place in society; in fact a new past, peopled with parents and relatives, a new habit of body and life, a newappearance; the color of hair, eyes, skin must be changed; and he musteat and drink, walk, sleep, think, and speak differently. He must becomeanother man almost as if he had changed his nature for another's. "

"I understand, " said Horace, interested; "but the theory is impossible. No one could do that even if they desired. "

"Tims would have desired it and accomplished it had I thought ofsuggesting it to him. Here is what would have happened. He escapes fromthe prison, which is easy enough, and comes straight to me. We never metbut once. Therefore not a man in the world would have thought of lookingfor him at my house. A week later he is transferred to the house of JudyTrainor, who has been expecting a sick son from California, a boy whodisappeared ten years previous and is probably dead. I arrange herexpectation, and the neighbors are invited to rejoice with her over thefinding of her son. He spends a month or two in the house recoveringfrom his illness, and when he appears in public he knows as much aboutthe past of Tommy Trainor as Tommy ever knew. He is welcomed by his oldfriends. They recognize him from his resemblance to his father, oldMicky Trainor. He slips into his position comfortably, and in five yearsthe whole neighborhood would go to court and swear Tims into a lunaticasylum if he ever tried to resume his own personality. "

The two men set up a shout at this sound conclusion. 

"After all, there are consequences as dark as the gallows, " said Horace. 

"For instance, " said the priest with a wave of his hand, "sleeping underthe eyes of these painted ghosts. "

"Poor Tim Hurley, " said Horace, "little he thought he'd be a ghostto-night. "

"He's not to be regretted, " replied the other, "except for the heartthat suffers by his absence. He is with God. Death is the one moment ofour career when we throw ourselves absolutely into the arms of God. "

The two were getting ready to slip between the sheets of the pompouscolonial bed, when Horace began to laugh softly to himself. He kept upthe chuckling until they were lying side by side in the darkened room. 

"I am sure, I have a share in that chuckle, " said Monsignor. 

"Shades of my ancestors, " murmured Horace, "forgive this insult to yourpious memory--that I should occupy one bed with an idolatrous priest. "

"They have got over all that. In eternity there is no bigotry. But whata pity that two fine boys like us should be kept apart by that awfulspirit which prompts men to hate one another for the love of God, and tolie like slaves for the pure love of truth. "

"I am cured, " said Horace, placing his hand on the Monsignor's arm. "Ishall never again overlook the human in a man. Let me thank you, Monsignor, for this opening of my eyes. I shall never forget it. Thisnight has been Arabian in its enchantment. I don't like the idea ofto-morrow. "

"No more do I. Life is tiresome in a way. For me it is an everlastingjob of beating the air with truth, because others beat it with lies. Wecan't help but rejoice when the time comes to breathe the eternal airs, where nothing but truth can live. "

Horace sighed, and fell asleep thinking of Sonia rather than thedelights of eternity. The priest slept as soundly. No protest againstthis charming and manly companionship stirred the silence of the room. The ghosts of the portraits did not disturb the bold cricket of thewindow-sill. He chirped proudly, pausing now and then to catch thebreathing of the sleepers, and to interpret their unconscious movings. The trained and spiritual ear might have caught the faint sighs andvelvet footsteps of long-departed souls, or interpreted them out of thesighing and whispering of the leaves outside the window, and the treadof nervous mice in the fireplace. The dawn came and lighted up the facesof the men, faces rising out of the heavy dark like a revelation ofanother world; the veil of melancholy, which Sleep borrows from itsbrother Death, resting on the head which Sonia loved, and deepening theshadows on the serious countenance of the priest. They lay there likebrothers of the same womb, and one might fancy the great mother Evestealing in between the two lights of dawn and day to kiss and bless herjust-united children. 

When they were parting after breakfast, Monsignor said gayly. 

"If at any time you wish to disappear, command me. "

"Thanks, but I would rather you had to do the act, that I might see youcarry out your theory. Where do you go now?"

"To tell Tim Hurley's mother he's dead, and thus break her heart, " hereplied sadly, "and then to mend it by telling her how like a saint hedied. "

"Add to that, " said Horace, with a sudden rush of tears, which for hislife he could not explain, "the comfort of a sure support from me forthe rest of her life. "

They clasped hands with feeling, and their eyes expressed the samethought and resolution to meet again. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE ABYSSES OF PAIN. 

Horace Endicott, though not a youth of deep sentiment, had capacities inthat direction. Life so far had been chiefly of the surface for him. Happiness had hidden the deep and dangerous meanings of things. He was achild yet in his unconcern for the future, and the child, alone ofmortals, enjoys a foretaste of immortality, in his belief that happinessis everlasting. The shadow of death clouding the pinched face of TimHurley was his first glimpse of the real. He had not seen his father andmother die. The thought that followed, Sonia's beloved face lying underthat shadow, had terrified him. It was the uplifting of the veil ofillusion that enwraps childhood. The thought stayed his foot that nightas he turned into the avenue leading up to his own house, and he pausedto consider this new dread. 

The old colonial house greeted his eyes, solemn and sweet in themoonlight, with a few lights of human comfort in its windows. He hadnever thought so before, but now it came straight to his heart that thiswas his home, his old friend, steadfast and unchanging, which hadwelcomed him into the world, and had never changed its look to him, never closed its doors against him; all that remained of the dear, butalmost forgotten past; the beautiful stage from which all the ancientactors had made irrevocable exit. What beauty had graced it for acentury back! What honors its children had brought to it from councilsof state and of war! What true human worth had sanctified it! Last andthe least of the splendid throng, he felt his own unworthiness sadly;but he was young yet, only a boy, and he said to himself that Sonia hadcrowned the glory of the old house with her beauty, her innocence, herdevoted love. In making her its mistress he had not wronged its formerrulers, nor broken the traditions of beauty. He stood a long timelooking at the old place, wondering at the charm which it had sosuddenly flung upon him. Then he shook off the new and weird feeling andflew to embrace his Sonia of the starry eyes. 

Alas, poor boy! He stood for a moment on the threshold. He could hearthe faint voices of servants, the shutting of distant doors, and ahundred sweet sounds within; and around him lay the calmness of thenight, with a drowsy moon overhead lolling on lazy clouds. Nothingwarned him that he stood on the threshold of pain. No instinct hinted atthe horror within. The house that sheltered his holy mother and receivedher last breath, that covered for a few hours the body of his heroicfather, the house of so many honorable memories, had become thehabitation of sinners, whose shame was to be everlasting. He stole in ontiptoe, with love stirring his young pulses. For thirty minutes therewas no break in the silence. Then he came out as he entered, on tiptoe, and no one knew that he had seen with his own eyes into the deeps ofhell. For thirty minutes, that seemed to have the power of as manycenturies, he had looked on sin, shame, disgrace, with what seemed to bethe eyes of God; so did the horror shock eye and heart, yet leave himsight and life to look again and again. 

In that time he tasted with his own lips the bitterness which makes themost wretched death sweeter by comparison than bread and honey to thehungry. At the end of it, when he stole away a madman, he felt withinhis own soul the cracking and upheaving of some immensity, and saw orfelt the opening of abysses from which rose fearful exhalations ofcrime, shapes of corruption, things without shape that provoked to rage, pain and madness. He was not without cunning, since he closed the doorssoftly, stole away in the shadows of the house and the avenue, andescaped to a distant wood unseen. From his withered face all feelingexcept horror had faded. Once deep in the wood, he fell under the treeslike an epileptic, turned on his face, and dug the earth with hands andfeet and face in convulsions of pain. 

The frightened wood-life, sleeping or waking, fled from the greatcreature in its agony. In the darkness he seemed some monster, which indreadful silence, writhed and fought down a slow road to death. He washardly conscious of his own behavior, poor innocent, crushed by the sinsof others. He lived, and every moment was a dying. He gasped as with thelast breath, yet each breath came back with new torture. He shivered tothe root of nature, like one struck fatally, and the convulsion revivedlife and thought and horror. After long hours a dreadful sleep bound hissenses, and he lay still, face downward, arms outstretched, breathinglike a child, a pitiful sight. Death must indeed be a binding thing, that father and mother did not leave the grave to soothe and strengthentheir wretched son. He lay there on his face till dawn. The crowing ofthe cock, which once warned Peter of his shame, waked him. He turnedover, stared at the branches above, sat up puzzled, and showed his faceto the dim light. His arms gathered in his knees, and he made an effortto recollect himself. But no one would have mistaken that sorrowful, questioning face; it was Adam looking toward the lost Eden with his armsabout the dead body of his son. A desolate and unconscious face, wretched and vacant as a lone shore strewn with wreckage. 

He struggled to his feet after a time, wondering at his weakness. Theeffort roused and steadied him, his mind cleared as he walked to theedge of the wood and stared at the old house, which now in the mist ofmorning had the fixed, still, reproachful look of the dead. As if aspirit had leaped upon him, memory brought back his personality and hisgrief together. Men told afterwards, early laborers in the fields, of acry from the Endicott woods, so strange and woful that their hearts beatfast and their frightened ears strained for its repetition. Sonia heardit in her adulterous dreams. It was not repeated. The very horror of itterrified the man who uttered it. He stood by a tree trembling, for adouble terror fell upon him, terror of her no less than of himself. Hestaggered through the woods, and sought far-away places in the hills, where none might see him. When the sun drifted in through dark boughs hecursed it, the emblem of joy. The singing of the birds sounded to hisears like the shriek of madmen. When he could think and reason somewhat, he called up the vision of Sonia to wonder over it. The childlike eyes, the beautiful, lovable face, the modest glance, the innocentblushes--had nature such masks for her vilest offspring? The mere animalsenses should have recognized at the first this deadly thing, as animalsrecognize their foes; and he had lived with the viper, believing her thepeer of his spotless mother. She was his wife! Even at that moment thepassionate love of yesterday stirred in his veins and moved him todeeper horror. 

He doubted that he was Horace Endicott. Every one knew that boy to bethe sanest of young men, husband to the loveliest of women, a happy, careless, wealthy fellow, almost beside himself with the joy of life. The madman who ran about the desolate wilds uttering strange andterrible things, who was wrapped within and without in torments offlame, who refrained from crime and death only because vengeance wouldthus be cheaply satisfied, could hardly be the boy of yesterday. Was sinsuch a magician that in a day it could evolve out of merry Horace andinnocent Sonia two such wretches? The wretch Sonia had proved hercapacity for evil; the wretch Horace felt his capabilities for crime andrejoiced in them. He must live to punish. A sudden fear came upon himthat his grief and rage might bring death or madness, and leave himincapable of vengeance. _They_ would wish nothing better. No, he mustlive, and think rationally, and not give way. But the mind worked on inspite of the will. It sat like Penelope over the loom, weaving terriblefancies in blood and flame! the days that had been, the days that werepassing; the scenes of love and marriage; the old house and its latestsinners; and the days that were to come, crimson-dyed, shameful; thedreadful loom worked as if by enchantment, scene following scene, theweb endless, and the woven stuff flying into the sky like smoke from aflying engine, darkening all the blue. 

The days and nights passed while he wandered about in the open air. Hunger assailed him, distances wearied him, he did not sleep; but thesehardships rather cooled the inward fire, and did not harm him. One dayhe came to a pool, clear as a spring to its sandy bottom, embowered intrees, except on one side where the sun shone. He took off his clothesand plunged in. The waters closed over him sweet and cool as the embraceof death. The loom ceased its working a while, and the thought roseup, is vengeance worth the trouble? He sank to the sandy bed, and oh, itwas restful! A grip on a root held him there, and a song of his boyhoodsoothed his ears until it died away in heavenly music, far off, enticing, welcoming him to happier shores. He had found all at onceforgetfulness and happiness, and he would remain. Then his griploosened, and he came to the surface, swimming mechanically about, debating with himself another descent into the enchanted region beneath. 

Some happy change had touched him. He felt the velvety waters grasp hisbody and rejoiced in it; the little waves which he sent to the reedybank made him smile with their huddling and back-rushing and laughing;he held up his arm as he swam to see the sun flash through the drops ofwater from his hand. What a sweet bed of death! No hard-eyed nurses andphysicians with their array of bottles, no hypocrites snuffling sympathywhile dreaming of fat legacies, no pious mummeries, only the innocentthings direct from the hand of God, unstained by human sin and training, trees and bushes and flowers, the tender living things about, thevoiceless and passionless music of lonely nature, the hearty sun, andthe maternal embrace of the sweet waters. It was dying as the wildanimals die, without ceremony; as the flowers die, a gentle weakening ofthe stem, a rush of perfume to the soft earth, and the caressing windsto do the rest. Yes, down to the bottom again! Who would have looked forso pleasant a door to death in that lonely and lovely pool!

He slipped his foot under the root so that it would hold him if hestruggled, put his arms under his head like one about to sleep, andyielded his senses to that far-off, divine music, enticing, welcoming.... It ceased, but not until he had forgotten all his sorrowsand was speeding toward death. Sorrow rescued sorrow, and gave him backto the torturers. The old woman who passed by the pond that morninggathering flowers, and smiling as if she felt the delight of achild--the smile of a child on the mask of grief-worn age--saw hisclothes and then his body floating upward helpless from the bottom. Sheseized his arm, and pulled him up on the low bank. He gasped a littleand was able to thank her. 

"If I hadn't come along just then, " she said placidly, as she coveredhim decently with his coat, "you'd have been drownded. Took a cramp, Ireckon?"

"All I remember is taking a swim and sinking, mother. I am very muchobliged to you, and can get along very well, I think. "

"If you want any help, just say so, " she answered. "When you get dressedmy house is a mile up the road, and the road is a mile from here. I cangive you a cup of tea or warm milk, and welcome. "

"I'll go after a while, " said he, "and then I'll be able to thank youstill better for a very great service, mother. "

She smiled at the affectionate title, and went her way. He became weakall at once, and for a while could not dress. The long bath had soothedhis mind, and now distressed nature could make her wants known. Hunger, soreness of body, drowsiness, attacked him together. He found itpleasant to lie there and look at the sun, and feel too happy to curseit as before. The loom had done working, Penelope was asleep. The doorseemed forever shut on the woman known as Sonia, who had tormented himlong ago. The dead should trouble no one living. He was utterly weary, sore in every spot, crushed by torment as poor Tim Hurley had beenbroken by his engine. This recollection, and his lying beside the poolas Tim lay beside the running river, recalled the Monsignor and the holyoils. As he fell asleep the fancy struck him that his need at thatmoment was the holy oils; some balm for sick eyes and ears, for tiredhands and soiled feet, like his mother's kisses long ago, that wouldsoothe the aching, and steal from the limbs into the heart afterwards; aheavenly dew that would aid sleep in restoring the stiffened sinews anddistracted nerves. The old woman came back to him later, and found himin his sleep of exhaustion. Like a mother, she pillowed his head, covered him with his clothes, and her own shawl, and made sure that hisrest would be safe and comfortable. She studied the noble young head, and smoothed it tenderly. The pitiful face, a terrible face for thosewho could read, so bitterly had grief written age on the curved dimpledsurface of youth, stirred some convulsion in her, for she threw up herarms in despair as she walked away homeward, and wild sobs choked herfor minutes. 

He sat on the kitchen porch of her poor home that afternoon, quite freefrom pain. A wonderful relief had come to him. He seemed lifted into anupper region of peace like one just returned from infernal levels. Thegolden air tasted like old wine. The scenes about him were marvelous tohis eyes. His own personality redeemed from recent horror became adelightful thing. 

"It is terrible to suffer, " he said to Martha Willis. "In the last fivedays I have suffered. "

"As all men must suffer, " said the woman resignedly. 

"Then you have suffered too? How did you ever get over it, mother?"

She did not tell him, after a look at his face, that some sorrows areindelible. 

"We have to get over everything, son. And it is lucky we can do it, without running into an insane asylum. "

"Were your troubles very great, mother?"

"Lots of people about say I deserved them, so they couldn't be verygreat, " she answered, and he laughed at her queer way of putting it, then checked himself. 

"Sorrow is sorrow to him who suffers, " he said, "no matter what peoplesay about it. And I would not wish a beast to endure what I did. I wouldhelp the poor devil who suffered, no matter how much he deserved hispain. "

"Only those who suffered feel that way. I am alone now, but this housewas crowded thirty years ago. There was Lucy, and John, and Oliver, andHenry, and my husband, and we were very happy. "

"And they are all gone?"

"I shall never see them again here. Lucy died when I needed her most, and Henry, such a fine boy, followed her before he was twenty. They aresafe in the churchyard, and that makes me happy, for they are minestill, they will always be mine. John was like his father, and both weredrunkards. They beat me in turn, and I was glad when they took totramping. They're tramping yet, as I hear, but I haven't seen them inyears. And Oliver, the cleverest boy in the school, and very headstrong, he went to Boston, and from there he went to jail for cheating a bank, and in jail he died. It was best for him and for me. I took him back tolie beside his brother and sister, though some said it was a shame. Butwhat can a mother do? Her children are hers no matter if they turn outwrong. "

"And you lived through it all, mother?" said the listener with his faceworking. 

"Once I thought different, but now I know it was for the best, " sheanswered calmly, and chiefly for his benefit. "I had my days and yearseven, when I thought some other woman had taken Martha Willis' place, apoor miserable creature, more like the dead than the live. But I oftenthought, since my own self came back, how lucky it was Lucy had hermother to close her eyes, and the same for poor Henry. And Oliver, hewas pretty miserable dying in jail, but I never forgot what he said tome. 'Mother, ' he said, 'it's like dying at home to have you with mehere. ' He was very proud, and it cut him that the cleverest of thefamily should die in jail. And he said, 'you'll put me beside theothers, and take care of the grave, and not be ashamed of me, mother. 'It was the money he left me, that kept this house and me ever since. Nowjust think of the way he'd have died if I had not been about to see tohim. And I suppose the two tramps'll come marching in some day to die, or to be buried, and they'll be lucky to find me living. But anyway I'vearranged it with the minister to see to them, and give them a place withtheir own, if I'm not here to look after them. "

"And you lived through it all!" repeated Horace in wonder. 

Her story gave him hope. He must put off thinking until grief hadloosened its grip on his nerves, and the old self had come uppermost. Hewas determined that the old self should return, as Martha had proved itcould return. He enjoyed its presence at that very moment, though with adread of its impending departure. The old woman readily accepted him asa boarder for a few days or longer, and treated him like a son. He sleptthat night in a bed, the bed of Oliver and Henry, --their portraitshanging over the bureau--and slept as deeply as a wearied child. Ablessed sleep was followed by a bitter waking. Something gripped him themoment he rose and looked out at the summer sun; a cruel hand seized hisbreast, and weighted it with vague pain. Deep sighs shook him, and theloom of Penelope began its dreadful weaving of bloody visions, whilethe restful pool in the woods tempted him to its cool rest. For a momenthe gave way to the thought that all had ended for him on earth. Then hebraced himself for his fight, went down to chat cheerfully with Martha, and ate her tasty breakfast with relish. He saw that his manner pleasedthe simple heart, the strong, heroic mother, the guardian of so manygraves. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE ROAD TO NOTHINGNESS. 

"Whatever trouble you're a-sufferin' from, " said Martha, as he wasgoing, "I can tell you one sure thing about it. Time changes it so's youwouldn't think it was the same trouble a year afterwards. Now, if youwait, and have patience, and don't do anything one way or another for amonth, you'll be real glad you waited. Once I would have been glad todie the minute after sorrow came. Now I'm glad I didn't die, for I'velearned to see things different somehow. "

His heart was being gnawed at that moment by horrible pain, but hecaught the force of her words and took his resolve against the seductionof the pool, that lay now in his vision, as beautiful as a window ofheaven. 

"I've come to the same thought, " he answered. "I'll not do anything fora month anyway, unless it's something very wise and good. But I'm goingnow to think the matter over by myself, and I know that you have done megreat service in helping me to look at my sorrows rightly. "

She smiled her thanks and watched him as he struck out for the hills twomiles away. Often had her dear sons left the door for the same walk, andshe had watched them with such love and pride. Oh, life, life!

By the pool which tempted him so strongly Horace sat down to study theproblem of his future. 

"You are one solution of it, " he thought, as he smiled on its beautifulwaters. "All others failing to please, you are here, sure, definite, soft as a bed, tender as Martha, lovely as a dream. There will be novulgar outcry when you untie the knot of woe. And because I am sure ofyou, and have such confidence in you, I can sit here and defy yourpresent charm. "

He felt indeed that he was strong again in spite of pain. As one indarkness, longing for the light, might see afar the faint glint of thedawn, he had caught a glimpse of hope in the peace which came to him inMartha's cottage. It could come again. In its light he knew that hecould look upon the past with calmness, and feel no terror even at thename of Sonia. He would encourage its return. It was necessary for himto fix the present status of the woman whom he had once called his wife. He could reason from that point logically. She had never been his wifeexcept by the forms of law. Her treason had begun with his love, and heruncleanness was part of her nature; so much had he learned on thatfearful night which revealed her to him. His wealth and his name werethe prizes which made her traitor to lover and husband. What folly isthere in man, or what enchantment in beauty, or what madness in love, that he could have taken to his arms the thing that hated him and hatedgoodness? Should not love, the best of God's gifts, be wisdom too? Or domen ever really love the object of passion?

Oh, he had loved her! Not a doubt but that he loved her still! Sonia, Sonia! The pool wrinkled at the sound of her name, as he shrieked it inanguish across the water. There was nothing in the world so beautiful asshe. Her figure rose before him more entrancing than this fairy lakewith its ever-changing loveliness. Its shadows under the trees were inher eyes, its luster under the sun was the luster of her body! Oh, therewas nothing of beauty in it, perfume, grace, color, its singing andmurmuring on the shore, that this perfect sinner had not in her body!

He steadied himself with the thought of old Martha. A dread caught himthat the image of this foul beauty would haunt him thus forever, and beable at any time to drive joy out of him and madness into him. Some partof him clung to her, and wove a thousand fancies about her beauty. Whenthe pain of his desolation gripped him the result was invariable: sherose out of the mist of pain, not like a fury, or the harpy she was, butbeautiful as the morning, far above him, with glorious eyes fixed on theheavens. He thought it rather the vision of his lost happiness than ofher. If she were present then, he would have held her under the waterwith his hands squeezing her throat, and so doubly killed her. But whata terror if this vision were to become permanent, and he should neverknow ease or the joy of living again! And for a thing so worthless andso foul!

He steadied himself again with the thought of old Martha, and fixed hismind on the first fact, the starting-point of his reasoning. She hadnever been his wife. Her own lips had uttered that sentence. The law hadbound them, and the law protected her now. But she enjoyed a strongerguard even: his name. It menaced him in each solution of the problem ofhis future life. He could do little without smirching that honored name. He might take his own life. But that would be to punish the innocent andto reward the guilty. His wealth would become the gilding of adultery, and her joy would become perfect in his death. Imagine him asleep in thegrave, while she laughed over his ashes, crying to herself: always afool. He might kill her, or him, or both; a short punishment for a longtreason, and then the trail of viperous blood over the name of Endicottforever; not blood but slime; not a tragedy, but the killing of rats ina cellar; and perhaps a place for himself in a padded cell, legally mad. 

He might desert her, go away without explanation, and never see heragain. That would be putting the burden of shame on his own shoulders, in exile and a branded man for her sake. She would still have his name, his income, her lover, her place in society, her right to explain hisabsence at her pleasure. He could ruin her ruined life by exposing her. Then would come the divorce court, the publicity, the leer of the mob, the pointed fingers of scorn. Impossible! Why could he not leave thematter untouched and keep up appearances before the world? Leastendurable of any scheme. He knew that he could never meet her againwithout killing her, unless this problem was settled. When he haddetermined on what he should do, he might get courage to look on herface once more. 

He wore the day out in vain thought, varying the dulness by stampingabout the pond, by swimming across it, by studying its pleasantfeatures. There was magic in it. When he stripped off his clothes andflung them on the bank part of his grief went with them. When he plungedinto the lovable water, not only did grief leave him, but HoraceEndicott returned; that Horace who once swam a boy in such lakes, andwent hilarious with the wild joy of living. He dashed about the pool ina gay frenzy, revelling in the sensation that tragedy had no part in hislife, that sorrow and shame had not yet once come nigh him. The shoreand the donning of his garments were like clouds pouring themselves outon the sunlit earth. He could hardly bear it, and hung about listlesslybefore he could persuade himself to dress. 

"Surely you are my one friend, " he said to the quiet water. "Is it thatyou feel certain of giving me my last sleep, my last kiss as you stealthe breath from me? None would do it gentlier. You give me release frompain, you alone. And you promise everlasting release. I will rememberyou if it comes to that. "

The pool looked up to him out of deep evening shadows cast upon it bythe woods. There was something human in the variety of its expression. As if a chained soul, silenced forever as to speech, condemned to agarment of water, struggled to reach a human heart by infinite shades ofbeauty, and endless variations of sound. The thought woke his pity, andhe looked down at the water as one looks into the face of a sufferingfriend. Here were two castaways, cut off from the highway of life, imprisoned in circumstances as firmly as if behind prison grills. Forhim there was hope, for the pool nothing. At this moment its calm facepictured profound sadness. The black shadow of the woods lay deep on thewest bank, but its remotest edge showed a brilliant green, where the sunlingered on the top fringes of the foliage. Along the east bank, amongthe reeds, the sun showed crimson, and all the tender colors of thewater plants faded in a glare of blood. This savage brilliance wouldsoon give way to the gray mist of twilight, and then to the darkness ofnight. Even this poor dumb beauty reflected in its helplessly beautifulway the tragedies of mankind. 

As before with the evening came peace and release from pain. Again hesat on Martha's porch after supper, and thought nothing so beautiful aslife; and as he listened to further details of her life-story, impartedwith the wise intention of binding him to life more securely, he feltthat all was not yet lost for him. In his little room while the nightwas still young, he opened an old volume at the play of Hamlet andread the story through. Surely he had never read this play before? Herecalled vaguely that it had been studied in college, that some greatactor had played it for him, that he had believed it a wonderful thing;memories now less real than dreams. For in reading it this night heentered into the very soul of Hamlet, lived his tortures over again, wept and raved in dumb show with the wretched prince, and flung himselfand his book to the floor in grief at the pitiful ending. He was theHamlet; youth with a problem of the horrible; called to solve that whichshook the brains of statesmen; dying in utter failure with that mostpathetic dread of a wounded name. 

 Oh, good Horatio, what a wounded name. Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. 

For a little he had thought there could not be in the world suchsuffering as his; how clear now that his peculiar sorrow was strange tono hour of unfortunate time; an old story, innocence and virtue--Godknew he had no pride in his own virtue--preyed upon by cunning vice. Heread Hamlet again. Oh, what depth of anguish! What a portrayal of griefand madness! Horace shook with the sobs that nearly choked him. Like thesleek murderer and his plump queen, the two creatures hatefulest to himlived their meanly prosperous lives on his bounty. What conscienceflamed so dimly in the Danish prince that he could hesitate before hisopportunity? Long ago, had Horace been in his place, the guilty pairwould have paid in blood for their lust and ambition. Hamlet would notkill himself because the Almighty had "fixed his canon 'gainstself-slaughter;" or because in the sleep of death might rise strangedreams; he would not kill his uncle because he caught him praying; andhe was content with preaching to his mother. Conscience! God! The twowords had not reached his heart or mind once since that awful night. Noscruples of the Lord Hamlet obscured his view or delayed his action. 

He had been brought up to a vague respect of religious things. He hadeven wondered where his father and mother might now inhabit, as onemight wonder of the sea-drowned where their bodies might be floating;but no nearer than this had heaven come to him. He had never felt anyspecial influence of religion in his life. In what circumstances hadHamlet been brought up, that religious feeling should have so serious aneffect upon him? Doubtless the prince had been a Catholic like hisrecent acquaintance the Monsignor. Ah, he had forgotten that interestingman, who had told him much worth remembrance. In particular his lastwords ... What were those last words? The effort to remember gave himmixed dreams of Hamlet and the Monsignor that night. 

In the morning he went off to the pool with the book of Hamlet and theecho of those important but forgotten words. The lonely water seemed towelcome him when he emerged from the path through the woods; theunderbrush rustled, living things scurried away into bush and wave, theweeds on the far bank set up a rustling, and little waves leaped on theshore. He smiled as if getting a friend's morning salute, and began totalk aloud. 

"I have brought you another unfortunate, " he said, "and I am going toread his thoughts to you. "

He opened the book and very tenderly, as if reciting a funeral service, murmured the words of the soliloquy on suicide. How solemnly sounded inthat solitude the fateful phrase "but that the dread of something afterdeath!" That was indeed the rub! After death there can be anything; andwere it little and slender as a spider's web, it might be too much forthe sleep that is supposed to know no waking and no dreams. After all, he thought, how much are men alike; for the quandary of Hamlet is mine;I know not what to do. He laid aside the book and gave himself to idlewatching of the pool. A bird dipped his wing into it midway, and set acircle of wavelets tripping to the shore. One by one they died among thesedges, and there was no trace of them more. 

"That is the thing for which I am looking, " he said; "disappearancewithout consequences ... Just to fade away as if into water or air ... To separate on the spot into original elements ... To be no more what Iam, either to myself or others ... Then no inquest, no search, nofuneral, no tears ... Nothing. And after such a death, perhaps, something might renew the personality in conditions so far from these, so different, that _now_ and _then_ would never come into contact. "

He sighed. What a disappearance that would be. And at that moment thewords of the Monsignor came back to him:

"_If at any time you wish to disappear, command me. _"

A thrill leaped through his dead veins, as of one rising from the dead, but he lay motionless observing the pool. Before him passed the detailsof that night at the tavern; the portraits, the chirping cricket, thevines at the window, the strange theory of the priest aboutdisappearing. He reviewed that theory as a judge might review a case, sohe thought; but in fact his mind was swinging at headlong speed over thepossibilities, and his pulses were bounding. It was possible, even inthis world, to disappear more thoroughly behind the veil of life thanunder the veil of death. If one only had the will!

He rose brimming with exultant joy. An intoxication seized him thatlifted him at once over all his sorrow, and placed him almost in thatvery spot wherein he stood ten days ago; gay, debonair, light of heartas a boy, untouched by grief or the dread of grief. It was a divinemadness. He threw off his clothes, admired his shapely body for a momentas he poised on the bank, and flung himself in headlong with a shout. Hefelt as he slipped through the water but he did not utter the thought, that if this intoxication did not last he would never leave the pool. Itendured and increased. He swam about like a demented fish. On that farshore where the reeds grew he paddled through the mud and thrust hishead among the sedges kissing them with laughter. In another place hereached up to the high bank and pulled out a bunch of ferns which hecarried about with him. He roamed about the sandy bottom in one corner, and thrust his nose and his hands into it, laying his cheek on thesmooth surface. He swallowed mouthfuls of the cool water, and felt thathe tasted joy for the first time. He tired his body with divings, racings, leapings, and shouting. 

When he leaped ashore and flung himself in the shade of the wood, theintoxication had increased. So, not for nothing had he met the priest. That encounter, the delay in the journey, the stay in the village, thepeculiar character of the man, his odd theory, were like elements of anantidote, compounded to meet that venom which the vicious had injectedinto his life. Wonderful! He looked at the open book beside him, andthen rose to his knees, with the water dripping from his limbs. In aloud voice he made a profession of faith. 

"I believe in God forever. "

CHAPTER V. 

THE DOOR IS CLOSED. 

Even Martha was startled by the change in him. She had hoped and prayedfor it, but had not looked for it so soon, and did not expect blithespirits after such despair. In deep joy he poured out his soul to herall the evening, but never mentioned deeds or names in his tragedy. Martha hardly thought of them. She knew from the first that this man'ssoul had been nearly wrecked by some shocking deviltry, and that thebest medicine for him was complete forgetfulness. Horace felt as alife-prisoner, suddenly set free from the loathsomest dungeon inTurkestan, might feel on greeting again the day and life's sweetactivities. The first thought which surged in upon him was the glory ofthat life which had been his up to the moment when sorrow engulfed him. 

"My God, " he cried to Martha, "is it possible that men can hold such atreasure, and prize it as lightly as I did once. "

He had thought almost nothing of it, had been glad to get rid of eachperiod as it passed, and of many persons and scenes connected withchildhood, youth, and manhood. Now they looked to him, these despisedyears, persons, and scenes, like jewels set in fine gold, pricelessjewels of human love fixed forever in the adamant of God's memory. Theywere his no more. Happily God would not forget them, but would treasurethem, and reward time and place and human love according to theirdeserving. He was full of scorn for himself, who could take and enjoy somuch of happiness with no thought of its value, and no otheracknowledgment than the formal and hasty word of thanks, as each soullaid its offering of love and service at his feet. 

"You're no worse than the rest of us, " said Martha, "I didn't know, andvery few of my friends ever seemed to know, what good things they hadtill they lost 'em. It may be that God would not have us put too high aprice on 'em at first, fearin' we'd get selfish about 'em. Then whenthey're gone, it turns our thoughts more to heaven, which is the onlyplace where we have any chance to get 'em back. "

When he had got over his self-scorn, the abyss of pain and horror out ofwhich God had lifted him--this was his belief--showed itself mighty andterrible to his normal vision. Never would he have believed that a mancould fall so far and so awfully, had he not been in those dark depthsand mounted to the sun again. He had read of such pits as exaggerations. He had seen sorrow and always thought its expression too fantastic forreality. Looking down now into the noisome tunnel of his own tragedy, hecould only wonder that its wretched walls and exit did not carry the redcurrent of blood mingled with its own foul streaks. Nothing that he haddone in his grief expressed more than a syllable of the pain he hadendured. The only full voice to such grief would have been the wreckingof the world. Strange that he could now look calmly into this abyss, without the temptation to go mad. But its very ghastliness turned histhought into another channel. The woman who had led him into the pit, what of her? Free from the tyranny of her beauty, he saw her with allher loveliness, merely the witch of the abyss, the flower and fruit ofthat loathsome depth, in whose bosom filthy things took their naturalshape of horror, and put on beauty only to entrap the innocent of theupper world. Yes, he was entirely freed from her. Her name sounded tohis ears like a name from hell, but it brought no paleness to hischeeks, no shock to his nerves, no stirring of his pulses. The loom ofPenelope was broken, and forever, he hoped. 

"I am free, " he said to Martha the next morning, after he had testedhimself in various ways. "The one devil that remained with me is gone, and I feel sure she will never trouble me again. "

"It is good to be free, " said Martha, "if the thing is evil. I am freefrom all that worried me most. I am free from the old fear of death. Butsometimes I get sad thinking how little we need those we thought wecould not do without. "

"How true that sounds, mother. There is a pity in it. We are notnecessary to one another, though we think so. Every one we love dies, welose all things as time goes on, and when we come to old age nothingremains of the past; but just the same we enjoy what we have, and forgetwhat we had. There is one thing necessary, and that is true life. "

"And where can we get that?" said Martha. 

"Only from God, I think, " he replied. 

She smiled her satisfaction with his thought, and he went off to thepool for the last time, singing in his heart with joy. He would haveraised his voice too, but, feeling himself in the presence of astupendous thing, he refrained out of reverence. If suffering Hamlet hadonly encountered the idea of disappearing, his whole life would havebeen set right in a twinkling of the eye. The Dane had an inkling of thesolution of his problem when in anguish he cried out, Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!

But he had not followed his thought to its natural consequence, seeingonly death at the end of reasoning. Horace saw disappearance, and he hadnow to consider the idea of complete disappearance with all its effectsupon him and others. What would be the effect upon himself? He wouldvanish into thin air as far as others were concerned. Whatever of hispast the present held would turn into ashes. There would be no furtherconnection with it. An impassable void would be created across whichneither he nor those he loved could go. He went over in his mind what hehad to give up, and trembled before his chum and his father's sister, two souls that loved him. Death would not be more terrible. For him, no;but for them? Death would leave them his last word, look, sigh, hisashes, his resting-place; disappearance would rob them of all knowledge, and clothe his exit with everlasting sadness. There was no help for it. Many souls more loving suffered a similar anguish, and survived it. Itastonished and even appalled him, if anything could now appal him, thatonly two out of the group of his close friends and near acquaintancesseemed near enough in affection and intimacy to mourn his loss. Notone of twenty others would lose a dinner or a fraction of appetitebecause he had vanished so pitifully. How rarer than diamonds is thatjewel of friendship!

He had thought once that a hundred friends would have wept bitter tearsover his sorrow; of the number there were left only two!

It was easy for him to leave the old life, now become so hateful; butthere was terror in putting on the new, to which he must ally himself asif born into it, like a tree uprooted from its native soil and plantedfar from its congenial elements in the secret, dark, sympathetic placesof the earth. He must cut himself off more thoroughly than by death. Thedisappearance must be eternal, unless death removed Sonia Westfieldbefore circumstances made return practically impossible; his experienceof life showed that disagreeable people rarely die while the microbe ofdisagreeableness thrives in them. 

What would be the effect of his disappearance on Sonia and her lover?The question brought a smile to his wan face. She had married his nameand his money, and would lose both advantages. He would take hisproperty into exile to the last penny. His name without his income wouldbe a burden to her. His disappearance would cast upon her a reproach, unspoken, unseen, a mere mist enwrapping her fatally, but not to bedispelled. Her mouth would be shut tight; no chance for innuendoes, lesthint might add suspicion to mystery. She would be forced to observe theproprieties to the letter, and the law would not grant her a divorce foryears. In time she would learn that her only income was the modestrevenue from her own small estate; that he had taken all with him intodarkness; and still she would not dare to tell the damaging fact to herfriends. She would be forced to keep up appearances, to spend money in avain search for him, or his wealth; suspecting much yet knowing nothing, miserably certain that he was living somewhere in luxury, and enjoyinghis vengeance. 

He no longer thought of vengeance. He did not desire it. The mills ofthe gods grind out vengeance enough to glut any appetite. By the mereexercise of his right to disappear he gave the gods many lashes withwhich to arm the furies against her. He was satisfied with beingbeyond her reach forever. Now that he knew just what to do, now thatwith his plan had come release from depression, now that he was himselfagain almost, he felt that he could meet Sonia Westfield and act thepart of a busy husband without being tempted to strangle her. In hervery presence he would put in motion the machinery which would strip herof luxury and himself of his present place in the world. 

The process took about two months. The first step was a visit toMonsignor O'Donnell, a single visit, and the first result was a singleletter, promptly committed to the flames. Then he went home with a storyof illness, of a business enterprise which had won his fancy, ofnecessary visits to the far west; which were all true, but not in thesense in which Sonia took these details. They not only explained hisabsence, but also excused the oddity of his present behavior. He hardlyknew how he behaved with her. He did not act, nor lose self-confidence. He had no desire to harm her. He was simply indifferent, as if fromsickness. As the circumstances fell in with her inclinations, though shecould not help noticing his new habits and peculiarities, she made noprotest and very little comment. He saw her rarely, and in time carriedhimself with a sardonic good humor as surprising to him as inexplicableto her. She seemed as far from him as if she had suddenly turned Eskimo. Once or twice a sense of loathing invaded him, a flame of hatred blazedup, soon suppressed. He was complete master of himself, and his rewardwas that he could be her judge, with the indifference of a dignitary ofthe law. The disposal of his property was accomplished with perfectsecrecy, his wife consenting on the plea of a better investment. 

So the two months came to an end in peace, and he stood at last beforethat door which he himself had opened into the new future. Once closedno other hand but his could open it. A time might come when even to hishand the hinge would not respond. Two persons knew his secret in part, the Monsignor and a woman; but they knew nothing more than that he didnot belong to them from the beginning, and more than that they wouldnever know, if he carried out his plan of disappearance perfectly. Whatever the result, he felt now that the crisis of his life had come. 

At the last moment, however, doubts worried him about thus cuttinghimself off from his past so utterly, and adopting another personality. Some deep-lying repugnance stirred him against the double process. Wouldit not be better to live under his own name in remote countries, andthus be ready, if fate allowed, to return home at the proper time?Perhaps. In that case he must be prepared for her pursuit, her letters, her chicanery, which he could not bear. Her safety and his own, if thestain of blood was to be kept off the name of Endicott, demanded theabsolute cessation of all relationship between them. Yet that did notcontain the whole reason. Lurking somewhere in those dark depths of thesoul, where the lead never penetrates, he found the thought ofvengeance. After all he did wish to punish her and to see herpunishment. He had thought to leave all to the gods, but feared the godswould not do all their duty. If they needed spurring, he would be nearto provide new whips and fresher scorpions. He shook off hesitation whenthe last day of his old life came, and made his farewells with decision. A letter to his aunt and to his friend, bidding each find no wonder andno worry about him in the events of the next month, and lose no time insearching for him; a quiet talk with old Martha on her little verandah;a visit to the pool on a soft August night; and an evening spent alonein his father's house; these were his leave-takings. 

They would never find a place in his life again, and he would never dareto return to them; since the return of the criminal over the path bywhich he escaped into secrecy gave him into the hands of his pursuers. The old house had become the property of strangers. The offset to thisgrief was the fact that Sonia would never dishonor it again with herpresence. Just now dabbling in her sins down by the summer sea, she wasprobably reading the letter which he had sent her about business inWisconsin. Later a second letter would bear her the sentence of a livingdeath. The upright judge had made her the executioner. What a longtragedy that would be! He thought of it as he wandered about the lovelyrooms of his old home; what long days of doubt before certainty wouldcome; what horror when bit by bit the scheme of his vengeance unfolded:what vain, bitter, furious struggling to find and devour him; and thenthe miserable ending when time had proved his disappearance absolute andperfect!

At midnight, after a pilgrimage to every loved spot in the householdshrine, he slipped away unseen and struck out on foot over the fieldsfor a distant railway station. For two months he lived here and there inCalifornia, while his beard grew and his thoughts devoured him. Then oneevening he stepped somewhat feebly from the train in New York, crawledinto a cab, and drove to No. 127 Mulberry Street. The cabman helped himup the steps and handed him in the door to a brisk old woman, who musthave been an actress in her day; for she gave a screech at the sight ofhim, and threw her arms about him crying out, so that the cabman heard, "Artie, alanna, back from the dead, back from the dead, acushlamachree. " Then the door closed, and Arthur Dillon was alone with hismother; Arthur Dillon who had run away to California ten years before, and died there, it was supposed; but he had not died, for behold himreturned to his mother miraculously. She knew him in spite of thechanges, in spite of thin face, wild eyes, and strong beard. Themother-love is not to be deceived by the disguise of time. So AnneDillon hugged her Arthur with a fervor that surprised him, and weptcopious tears; thinking more of the boy that might have come back to herthan of this stranger. He lay in his lonely, unknown grave, and thecaresses meant for him had been bought by another. 

RESURRECTION. 

CHAPTER VI. 

ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES. 

As he laid aside his outer garments, Horace felt the joy of theexhausted sailor, entering port after a dangerous voyage. He was inanother man's shoes; would they fit him? He accepted the new house andthe new mother with scarcely a comment. Mrs. Anne Dillon knew him onlyas a respectable young man of wealth, whom misfortune had driven intohiding. His name and his history she might never learn. So Monsignor hadarranged it. In return for a mother's care and name she was to receive ahandsome income. A slim and well-fashioned woman, dignified, severe offeature, her light hair and fair complexion took away ten from her fiftyyears; a brisk manner and a low voice matched her sharp blue eyes andcalm face; her speech had a slight brogue; fate had ordained that anEndicott should be Irish in his new environment. As she flew aboutgetting ready a little supper, he dozed in the rocker, thinking of thatdear mother who had illumined his youth like a vision, beautiful, refined, ever delightful; then of old Martha, rough, plain, and sad, butwith the spirit and wit of the true mother, to cherish the sorrowful. Inlove for the child these mothers were all alike. He felt at home, andadmired the quickness and skill with which Anne Dillon took up her newoffice. He noted everything, even his own shifting emotions. This wasone phase of the melancholy change in him: the man he had cast offrarely saw more than pleased him, but the new Arthur Dillon had an alerteye for trifles. 

"Son dear, " said his mother, when they sat down to tea, "we'll have theevenin' to ourselves, because I didn't tell a soul what time you werecomin', though of course they all knew it, for I couldn't keep back suchgood news; that after all of us thinkin' you dead, you should turn outto be alive an' well, thank God. So we can spend the evenin' decidin'jist what to do an' say to-morrow. The first thing in the mornin' LouisEverard will be over to see you. Since he heard of your comin', he'sbeen jist wild, for he was your favorite; you taught him to swim, an' toplay ball, an' to skate, an' carried him around with you, though he'ssix years younger than you. He's goin' to be a priest in time with theblessin' o' God. Then his mother an' sister, perhaps Sister MaryMagdalen, too; an' your uncle Dan Dillon, on your father's side, he'sthe only relative you have. My folks are all dead. He's a senator, an' aleader in Tammany Hall, an' he'll be proud of you. You were very fond ofhim, because he was a prize-fighter in his day, though I never thoughtmuch of that, an' was glad when he left the business for politics. "

"And how am I to know all these people, mother?"

"You've come home sick, " she said placidly, "an' you'll stay in bed forthe next week, or a month if you like. As each one comes I'll let youknow jist who they are. You needn't talk any more than you like, an' anymistakes will be excused, you've been away so long, an' come home sosick. "

They smiled frankly at each other, and after tea she showed him hisroom, a plain chamber with sacred pictures on the walls and a photographof Arthur Dillon over the bureau. 

"Jist as you left it ten years ago, " she said with a sob. "An' yourpicture as you looked a month before you went away. "

The portrait showed a good-looking and pugnacious boy of sixteen, dark-haired and large-eyed like himself; but the likeness between thenew and the old Arthur was not striking; yet any one who wished orthought to find a resemblance might have succeeded. As to disposition, Horace Endicott would not have deserted his mother under any temptation. 

"What sort of a boy was--was I at that age, mother?"

"The best in the world, " she answered mildly but promptly, feeling thedoubt in the question. "An' no one was able to understan' why you ranaway as you did. I wonder now my heart didn't break over it. Theneighbors jist adored you: the best dancer an' singer, the gayest boy inthe parish, an' the Monsignor thought there was no other like you. "

"I have forgotten how to sing an' dance, mother. I think theseaccomplishments can be easily learned again. Does the Monsignor stillhold his interest in me?"

"More than ever, I think, but he's a quiet man that says little when hemeans a good deal. "

At nine o'clock an old woman came in with an evening paper, and gave acry of joy at sight of him. Having been instructed between the openingof the outer door and the woman's appearance, Arthur took the old ladyin his arms and kissed her. She was the servant of the house, morecompanion than servant, wrinkled like an autumn leaf that has felt theheat, but blithe and active. 

"So you knew me, Judy, in spite of the whiskers and the long absence?"

"Knew you, is it?" cried Judy, laughing, and crying, and talking atonce, in a way quite wonderful to one who had never witnessed this feat. "An' why shouldn't I know you? Didn't I hould ye in me own two arrumsthe night you were born? An' was there a day afther that I didn't havesomething to do wid ye? Oh, ye little spalpeen, to give us all thefright ye did, runnin' away to Californy. Now if ye had run away toIreland, there'd be some sinse in it. Musha thin, but it was fond o'goold ye wor, an' ye hardly sixteen. I hope ye brought a pile of it backwid ye. "

She rattled on in her joy until weariness took them all at the samemoment, and they withdrew to bed. He was awakened in the morning by acautious whispering in the room outside his door. 

"Pon me sowl, " Judy was saying angrily, "ye take it like anny ouldYankee. Ye're as dull as if 'twas his body on'y, an' not body an' sowltogether, that kem home to ye. Jist like ould Mrs. Wilcox the night herson died, sittin' in her room, an' crowshayin' away, whin a dacint woman'ud be howlin' wid sorra like a banshee. "

"To tell the truth, " Anne replied, "I can't quite forgive him for theway he left me, an' it's so long since I saw him, Judy, an' he's so thinan' miserable lookin', that I feel as if he was only a fairy child. "

"Mother, you're talking too loud to your neighbors, " he cried out thenin a cheery and familiar voice, for he saw at once the necessity ofremoving the very natural constraint indicated by his mother's words;and there was a sudden cry from the women, Judy flying to the kitchenwhile Anne came to his door. 

"It's true the walls have ears, " she said with a kindly smile. "But youand I, son, will have to make many's the explanation of that kind beforeyou are well settled in your old home. "

He arose for breakfast with the satisfaction of having enjoyed a perfectsleep, and with a delightful interest in what the day had in store forhim. Judy bantered and petted him. His mother carried him over difficultallusions in her speech. The sun looked in on him pleasantly, he took asniff of air from a brickish garden, saw the brown walls of thecathedral not far away, and then went back to bed. A sudden andoverpowering weakness came upon him which made the bed agreeable. Herehe was to receive such friends as would call upon him that day. AnneDillon looked somewhat anxious over the ordeal, and his own interestgrew sharper each moment, until the street-door at last opened withdecision, and his mother whispered quickly:

"Louis Everard! Make much of him. "

She went out to check the brisk and excited student who wished to enterwith a shout, warning him that the returned wanderer was a sick man. There was silence for a moment, and then the young fellow appeared inthe doorway. 

"Will you have a fit if I come any nearer?" he said roguishly. 

In the soft, clear light from the window Arthur saw a slim, manlyfigure, a lovable face lighted by keen blue eyes, a white and frankforehead crowned by light hair, and an expression of face that won himon the instant. This was his chum, whom he had loved, and trained, andtyrannized over long ago. For the first time since his sorrow he feltthe inrushing need of love's sympathy, and with tear-dimmed eyes hemutely held out his arms. Louis flew into the proffered embrace, andkissed him twice with the ardor of a boy. The affectionate touch of hislips quite unmanned Arthur, who was silent while the young fellow sat onthe side of the bed with one arm about him, and began to ply him withquestions. 

"Tell me first of all, " he said, "how you had the heart to do it, to runaway from so many that loved the ground you walked on. I cried my eyesout night after night ... And your poor mother ... And indeed all of us... How could you do it? What had we done?"

"Drop it, " said Arthur. "At that time I could have done anything. It waspure thoughtlessness, regretted many a time since. I did it, and there'sthe end of it, except that I am suffering now and must suffer more forthe folly. "

"One thing, remember, " said Louis, "you must let them all see that yourheart is in the right place. I'm not going to tell you all that was saidabout you. But you must let every one see that you are as good as whenyou left us. "

"That would be too little, dear heart. Any man that has been through myexperiences and did not show himself ten times better than ever he wasbefore, ought to stay in the desert. "

"That sounds like you, " said Louis, gently pulling his beard. 

"Tell me, partner, " said Arthur lightly, "would you recognize me withwhiskers?"

"Never. There is nothing about you that reminds me of that boy who ranaway. Just think, it's ten years, and how we all change in ten years. But say, what adventures you must have had! I've got to hear the wholestory, mind, from the first chapter to the last. You are to come over tothe house two nights in a week, to the old room, you remember, andunfold the secrets of ten years. Haven't you had a lot of them?"

"A car-load, and of every kind. In the mines and forests, on the desert, lost in the mountains, hunting and fishing and prospecting; not tomention love adventures of the tenderest sort. I feel pleasant to thinkof telling you my latest adventures in the old room, where I used tocurl you up with fright----"

"Over stories of witches and fairies, " cried Louis, "when I would crawlup your back as we lay in bed, and shiver while I begged you to go on. And the room is just the same, for all the new things have the oldpattern. I felt you would come back some day with a bag of real storiesto be told in the same dear old place. "

"Real enough surely, " said Arthur with a deep sigh, "and I hope they maynot tire you in the telling. Mother ... Tells me that you are going tobe a priest. Is that true?"

"As far as I can see now, yes. But one is never certain. "

"Then I hope you will be one of the Monsignor's stamp. That man issurely a man of God. "

"Not a doubt of it, " said Louis, taking his hat to go. 

"One thing, " said Arthur as he took his hand and detained him. He washungry for loving intimacy with this fine lad, and stammered in hiswords. "We are to be the same ... Brothers ... That we were long ago!"

"That's for you to say, old man, " replied Louis, who was pleased andeven flattered, and petted Arthur's hands. "I always had to do as yousaid, and was glad to be your slave. I have been the faithful one allthese years. It is your turn now. "

After that Arthur cared little who came to see him. He was no longeralone. This youth loved him with the love of fidelity and gratitude, towhich he had no claim except by adoption from Mrs. Anne Dillon; but itwarmed his heart and cheered his spirit so much that he did not discusswith himself the propriety of owning and enjoying it. He looked withdelight on Louis' mother when she came later in the day, and welcomedhim as a mother would a dear son. A nun accompanied her, whose costumegave him great surprise and some irritation. She was a frank-faced buthomely woman, who wore her religious habit with distinction. Arthur feltas if he were in a chapel while she sat by him and studied his face. Hismother did the talking for him, compared his features with the portraiton the wall, and recalled the mischievous pranks of his wild boyhood, indirectly giving him much information as to his former relationshipswith the visitors. Mrs. Everard had been fond of him, and Sister MaryMagdalen had prepared him for his first communion. This fact the nunemphasized by whispering to him as she was about to leave:

"I hope you have not neglected your religious duties?"

"Monsignor will tell you, " he said with an amused smile. He found nogreat difficulty in dealing with the visitors that came and went duringthe first week. Thanks to his mother's tactful management no hitchesoccurred more serious than the real Arthur Dillon might have encounteredafter a long absence. The sick man learned very speedily how high hisuncle stood in the city, for the last polite inquiry of each visitor waswhether the Senator had called to welcome his nephew. In the narrowworld of the Endicotts the average mind had not strength enough toconceive of a personality which embraced in itself a prize-fighter and astate senator. The terms were contradictory. True, Nero had been actorand gladiator, and the inference was just that an American might achieveequal distinction; but the Endicott mind refused to consider such aninference. Arthur Dillon no longer found anything absurd or impossible. The surprises of his new position charmed him. Three months earlier andthe wildest libeller could not have accused him of an uncle lower inrank than a governor of the state. Sonorous names, senator andgladiator, brimful of the ferocity and dignity of old Rome! near as theyhad been in the days of Cæsar, one would have thought the march ofcivilization might have widened the interval. Here was a rogue's marchindeed! Judy gave the Senator a remarkable character. 

"The Senator, is it?" said she when asked for an opinion. "Divil a finerman from here to himself! There isn't a sowl in the city that doesn'tbless his name. He's a great man bekase he was born so. He began lifewith his two fishts, thumpin' other boys wid the gloves, as they call'em. Thin he wint to the war, an' began fightin' wid powdher an' guns, so they med him a colonel. Thin he kem home an' wint fightin' the bosso' the town, so they med him a senator. It was all fightin' wid him, an'they say he's at it yet, though he luks so pleasant all the time, hemust find it healthy. I don't suppose thim he's fightin' wid finds it asagreeable. Somewan must git the batin', ye know. There's jist the differbetune men. I've been usin' me fists all me life, beltin' the washboord, an' I'm nowhere yet. An' Tommy Kilbride the baker, he's been poundin' atthe dough for thirty years, an' he's no better off than I am. But menoble Dan Dillon that began wid punchin' the heads of his neighbors, seewhere he is to-day. But he's worthy of it, an' I'd be the last tobegrudge him his luck. "

In the Endicott circle the appearance of a senator as great as Sumnerhad not been an event to flutter the heart, though the honor wasunquestioned; but never in his life had the young man felt a keenerinterest than in the visit of his new uncle. He came at last, asplendid figure, too ample in outline and too rich in color for thesimple room. The first impression he made was that of the man. Thepowerful and subtle essence of the man breathed from him. His face andfigure had that boldness of line and depth of color which rightly belongto the well-bred peasant. He was well dressed, and handsome, with eyesas soft and bright as a Spaniard's. Arthur was overcome with delight. InLouis he had found sympathy and love, and in the Senator he felt surethat he would find ideal strength and ideal manhood, things for the weakto lean upon. The young patrician seized his uncle's hand and pressed ithard between his own. At this affectionate greeting the Senator's voicefailed him, and he had difficulty in keeping back his tears. 

"If your father were only here now, God rest his soul this day, " hesaid. "How he loved you. Often an' often he said to me that hishappiness would be complete if he lived to see you a man. He died, but Ilive to see it, an' to welcome you back to your own. The Dillons aredying out. You're the only one of our family with the family name. What's the use o' tellin' you how glad we are that Californy didn'tswallow you up forever. "

Arthur thanked him fervently, and complimented him on his politicalhonors. The Senator beamed with the delight of a man who finds the valueof honors in the joy which they give his friends. 

"Yes, I've mounted, Artie, an' I came by everything I have honest. You'll not be ashamed of me, boy, when you see where I stand outside. But there's one thing about politics very hard, the enemy don't spareyou. If you were to believe all that's said of me by opponents I'mafraid you wouldn't shake hands with me in public. "

"I suppose they bring up the prize-fighting, " said Arthur. "You ought tohave told them that no one need be ashamed to do what many a Romanemperor did. "

"Ah, " cried the Senator, "there's where a man feels the loss of aneducation. I never knew the emperors did any ring business. What asockdologer it would have been to compare myself with the Romanemperors. "

"Then you've done with fighting, uncle?"

There was regret in his tone, for he felt the situation would have beenimproved if the Senator were still before the public as a gladiator. 

"I see you ain't lost none o' your old time deviltry, Artie, " he repliedgood-naturedly. "I gave that up long ago, an' lots o' things with it. But givin' up has nothin' to do with politics, an' regular all my sinsare retailed in the papers. But one thing they can never say: that I wasa liar or a thief. An' they can't say that I ever broke my word, orbroke faith with the people that elected me, or did anything that wasnot becoming in a senator. I respect that position an' the honor for allthey're worth. "

"And they can never say, " added Arthur, "that you were afraid of any manon earth, or that you ever hurt the helpless, or ever deserted a friendor a soul that was in need. "

The Senator flushed at the unexpected praise and the sincerity of thetone. He was anxious to justify himself even before this sinner, becausehis dead brother and his sister-in-law had been too severe on his formeroccupations to recognize the virtues which Arthur complimented. 

"Whatever I have been, " said the Senator, pressing the hand which stillheld his, "I was never less than a square man. "

"That's easy to believe, uncle, and I'll willingly punch the head of thefirst man that denies it. "

"Same old spirit, " said the delighted Senator. "Why, you little rogue, d'ye remember when you used to go round gettin' all the pictures o' mein me fightin' days, an' makin' your dear mother mad by threatenin' togo into the ring yourself? Why; you had your own fightin' gear, glovesan' clubs an' all that, an' you trained young Everard in the business, till his old ... His father put a head ... Put a stop to it. "

"Fine boy, that Louis, but I never thought he'd turn to the Church. "

"He never had any thin' else in him, " said the Senator earnestly. "Itwas born in him as fightin' an' general wildness was born in you an' me. Look into his face an' you'll see it. Fine? The boy hasn't his like inthe city or the land. I'll back him for any sum--I'll stand to it thathe'll be archbishop some day. "

"Which I'll never be, " said Arthur with a grin. 

"Every man in his place, Artie. I've brought you yours, if you want totake it. How would politics in New York suit you?"

"I'm ripe for anything with fun in it. "

"Then you won't find fault, Artie, if I ask how things stood withyou--you see it's this way, Artie----"

"Now, hold on, old man, " said Arthur. "If you are going to getembarrassed in trying to do something for me, then I withdraw. Speakright out what you have to say, and leave me to make any reply thatsuits me. "

"Then, if you'll pardon me, did you leave things in Californy straightan' square, so that nothin' could be said about you in the papers as toyour record?"

"Straight as a die, uncle. "

"An' would you take the position of secretary to the chief an' so getacquainted with everything an' everybody?"

"On the spot, and thank you, if you can wait till I am able to moveabout decently. "

"Then it's done, an' I'm the proudest man in the state to see anotherDillon enterin'----"

"The ring, " said Arthur. 

"No, the arena of politics, " corrected the Senator. "An' I can tell fromyour talk that you have education an' sand. In time we'll make you mayorof the town. "

When he was going after a most affectionate conversation with his nephewthe Senator made a polite suggestion to Mrs. Dillon. 

"His friends an' my friends an' the friends of his father, an' the rankan' file generally want to see an' to hear this young man, just as thematter stands. Still more will they wish to give him the right hand offellowship when they learn that he is about to enter on a politicalcareer. Now, why not save time and trouble by just giving a receptionsome day about the end of the month, invite the whole ga--the wholemultitude, do the thing handsome, an' wind it up forever?"

The Senator had an evident dread of his sister-in-law, and spoke to herwith senatorial dignity. She meekly accepted his suggestion, and humblyattended him to the door. His good sense had cleared the situation. Preparation for a reception would set a current going in the quiethouse, and relieve the awkwardness of the new relationships; and itwould save time in the business of renewing old acquaintance. They tookup the work eagerly. The old house had to be refitted for the occasion, his mother had to replenish a scanty wardrobe, and he had to dresshimself in the fashion proper to Arthur Dillon. Anne's taste was good, inclined to rich but simple coloring, and he helped her in the selectionof materials, insisting on expenditures which awed and delighted her. Judy Haskell came in for her share of raiment, and carried out somedread designs on her own person with conviction. It was pure pleasure tohelp these simple souls who loved him. 

After a three weeks' stay in the house he went about the city at hisease, and busied himself with the study and practise of his newpersonality. In secret, even from Louis who spent much of his leisurewith him, he began to acquire the well-known accomplishments of the realArthur Dillon, who had sung and danced his way into the hearts of hisfriends, who had been a wit for a boy, bubbling over with good spirits, an athlete, a manager of amateur minstrels, a precocious gallant amongthe girls, a fighter ever ready to defend the weak, a tireless leader inany enterprise, and of a bright mind, but indifferent to study. The partwas difficult for him to play, since his nature was staidness itselfbeside the spontaneity and variety of Arthur Dillon: but his spiritsrose in the effort, some feeling within responded to the dash and daringof this lost boy, so much loved and so deeply mourned. 

Louis helped him in preparing his wardrobe, very unlike anything anEndicott had ever worn. Lacking the elegance and correctness of earlierdays, and of a different character, it was in itself a disguise. He worehis hair long and thick in the Byronic fashion, and a curly beardshadowed his lower face. Standing at the glass on the afternoon of thereception he felt confident that Horace Endicott had fairly disappearedbeneath the new man Dillon. His figure had filled out slightly, and hadlost its mournful stoop; his face was no longer wolfish in its leanness, and his color had returned, though melancholy eyes marked by deepcircles still betrayed the sick heart. Yet the figure in the glasslooked as unlike Horace Endicott as Louis Everard. He compared it withthe accurate portrait sent out by his pursuers through the press. Onlythe day before had the story of his mysterious disappearance been madepublic. For months they had sought him quietly but vainly. It was asign of their despair that the journals should have his story, hisportrait, and a reward for his discovery. 

No man sees his face as others see it, but the difference between theprinted portrait and the reflection of Arthur Dillon in the mirror wasso startling that he felt humbled and pained, and had to remind himselfthat this was the unlikeness he so desired. The plump and muscularfigure of Horace Endicott, dressed perfectly, posed affectively, expressed the self-confidence of the aristocrat. His smooth face wasinsolent with happiness and prosperity, with that spirit called thepride of life. But for what he knew of this man, he could have laughedat his self-sufficiency. The mirror gave back a shrunken, sickly figure, somewhat concealed by new garments, and the eyes betrayed a poor soul, cracked and seamed by grief and wrong; no longer Horace Endicott, brokenby sickness of mind and heart, and disguised by circumstance, butanother man entirely. What a mill is sorrow, thus to grind up anEndicott and from the dust remold a Dillon! The young aristocrat, plump, insolent, shallow, and self-poised, looked commonplace in his pridebeside this broken man, who had walked through the abyss of hell, andnevertheless saved his soul. 

He discovered as he gazed alternately on portrait and mirror that asingular feeling had taken hold of him. Horace Endicott all at onceseemed remote, like a close friend swallowed and obliterated years agoby the sea; while within himself, whoever he might be, some one seemedstruggling for release, or expression, or dominion. He interpreted itpromptly. Outwardly, he was living the life of Arthur Dillon, andinwardly that Arthur was making war on Horace Endicott, takingpossession as an enemy seizes a stubborn land, reaching out for thoseremote citadels wherein the essence of personality resides. He did notobject. He was rather pleased, though he shivered with a not unwelcomedread. 

The reception turned out a marvelous affair for him who had always beenbored by such ceremonies. His mother, resplendent in a silk dress ofchangeable hue, seemed to walk on air. Mrs. Everard and her daughterMona assisted Anne in receiving the guests. The elder women he knew wereIrish peasants, who in childhood had run barefoot to school on abreakfast of oatmeal porridge, and had since done their own washing andbaking for a time. Only a practised eye could have distinguished themfrom their sisters born in the purple. Mona was a beauty, who earned herown living as a teacher, and had the little virtues of the professionwell marked; truly a daughter of the gods, tall for a woman, with amocking face all sparkle and bloom, small eyes that flashed like gems, asharp tongue, and a head of silken hair, now known as the Titian red, but at that time despised by all except artists and herself. She was awitch, an enchantress, who thought no man as good as her brother, andshowed other men only the regard which irritates them. And Arthur lovedher and her mother because they belonged to Louis. 

"I don't know how you'll like the arrangements, " Louis said to him, whenall things were ready. "This is not a society affair. It's an affair ofthe clan. The Dillons and their friends have a right to attend. So youmust be prepared for hodcarriers as well as aristocrats. "

At three o'clock the house and the garden were thrown open to the streamof guests. Arthur gazed in wonder. First came old men and women of allconditions, laborers, servants, small shopkeepers, who had known hisfather and been neighbors and clients for years. Dressed in their best, and joyful over his return to life and home and friends, they wrung hishands, wept over him, and blessed him until their warm delight andsincerity nearly overcame him, who had never known the deep love of thehumble for the head of the clan. The Senator was their benefactor, theirbulwark and their glory; but Arthur was the heir, the hope of thepromising future. They went through the ceremony of felicitation andcongratulation, chatted for a while, and then took their leave as calmlyand properly as the dames and gallants of a court; and one and all bowedto the earth with moist and delighted eyes before the Everards. 

"How like a queen she looks, " they said of the mother. 

"The blessin' o' God on him, " they said of Louis, "for priest is writtenall over him, an' how could he help it wid such a mother. "

"She's fit for a king, " they said of Mona. "Wirra, an' to think she'dlook at a plain man like Doyle Grahame. "

But of Anne Dillon and her son they said nothing, so much were theyovercome by surprise at the splendor of the mother and the son, and thebeauty of the old house made over new. After dark the Senator arrived, which was the signal for a change in the character of the guests. 

"You'll get the aristocracy now, the high Irish, " said Louis. 

Arthur recognized it by its airs, its superciliousness, and severalother bad qualities. It was a budding aristocracy at the ugliest momentof its development; city officials and their families, lawyers, merchants, physicians, journalists, clever and green and bibulous, whoran in with a grin and ran out with a witticism, out of respect for thechief, and who were abashed and surprised at the superior insolence ofthe returned Dillon. Reminded of the story that he had returned awealthy man, many of them lingered. With these visitors however came thepillars of Irish society, solid men and dignified women, whom theSenator introduced as they passed. There were three emphatic momentswhich impressed Arthur Dillon. A hush fell upon the chattering crowd oneinstant, and people made way for Monsignor O'Donnell, who looked verygorgeous to Arthur in his purple-trimmed soutane, and purple cloakfalling over his broad shoulders. The politicians bent low, the flippantgrew serious, the faithful few became reverent. A successful leader waspassing, and they struggled to touch his garments. Arthur's heartswelled at the silent tribute, for he loved this man. 

"His little finger, " said the Senator in a whisper, "is worth more tothem than my whole body. "

A second time this wave of feeling invaded the crowd, when astrong-faced, quiet-mannered man entered the room, and paid his respectsto the Dillons. Again the lane was made, and hearts fluttered and manyhands were outstretched in greeting to the political leader, Hon. JohnSullivan, the head of Tammany, the passing idol of the hour, to whomArthur was soon to be private secretary. He would have left at once butthat the Senator whispered something in his ear; and presently the twowent into the hall to receive the third personage of the evening, andcame back with him, deeply impressed by the honor of his presence. Hewas a short, stocky man, of a military bearing, with a face so stronglymarked as to indicate a certain ferocity of temperament; his deep andsparkling eyes had eyebrows aslant after the fashion of Mephisto; theexpression a little cynical, all determination, but at that momentgood-natured. The assembly fell into an ecstasy at the sight and thetouch of their hero, for no one failed to recognize the dashing GeneralSheridan. They needed only a slight excuse to fall at his feet and adorehim. 

Arthur was impressed indeed, but his mother had fallen into a state ofheavenly trance over the greatness which had honored their festival. Sherecovered only when the celebrities had departed and the stream ofguests had come to an end. Then came a dance in the garden for the youngpeople, and the school-friends of Arthur Dillon made demands upon himfor the entertainment of which his boyhood had given such promise; so hesang his songs with nerve and success, and danced strange dances withgraceful foot, until the common voice declared that he had changed onlyin appearance, which was natural, and had kept the promise of hisboyhood for gayety of spirits, sweet singing, and fine dancing. 

"I feel more than ever to-night, " said Louis at parting, "that all ofyou has come home. "

Reviewing the events of the day in his own room after midnight, he feltlike an actor whose first appearance has been a success. None of theguests seemed to have any doubt of his personality, or to feel anysurprise at his appearance. For them Arthur Dillon had come home againafter an adventurous life, and changes were accepted as the naturalresult of growth. They took him to their heart without question. He wasloved. What Horace Endicott could not command with all his wealth, thelove of his own kin, a poor, broken adventurer, Arthur Dillon, enjoyedin plenty. Well, thank God for the good fortune which followed sounexpectedly his exit from the past. He had a secure place in tenderhearts for the first time since father and mother died. What is lifewithout love and loving? What are love and loving without God? He couldsay again, as on the shore of the little pool, I believe in Godforever. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE DILLON CLAN. 

After the reception Arthur Dillon fell easily into the good graces ofthe clan, and found his place quite naturally; but like the suspiciousintruder his ears and eyes remained wide open to catch the generalsentiment about himself, and the varying opinions as to his manners andcharacter. He began to perceive by degrees the magnitude of the taskwhich he had imposed upon himself; the act of disappearing was but atrifle compared with the relationships crowding upon him in his newenvironment. He would be forced to maintain them all with some likenessto the method which would have come naturally to the real Dillon. Theclan made it easy for him. Since allowance had to be conceded to hissickly condition, they formed no decisive opinions about him, acceptingpleasantly, until health and humor would urge him to speak of his ownaccord, Anne's cloudy story of his adventures, of luck in the mines, andof excuses for his long silence. All observed the new element in hisdisposition; the boy who had been too heedless and headlong to noticeanything but what pleased him, now saw everything; and kept at the sametime a careful reserve about his past and present experiences, whichimpressed his friends and filled Judy Haskell with dread. 

"Tommy Higgins, " she said, to Anne in an interval of housework, "kemhome from Texas pritty much the same, with a face an him as long as yerarm, an' his mouth shut up like an old door. Even himself cudn't openit. He spint money free, an' av coorse that talked for him. But wan day, whin his mother was thryin' an a velvet sack he bought for her, an'fightin' him bekase there was no fur collar to id, in walked his wifean' three childher to him an' her, an' shtayed wid her ever afther. Begob, she never said another word about fur collars, an' she never gotanother velvet sack till she died. Tommy had money, enough to kape themall decent, bud not enough for velvet and silk an' joolry. From thatminnit he got back his tongue, an' he talked himself almost to deathabout what he didn't do, an' what he did do in Californy. So they medhim a tax-collecthor an' a shtump-speaker right away, an' that saved hisneighbors from dyin' o' fatague lishtenin' to his lies. Take care, AnneDillon, that this b'y o' yours hastn't a wife somewhere. "

Anne was in the precise attitude of old Mrs. Higgins when her son's wifearrived, fitting a winter cloak to her trim figure. At the suddensuggestion she sat down overcome. 

"Oh, God forgive you, Judy, " said she, "even to mention such a thing. Iforbid you ever to speak of it again. I don't care what woman came inthe door, I'd turn her out like a thramp. He's mine, I've been widouthim ten years, and I'm going to hold him now against every schemin'woman in the world. "

"Faith, " said Judy, "I don't want to see another woman in the house annymore than yerself. I'm on'y warnin' yez. It 'ud jist break my heart tolose the grandher he's afther puttin' on yez. "

The two women looked about them with mournful admiration. The house, perfect in its furnishings, delighted the womanly taste. In Anne'swardrobe hung such a collection of millinery, dresses, ornaments, thatthe mere thought of losing it saddened their hearts. And the loss ofthat future which Anne Dillon had seen in her own day-dreams ... Sheturned savagely on Judy. 

"You were born wid an evil eye, Judy Haskell, " cried she, "to see thingsno wan but you would ever think of. Never mention them again. "

"Lemme tell ye thin that there's others who have somethin' to saybesides meself. If they're in a wondher over Artie, they're in a greaterwondher over Artie's mother, buyin' silks, an' satins, an' jools like anacthress, an' dhressin' as gay as a greenhorn jist over from Ireland. "

"They're jealous, an' I'm goin' to make them more so, " said Anne with agleeful laugh, as she flung away care and turned to the mirror. For thefirst time since her youth she had become a scandal to her friends. 

Judy kept Arthur well informed of the general feeling and the commonopinion, and he took pains not only to soothe his mother's fright butalso to explain the little matters which irritated her friends. Mrs. Everard did not regard the change in Anne with complacency. 

"Arthur is changed for the better, but his mother for the worse, " shesaid to Judy, certain that the old lady would retail it to her mistress. "A woman of fifty, that always dressed in dark colors, sensibly, to takeall at once to red, and yellow, and blue, and to order bonnets like theEmpress Eugenie's ... Well, one can't call her crazy, but she's on theway. "

"She has the money, " sighed Mona, who had none. 

"Sure she always had that kind of taste, " said Judy in defence, "an'whin her eyes was blue an' her hair yalla, I dunno but high colors wintwell enough. Her father always dhressed her well. Anyhow she's goin' tomake up for all the years she had to dhress like an undertaker. Yistherday it was a gran' opery-cloak, as soon as Artie tould her he hadtaken four opery sates for the season. "

The ladies gasped, and Mona clapped her hands at the prospect ofunlimited opera, for Anne had always been kind to her in such matters. 

"But all that's nawthin', " Judy went on demurely, "to what's comin' nextweek. It's a secret o' coorse, an' I wudn't have yez mintion it for theworld, though yez'll hear it soon enough. Micksheen has a new cage allsilver an' goold, an' Artie says he has a piddygree, which manes thatthey kep' thrack of him as far back as Adam an' Eve, as they do forlords an' ladies; though how anny of 'em can get beyant Noah an' the arkbates me. Now they're puttin' Micksheen in condition, which manes allsorts of nonsense, an' plenty o' throuble for the poor cat, that does bebawlin' all over the house night an' day wid the dhread of it, an'lukkin' up at me pitiful to save him from what's comin'. Artie hasenthered his name at the polis headquarthers somewhere, that he's aprize cat, an' he's to be sint in the cage to the cat show to win aprize over fifty thousand other cats wid piddygrees. They wanted me toattind on Micksheen, but I sed no, an' so they've hired a darky in auniform to luk after him. An' wanst a day Anne is goin' to march up tothe show in a different dhress, an' luk in at Micksheen. "

At this point Judy's demureness gave way and she laughed till the tearscame. The others could not but join. 

"Well, that's the top of the hill, " said Mrs. Everard. "Surely Arthurought to know enough to stop that tomfoolery. If he doesn't I will, Ideclare. "

Arthur however gave the affair a very different complexion when shementioned it. 

"Micksheen is a blooded cat, " said he, "for Vandervelt presented it tothe Senator, who gave it to mother. And I suggested the cat-show for tworeasons: mother's life has not been any too bright, and I had a bigshare in darkening it; so I'm going to crowd as much fun into it as sheis willing to stand. Then I want to see how Micksheen stands in thecommunity. His looks are finer than his pedigree, which is very good. And I want every one to know that there's nothing too good in New Yorkfor mother, and that she's going to have a share in all the fun that'sgoing. "

"That's just like you, and I wish you luck, " said Mary Everard. 

Not only did he go about explaining, and mollifying public sentimenthimself, he also secured the services of Sister Mary Magdalen for thesame useful end. The nun was a puzzle to him. Encased in her religioushabit like a knight in armor, her face framed in the white gamp andblack veil, her hands hidden in her long sleeves, she seemed to him afine automaton, with a sweet voice and some surprising movements; for hecould not measure her, nor form any impression of her, nor see a line ofher natural disposition. Her human side appeared very clearly in herinfluence with the clan, her sincere and affectionate interest inhimself, and her appetite for news in detail. Had she not made him liveover again the late reception by her questions as to what was done, whateverybody said, and what the ladies wore? Unwearied in aiding the needy, she brought him people of all sorts and conditions, in whom he took notthe slightest interest, and besought his charity for them. He gave it inexchange for her good will, making her clearly understand that thechange in his mother's habits must not lead to anything like annoyancefrom her old friends and neighbors. 

"Oh, dear, no, " she exclaimed, "for annoyance would only remove you fromour midst, and deprive us of a great benefactor, for I am sure you willprove to be that. May I introduce to you my friend, Miss EdithConyngham?"

He bowed to the apparition which came forward, seized his hands, heldthem and patted them affectionately, despite his efforts to releasethem. 

"We all seem to have known you since childhood, " was her apology. 

The small, dark woman, pale as a dying nun, irritated him. Blue glassesconcealed her eyes, and an ugly costume concealed her figure; she cameout of an obscure corner behind the nun, and fell back into itnoiselessly, but her voice and manner had the smoothness of velvet. Helooked at her hands patting his own, and found them very soft, white, untouched by age, and a curious contrast to her gray hair. Interesttouching him faintly he responded to her warmth, and looked closely intothe blue glasses with a smile. Immediately the little woman sank backinto her corner. Long after he settled the doubt which assailed him atthat moment, if there were not significance in her look and words andmanner. Sister Magdalen bored him ten minutes with her history. He mustsurely take an interest in her ... Great friend of his father's ... Andindeed of his friends ... Her whole life devoted to religion and thepoor ... The recklessness of others had driven her from a convent whereshe had been highly esteemed ... She had to be vindicated ... Her casewas well on the way to trial ... Nothing should be left undone to makeit a triumph. Rather dryly he promised his aid, wondering if he hadreally caught the true meaning of the little woman's behavior. He gaveup suspicion when Judy provided Miss Conyngham with a character. 

"This is the way of it, " said Judy, "an' it's aisy to undhershtan' ... Thin agin I dinno as it's so aisy ... But annyway she was a sisther in aconvent out west, an' widout lave or license they put her out, bekaseshe wudn't do what the head wan ordhered her to do. So now she's in NewYork, an' Sisther Mary Mag Dillon is lukkin afther her, an' says shemust be righted if the Pope himself has to do it. We all have pity anher, knowin' her people as we did. A smarter girl never opened a book inAmeriky. An' I'm her godmother. "

"Then we must do something for her, " said the master kindly incompliment to Judy. After his mother and Judy none appealed to him likethe women of the Everard home. The motherly grace of Mary and theyouthful charm of beautiful Mona attracted him naturally; from them hepicked up stray features of Arthur Dillon's character; but that whichdrew him to them utterly was his love for Louis. Never had any boy, hebelieved, so profoundly the love of mother and sister. The sun rose andset with him for the Everards, and beautiful eyes deepened in beauty andflashed with joy when they rested on him. Arthur found no difficulty inlearning from them the simple story of the lad's childhood and youth. 

"How did it happen, " he inquired of Mary, "that he took up the idea ofbeing a priest? It was not in his mind ten years back?"

"He was the priest from his birth, " she answered proudly. "Just sevenmonths old he was when a first cousin of mine paid us a visit. He was ayoung man, ordained about a week, ... We had waited and prayed for thatsight ten years ... He sang the Mass for us and blessed us all. It wasbeautiful to see, the boy we had known all his life, to come among us apriest, and to say Mass in front of Father O'Donnell--I never can callhim Monsignor--with the sweetest voice you ever heard. Well, the firstthing he did when he came to my house and Louis was a fat, hearty babyin the cradle, was to take him in his arms, look into his face a littlewhile, and then kiss him. And I'll never forget the words he said. "

Her dark eyes were moist, but a smile lighted up her calm face. 

"Mary, " he said to me, "this boy should be the first priest of the nextgeneration. I'll bless him to that end, and do you offer him to God. AndI did. He was the roughest child of all mine, and showed very little ofthe spirit of piety as he grew up. But he was always the best boy to hisown. He had the heart for us all, and never took his play till he wassure the house was well served. Nothing was said to him about being apriest. That was left to God. One winter he began to keep a littlediary, and I saw in it that he was going often to Mass on week days, andoften to confession. He was working then with his father in the office, since he did not care much for school. Then the next thing I knew hecame to me one night and put his arms about me to say that he wished tobe a priest, to go to college, and that this very cousin who had blessedhim in the cradle had urged him to make known the wish that was in him, for it seems he discovered what we only hoped for. And so he has beencoming and going ever since, a blessing to the house, and sure I don'tknow how I shall get along without him when he goes to the seminary nextyear. "

"Nor I, " said Arthur with a start. "How can you ever think of giving himup?"

"That's the first thing we have to learn, " she replied with a smile athis passion. "The children all leave the house in time one way oranother. It's only a question of giving him to God's service or to theservice of another woman. I could never be jealous of God. "

He laughed at this suggestion of jealousy in a mother. Of course shemust hate the woman who robs her of her son, and secures a greater lovethan a mother ever knew. The ways of nature, or God, are indeed hard tothe flesh. He thought of this as he sat in the attic room with hislight-hearted chum. He envied him the love and reverence of these goodwomen, envied him that he had been offered to God in his infancy; and inhis envy felt a satisfaction that very soon these affectionate soulswould soon have to give Louis up to Another. To him this small room waslike a shrine, sacred, undefiled, the enclosure of a young creaturespecially called to the service of man, perfumed by innocence, cared forby angels, let down from heaven into a house on Cherry Street. Louis hadno such fancies, but flung aside his books, shoved his chum into achair, placed his feet on a stool, put a cigar in his mouth and lightedit for him, pulled his whiskers, and ordered the latest instalment ofDillon's Dark Doings in Dugout. Then the legends of life in Californiabegan. Sometimes, after supper, a knock was heard at the door, and thereentered two little sisters, who must hear a bear-story from Arthur, andkiss the big brother good-night; two delicate flowers on the rough stemof life, that filled Horace Endicott with bitterness and joy when hegathered them into his embrace; the bitterness of hate, the joy ofescape from paternity. What softness, what beauty, what fragrance in thecherubs! _Trumps_, their big brother called them, but the world knewthem as Marguerite and Constance, and they shared the human repugnanceto an early bed. 

"You ought to be glad to go to bed, " Arthur said, "when you go to sleepso fast, and dream beautiful dreams about angels. "

"But I don't dream of angels, " said Marguerite sadly. "Night before lastI dreamed a big black man came out of a cellar, and took baby away, "casting a look of love at Constance in her brother's arms. 

"And I dreamed, " said Constance, with a queer little pucker of hermouth, "that she was all on fire, in her dress, and----"

This was the limit of her language, for the thought of her sister onfire overwhelmed the words at her command. 

"And baby woke up, " the elder continued--for she was a second mother toConstance, and pieced out all her deficiencies and did penance for hersins--"and she said to mother, 'throw water on Marguerite to put herout. '"

"What sad dreams, " Arthur said. "Tell Father O'Donnell about them. "

"She has other things to tell him, " Louis said with a grin. "I have nodoubt you could help her, Artie. She must go to confession sometime, andshe has no sins to tell. The other day when I was setting out forconfession she asked me not to tell all my sins to the priest, but tohold back a few and give them to her for her confession. Now you haveenough to spare for that honest use, I think. "

"Oh, please, dear cousin Artie, " said the child, thrilling his heartwith the touch of her tender lips on his cheek. 

"There's no doubt I have enough, " he cried with a secret groan. "Whenyou are ready to go, Marguerite, I will give you all you want. "

The history of Arthur's stay in California was drawn entirely from histravels on the Pacific slope, tedious to the narrator, but interestingbecause of the lad's interest, and because of the picture which the raptlistener made. His study-desk near by, strewn with papers and books, thewhite bed and bookcase farther off, pictures and mottoes of his ownselection on the white walls, a little altar in the depths of thedormer-window; and the lord of the little domain in the foreground, hands on knees, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed and dreamy, seeing the rich colors and varied action as soon as words conveyed thestory to the ear; a perfect picture of the listening boy, to whomexperience like a wandering minstrel sings the glory of the future inthe happenings of the past. 

Arthur invariably closed his story with a fit of sighing. That happypast made his present fate heavy indeed. Horace Endicott rose strong inhim then and protested bitterly against Arthur Dillon as a usurper; butsure there never was a gentler usurper, for he surrendered so willinglyand promptly that Endicott fled again into his voluntary obscurity. Louis comforted those heavy moments with soft word and gentle touch, pulling his beard lovingly, smoothing his hair, lighting for him a freshcigar, asking no questions, and, when the dark humor deepened, exorcising the evil spirit with a sprinkling of holy water. Prayers weresaid together--an overpowering moment for the man who rarely prayed tosee this faith and its devotion in the boy--and then to bed, where Louisinvariably woke to the incidents of the day and retailed them for anhour to his amused ear; and with the last word fell into instant andbalmy sleep. Oh, this wonder of unconscious boyhood! Had thissad-hearted man ever known that blissful state? He lay there listeningto the soft and regular breathing of the child, who knew so little oflife and evil. At last he fell asleep moaning. It was Louis who wokewith a sense of fright, felt that his bedfellow was gone, and heard hisvoice at the other side of the room, an agonized voice that chilled him. 

"To go back would be to kill her ... But I must go back ... And then thetrail of blood over all.... "

Louis leaped out of bed, and lit the night-candle. Arthur stood besidethe altar in the dormer-window, motionless, with pallid face and openeyes that saw nothing. 

"Why should such a wretch live and I be suffering?--she suffers too ... But not enough ... The child ... Oh, that was the worst ... The child... My child.... "

The low voice gave out the words distinctly and without passion, as ofone repeating what was told to him. Rid of fear Louis slapped him on theshoulder and shook him, laughing into his astonished face when sensecame back to him. 

"It's like a scene, or a skene from Macbeth, " he said. "Say, Artie, youhad better make open confession of your sins. Why should you want tokill her, and put the trail of blood over it all?"

"I said that, did I?" He thought a moment, then put his arms aboutLouis. They were sitting on the side of the bed. 

"You must know it sometime, Louis. It is only for your ear now. I had awife ... She was worthless ... She lives ... That is all. "

"And your child? you spoke of a child?"

Arthur shook with a chill and wiped the sweat from his forehead. 

"No, " he groaned, "no ... Thank God for that ... I had no child. "

After a little they went back to bed, and Louis made light of everythingwith stories of his own sleep-walking until he fell asleep again. Thecandle was left burning. Misfortune rose and sat looking at the boycuriously. With the luck of the average man, he might have been fatherto a boy like this, a girl like Mona with beautiful hair and a goldenheart, soft sweet babies like the Trumps. He leaned over and studied thesleeping face, so sweetly mournful, so like death, yet more spiritual, for the soul was there still. In this face the senses had lost theirdaylight influence, had withdrawn into the shadows; and now the light ofinnocence, the light of a beautiful soul, the light that never was onland or sea, shone out of the still features. A feeling which had nevertouched his nature before took fierce possession of him, and shook himas a tiger shakes his prey. He had to writhe in silence, to beat hishead with his hands, to stifle words of rage and hate and despair. Atlast exhausted he resigned himself, he took the boy's hand in his, remembering that this innocent heart loved him, and fell into adreamless sleep. 

The charm and the pain of mystery hung about the new life, attractinghim, yet baffling him at every step. He could not fathom or grasp thepeople with whom he lived intimately, they seemed beyond him, and yet hedared ask no questions, dared not go even to Monsignor for explanations. With the prelate his relations had to take that character which suitedtheir individual standing. When etiquette allowed him to visit therector, Monsignor provided him with the philosophy of the environment, explained the difficulties, and soothed him with the sympathy of agenerous heart acquainted with his calamities. 

"It would have been better to have launched you elsewhere, " he said, "but I knew no other place well enough to get the right people. And thenI have the hope that the necessity for this episode will not continue. "

"Death only will end it, Monsignor. Death for one or the other. Itshould come soon, for the charm of this life is overpowering me. I shallnever wish to go back if the charm holds me. My uncle, the Senator, isabout to place me in politics. "

"I knew he would launch you on that stormy sea, " Monsignor answeredreflectively, "but you are not bound to accept the enterprise. "

"It will give me distraction, and I need distraction from thisintolerable pain, " tapping his breast with a gesture of anguish. 

"It will surely counter-irritate. It has entranced men like the Senator, and your chief; even men like Birmingham. They have the ambition whichruns with great ability. It's a pity that the great prizes are beyondthem. "

"Why beyond them?"

"High office is closed to Catholics in this country. "

"Here I run up against the mysterious again, " he complained. 

"Go down into your memory, " Monsignor said after a little reflection, "and recall the first feeling which obscurely stirred your heart whenthe ideas of _Irish_ and _Catholic_ were presented to you. See if it wasnot distrust, dislike, irritation, or even hate; something differentfrom the feeling aroused by such ideas as _Turk_ and _atheist_. "

"Dislike, irritation, perhaps contempt, with a hint of amusement, "Arthur replied thoughtfully. 

"How came that feeling there touching people of whom you knew next tonothing?"

"Another mystery. "

"Let me tell you. Hatred and contempt of the Irish Catholic has been themark of English history for four centuries, and the same feelings havebecome a part of English character. It is in the English blood, andtherefore it is in yours. It keeps such men as Sullivan and Birminghamout of high office, and now it will act against you, strangely enough. "

"I understand. Queer things, rum things in this world. I am such amystery to myself, however, that I ought not be surprised at outsidemysteries. "

"I often regret that I helped you to your present enterprise, " said thepriest, "on that very account. Life is harsh enough without adding toits harshness. "

"Never regret that you saved a poor fellow's life, reason, fortune, family name from shame and blood, " Arthur answered hotly. "I told youthe consequences that were coming--you averted them--there's no use totalk of gratitude--and through you I came to believe in God again, as mymother taught me. No regret, for God's sake. "

His voice broke for a moment, and he walked to the window. Outside hesaw the gray-white walls which would some day be the grand cathedral. The space about it looked like the studio of a giant artist; piles ofmarble scattered here and there gave the half-formed temple the air of afrowsy, ill-dressed child; and the mass rising to the sky resembled acloud that might suddenly melt into the ether. He had seen the greattemples of the world, yet found in this humbler, but still magnificentstructure an element of wonder. From the old world, ancient, rich intradition, one expected all things; centaurs might spring from its soilunnoticed. That the prosaic rocks of Manhattan should heave for thissublimity stirred the sense of admiring wonder. 

"This is your child?" said Arthur abruptly. 

"I saw the foundation laid when I was a youth, great boulders ofhalf-hewn rock, imbedded in cement, to endure with the ages, able tosupport whatever man may pile upon them. This building is part of mylife--you may call it my child--for it seems to have sprung from me, although a greater planned it. "

"What a people to attempt this miracle, " said Arthur. 

"Now you have said it, " cried the priest proudly. "The poor people towhom you now belong, moved by the spirit which raised the great shrinesof Europe, are building out of their poverty and their faith the firstreally great temple on this continent. The country waited for them. Thistemple will express more than a desire to have protection from badweather, and to cover the preacher's pulpit. Here you will have in stonefaith, hope, love, sacrifice. What blessings it will pour out upon thecity, and upon the people who built it. For them it will be a greatglory many centuries perhaps. "

"I shall have my share in the work, " Arthur said with feeling. "I feelthat I am here to stay, and I shall be a stranger to no work in which myfriends are engaged. I'll not let the mysteries trouble me. I begin tosee what you are, and a little of what you mean. Command me, for noother in this world to-day has any right to command me--none with aright like yours, father and friend. "

"Thanks and amen, Arthur. Having no claim upon you we shall be all themore grateful. But in good time. For the present look to yourself, closely, mind; and draw upon me, upon Louis, upon your mother, they havethe warmest hearts, for sympathy and consolation. "

Not long before and Arthur Dillon would have received with the politeindifference of proud and prosperous youth this generous offer ofsympathy and love; but now it shook him to the center, for he hadlearned, at what a fearful price! how precious, how necessary, how rareis the jewel of human love. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE WEARIN' O' THE GREEN. 

By degrees the effervescence of little Ireland, in which strange landhis fortune had been cast, began to steal into his blood. Mirth ruledthe East side, working in each soul according to his limitations. It wasa wink, a smile, a drink, a passing gossoon, a sly girl, a light trick, among the unspoken things; or a biting epigram, the phrase felicitous, astory gilt with humor, a witticism swift and fatal as lightning; inaddition varied activity, a dance informal, a ceremonious ball, a party, a wake, a political meeting, the visit of the district leader; and withall, as Judy expressed it, "lashins an' lavins, an' divil a thought ofto-morrow. " Indeed this gay clan kept Yesterday so deeply and tenderlyin mind that To-day's house had no room for the uncertain morrow. Heabandoned himself to the spirit of the place. The demon of reckless funcaught him by the heels and sharpened his tongue, so that his wit andhis dancing became tonics for eyes and ears dusty with commonplace. Hismother and his chum had to admonish him, and it was very sweet to getthis sign of their love for him. Reproof from our beloved is sweeterthan praise from an enemy. 

They all watched over him as if he were heir to a throne. The Senator, busy with his approaching entrance into local politics, had alreadyintroduced him to the leaders, who formed a rather mixed circle ofintelligence and power. He had met its kind before on the frontier, where the common denominator in politics was manhood, not blue blood, previous good character, wealth, nor the stamp of Harvard. A member heldhis place by virtue of courage, popularity, and ability. Arthur made noinquiries, but took everything as it came. All was novelty, allsurprise, and to his decorous and orderly disposition, all ferment. Theclan seemed to him to be rushing onward like a torrent night and day, from the dance to the ward-meeting, from business to church, interestedand yet careless. The Senator informed him with pride that his débutwould take place at the banquet on St. Patrick's Day, when he shouldmake a speech. 

"Do you think you can do it, me boy?" said the Senator. "If you thinkyou can, why you can. "

"I know I can, " said the reckless Dillon, who had never made a speech inhis life. 

"An' lemme give you a subject, " said Judy. They were all together in thesitting-room, where the Senator had surprised them in a game of cards. 

"Give a bastin' to Mare Livingstone, " said Judy seriously. "I read inthe _Sun_ how he won't inspect the parade on St. Patrick's Day, nor letthe green flag fly on the city hall. There must be an Orange dhrop inhis blood, for no dacint Yankee 'ud have anny hathred for the blessedgreen. Sure two years ago Mare Jones dressed himself up in a lovelygreen uniform, like an Irish prince, an' lukked at the parade from aplatform. It brought the tears to me eyes, he lukked so lovely. Theyought to have kep' him Mare for the rest of his life. An' for MareLivingstone, may never a blade o' grass or a green leaf grow on hisgrave. "

The Senator beamed with secret pleasure, while the others began to talktogether with a bitterness beyond Arthur's comprehension. 

"He ought to have kept his feelings to himself, " said quiet Anne. "If hedidn't like the green, there was no need of insultin' us. "

"And that wasn't the worst, " Louis hotly added. "He gave a talk to thepapers the next day, and told how many Irish paupers were in thepoorhouse, and said how there must be an end to favoring the Irish. "

"I saw that too, " said Judy, "an' I sez to meself, sez I, he's wan o'the snakes St. Pathrick dhruv out of Ireland. "

"No need for surprise, " Mona remarked, studying her cards, "for the manhas only one thought: to keep the Irish in the gutter. Do you suppose Iwould have been a teacher to-day if he could have kept me out of it, with all his pretended friendship for papa. "

"If you baste the Mayor like this now, there won't be much left for meto do at the banquet, " said Arthur with a laugh for their fierceness. 

"Ay, there it is, " said Judy. "Yez young Americans have no love for thegreen, except for the fun yez get out of it; barrin' dacint Louis here, who read the history of Ireland whin he was tin years old, an' niver gotover it. Oh, yez may laugh away! Ye are all for the red, white, an'blue, till the Mare belts yez wid the red, white, an' blue, for he sayshe does everythin' in honor o' thim colors, though I don't see how ithonors thim to insult the green. He may be a Livingshtone in name, buthe's a dead wan for me. "

The Senator grew more cheerful as this talk grew warmer, and then, seeing Arthur's wonderment, he made an explanation. 

"Livingstone is a good fellow, but he's not a politician, Artie. Hethinks he can ru--manage the affairs of this vil--metropolis without theIrish and especially without the Catholics. Oh, he's death on them, except as boot-blacks, cooks, and ditch-diggers. He'd let themru--manage all the saloons. He's as mad--as indignant as a hornet thathe could not boo--get rid of them entirely during his term of office, and he had to speak out his feelings or bu--die. And he has put his footin it artistically. He has challenged the Irish and their friends, andhe goes out of office forever next fall. No party wants a man that letsgo of his mouth at critical moments. It might be a neat thing for you totouch him up in your speech at the banquet. "

The Senator spoke with unctuousness and delight, and Arthur saw that thepoliticians rejoiced at the loquacity and bad temper of the HonorableQuincy Livingstone, whom the Endicotts included among their distantrelatives. 

"I'll take your subject, Judy, " said he. 

"Then rade up the histhory of Ireland, " replied the old lady flattered. 

Close observation of the present proved more interesting and amusingthan the study of the past. Quincy Livingstone's strictures on theexiles of Erin stirred them to the depths, and his refusal to float thegreen flag from the city hall brought a blossoming of green ribbon onSt. Patrick's Day which only Spring could surpass in her decorations ofthe hills. The merchants blessed the sour spirit which had provokedthis display to the benefit of their treasuries. The hard streets seemedto be sprouting as the crowds moved about, and even the steps andcorridors of the mayor's office glistened with the proscribed color. Thecathedral on Mott Street was the center of attraction, and a regimentwhich had done duty in the late war the center of interest. Arthurwondered at the enthusiasm of the crowd as the veterans carrying theirtorn battle-flags marched down the street and under the arched entranceof the church to take their places for the solemn Mass. All eyes grewmoist, and sobs burst forth at sight of them. 

"If they were only marching for Ireland!" one man cried hoarsely. 

"They'll do it yet, " said another more hopeful. 

Within the cathedral a multitude sat in order, reverently quiet, butcharged with emotion. With burning eyes they watched the soldiers infront and the priests in the sanctuary, and some beat their breasts inpain, or writhed with sudden stress of feeling. Arthur felt thrilled bythe power of an emotion but vaguely understood. These exiles were livingover in this moment the scenes which had attended their expulsion fromhome and country, as he often repeated the horrid scenes of his owntragedy. Under the reverence and decorum due to the temple hearts werebursting with passion and grief. In a little while resignation wouldbring them relief and peace. 

It was like enchantment for Arthur Dillon. He knew the vested priest forhis faithful friend; but on the altar, in his mystic robes, uplifted, holding the reverent gaze of these thousands, in an atmosphere cloudedby incense and vocal with pathetic harmonies, the priest seemed as faraway as heaven; he knew in his strength and his weakness the boy besidehim, but this enwrapped attitude, this eloquent, still, unconsciousface, which spoke of thoughts and feelings familiar only to the eye ofGod, seemed to lift Louis into another sphere; he knew the peoplekneeling about, the headlong, improvident, roystering crowd, but knewthem not in this outpouring of deeper emotions than spring from thedaily chase for bread and pleasure. 

A single incident fixed this scene in his mind and heart forever. Justin front of him sat a young woman with her father, whom she covertlywatched with some anxiety. He was a man of big frame and wasted body, too nervous to remain quiet a moment, and deeply moved by the pageant, for he twisted his hands and beat his breast as if in anguish. Once shetouched his arm caressingly. And the face which he turned towards herwas stained with the unwiped tears; but when he stood up at the close ofthe Mass to see the regiment march down the grand aisle, his pale faceshowed so bitter an agony that Arthur recalled with horror his ownsufferings. The young woman clung to her father until the last soldierhad passed, and the man had sunk into his seat with a half-utteredgroan. No one noticed them, and Arthur as he left with the ladies sawher patting the father's hand and whispering to him softly. 

Outside the cathedral a joyous uproar attended the beginning of thatparade which the Mayor had declined to review. As his party was to enjoyit at some point of Fifth Avenue he did not tarry to witness thesurprising scenes about the church, but with Louis took a car uptown. Everywhere they heard hearty denunciations of the Mayor. At one street, their car being detained by the passing of a single division of theparade, the passengers crowded about the front door and the driver, andan anxious traveler asked the cause of the delay, and the probablelength of it. The driver looked at him curiously. 

"About five minutes, " he said. "Don't you know who's paradin' to-day?"

"No. "

"See the green plumes an' ribbons?"

"I do, " vacantly. 

"Know what day o' the month it is?"

"March seventeenth, of course. "

"Live near New York?"

"About twenty miles out. "

"Gee whiz!" exclaimed the driver with a gasp. "I've bin a-drivin' o'this car for twenty years, an' I never met anythin' quite so innercent. Well, it's St. Patrick's Day, an' them's the wild Irish. "

The traveler seemed but little enlightened. An emphatic man in black, with a mouth so wide that its opening suggested the wonderful, seizedthe hand of the innocent and shook it cordially. 

"I'm glad to meet one uncontaminated American citizen in this city, " hesaid. "I hope there are millions like you in the land. "

The uncontaminated looked puzzled, and might have spoken but for aviolent interruption. A man had entered the car with an orange ribbon inhis buttonhole. 

"You'll have to take that off, " said the conductor in alarm, pointing tothe ribbon, "or leave the car. "

"I won't do either, " said the man. 

"And I stand by you in that refusal, " said the emphatic gentleman. "It'san outrage that we must submit to the domination of foreigners. "

"It's the order of the company, " said the conductor. "First thing weknow a wild Irishman comes along, he goes for that orange ribbon, there's a fight, the women are frightened, and perhaps the car issmashed. "

"An' besides, " said the deliberate driver as he tied up his reins andtook off his gloves, "it's a darn sight easier an' cheaper for us to putyou off than to keep an Irishman from tryin' to murder you. "

The uncontaminated citizen and two ladies fled to the street, while thedriver and the conductor stood over the offending passenger. 

"Goin' to take off the ribbon?" asked the conductor. 

"You will be guilty of a cowardly surrender of principle if you do, "said the emphatic gentleman. 

"May I suggest, " said Arthur blandly, "that you wear it in his stead?"

"I am not interested either way, " returned the emphatic one, with a snapof the terrible jaws, "but maintain that for the sake of principle----"

A long speech was cut off at that moment by a war-cry from a simple ladwho had just entered the car, spied the ribbon, and launched himselflike a catapult upon the Orange champion. A lively scramble followed, but the scene speedily resolved itself into its proper elements. Theprocession had passed, the car moved on its way, and the passengersthrough the rear door saw the simple lad grinding the ribbon in the dustwith triumphant heel, while its late wearer flew toward the horizonpursued by an imaginary mob. Louis sat down and glared at the emphaticman. 

"Who is he?" said Arthur with interest, drawing his breath with joy overthe delights of this day. 

"He's a child-stealer, " said Louis with distinctness. "He kidnapsCatholic children and finds them Protestant homes where their faith isstolen from them. He's the most hated man in the city. "

The man accepted this scornful description of himself in silence. Exceptfor the emphasis which nature had given to his features, he was apresentable person. Flying side-whiskers made his mouth appeargrotesquely wide, and the play of strong feelings had produced viciouswrinkles on his spare face. He appeared to be a man of energy, vivacityand vulgarity, reminding one of a dinner of pork and cabbage. He wassoon forgotten in the excitement of a delightful day, whose glories cameto a brilliant end in that banquet which introduced the nephew ofSenator Dillon into political life. 

Standing before the guests, he found himself no longer that silent anddisdainful Horace Endicott, who on such an occasion would have coolystuttered and stammered through fifty sentences of dull congratulationand platitude. Feeling aroused him, illumined him, on the instant, almost without wish of his own, at the contrast between two pictureswhich traced themselves on his imagination as he rose in his place: thewrecked man who had fled from Sonia Westfield, what would he have beento-night but for the friendly hands outstretched to save him? Behold himin honor, in health, in hope, sure of love and some kind of happiness, standing before the people who had rescued him. The thousand impressionsof the past six months sparkled into life; the sublime, pathetic, andamusing scenes of that day rose up like stars in his fancy; and againsthis lips, like water against a dam, rushed vigorous sentences from thegreat deeps opened in his soul by grief and change, and then leaped overin a beautiful, glittering flood. He wondered vaguely at his vehemenceand fluency, at the silence in the hall, that these great people shouldlisten to him at all. They heard him with astonishment, the leaders withinterest, the Senator with tears; and Monsignor looked once towards thegallery where Anne Dillon sat literally frozen with terror and pride. 

The long and sincere applause which followed the speech warned him thathe had impressed a rather callous crowd of notables, and an exaltationseized him. The guests lost no time in congratulating him, and everytongue wagged in his favor. 

"You have the gift of eloquence, " said Sullivan. 

"It will be a pleasure to hear you again, " said Vandervelt, the literaryand social light of the Tammany circle. 

"You have cleared your own road, " Birmingham the financier remarked, andhe stayed long to praise the young orator. 

"There's nothin' too good for you after to-night, " cried the Senatorbrokenly. "I simply can't--cannot talk about it. "

"Your uncle, " said Doyle Grahame, the young journalist who was bent onmarrying Mona Everard, "as usual closes the delicate sparring of hispeers with a knockdown blow; there's nothing too good for you. "

"It's embarrassing. "

"I wish I had your embarrassment. Shall I translate the praises of thesegreat men for you? Sullivan meant, I must have the use of youreloquence; the lion Vandervelt, when you speak in my favor; Birmingham, please stump for me when I run for office; and the Senator, I will makeyou governor. You may use your uncle; the others hope to use you. "

"I am willing to be of service, " said Arthur severely. 

"A good-nature thrown away, unless you are asked to serve. They have allcongratulated you on your speech. Let me congratulate you on your uncle. They marvel at your eloquence; I, at your luck. Give me such an unclerather than the gift of poesy. Do not neglect oratory, but cultivate thyuncle, boy. "

Arthur laughed, Monsignor came up then, and heaped him with praise. 

"Were you blessed with fluency in--your earlier years?" he said. 

"Therein lies the surprise, and the joke. I never had an accomplishmentexcept for making an uproar in a crowd. It seems ridiculous to showsigns of the orator now, without desire, ambition, study, orpreparation. "

"Your California experiences, " said the priest casually, "may havesomething to do with it. But let me warn you, " and he looked about tomake sure no one heard, "that early distinction in your case may attractthe attention you wish to escape. "

"I feel that it will help me, " Arthur answered. "Who that knew HoraceEndicott would look for him in a popular Tammany orator? The mantle ofan Irish Cicero would disguise even a Livingstone. "

The surprise and pleasure of the leaders were cold beside the wilddelight of the Dillon clan when the news went around that Arthur hadovershadowed the great speakers of the banquet. His speech was read inevery gathering, its sarcastic description of the offensive Livingstonefilled the Celts with joy, and threw Anne and Judy into an ecstasy. 

"Faith, Mare Livingstone'll see green on St. Patrick's Day for the restof his life, " said Judy. "It' ud be a proper punishment if the bread heate, an' everythin' he touched on that day, shud turn greener than ouldIreland, the land he insulted. "

"There's curse enough on him, " Anne replied sharply, ever careful totake Arthur's side, as she thought, "and I won't have you spoilingArthur's luck be cursing any wan. I'm too glad to have an orator in thefamily. I can now put my orator against Mary Everard's priest, and be asproud as she is. "

"The pride was born in ye, " said Judy. "You won't have to earn it. Indade, ye'll have a new flirt to yer tail, an' a new toss to yer head, every day from now to his next speech. "

"Why shouldn't I? I'm his mother, " with emphasis. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE VILLA AT CONEY ISLAND. 

The awkwardness of his relations with Anne Dillon wore away speedily, until he began to think as well as speak of her as his mother; for sheproved with time to be a humorous and delightful mother. Her love forrich colors and gay scenes, her ability to play gracefully the awkwardpart which he had chosen for her, her affectionate and discreet reserve, her delicate tact and fine wit, and her half-humorous determination toinvade society, showed her as a woman of parts. He indulged her fancies, in particular her dream of entering the charmed circle of New Yorksociety. How this success should be won, and what was the circle, he didnot know, nor care. The pleasure for him lay in her bliss as sheexhausted one pleasure after another, and ever sought for higher things:Micksheen at the cat show attended by the liveried mulatto; the operaand the dog show, with bonnets and costumes to match the occasion; thenher own carriage, used so discreetly as not to lose the respect of theparish; and finally the renting of the third pew from the front in themiddle aisle of the cathedral, a step forward in the social world. Howhe had enjoyed these events in her upward progress! As a closing eventfor the first year of his new life, he suggested a villa by the sea forthe summer, with Mona and Louis as guests for the season, with as manyothers as pleased her convenience. The light which broke over her faceat this suggestion came not from within, but direct from heaven!

She sent him modestly to a country of the Philistines known as ConeyIsland, where he found the common herd enjoying a dish called chowderamid much spontaneity and dirt, and mingling their uproarious bathingwith foaming beer; a picture framed in white sand and sounding sea, morethan pleasant to the jaded taste of an Endicott. The roar of the surfdrowned the mean uproar of discordant man. The details of life therewere too cheap to be looked at closely; but at a distance the surfacehad sufficient color and movement. He found an exception to thisjudgment. La Belle Colette danced with artistic power, though insurroundings unsuited to her skill. He called it genius. In an openpavilion, whose roughness the white sand and the white-green surf helpedto condone, on a tawdry stage, she appeared, a slight, pale, winsomebeauty, clad in green and white gauze, looking like a sprite of thenear-by sea. The witchery of her dancing showed rare art, which was lostaltogether on the simple crowd. She danced carelessly, as if mocking therustics, and made her exit without applause. 

"Where did you get your artiste, August?" he said to a waiter. 

"You saw how well she dances, hey? Poor Colette! The best creature inthe world ... Opens more wine than five, and gives too much away. Butfor the drink she might dance at the opera. "

Arthur went often to see her dance, with pity for the talent thrownaway, and brought his mother under protest from that cautious lady, whowould have nothing to do with so common a place. The villa stood inrespectable, even aristocratic, quiet at the far end of the island, andAnne regarded it almost with reverence, moving about as if in a temple. He found, however, that she had made it a stage for a continuous drama, in which she played the leading part, and the Dillon clan with all itsramifications played minor characters and the audience. Her motives andher methods he could not fathom and did not try; the house filledrapidly, that was enough; the round of dinners, suppers, receptions, dances, and whatnots had the regularity of the tides. Everybody camedown from Judy's remotest cousin up to His Grace the archbishop. EvenEdith Conyngham, apparently too timid to leave the shadow of SisterMagdalen, stole into a back room with Judy, and haunted the beach for afew days. For Judy's sake he turned aside to entertain her, and with theperversity which seems to follow certain actions he told her thepathetic incident of the dancer. Why he should have chosen this poor nunto hear this tale, embellished as if to torture her, he could never makeout. Often in after years, when events had given the storysignificance, he sought for his own motives in vain. It might have beenthe gray hair, the rusty dress, the depressed manner, so painful acontrast to the sea-green sprite, all youth, and grace, and beauty, which provoked him. 

"I shall pray for the poor thing, " said rusty Edith, fingering herbeads, and then she made to grasp his hand, which he thrust into hispockets. 

"Not a second time, " he told Louis. "I'd rather get the claw of a boiledlobster. "

The young men did not like Miss Conyngham, but Louis pitied her sadstate. 

The leading characters on Anne's stage, at least the persons whom shepermitted occasionally to fill its center, were the anxious lovers Monaand Doyle Grahame. He was a poet to his finger-tips, dark-haired, ruddy, manly, with clear wit, and the tenderest and bravest of dark eyes; andshe, red-tressed, lovely, candid, simple, loved him with her whole heartwhile submitting to the decree of a sour father who forbade the banns. Friends like Anne gave them the opportunity to woo, and the Dillon clanstood as one to blind the father as to what was going on. The sight ofthis beauty and faith and love feeding on mutual confidence beside thesunlit surf and the moonlight waters gave Arthur profound sadness, steeped his heart in bitterness. Such scenes had been the prelude to histragedy. Despair looked out of his eyes and frightened Louis. 

"Why should you mind it so, after a year?" the lad pleaded. 

"Time was when I minded nothing. I thought love and friendship, goodnessand happiness, grew on every bush, and that

 When we were far from the lips that we loved, We had but to make love to the lips that were near. 

I am wiser now. "

"Away with that look, " Louis protested. "You have love in plenty withus, and you must not let yourself go like that. It's frightful. "

"It's gone, " Arthur answered rousing himself. "The feeling will never gofarther than a look. She was not worth it--but the sight of these two--Isuppose Adam must have grieved looking back at paradise. "

"They have their troubles also, " Louis said to distract his mind. "Father is unkind and harsh with Irish patriots, and because Grahamewent through the mill, conspiracy, arrest, jail, prison, escape, and allthe rest of it, he won't hear of marriage for Mona with him. Of coursehe'll have to come down in time. Grahame is the best fellow, and clevertoo. "

One day seemed much the same as another to Arthur, but his mother'scalendar had the dates marked in various colors, according to the rankof her visitors. The visit of the archbishop shone in figures of gold, but the day and hour which saw Lord Constantine cross her threshold andsit at her table stood out on the calendar in letters of flame. TheLedwiths who brought him were of little account, except as the friendsof His Lordship. Anne informed the household the day before of the honorwhich heaven was sending them, and gave minute instructions as to theetiquette to be observed; and if Arthur wished to laugh the blissfullight in her face forbade. The rules of etiquette did not include theLedwiths, who could put up with ordinary politeness and be grateful. 

"I can see from the expression of Mona, " Arthur observed to the othergentlemen, "that the etiquette of to-morrow puts us out of her sight. And who is Lord Constantine? I ought to know, so I did not dare ask. "

"A young English noble, son and heir of a Marquis, " said Grahame withmock solemnity, "who is devoted to the cause of bringing London andWashington closer together in brotherly love and financial, that isrogues' sympathy--no, roguish sympathy--that's better. He would like analliance between England and us. Therefore he cultivates the Irish. Andhe'd marry Honora Ledwith to-morrow if she'd have him. That's part ofthe scheme. "

"And who are the Ledwiths?" said Arthur incautiously, but no one noticedthe slip at the moment. 

"People with ideas, strange weird ideas, " Louis made answer. "Oh, perfectly sane, of course, but so devoted to each other, and the causeof Ireland, that they can get along with none, and few can get alongwith them. That's why Pop thinks so much of 'em. They are foreverrunning about the world, deep in conspiracies for freedom, and so on, but they never get anywhere to stay. Outside of that they're theloveliest souls the sun ever shone on, and I adore Honora. "

"And if Mona takes to His Lordship, " said Grahame, "I'll worship MissLedwith. "

"Very confusing, " Arthur muttered. "English noble, --alliance between twocountries--cultivates Irish--wants to marry Irish girl--conspirators andall that--why, there's no head or tail to the thing. "

"Well, you keep your eye on Honora Ledwith and me, and you'll get thekey. She's the sun of the system. And, by the way, don't you rememberold Ledwith, the red-hot lecturer on the woes of Ireland? Didn't youplay on her doorstep in Madison street, and treat her to Washingtonpie?"

When the party arrived next day Arthur saw a handsome, vigorous, blondyoung man, hearty in his manner, and hesitating in his speech, whom heforgot directly in his surprise over the Ledwiths; for he recognized inthem the father and daughter whom he had observed in so passionate ascene in the cathedral on St. Patrick's Day. He had their history byheart, the father being a journalist and the daughter a singer; they hadtraveled half the world; and while every one loved them none favoredtheir roseate schemes for the freedom of Ireland. Perhaps this had madethem peculiar. At the first glance one would have detected oddity aswell as distinction in them. Tall, lean, vivacious, Owen Ledwith movedabout restlessly, talked much, and with considerable temper. Thedaughter sat placid and watchful, quite used to playing audience to hisentertainments; though her eyes never seemed to look at him, Arthur sawthat she missed none of his movements, never failed to catch his wordsand to smile her approval. The whiteness of her face was like cream, andher dark blue eyes were pencilled by lashes so black that at the firstglance they seemed of a lighter shade. Impressed to a degree by what atthat instant could not be put into words, he named her in his own mindthe White Lady. No trace of disdain spoiled her lofty manner, yet hethought she looked at people as if they were minor instruments in herown scheme. She made herself at home like one accustomed to quickchanges of scene. A woman of that sort travels round the globe with asatchel, and dresses for the play with a ribbon and a comb, neverfinding the horizon too large for personal comfort. Clearly she wasbeloved in the Dillon circle, for they made much of her; but of coursethat day not even the master of the house was a good second to LordConstantine. Anne moved about like herself in a dream. She was heavenly, and Arthur enjoyed it, offering incense to His Lordship, and provokinghim into very English utterances. The young man's fault was that he rodehis hobby too hard. 

"It's a shame, doncheknow, " he cried as soon as he could decently get athis favorite theme, "that the English-speaking peoples should be sohopelessly divided just now----"

"Hold on, Lord Conny, " interrupted Grahame, "you're talking Greek toDillon. Arthur, m'lud has a theory that the English-speaking peoplesshould do something together, doncheknow, and the devil of it is to get'em together, doncheknow. "

They all laughed save Anne, who looked awful at this scandalous mimicryof a personage, until His Lordship laughed too. 

"You are only a journalist, " said he gayly, "and talk like your journal. As I was saying, we are divided at home, and here it is much worse. TheIrish here hate us worse than their brethren at home hate us, doncheknow--thank you, Miss Ledwith, I really will not use that wordagain--and all the races settled with you seem to dislike one anotherextremely. In Canada it's no better, and sometimes I would despairaltogether, only a beginning must be made sometime; and I am reallydoing very well among the Irish. "

He looked towards Honora who smiled and turned again to Arthur withthose gracious eyes. 

"I knew you would not forget it, " she said. "The Washington pie initself would keep it in your mind. How I loved that pie, and every onewho gave me some. Your coming home must have been very wonderful to yourdear mother. "

"More wonderful than I could make you understand, " murmured Arthur. "Doyou know the old house is still in Madison street, where we played andate the pie?"

Louis put his head between them slyly and whispered:

"I can run over to the baker's if you wish and get a chunk of thatidentical pie, if you're so in love with it, and we'll have the wholescene over again. "

No persuasion could induce the party to remain over night at the villa, because of important engagements in the city touching the alliance andthe freedom of Erin; and the same tremendous interests would take themfar away the next morning to be absent for months; but the winter wouldfind them in the city and, when they would be fairly settled, Arthur wasbid to come and dine with them often. On the last boat the White Ladysailed away with her lord and father, and Anne watched the boat out ofsight, sighing like one who has been ravished to the third heaven, andfinds it a distressing job to get a grip on earth again. 

Arthur noticed that his mother dressed particularly well for the visitsof the politicians, and entertained them sumptuously. Was she planningfor his career? Delicious thought! But no, the web was weaving for theSenator. When the last knot was tied, she threw it over his head inperfect style. He complimented her on her latest costume. She swungabout the room with mock airs and graces to display it more perfectly, and the men applauded. Good fortune had brought her back a likeness ofher former beauty, angles and wrinkles had vanished, there was luster inher hair, and her melting eyes shone clear blue, a trifle faded. In herold age the coquette of twenty years back was returning with a charmwhich caught brother and son. 

"I shall wear one like it at your inauguration, Senator, " said shebrightly. 

"For President? Thank you. But the dress reminds me, Anne, " the Senatoradded with feeling, "of what you were twenty years ago: the sweetest andprettiest girl in the city. "

"Oh, you always have the golden word, " said she, "and thank you. Butyou'll not be elected president, only mayor of our own city. "

"It might come--in time, " the Senator thought. 

"And now is the time, " cried she so emphatically that he jumped. "Vandervelt told me that no man could be elected unless you said theword. Why shouldn't you say it for yourself? He told me in the samebreath he'd like to see you in the place afore any friend he had, because you were a man o' your word, and no wan could lose be yourelection. "

"Did he say all that?"

"Every word, and twice as much, " she declared with eagerness. "Now thinkit over with all your clever brains, Senator dear, and lift up theDillon name to the first place in the city. Oh, I'd give me life to seethat glory. "

"And to win it, " Arthur added under his breath. 

The Senator was impressed, and Arthur had a feeling akin to awe. Who canfollow the way of the world? The thread of destiny for the great city upthe bay lay between the fingers of this sweet, ambitious house-mother, and of the popular gladiator. Even though she should lead the Senator bythe nose to humiliation, the scene was wonderfully picturesque, and herthought daring. He did not know enough history to be aware that thissame scene had happened several hundred times in past centuries; but hewent out to take another look at the house which sheltered a woman ofpluck and genius. The secret of the villa was known. Anne had used it tohelp in the selection of the next Mayor. He laughed from the depths ofhis being as he walked along the shore. 

The Everard children returned home early in September to enjoy thepreparations for the entrance of Louis into the seminary. The time hadarrived for him to take up the special studies of the priesthood, andthis meant his separation from the home circle forever. He would comeand go for years perhaps, but alas! only as a visitor. The soul ofArthur was knit with the lad's as Jonathan with David. He had neverknown a youth so gracious and so strange, whose heart was like asanctuary where

 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between. 

It was with him as with Sir Galahad. 

 But all my heart is drawn above. My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. 

Parting with him was a calamity. 

"How can you let him go?" he said to Mary Everard, busy with thepreparations. 

"I am a happy woman that God calls my boy to His service, " she answeredcheerfully. "The children go anyway ... It's nature. I left father andmother for my own home. How good it is to think he is going to thesanctuary. I know that he is going forever ... He is mine no more ... Hewill come back often, but he is mine no more. I am heart-broken ... I amkeeping a gay face while he is here, for the child must not be worriedwith our grief ... Time enough for that when he is gone ... And he is sohappy. My heart is leaving me to go with him. Twenty years since he wasborn, and in all that time not a moment's pain on his account ... Allhis life has been ours ... As if he were the father of the family. Whatshall I be for the rest of my life, listening for his step and hisvoice, and never a sight or sound of him for months at a time. God giveme strength to bear it. If I live to see him on the altar, I shall thankGod and die.... "

Twenty years she had served him, yet here came the inevitable end, as ifsuch love had never been. 

"Oh, you people of faith! I believe you never suffer, nor know whatsuffering is!"

"Not your kind of suffering, surely, or we would die. Our hope is alwayswith us, and fortunately does not depend on our moods for its power. "

Mona teased him into good humor. That was a great moment when inpresence of the family the lad put on the dress of the seminary, Arthur's gift. Feeling like a prince who clothes his favorite knight inhis new armor, Arthur helped him to don the black cassock, tied theribbons of the surplice, and fixed the three-cornered cap properly onthe brown, curly head. A pallor spread over the mother's face. Monatalked much to keep back her tears, and the father declared it a shameto make a priest of so fine a fellow, since there were too many priestsin the world for its good. The boy walked about as proud as a youngsoldier dressed for his first parade. The Trumps, enraptured at thesight, clapped their hands with joy. 

"Why, he's a priest, " cried Constance, with a twist of her pretty mouth. "Louis is a priest. "

"No, Baby, " corrected Marguerite, the little mother, "but he is going tobe one sometime. "

The wonderful garments enchanted them, they feared to touch him, andprotested when he swung them high and kissed them on the return flight. The boy's departure for the seminary stirred the region of Cherry Hill. The old neighbors came and went in a steady procession for two days totake their leave of him, to bless his parents, and to wish them the joyof seeing him one day at the altar as a priest of God. They bowed to himwith that reverence which belonged to Monsignor, only more familiar andloquacious, and each brought his gift of respect or affection. Even theSenator and the Boss appeared to say a parting word. 

"I wish you luck, Louis, " the Senator said in his resonant voice, andwith the speaker's chair before his eyes, "and I know you'll get it, because you have deserved it, sir. I've seen you grow up, and I'vealways been proud to know you, and I want to know you as long as I live. If ever you should need a hand like mine in the ga ... I mean, if evermy assistance is of any use to you, you know where to call. "

"You have a hard road to travel, " the genial Sullivan said at the closeof his visit, "but your training has prepared you for it, and we allhope you will walk it honorably to the end. Remember we all take aninterest in you, and what happens to you for good or ill will be felt inthis parish. "

Then the moment of parting came, and Arthur thought less of his owngrief than of the revelation it contained for him. Was this the feelingwhich prompted the tears of his mother, and the tender, speechlessembrace of his dear father in the far-off days when he set out forschool? Was this the grief which made the parting moment terrible? Thenhe had thought it nothing that for months of the year they should bewithout his beloved presence! He shivered at the last embraces of Maryand Mona, at the tears of the children; he saw behind the father's maskof calmness; he wondered no more at himself as he stood looking afterthe train which bore the boy away. The city seemed as vacant all at onceas if turned into a desert. The room in the attic, with its bed, itsdesk, and its altar, suddenly became a terrible place, like a body fromwhich the soul has fled. Every feature of it gave him pain, and hehurried back with Mona to the frivolity of Anne in her villa by thesea. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE HUMORS OF ELECTION. 

When the villa closed the Senator was hopelessly enmeshed in the goldennet which had been so skilfully and genially woven by Anne during thesummer. He believed himself to be the coming man, all his naturalshrewdness and rich experience going for naught before the witchery ofhis sister's imagination. In her mind the climax of the drama was aDillon at the top of the heap in the City Hall. Alas, the very firstorders of the chief to his secretary swept away the fine-spun dreams ofthe Dillons, as the broom brushes into obscure dirt the wondrous cobweb. The Hon. John Sullivan spoke in short sentences, used each man accordingto that man's nature, stood above and ahead of his cleverestlieutenants, had few prejudices, and these noble, and was truly a heroon the battle-ground of social forces, where no artillery roars, nouniforms glare, and no trumpets sound for the poets. The time havingcome for action he gave Arthur his orders on the supposition that heunderstood the political situation, which he did in some degree, but notseriously. The Endicotts looked upon elections as the concern of therabble, and this Endicott thought it perhaps an occasion for uproariousfun. His orders partly sobered him. 

"Go to your uncle, " said Sullivan, "and tell him he's not in the race. Idon't know where he got that bee in his bonnet. Then arrange withEverard to call on Livingstone. Do what you can to straighten the Mayorout. He ought to be the candidate. "

This dealing with men inspired him. Hitherto he had been playing withchildren in the garden of life; now he stood with the fighters in theterrible arena. And his first task was to extinguish the roseate dreamsof Anne and her gladiator, to destroy that exquisite fabric woven ofmoonlit seas, enchanting dinners, and Parisian millinery. Never! Letthe chief commit that sacrilege! He would not say the word whoseutterance might wound the hearts that loved him. The Senator and Anneshould have a clear field. High time for the very respectable citizensof the metropolis to secure a novelty for mayor, to get a taste of Romanliberty, when a distinguished member of the arena could wear the purpleif he had the mind. 

Birmingham forced him to change his attitude. The man of money was bothgood-hearted and large-minded, and had departed from the ways ofcommerce to seek distinction in politics. Stolid, without enthusiasm ordash, he could be stubbornly great in defence of principle. Success anda few millions had not changed his early theories of life. Pride in hisrace, delight in his religion, devotion to his party, increased in himas he rose to honor and fame. Arthur Dillon felt still more theseriousness of the position when this man came to ask his aid insecuring the nomination. 

"There never was a time in the history of the city, " said Birmingham, "when a Catholic had such a chance to become mayor as now. Protestantswould not have him, if he were a saint. But prejudice has abated, andconfidence in us has increased since the war. Sullivan can have theposition if he wants it. So can many others. All of them can afford towait, while I cannot. I am not a politician, only a candidate. At anymoment, by the merest accident, I may become one of the impossibles. Iam anxious, therefore, to secure the nomination this year. I would liketo get your influence. Where the balance is often turned by the weightof a hair one cannot be too alert. "

"Do you think I have influence?" said Arthur humbly. 

"You are the secretary, " Birmingham answered, surprised. 

"I shall have to use it in behalf of my uncle then. "

"And if your uncle should not run?"

"I should be happy to give you my support. "

Birmingham looked as blank as one before whom a door opens unexpectedly. 

"You understand, " continued Arthur, "that I have been absent too long tograsp the situation clearly. I think my uncle aspires.... "

"A very worthy man, " murmured Birmingham. 

"You seem to think he has not much of a chance.... "

"I know something of Sullivan's mind, " Birmingham ventured, "and youknow it still better. The exploits of the Senator in his youth--reallyit would be well for him not to expose himself to public ridicule.... "

"I had not thought of that, " said Arthur, when the other pauseddelicately. "You are quite right. He should not expose himself. As noother has done me the honor to ask my help, I am free to help you. "

"You are more than kind. This nomination means election, and electionmeans the opening of a fine career for me. Beyond lie the governorship, the senate, and perhaps higher things. To us these high offices havebeen closed as firmly as if they were in Sweden. I want the honor ofbreaking down the barriers. "

"It is time. I hope you will get the honor, " said Arthur gravely. Hefelt sadly about the Senator, and the shining ambition of his mother. How could he shatter their dreams? Yet in very pity the task had to bedone, and when next he heard them vaporing on the glory of the future, he said casually:

"I know what your enemies will say if you come into contrast withLivingstone. "

"I've heard it often enough, " answered the Senator gayly. "If I'dlistened to them I'd be still in the ring. "

Then a suspicion overcame him, and he cried out bitterly:

"Do you say the same, Artie?"

"Rot. There isn't another like you in the whole world, uncle. If my votecould do it you'd go into the White House to-morrow. If you're inearnest in this business of the nomination, then I'm with you to thelast ditch. Now when you become mayor of the first city in theland"--Oh, the smile which flashed on the faces of Anne and the Senatorat this phrase!--"you become also the target of every journal in thecountry, of every comic paper, of every cartoonist. All your littlefaults, your blunders, past and present, are magnified. They sing of youin the music-halls. Oh, there would be no end to it! Ridicule is worsethan abuse. It would hurt your friends more than you. You could notescape it, and no one could answer it. Is the prize worth the pain?"

Then he looked out of the window to escape seeing the pain in hismother's face, and the bitterness in the Senator's. He did notillustrate his contention with examples, for with these the Senator andhis friends were familiar. A light arose on the poor man's horizon. Looking timidly at Anne, after a moment's pause, he said:

"I never thought of all that. You've put me on the right track, Artie. Ithank you. "

"What can I do, " he whispered to Anne, "since it's plain he wants me togive in--no, to avoid the comic papers?"

"Whatever he wishes must be done, " she replied with a gesture ofdespair. 

"The boy is a wonder, " thought the Senator. "He has us all under thatlittle California thumb. "

"I was a fool to think of the nomination, " he said aloud as Arthurturned from the window. "Of course there'd be no end to the ridicule. Didn't the chap on Harper's, when I was elected for the Senate, rig meout as a gladiator, without a stitch on me, actually, Artie, not astitch--most indecent thing--and show old Cicero in the same picturelooking at me like John Everard, with a sneer, and singing to himself: asenator! No, I couldn't stand it. I give up. I've got as high as my kindcan go. But there's one thing, if I can't be mayor myself, I can saywho's goin' to be. "

"Then make it Birmingham, uncle, " Arthur suggested. "I would like to seehim in that place next to you. "

"And Birmingham it is, unless"--he looked at Anne limp withdisappointment--"unless I take it into my head to name you for theplace. "

She gave a little cry of joy and sat up straight. 

"Now God bless you for that word, Senator. It'll be a Dillon anyway. "

"In that case I make Birmingham second choice, " Arthur said seriously, accepting the hint as a happy ending to a rather painful scene. 

The second part of the Chief's order proved more entertaining. To visitthe Mayor and sound him on the question of his own renomination appearedto Arthur amusing rather than important; because of his own rawness forsuch a mission, and also because of their relationship. Livingstone washis kinsman. Of course John Everard gave the embassy character, but hisreputation reflected on its usefulness. Nature had not yet provided akey to the character of Louis' father. Arthur endured him because Louisloved him, quoted him admiringly, and seemed to understand him most ofthe time; but he could not understand an Irishman who maintained, as aprinciple of history, the inferiority of his race to the English, tracedits miseries to its silly pride, opposed all schemes of progress untilhis principle was accepted, and placed the salvation of his people inthat moment when they should have admitted the inferiority imposed bynature, and laid aside their wretched conceit. This perverse nature hada sociable, even humorous side, and in a sardonic way loved its own. 

"I have often wondered, " Arthur said, when they were discussing thedetails of the mission to Livingstone, "how your tough fiber evergenerated beings so tender and beautiful as Mona, and Louis, and theTrumps. And now I'm wondering why Sullivan associates you and me in thisbusiness. Is it his plan to sink the Mayor deeper in his own mud?"

"Whatever his plan I'd like to know what he means in sending with me tothe noblest official in the city and the land, for that matter, thenotorious orator of a cheap banquet. "

"I think it means that Quincy must apologize to the Irish, or nominatehimself, " said Arthur slowly. 

A lively emotion touched him when he first entered the room where theMayor sat stately and gracious. In him the Endicott features wereemphatic and beautiful. Tall, ruddy, perfectly dressed, with white hairand moustache shining like silver, and dark blue eyes full of fire, thearistocrat breathed from him like a perfume. His greeting both forEverard and Dillon had a graciousness tinged with contempt; a contemptnever yet perceived by Everard, but perceived and promptly answered onArthur's part with equal scorn. 

"Mr. Dillon comes from Sullivan, " said Everard, "to ask you, as acondition of renomination, that you take back your remarks on the Irishlast winter. You did them good. They are so soaked in flattery, theflattery of budding orators, that your talk wakes them to the truth. "

"I take nothing back, " said the Mayor in a calm, sweet voice to whichfeeling gave an edge. 

"Then you do not desire the nomination of Tammany Hall?" Arthur saidwith a placid drawl, which usually exasperated Everard and other people. 

"But I do, " the Mayor answered quickly, comprehending on the instant thequality of this antagonist, feeling his own insolence in the tone. "Imerely decline the conditions. "

"Then you must nominate yourself, for the Irish won't vote for you, "cried Everard. 

"The leaders would like to give you the nomination, Mr. Livingstone. Youmay have it, if you can find the means to placate offended voters foryour behavior and your utterances on St. Patrick's Day. "

"Go down on your knees at once, Mayor, " sneered Everard. 

"I hope Your Honor does not pay too much attention to the opinions ofthis gentleman, " said Arthur with a gesture for his companion. "He's aCrusoe in politics. There's no one else on his island. You have ahistory, sir, which is often told in the Irish colony here. I have heardit often since my return home----"

"This is the gentleman who spoke of your policy at the Donnybrookbanquet, " Everard interrupted. 

Livingstone made a sign for silence, and took a closer look at Arthur. 

"The Irish do not like you, they have no faith in you as a fair man, they say that you are always planning against them, that you areresponsible for the deviltries practised upon them through gospelmissions, soup kitchens, kidnapping industries, and political intrigues. Whether these things be true, it seems to me that a candidate ought togo far out of his way to destroy such fancies. "

"A very good word, fancies! Are you going to make your famous speechover again?" said Everard with the ready sneer. 

"Can you deny that what I have spoken is the truth?"

"It is not necessary that he should, " Livingstone answered quietly. "Iam not interested in what some people say of me. Tell Mr. Sullivan I amready to accept the nomination, but that I never retract, never deserta position. "

This young man nettled and irritated the Mayor. His insolence, theinsolence of his own class, was so subtly and politely expressed, thatno fault could be found; and, though his inexperience was evident, hehandled a ready blade and made no secret of his disdain. Arthur did notknow to what point of the compass the short conversation had carriedthem, but he took a boy's foolish delight in teasing the irritated men. 

"It all comes to this: you must nominate yourself, " said Everard. 

"And divide the party?"

"I am not sure it would divide the party, " Livingstone condescended tosay, for he was amused at the simple horror of Dillon. "It might uniteit under different circumstances. "

"That's the remark of a statesman. And it would rid us, Arthur Dillon, of Sullivan and his kind, who should be running a gin-mill in Hesterstreet. "

"If he didn't have a finer experience in politics, and a bigger brainfor managing men than any three in the city, " retorted Arthur icily. "Heis too wise to bring the prejudices of race and creed into citypolitics. If Your Honor runs on an independent ticket, the Irish willvote against you to a man. One would think that far-seeing men, interested in the city and careful of the future, would hesitate to makedangerous rivalries of this sort. Is there not enough bigotry now?"

"Not that I know, " said the Mayor with a pretence of indifference. "Weare all eager to keep the races in good humor, but at the same time toprevent the ascendancy of a particular race, except the native. It isthe Irish to-day. It will be the Germans to-morrow. Once checkedthoroughly, there will be no trouble in the future. "

The interview ended with these words. By that time Arthur had gonebeyond his political depth, and was glad to make his adieu to the greatman. He retained one honest conclusion from the interview. 

"Birmingham can thank this pig-headed gentleman, " said he to Everard, "for making him mayor of New York. "

John snorted his contempt of the statement and its abettors. The reportof Arthur disquieted the Chief and his counselors, who assembled to hearand discuss it. 

"It's regrettable, " was Sullivan's opinion. "Livingstone makes a finefigure in a campaign. He has an attractive name. His independence ispopular, and does no harm. He hasn't the interests of the party at heartthough. The question now is, can we persuade the Irish to overlook hispeculiarities about the green and St. Patrick's Day?"

"A more pertinent question, " Vandervelt said after a respectful silence, "would be as to the next available man. I favor Birmingham. "

"And I, " echoed the Senator. 

Arthur listened to the amicable discussion that followed with thoughtsnot for the candidate, but for the three men who thus determined thehistory of the city for the next two years. The triumvirs! Cloudy scenesof half-forgotten history rose before him, strange names utteredthemselves. Mark Antony and young Octavius and weak Lepidus! He feltsuddenly the seriousness of life, and wonder at the ways of men; for hehad never stood so near the little gods that harness society to theirpolicies, never till now had he seen with his own eyes how the world issteered. The upshot of endless talk and trickery was the nomination ofBirmingham, and the placing of an independent ticket in the field withthe Mayor at its head. 

"Now for the fun, " said Grahame. "It's going to be a big fight. If youwant to see the working out of principles keep close to me while thefight is on, and I'll explain things. "

The explanation was intricate and long. What did not matter he forgot, but the picturesque things, which touched his own life afterwards veryclosely, he kept in mind. Trotting about with the journalist theyencountered one day a cleric of distinguished appearance. 

"Take a good look at him. He's the man that steers Livingstone. "

"I thought it was John Everard. "

"John doesn't even steer himself, " said Grahame savagely. "But take aview of the bishop. "

Arthur saw a face whose fine features were shaded by melancholy, tingedwith jaundice, gloomy in expression; the mouth drooped at the corners, and the eyes were heavy; one could hardly picture that face lighted byhumor or fancy. 

"We refuse to discuss certain things in political circles here, " Grahamecontinued. "One of them is the muddle made of politics every littlewhile by dragging in religion. The bishop, Bishop Bradford is his name, never loses a chance to make a mud pie. The independent ticket is hispie this year. He secured Livingstone to bake it, for he's no bakerhimself. He believes in God, but still more does he believe that theCatholics of this city should be kept in the backyard of society. Ifthey eat his pie, their only ambition will be to live in an Americanbackyard. No word of this ever finds its way into the journals, but itis the secret element in New York politics. "

"I thought everything got into the newspapers, " Arthur complained. "Blamed if I can get hold of the thing. "

"You're right, everything goes into the sewers, but not in a formal way. What's the reason for the independent ticket? Printed: revolt against adomineering boss. Private: to shake the Irish in politics. Do you see?Now, here is a campaign going on. It began last week. It ends inNovember. But the other campaign has neither beginning nor end. I'llgive you object-lessons. There's where the fun comes in. "

The first object-lesson brought Arthur to the gospel-hall managed by agentleman whom he had not seen or thought of since the pleasantcelebration of St. Patrick's day. Rev. Mr. McMeeter, evangelist of theexpansive countenance, was warming up his gathering of sinners thatnight with a twofold theme: hell for sinners, and the same, embroideredintensely, for Rome. 

"He handles it as Laocoon did the serpents, " whispered Grahame. 

In a very clerical costume, on a small platform, the earnest manwrithed, twisted, and sweated, with every muscle in strain, his faceworking in convulsions, his lungs beating heaven with sound. He outdidthe Trojan hero in the leaps across the platform, the sinuous gestures, the rendings of the enemy; until that moment when he drew the bars ofhell for the unrepentant, and flung Rome into the abyss. This effectiveperformance, inartistic and almost grotesque, never fell to the level ofthe ridiculous, for native power was strong in the man. The perorationraised Livingstone to the skies, chained Sullivan in the lowest depthsof the Inferno, and introduced as a terrible example a brand justrescued from the burning. 

"Study her, observe her, " said Grahame. "These brands have had curiousburnings. "

She spoke with ease, a little woman in widow's weeds, coquettishlydisplaying silken brown hair under the ruching of a demure bonnet. Taking her own account--"Which some reporter wrote for her no doubt, "Grahame commented--she had been a sinner, a slave of Rome, a castawaybound hand and foot to degrading superstition, until rescued by thenoblest of men and led by spirit into the great work of rescuing othersfrom the grinding slavery of the Church of Rome. Very tenderly sheappealed to the audience to help her. The prayers of the saints wereabout to be answered. God had raised up a leader who would strike theshackles off the limbs of the children. The leader, of course, was MayorLivingstone. 

"You see how the spirit works, " said Grahame. 

Then came an interruption. The Brand introduced a girl of twelve as anillustration of her work of rescue among the dreadful hirelings of Rome. A feeble and ragged woman in the audience rose and cried out that thechild was her lost Ellen. The little girl made a leap from the platformbut was caught dexterously by the Brand and flung behind the scenes. Astout woman shook her fist in the Brand's face and called her out of hername; and also gave the evangelist a slap in the stomach which taughthim a new kind of convulsion. His aids fell upon the stout woman, thetough men of the audience fell upon the aids, the mother of Ellen beganshrieking, and some respectable people ran to the door to call thepolice. A single policeman entered cooly, and laid about him with hisstick so as to hit the evangelists with frequency. For a few minutes allthings turned to dust, confusion, and bad language. The policemanrestored order, dismissed Ellen with her mother, calmed the stout woman, and cautioned the host. The Brand had watched the scene calmly andprobably enjoyed it. When Arthur left with Grahame Mr. McMeeter had justbegun an address which described the policeman as a satellite, ajanizary, and a pretorian of Rome. 

"They're doing a very neat job for Livingstone, " said Grahame. "Maybethere are fifty such places about the town. Little Ellen was lucky tosee her mother again. Most of these stolen children are shipped off tothe west, and turned into very good Protestants, while their mothersgrieve to death. "

"Livingstone ought to be above such work. "

"He is. He has nothing in common with a kidnapper like McMeeter. He justaccepts what is thrown at him. McMeeter throws his support at him. Onlyhigh-class methods attract a man like Livingstone. Sister Claire, theEscaped Nun, is one of his methods. We'll go and see her too. Shelectures at Chickering Hall to-night ... Comes on about half afternine--tells all about her escape from a prison in a convent ... How shewas enslaved ... How sin thrives in convents ... And appeals for helpfor other nuns not yet escaped ... With reference to the coming electionand the great deliverer, Livingstone ... Makes a pile of money. "

"You seem envious, " Arthur hinted. 

"Who wouldn't? I can't make a superfluous cent being virtuous, andSister Claire clears thousands by lying about her neighbors. "

They took a seat among the reporters, in front of a decorous, severe, even godly audience, who awaited the coming of the Escaped Nun withreligious interest. Amid a profound stillness, she came upon the stagefrom a rear door, ushered in by an impressive clergyman; and walkedforward, a startling figure, to the speaker's place, where she stoodwith the dignity and modesty of her profession, and a self-possessionall her own. 

"Stunning, " Grahame whispered. "Costume incorrect, but dramatic. "

Her dress and veil were of pale yellow, some woolen stuff, the coif andgamp were of white linen, and a red cross marked the entire front of herdress, the arms of the cross resting on her bosom. Arthur stared. Herface of a sickly pallor had deep circles under the eyes, but seemedplump enough for her years. For a moment she stood quietly, withdrooping head and uplifted eyes, her hands clasped, a picture of beauty. After a gasp and a pause the audience broke into warm applause longcontinued. In a sweet and sonorous voice she made her speech, and toldher story. It sounded like the _Lady of the Lake_ at times. Grahameyawned--he had heard it so often. Arthur gathered that she had somewheresuffered the tortures of the Inquisition, that innocent girls wereenjoying the same experience in the convents of the country, that theywere deserted both of God and man, and that she alone had taken up theircause. She was a devoted Catholic, and could never change her faith; ifshe appealed to her audience, it was only to interest them in behalf ofher suffering sisters. 

"That's the artistic touch, " Grahame whispered again. "But it won't pay. Her revelations must get more salaciousness after election. "

Arthur hardly heard him. Where had he seen and heard this woman before?Though he could not recall a feature of her face, form, dress, manner, yet he had the puzzling sense of having met her long ago, that herpersonality was not unfamiliar. Still her features baffled the sense. Hestudied her in vain. When her lecture ended, with drooping head andclasped hands, she modestly withdrew amid fervid acclamations. 

Strange and bewildering were the currents of intrigue that made up acampaign in the great city; not to mention the hidden forces whosecurrent no human could discern. Arthur went about exercising his talentfor oratory in behalf of Birmingham, and found consolation in thesincere applause of humble men, and of boys subdued by the charm of hismanner. He learned that the true orator expresses not only his ownconvictions and emotions, but also the unspoken thoughts, the mutefeelings, the cloudy convictions of the simple multitude. He is theirinterpreter to themselves. The thought gave him reverence for that powerwhich had lain long dormant in him until sorrow waked its nobleharmonies. The ferment in the city astonished him. The very boys foughtin the vacant lots, and reveled in the strategy of crooked streets andblind alleys. Kindly women, suddenly reminded that the Irish were a raceof slaves, banged their doors, and flirted their skirts in scorn. Workmen lost their job here and there, mates fought at the workbench, the bully found his excuse to beat the weak, all in the name ofLivingstone. The small business men, whose profits came from both sides, did severe penance for their sins of sanded sugar and deficient weight. The police found their nerves overstrained. 

To him the entire drama of the campaign had the interest of animpossible romance. It was a struggle between a poor people, cast out byone nation, fighting for a footing on new soil, and a successful few, who had forgotten the sufferings, the similar struggle of their fathers. He rejoiced when Birmingham won. He had not a single regret for thedefeat of Livingstone, though it hurt him that a bad cause should havefound its leader in his kinsman. 

CHAPTER XI. 

AN ENDICOTT HEIR. 

Meanwhile what of the world and the woman he had left behind? A year hadpassed, his new personality had begun to fit, and no word or sign directfrom the Endicott circle had reached him. Time seemed to have created aprofound silence between him and them. Indirectly, however, through thejournals, he caught fleeting glimpses of that rage which had filledSonia with hatred and despair. A description of his person appeared asan advertisement, with a reward of five thousand dollars for informationthat would lead to the discovery of his whereabouts, or to a certaintyof his death. At another time the journals which printed both reward andnotice, had a carefully worded plea from his Aunt Lois for letter orvisit to soothe the anxieties of her last days. He shook over thisreminder of her faithful love until he analyzed the circumstances whichhad probably led to this burst of publicity. Early in July a letter hadinformed Sonia of his visit to Wisconsin; two months later a secondletter described, in one word, her character, and in six her sentence:adulteress, you shall never see me again. A week's work by her lawyerswould have laid bare the fact that the Endicott estate had vanished, andthat her own small income was her sole possession. 

A careful study of his motives would have revealed in part his plans, and a detective had probably spent a month in a vain pursuit. Thedetective's report must have startled even the lawyers. All clues led tonothing. Sonia had no money to throw away, nor would she dare to appealtoo strongly to Aunt Lois and Horace Endicott's friends, who might learntoo much, if she were too candid. The two who loved him were not yetreally worried by his disappearance, since they had his significantletter. In time their confidence would give place to anxiety, andheaven and earth would be moved to uncover his hiding-place. Thisloving notice was a trap set by Sonia. On the road which led fromMulberry Street to Cambridge, from the home of Anne Dillon to the homeof Lois Endicott, Sonia's detective lay in wait for the returning stepsof the lost husband, and Sonia's eyes devoured the shadows, her earsdrank in every sound. He laughed, he grew warm with the feeling oftriumph. She would watch and listen in vain. The judgment-seat of Godwas the appointment he had made for her. 

He began now to wonder at the completeness of his own disappearance. Hisformer self seemed utterly beyond the reach of men. The detectives hadnot only failed to find him, they had not even fallen upon his track byaccident. How singular that an Irish colony in the metropolis should beso far in fact and sympathy from the aristocracy. Sonia and herdetectives would have thought of Greenland and the Eskimos, Ashanti, Alaska, the court of China, as possible refuges, but never of CherryStreet and the children of Erin, who were farther off from the Endicottsand the Livingstones than the head-hunters of Borneo. Had her detectivesby any chance met him on the road, prepared for any disguise, how dumband deaf and sightless would they become when his position as the nephewof Senator Dillon, the secretary of Sullivan, the orator of TammanyHall, and the pride of Cherry Hill, shone upon them. 

This triumph he would have enjoyed the more could he have seen theeffect which the gradual change in his personality had produced onMonsignor O'Donnell, for whom the Endicott episode proved the mostcurious experience of his career. Its interest was discounted by theresponsibility imposed upon him. His only comfort lay in the thoughtthat at any moment he could wash his hands of the affair, beforeannoying or dangerous consequences began to threaten. He suffered fromconstant misgivings. The drama of a change in personality went on dailyunder his eyes, and almost frightened him by its climaxes, which weremore distinct to him than to Endicott. First, the pale, worn, savage, and blood-haunted boy who came to him in his first agony; then themelancholy, bearded, yet serene invalid who lay in Anne Dillon's houseand was welcomed as her son; next, the young citizen of the Irishcolony, known as a wealthy and lucky Californian, bidding for honors asthe nephew of Senator Dillon; and last the surprising orator, the idolof the Irish people, their devoted friend, who spared neither labor normoney in serving them. 

The awesome things in this process were the fading away of the Endicottand the growing distinctness of the Dillon. At first the old personalitylay concealed under the new as under a mask; but something likeabsorption by degrees obliterated the outlines of Endicott and developedthe Dillon. Daily he noticed the new features which sprang into sightbetween sunrise and sunrise. It was not only the fashion of dress, ofbody, and of speech, which mimics may adopt; but also a change ofcountenance, a turn of mind which remained permanent, change of gesture, a deeper color of skin, greater decision in movement; in fact, so manyand so minute mutations that he could not recall one-tenth the number. Endicott for instance had possessed an eloquent, lustrous, round eye, with an expression delightfully indolent; in Dillon the roundness andindolence gave way to a malicious wrinkle at the outside corners, whichgave his glance a touch of bitterness. Endicott had been gracefully slowin his movement; Dillon was nervous and alert. A fascination of terrorheld Monsignor as Arthur Dillon grew like his namesake more and more. Out of what depths had this new personality been conjured up? What wouldbe the end of it? He said to himself that a single incident, the deathof Sonia, would be enough to destroy on the instant this Dillon andresurrect the Endicott. Still he was not sure, and the longer thisterrible process continued the less likely a change back to the normal. 

Morbid introspection had become a part of the young man's pain. Thestudy of the changes in himself proved more pleasant than painful. Hismind swung between bitter depression, and warm, natural joy. His momentsof deepest joy were coincident with an interesting condition of mind. Oncertain days he completely forgot the Endicott and became the Dillonalmost perfectly. Then he no longer acted a part, but was absorbed init. Most of the time he was Endicott playing the rôle of Dillon, withouteffort and with much pleasure, indeed, but still an actor. When memoryand grief fled from him together, as on St. Patrick's Day, his newpersonality dominated each instant of consciousness, and banishedthought of the old. Then a new spirit rose in him; not merely a feelingof relief from pain, but a positive influence which led him to dosurprising and audacious things, like the speech at the banquet. It wasa divine forgetfulness, which he prayed might be continuous. He loved tothink that some years of his life would see the new personality in fullpossession of him, while the old would be but a feeble memory, a meredream of an impossible past. Wonderful, if the little things of the day, small but innumerable, should wipe out in the end an entire youth thattook twenty years in building. What is the past after all but a vaguehorizon made emphatic by the peaks of memory? What is the future but abare plain with no emphasis at all? Man lives only in the present, likethe God whose spirit breathes in him. 

Sonia was bent on his not forgetting, however. His heart died within himwhen he read in the journals the prominent announcement of the birth ofa son to the lost Horace Endicott, whose woful fate still troubled theshort memory of editors. A son! He crushed the paper in his anguish andfell again into the old depression. Oh, how thoroughly had God punishedthe hidden crimes of this lost woman! A child would have saved her, andin her hatred of him she had ... He always refused to utter to himselfthe thought which here rose before his mind. His head bent in agony. This child was not his, perhaps not even hers. She had invented it as atrap for him. Were it really his little one, his flesh and blood, howeagerly he would have thrown off his present life and flown to itsrescue from such a mother!

Sonia did not hope for such a result. It was her fraudulent mortgage onthe future and its possibilities. The child would be heir to hisproperty; would have the sympathy and inherit the possessions of hisAunt Lois; would lull the suspicions concerning its mother, andconciliate the gossips; and might win him back from hiding, if only toexpose the fraud and take shame from the Endicotts. What a clever anddaring criminal was this woman! With a cleverness always at faultbecause of her rare unscrupulousness. Even wickedness has its delicacy, its modesty, its propriety, which a criminal respects in proportion tohis genius for crime. Sonia offended all in her daring, and lost atevery turn. This trap would catch her own feet. A child! A son! Heshuddered at the thought, and thanked God that he had escaped a newdishonor. His blood would never mingle with the puddle in Sonia's veins. 

He would not permit her to work this iniquity, and to check her he mustrisk final success in his plan of disappearance by violating the firstprinciple of the art: that there be no further connection with the past. The detectives were watching the path by which he would return, countingperhaps upon his rage over this fraudulent heir. He must give them theiropportunity, if he would destroy Sonia's schemes against Aunt Lois, butfelt sure that they would be unprepared to seize it, even if theydreamed it at hand. He had a plan which might accomplish his objectwithout endangering his position; and one night he slipped away from thecity on a train for Boston, got off at a lonely station, and plungedinto the darkness without a word for a sleepy station-master. 

At dawn after two hours' walk he passed the pond which had once seemedto him the door of escape. Poor old friend! Its gray face lay under themorning sky like the face of a dead saint, luminous in its outlines, asif the glory of heaven shone through; still, oh, so still, and deep asif it mirrored immensity. Little complaining murmurs, like thewhimperings of a sleepy child, rose up from the reeds, sweeter than anysongs. He paused an instant to compare the _then_ and _now_, but fledwith a groan as the old sorrow, the old madness, suddenly seized himwith the powerful grip of that horrid time. In fact, every step of theway to Martha's house was torture. He saw that for him there were otherdangers than Sonia and her detectives, in leaving the refuge which Godhad provided for him. Oh, never could he be too grateful for theblessing, never could he love enough the holy man who had suggested it, never could he repay the dear souls whose love had made it beautiful. They rose up before him as he hurried down the road, the lovable, humorous, rollicking, faulty clan; and he would not have exchanged themfor the glories of a court, for the joys of Arcady. 

The sun and he found Martha busy with household duties. She did not knowhim and he said not a word to enlighten her; he was a messenger from afriend who asked of her a service, the carrying of a letter to acertain woman in Boston; and no one should see her deliver the letter, or learn her name, or know her coming and going; for her friend, inhiding, and pursued, must not be discovered. Then she knew that he camefrom Horace, and shed tears that he lived well and happy, but could notbelieve, when he had made himself known, that this was the same man of ayear before. They spent a happy day together in perfecting the detailsof her visit to Aunt Lois, which had to be accomplished with great careand secrecy. There was to be no correspondence between them. In twoweeks he would come again to hear a report of her success or failure. Ifshe were not at home, he would come two weeks later. She could tell AuntLois whatever the old lady desired to hear about him, and assure herthat nothing would induce him ever to return to his former life. Theletter said as much. When night came they went off over the hillstogether to the nearest railway station, where he left her to find herway to the city, while he went on to a different station and took a latetrain to New York. By these methods he felt hopeful that his violationof the rules of disappearing would have no evil results for him, beyondthat momentary return of the old anguish which had frightened him morethan Sonia's detectives. 

In four weeks old Martha returned from her mission, and told this storyas they sat in the pleasant kitchen near a cheery fire. 

"I rented a room in the neighborhood of your Aunt Lois' house, andsettled myself to wait for the most natural opportunity to meet her. Itwas long in coming, for she had been sick; but when she got better I sawher going out to ride, and a little later she took to walking in thepark with her maid. There she often sat, and chatted with passingchildren, or with old women like herself, poor old things trying to getlife from the air. The maid is a spy. She noted every soul about, andhad an extra glance for me when your aunt spoke to me, after I hadwaited three weeks for a word. I told her my story, as I told it to you. She was interested, and I must go to her house to take lunch with her. Irefused. I was not used to such invitations, but I would call on her atother times. And the maid listened the more. She was never out ofhearing, nor out of sight, until Aunt Lois would get into a rage, andbid her take a walk. It was then I handed her the letter under my shawl. The maid's eyes could not see through the shawl. I told her what you bidme: that you would never return again, no more than if you were dead, that she must burn the letter so that none would know a letter had beenreceived and burned, and that she would understand many things when shehad read it; most particular that she was surrounded by spies, and thatshe must go right on as if nothing had happened, and deceive as she hadbeen deceived. 

"I met her only twice after that. I told her my plan to deceive themaid. I was a shrewd beggar studying to get money out of her, with astory about going to my son in Washington. She bid the maid secretlyfind out if I was worthy, and I saw the maid in private, and begged herto report of me favorably, and she might have half the money, and then Iwould go away. And the maid was deceived, for she brought me fiftydollars from your aunt, and kept thirty. She would not give even thetwenty until I had promised to go away without complaint. So I wentaway, and stayed with a friend in Worcester. Since I came home I havenot seen or heard of any stranger in this neighborhood. So that it islikely I have not been suspected or followed. And the letter was burned. And at the first fair chance your Aunt will go to Europe, taking withher her two dearest relatives. She called them Sonia Endicott and herchild Horace, and she would keep them with her while she lived. At thelast she sent you her love, though she could not understand some of thethings you were doing, but that was your own business. And she nevershed a tear, but kept smiling, and her smile was terrible. "

He could believe that. Sonia might as well have lived in the glare ofVesuvius as in the enlightened smile of Aunt Lois. The schemer was nowin her own toils, and only at the death of the brave old woman would sheknow her failure. Oh, how sweet and great is even human justice!

"If I do not see you again, Martha, " said Arthur as he kissed the dearold mother farewell, "remember that I am happy, and that you made meso. "

THE GREEN AGAINST THE RED. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE HATE OF HANNIBAL. 

Owen Ledwith had a theory concerning the invasion of Ireland, which hebegan to expound that winter. Since few know much more about themilitary art than the firing of a shotgun, he won the scorn of allexcept his daughter and Arthur Dillon. In order to demonstrate histheory Ledwith was willing to desert journalism, to fit out a smallship, and to sail into an Irish harbor from New York and back, withoutasking leave from any government; if only the money were supplied by thepatriots to buy the ship and pay the sailors. His theory held that afleet of many ships might sail unquestioned from the unused harbors ofthe American coast, and land one hundred thousand armed men in Ireland, where a blow might be struck such as never had been yet in the goodcause. Military critics denied the possibility of such an invasion. Hewould have liked to perform the feat with a single ship, to convincethem. 

"I have a suspicion, " he said one night to his daughter, "that thisyoung Dillon would give me five thousand dollars for the asking. He is aFenian now. "

"Is it possible?" Honora cried in astonishment. 

"Well, I don't see any reason for wonder, Nora. He has been listening tome for three months, vaporing over the wrongs of Ireland; he's of Celticblood; he has been an adventurer in California; he has the money, itwould seem. Why, the wonder would be if he did not do what all the youngfellows are doing. "

"I have not quite made up my mind about him yet, father, " the youngwoman said thoughtfully. 

"He's all man, " said the father. 

"True, but a man who is playing a part. "

He laid down his pipe in his surprise, but she smiled assuringly. 

"Well, it's fine acting, if you call it so, my love. In a little over ayear he has made himself the pride of Cherry Hill. Your greatfriend, "--this with a sniff--"Monsignor O'Donnell, is his sponsor. Hespeaks like the orator born and with sincerity, though he knows littleof politics. But he has ideas. Then did you ever meet a merrier lad?Such a singer and dancer, such a favorite among boys and girls! He seemsto be as lovable as his uncle the Senator, and the proof of it is thatall confide in him. However, I have faith in your instincts, Nora. Whatdo they say?"

"He looks at us all like a spectator sitting in front of a stage. Ofcourse I have heard the people talk about him. He is a popular idol, except to his mother who seems to be afraid of him. He has moods ofsadness, gloom, and Miss Conyngham told me she would wager he left awife in California. While all like him, each one has a curious thing totell about him. They all say it is the sickness which he had on cominghome, and that the queer things are leaving him. The impression he givesme is that of one acting a part. I must say it is fading every day, butit hinders me from feeling quite satisfied about him. "

"Well, one thing is in his favor: he listens to me, " said Ledwith. "Heis one of the few men to whom I am not a crazy dreamer, crazy with loveof Erin and hate of her shameless foe. "

"And I love him for that, father, " she said tenderly. "There is noacting in his regard and esteem for you, nothing insincere in his likingfor us, even if we cannot quite understand it. For we _are_ queer, Daddy, " putting her arms about him. "Much love for our old home and muchthinking how to help it, and more despair and worry, have shut us offfrom the normal life, until we have forgotten the qualities which makepeople liked. Poor Daddy!"

"Better that than doing nothing, " he said sadly. "To struggle and fightonce in a while mean living; to sit still would be to die. "

Arthur was ushered in just then by the servant, and took his placecomfortably before the fire. One could see the regard which they feltfor him; on the part of Ledwith it was almost affection. Deeply andsincerely he returned their kindly feeling. 

He had a host of reasons for his regard. Their position seemed asstrange to the humdrum world as his own. They were looked on as queerpeople, who lived outside the ruts for the sake of an enslaved nation. The idea of losing three meals a day and a fixed home for a hopelesscause tickled the humor of the practical. Their devotion to an ideahardly surpassed their devotion to each other. He mourned for herisolation, she mourned over his failures to free his native land. 

"I have almost given the cause up, " he said once to Arthur, "because Ifeel my helplessness. I cannot agree with the leaders nor they with me. But if I gave up she would worry herself to death over my loss of hope. I keep on, half on her account, half in the hope of striking the realthing at the end. "

"It seems to be also the breath of her life, " said Arthur. 

"No, it is not, " the father replied. "Have you not heard her talk ofyour friend, Louis Everard? How she dwells on his calling, and thehappiness of it! My poor child, her whole heart yearns for the cloister. She loves all such things. I have urged her to follow her inclinations, though I know it would be the stroke of death for me, but she will notleave me until I die. "

"You must not take us too seriously, " she had once said, "in this matterof Irish liberties. My father is hopelessly out of the current, for hishealth is only fair, and he has quarreled with his leaders. I have givenup hope of achieving anything. But if he gives up he dies. So, Iencourage him and keep marching on, in spite of the bitterestdisappointments. Perhaps something may come of it in the end. "

"Not a doubt of it, " said Arthur, uttering a great thought. "Every tear, every thought, every heart-throb, every drop of sweat and blood, expended for human liberty, must be gathered up by God and laid away inthe treasury of heaven. The despots of time shall pay the interest ofthat fund here or there. "

A woman whose ideals embraced the freedom of an oppressed people, devotion to her father, and love for the things of God, would naturallyhave a strong title to the respect of Arthur Dillon; and she was, besides, a beautiful woman, who spoke great things in a voice sosweetly responsive to her emotions that father and friend listened as tomusic. The Ledwiths had a comfortable income, when they set to work, earned by his clever pen and her exquisite voice. The young man missednone of her public appearances, though he kept the fact to himself. Shewas on those occasions the White Lady in earnest. Her art had warmthindeed, but the coldness and aloofness of exalted purity put her beyondthe zone of desire; a snowy peak, distinct to the eye, but inaccessible. When they were done with greetings Arthur brought up a specific subject. 

"It has gone about that I have become a Fenian, " he said, "and I havebeen called on to explain to many what chance the movement has ofsucceeding. There was nothing in the initiation which gave me thatinformation. "

"You can say: none, " Ledwith answered bitterly. "And if you quote me asyour authority there will be many new members in the brotherhood. "

"Then why keep up the movement, if nothing is to come of it?"

"The fighting must go on, " Ledwith replied, "from generation togeneration in spite of failure. The Fenian movement will fail like allits predecessors. The only reason for its continuance is that itssuccessor may succeed. Step by step! Few nations are as lucky as this towin in the first fight. Our country is the unluckiest of all. Her battlehas been on seven hundred years. "

"But I think there must be more consolation in the fight than your wordsimply;" Arthur declared. "There must be a chance, a hope of winning. "

"The hope has never died but the chance does not yet exist, and there isno chance for the Fenians, " Ledwith answered with emphasis. "Theconsolation lies for most of us in keeping up the fight. It is a joy tolet our enemy, England, know, and to make her feel, that we hate herstill, and that our hate keeps pace with her advancing greatness. It ispleasant to prove to her, even by an abortive rising, that all hercrimes, rogueries, and diplomacies against us have been vain to quenchour hate. We have been scattered over the world, but our hate has beenintensified. It is joy to see her foam at the mouth like a wild beast, then whine to the world over the ingratitude of the Irish; to hear therepresentatives of her tax-payers howl in Parliament at the expense ofputting down regular rebellions; to see the landlords flying out of thecountry they have ravaged, and the Orangemen white with the fear ofslaughter. Then these movements are an education. The children aretrained to a knowledge of the position, to hatred of the English power, and their generation takes up the fight where the preceding left it. "

"Hate is a terrible thing, " said the young man. "Is England so hatefulthen?"

Honora urged him by looks to change the subject, for her father knew nobounds in speaking of his country's enemy, but he would not lift hiseyes to her face. He wished to hear Owen Ledwith express his feelingswith full vent on the dearest question to his heart. The man warmed upas he spoke, fire in his eyes, his cheeks, his words, and gestures. 

"She is a fiend from hell, " he replied, hissing the words quietly. Deepemotion brought exterior calm to Ledwith. "But that is only a feeling ofmine. Let us deal with the facts. Like the fabled vampire England hangsupon the throat of Ireland, battening on her blood. Populous England, vanishing Ireland! What is the meaning of it? One people remains at homeby the millions, the other flies to other lands by the millions. Becausethe hell-witch is good to her own. For them the trade of the world, theopening of mines, the building of factories, the use of every naturalpower, the coddling of every artificial power. They go abroad only toconquer and tax the foreigner for the benefit of those at home. Theirharbors are filled with ships, and their treasury with the gold of theworld. For our people, there is only permission to work the soil, forthe benefit of absentee landlords, or encouragement to depart toAmerica. No mines, no factories, no commerce, no harbors, no ships, in aword no future. So the Irish do not stay at home. The laws of Englandaccomplished this destruction of trade, of art, of education, oh, say itat once, of life. Damnable laws, fashioned by the horrid greed of a richpeople, that could not bear to see a poor people grow comfortable. Theycalled over to their departments of trade, of war, of art, to court, camp, and studio, our geniuses, gave them fame, and dubbed themEnglishmen; the castaways, the Irish in America and elsewhere are knownas 'the mere Irish. '"

"It is very bitter, " said Arthur, seeing the unshed tears in Honora'seyes. 

"I wonder how we bear it, " Ledwith continued. "We have not the Americanspirit, you may be sure. I can fancy the colonists of a hundred yearsback meeting an Irish situation; the men who faced the Indian risings, and, worse, the subduing of the wilderness. For them it would have beenequal rights and privileges and chances, or the bottom of the sea forone of the countries. But we are poetic and religious, and murderousonly when a Cromwell or a Castlereagh opens hell for us. However, thepast is nothing; it is the present which galls us. The gilding of thegold and the painting of the lily are symbols of our present sufferings. After stripping and roasting us at home, this England, this hell-witchsends abroad into all countries her lies and slanders about us. Herspies, her professors, her gospellers, her agents, her sympathizerseverywhere, can tell you by the yard of our natural inferiority to theChinese. Was it not an American bishop who protested in behalf of theChinese of San Francisco that they were more desirable immigrants thanthe sodden Irish? God! this clean, patient, laborious race, whosechastity is notorious, whose Christianity has withstood the desertion ofChrist----"

Honora gave a half scream at the blasphemy, but at once controlledherself. 

"I take that back, child--it was only madness, " Ledwith said. "You see, Dillon, how scarred my soul is with this sorrow. But the bishop and theChinese! Not a word against that unfortunate people, whose miseries aregreater even than ours, and spring from the same sources. At least_they_ are not lied about, and a bishop, forsooth! can compare them, pagans in thought and act and habit though they be, with the most moraland religious people in the world, to his own shame. It is the Englishlie working. The Irish are inferior, and of a low, groveling, filthynature; they are buried both in ignorance and superstition; theirignorance can be seen in their hatred of British rule, and their refusalto accept the British religion; wherever they go in the wide world, theyreduce the average of decency and intelligence and virtue; for twentyyears these lies have been sung in the ears of the nations, until onlythe enemies of England have a welcome for us. Behold our position inthis country. Just tolerated. No place open to us except that ofcleaning the sewers. Every soul of us compelled to fight, as Birminghamdid the other day, for a career, and to fight against men likeLivingstone, who should be our friends. And in the hearts of the commonpeople a hatred for us, a disgust, even a horror, not inspired by theleprous Chinese. We have earned all this hatred and scorn and oppositionfrom England, because in fighting with her we have observed the laws ofhumanity, when we should have wiped her people off the face of the earthas Saul smote Agag and his corrupt people, as Cromwell treated us. Doyou wonder that I hate this England far more than I hate sin, or thedevil, or any monstrous creature which feeds upon man. "

"I do not wonder, " said Arthur. "With you there is always an increasinghatred of England?"

"Until death, " cried Ledwith, leaping from his seat, as if the fire ofhate tortured him, and striding about the room. "To fight every minuteagainst this monster, to fight in every fashion, to irritate her, todestroy a grain of her influence, in a single mind, in a littlecommunity, to expose her pretense, her sham virtues, her splendidhypocrisy, these are the breath of my life. That hate will never perishuntil----"

He paused as if in painful thought, and passed his hand over hisforehead. 

"Until the wrongs of centuries have been avenged, " said Arthur. Ledwithsat down with a scornful laugh. 

"That's a sentence from the orations of our patriotic orators, " hesneered. "What have we to do with the past? It is dead. The oppressedand injured are dead. God has settled their cause long ago. It would bea pretty and consoling sight to look at the present difference betweenthe English Dives and the Irish Lazarus! The vengeance of God is aterrible thing. No! my hate is of the present. It will not die until wehave shaken the hold of this vampire, until we have humiliated anddisgraced it, and finally destroyed it. I don't speak of retaliation. The sufferings of the innocent and oppressed are not atoned for by thesufferings of other innocents and other oppressed. The people areblameless. The leaders, the accursed aristocracy of blood, of place, ofmoney, these make the corporate vampire, which battens upon the weak andignorant poor; only in England they give them a trifle more, flatterthem with skill, while the Irish are kicked out like beggars. "

He looked at Dillon with haggard eyes. Honora sat like a statue, as ifwaiting for the storm to pass. 

"I have not sworn an oath like Hannibal, " he said, "because God cannotbe called as a witness to hate. But the great foe of Rome never observedhis oath more faithfully than I shall that compact which I have madewith myself and the powers of my nature: to turn all my strength andtime and capacity into the channel of hate against England. Oh, how poorare words and looks and acts to express that fire which rages in theweakest and saddest of men. "

He sank back with a gesture of weariness, and found Honora's handresting on his tenderly. 

"The other fire you have not mentioned, Daddy, " she said wistfully, "thefire of a love which has done more for Erin than the fire of hate. Forlove is more than hate, Daddy. "

"Ay, indeed, " he admitted. "Much as I hate England, what is it to mylove for her victim? Love is more than hate. One destroys, the otherbuilds. "

Ledwith, quite exhausted by emotion, became silent. The maid enteredwith a letter, which Honora opened, read silently, and handed to herfather without comment. His face flushed with pleasure. 

"Doyle Grahame writes me, " he explained to Arthur, "that a friend, whowishes to remain unknown, has contributed five thousand dollars totesting my theory of an invasion of Ireland. That makes the expedition acertainty--for May. "

"Then let me volunteer the first for this enterprise, " said Arthurblithely. 

"And me the second, " cried Honora with enthusiasm. 

"Accepted both, " said Ledwith, with a proud smile, new life stealinginto his veins. 

Not for a moment did he suspect the identity of his benefactor, untilMonsignor, worried over the risk for Arthur came to protest some dayslater. The priest had no faith in the military enterprise of theFenians, and, if he smiled at Arthur's interest in conspiracy, saw nogood reasons why he should waste his money and expose his life andliberty in a feeble and useless undertaking. His protest both to Arthurand others was vigorous. 

"If you have had anything to do with making young Dillon a Fenian, " hesaid, "and bringing him into this scheme of invasion, Owen, I would likeyou to undo the business, and persuade him to stay at home. "

"Which I shall not do, you may be sure, Monsignor, " replied the patriotpolitely. "I want such men. The enemy we fight sacrifices the flower ofEnglish youth to maintain its despotism; why should we shrink fromsacrifice?"

"I do not speak of sacrifice, " said Monsignor. "One man is the same asanother. But there are grave reasons which demand the presence of thisyoung man in America, and graver reasons why he should not spend hismoney incautiously. "

"Well, he has not spent any money yet, so far as I know, " Ledwith said. 

The priest hesitated a moment, while the other looked at him curiously. 

"You are not aware, then, that he has provided the money for yourenterprise?" Honora uttered a cry, and Ledwith sprang from his chair indelighted surprise. 

"Do you tell me that?" he shouted. "Honora, Honora, we have found theright man at last! Oh, I felt a hundred times that this young fellow wasdestined to work immense good for me and mine. God bless him forever andever. "

"Amen, " said Honora, rejoicing in her father's joy. 

"You know my opinion on these matters, Owen, " said Monsignor. 

"Ay, indeed, and of all the priests for that matter. Had we no religionthe question of Irish freedom would have been settled long ago. Betterfor us had we been pagans or savages. Religion teaches us only how tosuffer and be slaves. "

"And what has patriotism done for you?" Monsignor replied withoutirritation. 

"Little enough, to be sure. "

"Now, since I have told you how necessary it is that Dillon shouldremain in America, and that his money should not be expended----"

"Monsignor, " Ledwith broke in impatiently, "let me say at once you areasking what you shall not get. I swear to you that if the faith whichyou preach depended on getting this young fellow to take back his moneyand to desert this enterprise, that faith would die. I want men, and Ishall take the widow's only son, the father of the family, the last hopeof a broken heart. I want money, and I shall take the crust from themouth of the starving, the pennies from the poor-box, the last cent ofthe poor, the vessels of the altar, anything and everything, for mycause. How many times has our struggle gone down in blood and shamebecause we let our foolish hearts, with their humanity, their faith, their sense of honor, their ridiculous pride, rule us. I want this manand his money. I did not seek them, and I shall not play tricks to keepthem. But now that they are mine, no man shall take them from me. "

Honora made peace between them, for these were stubborn men, unwillingto make compromises. Monsignor could give only general reasons. Ledwiththought God had answered his prayers at last. They parted with equaldetermination. 

What a welcome Arthur Dillon received from the Ledwiths on his nextvisit! The two innocents had been explaining their ideas for years, andtraveling the earth to put them into action; and in all that time hadnot met a single soul with confidence enough to invest a dollar in them. They had spent their spare ducats in attempting what required a bank tomaintain. They had endured the ridicule of the hard-hearted and thesilent pity of the friends who believed them foolish dreamers. Andbehold a man of money appears to endow their enterprise, and to show hisfaith in it by shipping as a common member of the expedition. Was thereever such luck? They thanked him brokenly, and looked at him with eyesso full of tenderness and admiration and confidence, that Arthur sworeto himself he would hereafter go about the earth, hunting up just suchtender creatures, and providing the money to make their beautiful, heroic, and foolish dreams come true. He began to feel the truth of aphilosopher's saying: the dreams of the innocent are the last reasoningof sages. 

"And to this joy is added another, " said Ledwith, when he could speaksteadily. "General Sheridan has promised to lead a Fenian army themoment the Irish government can show it in the field. "

"What does that mean?" said Arthur. 

"What does it mean that an Irish army on Irish soil should have for itsleader a brilliant general like Sheridan?" cried Ledwith. A new emotionoverpowered him. His eyes filled with tears. "It means victory for aforlorn cause. Napoleon himself never led more devoted troops than willfollow that hero to battle. Washington never received such love andveneration as he will from the poor Irish, sick with longing for a trueleader. Oh, God grant the day may come, and that we may see it, whenthat man will lead us to victory. "

His eyes flashed fire. He saw that far-off future, the war with itsglories, the final triumph, the crowning of Sheridan with everlastingfame. And then without warning he suddenly fell over into a chair. Arthur lifted up his head in a fright, and saw a pallid face andlusterless eyes. Honora bathed his temples, with the coolness andpatience of habit. 

"It is nothing, nothing, " he said feebly after a moment. "Only thefoolishness of it all ... I can forget like a boy ... The thing willnever come to pass ... Never, never, never! There stands the hero, splendid with success, rich in experience, eager, willing, a demigodwhom the Irish could worship ... His word would destroy faction, wipeout treason, weed out fools, hold the clans in solid union ... If wecould give him an army, back him with a government, provide him withmoney! We shall never have the army ... Nothing. Treason breedingfaction, faction inviting treason ... There's our story. O, God, rulingin heaven, but not on earth, why do you torture us so? To give us such aman, and leave us without the opportunity or the means of using him!"

He burst into violent, silent weeping. Dillon felt the stab of thathopeless grief, which for the moment revived his own, although he couldnot quite understand it. Ledwith dashed away the tears after a littleand spoke calmly. 

"You see how I can yield to dreams like a foolish child. I felt for alittle as if the thing had come to pass, and gave in to the fascination. This is the awaking. All the joy and sorrow of my life have come mostlyfrom dreams. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

ANNE DILLON'S FELICITY. 

Monsignor was not discouraged by his failure to detach Arthur from theromantic expedition to the Irish coast. With a view to save him from anadventure so hurtful to his welfare, he went to see Anne Dillon. Herhome, no longer on Mulberry Street, but on the confines of WashingtonSquare, in a modest enough dwelling, enjoyed that exclusiveness which islike the atmosphere of a great painting. One feels by instinct that themaster hand has been here. Although aware that good fortune had wroughta marked change in Anne, Monsignor was utterly taken aback by atransformation as remarkable in its way as the metamorphosis of HoraceEndicott. 

Judy Haskell admitted him, and with a reverence showed him into theparlor; the same Judy Haskell as of yore, ornamented with a lace cap, acollar, deep cuffs, and an apron; through which her homeliness shone asdefiantly as the face of a rough mountain through the fog. She had beeninstructed in the delicate art of receiving visitors with whom herintimacy had formerly been marked; but for Monsignor she made anexception, and the glint in her eye, the smile just born in the cornerof her emphatic mouth, warned him that she knew of the astonishmentwhich his good breeding concealed. 

"We're mountin' the laddher o' glory, " she said, after the usualquestions. "Luk at me in me ould age, dhressed out like a Frinchsportin' maid. If there was a baby in the house ye'd see me, FatherPhil, galivantin' behind a baby-carriage up an' down the Square. Faith, she does it well, the climbin', if we don't get dizzy whin we're halfwayup, an' come to earth afore all the neighbors, flatter nor pancakes. "

"Tut, tut, " said Monsignor, "are you not as good as the best, with theblood of the Montgomerys and the Haskells in your veins? Are you tomake strange with all this magnificence, as if you were Indians seeingit for the first time?"

"That's what I've been sayin' to meself since it began, " she replied. 

"Since what began?"

"Why, the changin' from Mulberry Sthreet Irish to Washington SquareYankees, " Judy said with a shade of asperity. "It began wid the dog-showan' the opera. Oh, but I thought I'd die wid laughin', whin I had toshtan' at the doors o' wan place or the other, waitin' on Micksheen, orlistenin' to the craziest music that ever was played or sung. After thatkem politics, an' nothin' wud do her but she'd bate ould Livingstone forMare all by herself. Thin it was Vandervelt for imbassador to England, an' she gev the Senator an' the Boss no pace till they tuk it up. An'now it's the Countess o' Skibbereen mornin', noon, an' night. I'm sicko' that ould woman. But she owns the soul of Anne Dillon. "

"Well, her son can afford it, " said Monsignor affably. "Why shouldn'tshe enjoy herself in her own way?"

"Thrue for you, Father Phil; I ought to call you Morrisania, but theould names are always the shweetest. He has the money, and he knows howto spind it, an' if he didn't she'd show him. Oh, but he's the fine b'y!Did ye ever see annywan grow more an' more like his father, pace to hisashes. Whin he first kem it wasn't so plain, but now it seems to me he'sthe very spit o' Pat Dillon. The turn of his head is very like him. "

At this point in a chat, which interested Monsignor deeply, a soft voicefloated down from the upper distance, calling, "Judy! Judy!" in adelicate and perfect French accent. 

"D'ye hear that, Father Phil?" whispered Judy with a grin. "It's nothin'now but Frinch an' a Frinch masther. Wait till yez hear me at it. "

She hastened to the hall and cried out, "Oui, oui, Madame, " with amurmured aside to the priest, "It's all I know. "

"Venez en haut, Judy, " said the voice. 

"Oui, oui, Madame, " answered Judy. "That manes come up, Father Phil, "and Judy walked off upright, with folded arms, swinging her garments, actions belied by the broad grin on her face, and the sarcastic motionof her lips, which kept forming the French words with great scorn. 

A few minutes afterward Anne glided into the room. The Montgomery girlshad all been famous for their beauty in the earlier history of CherryHill, and Anne had been the belle of her time. He remembered her thirtyyears back, on the day of her marriage, when he served as altar-boy ather wedding; and recalled a sweet-faced girl, with light brown silkenhair, languorous blue eyes, rose-pink skin, the loveliest mouth, themost provoking chin. Time and sorrow had dealt harshly with her, andchanged her, as the fairies might, into a thin-faced, gray-haired, severe woman, whose dim eyes were hidden by glasses. She had retainedonly her grace and dignity of manner. He recalled all this, and drew hisbreath; for before him stood Anne Montgomery, as she had stood beforehim at the altar; allowing that thirty years had artistically removedthe youthful brilliance of youth, but left all else untouched. The brownhair waved above her forehead, from her plump face most of the wrinkleshad disappeared, her eyes gleamed with the old time radiance, spectacleshad been banished, a subdued color tinted her smiling face. 

"Your son is not the only one to astound me, " said Monsignor. "Anne, youhave brought back your youth again. What a magician is prosperity. "

"It's the light-heartedness, Monsignor. To have as much money as one canuse wisely and well, to be done with scrimpin' forever, gives wan a newheart, or a new soul. I feel as I felt the day I was married. "

She might have added some information as to the share which modiste andbeautifier might claim in her rejuvenation, but Monsignor, very strictand happily ignorant of the details of the toilet, as an ecclesiasticshould be, was lost in admiration of her. It took him ten minutes tocome to the object of his visit. 

"He has long been ahead of you, " she said, referring to Arthur. "I askedhim for leave to visit Ireland, and he gave it on two conditions: that Iwould take Louis and Mona wid me, and refuse to interfere with thisFenian business, no matter who asked me. I was so pleased that Ipromised, and of course I can't go back on me word. "

"This is a very clever young man, " said Monsignor, admiring Anne's skillin extinguishing her beautiful brogue, which, however, broke out sweetlyat times. 

"Did you ever see the like of him?" she exclaimed. "I'm afraid of him. He begins to look like himself and like his father ... Glory be to God... Just from looking at the pictures of the two and thinkin' aboutthem. He's good and generous, but I have never got over being afeared ofhim. It was only when he went back on his uncle ... On Senator Dillon... That I plucked up courage to face him. I had the Senator all readyto take the place which Mr. Birmingham has to-day, when Arthur calledhim off. "

"He never could have been elected, Anne. "

"I never could see why. The people that said that didn't think Mr. Vandervelt could be made ambassador to England, at least this time. Buthe kem so near it that Quincy Livingstone complimented me on my interestfor Mr. Vandervelt. And just the same, Dan Dillon would have won had herun for the office. It was with him a case of not wantin' to be detrop. "

"Your French is três propos, Anne, " said Monsignor with a laugh. 

"If you want to hear an opinion of it, " said the clever woman, laughing, too, "go and hear the complaints of Mary and Sister Magdalen. Mais jesuis capable de parler Français tout de même. "

"And are you still afraid of Arthur? Wouldn't you venture on a littleprotest against his exposing himself to needless danger?"

"I can do that, certainement, but no more. I love him, he's so fine aboy, and I wish I could make free wid him; but he terrifies me when Ithink of everything and look at him. More than wanst have I seen ArthurDillon looking out at me from his eyes; and sometimes I feel that Pat isin the room with me when he is around. As I said, I got courage to facehim, and he was grieved that I had to. For he went right into thecontest over Vandervelt, and worked beautifully for the Countess ofSkibbereen. I'm to dine with her at the Vandervelts' next week, thefarewell dinner. "

Her tones had a velvet tenderness in uttering this last sentence. Shehad touched one of the peaks of her ambition. 

"I shall meet you there, " said Monsignor, taking a pinch of snuff. "Anne, you're a wonderful woman. How have all these wonders come about?"

"It would take a head like your own to tell, " she answered, with ameaning look at her handsome afternoon costume. "But I know some of thepoints of the game. I met Mr. Vandervelt at a reception, and told him heshould not miss his chance to be ambassador, even if Livingstone lostthe election and wanted to go to England himself. Then he whispered tome the loveliest whisper. Says he, 'Mrs. Dillon, they think it will be agood way to get rid of Mr. Livingstone if he's defeated, ' says he; 'butif he wins I'll never get the high place, says he, 'for Tammany will beof no account for years. '"

Anne smiled to herself with simple delight over that whisperedconfidence of a Vandervelt, and Monsignor sat admiring this dawningcleverness. He noticed for the first time that her taste in dress wasstriking and perfect, as far as he could judge. 

"'Then' says I, 'Mr. Vandervelt, ' says I, 'there's only wan thing to bedone, wan thing to be done, ' says I. 'Arthur and the Senator and DoyleGrahame and Monsignor must tell Mr. Sullivan along wid Mr. Birminghamthat you should go to England this year. 'Oh, ' said he, 'if you can getsuch influence to work, nothing will stop me but the ill-will of thePresident. ' 'And even there, ' said I, 'it will be paving the way for thenext time, if you make a good showing this time. ' 'You see very far andwell, ' said he. That settled it. I've been dinin' and lunching with theVandervelts ever since. You know yourself, Monsignor, how I startedevery notable man in town to tell Mr. Sullivan that Vandervelt must goto England. We failed, but it was the President did it; but he gave Mr. Vandervelt his choice of any other first-class mission. Then next, alongcame the old Countess of Skibbereen, and she was on the hands of theVandervelts with her scheme of getting knitting-machines for the poorpeople of Galway. She wasn't getting on a bit, for she was old and queerin her ways, and the Vandervelts were worried over it. Then I said: 'whynot get up a concert, and have Honora sing and let Tammany take up oneend and society the other, and send home the Countess with ten thousanddollars?' My dear, they jumped at it, and the Countess jumped at me. Will you ever forget it, Monsignor dear, the night that Honora sang asthe Genius of Erin? If that girl could only get over her craziness forIreland and her father--but that's not what I was talking about. Well, the Countess has her ten thousand dollars, and says I'm the best-dressedwoman in New York. So, that's the way I come to dine with theVandervelts at the farewell dinner to the Countess, and when it comesoff New York will be ringing with the name of Mrs. Montgomery Dillon. "

"Is that the present name?" said Monsignor. "Anne, if you go to Irelandyou'll return with a title. Your son should be proud of you. "

"I'll give him better reason before I'm done, Monsignor. "

The prelate rose to go, then hesitated a moment. 

"Do you think there is anything?--do you think there could be anythingwith regard to Honora Ledwith?"

She stopped him with a gesture. 

"I have watched all that. Not a thing could happen. Her thoughts are inheaven, poor child, and his are busy with some woman that bothered himlong ago, and may have a claim on him. No wan told me, but my seein' andhearing are sharp as ever. "

"Good-by, Mrs. Montgomery Dillon, " he said, bowing at the door. 

"Au plaisir, Monseigneur, " she replied with a curtsey, and Judy openedthe outer door, face and mien like an Egyptian statue of the twelfthdynasty. 

Anne Dillon watched him go with a sigh of deep contentment. How oftenshe had dreamed of men as distinguished leaving her presence and herhouse in this fashion; and the dream had come true. All her life she haddreamed of the elegance and importance, which had come to her throughher strange son, partly through her own ambition and ability. She nowbelieved that if one only dreams hard enough fortune will bring dreamstrue. As the life which is past fades, for all its reality, into themist-substance of dreams, why should not the reverse action occur? Hadshe been without the rich-colored visions which illuminated her idlehours, opportunity might have found her a spiritless creature, contentto take a salary from her son and to lay it by for the miserable days ofold age. Out upon such tameness! She had found life in her dreams, andthe two highest expressions of that life were Mrs. Montgomery Dillonand the Dowager Countess of Skibbereen. 

As a pagan priestess might have arrayed herself for appearance in thesanctuary, she clothed herself in purple and gold on the evening of thefarewell dinner. 

Arthur escorted his mother and Honora to the Vandervelt residence. 

As the trio made their bows, the aspirant for diplomatic honors rejoicedthat his gratitude for real favors reflected itself in objects sodistinguished. He was a grateful man, this Vandervelt, and broad-minded, willing to gild the steps by which he mounted, and to honor the humblestwho honored him: an aristocrat in the American sense of the term, believing that those who wished should be encouraged to climb as high asnatural capacity and opportunity permitted. The party sat down slightlybored, they had gone through it so often; but for Anne Dillon eachmoment and each circumstance shone with celestial beauty. She floated inthe ether. The mellow lights, the glitter of silver and glass, theperfume of flowers, the soft voices, all sights and sounds, made up aharmony which lifted her body from the ground as on wings, more like adream than her richest dreams. For conversation, some one started LordConstantine on his hobby, and said Arthur was a Fenian, bent ondestroying the hobby forever. In the discussion the Countess appealed toAnne. 

"We are a fighting race, " said she, with admirable caution picking hersteps through a long paragraph. "There's--there are times when no onecan hold us. This is such a time. A few months back the Fenian troublecould have been settled in one week. Now it will take a year. "

"But how?" said Vandervelt. "If you had the making of the scheme, I'msure it would be a success. "

"In this way, " she answered, bowing and smiling to his sincerecompliment, "by making all the Irish Fenians, that is, those in Ireland, policemen. "

The gentlemen laughed with one accord. 

"Mr. Sullivan manages his troublesome people that way, " she observedtriumphantly. 

"You are a student of the leader, " said Vandervelt. 

"Everybody should study him, if they want to win, " said Anne. 

"And that's wisdom, " cried Lord Constantine. 

The conversation turned on opera, and the hostess wondered why Honoradid not study for the operatic stage. Then they all urged her to thinkof the scheme. 

"I hope, " said Anne gently, "that she will never try to spoil her voicewith opera. The great singers give me the chills, and the creeps, andthe shivers, the most terrible feeling, which I never had since the dayMonsignor preached his first sermon, and broke down. "

"Oh, you dear creature, " cried the Countess, "what a long memory youhave. "

Monsignor had to explain his first sermon. So it went on throughout thedinner. The haze of perfect happiness gathered about Anne, and herspeech became inspired. A crown of glory descended upon her head whenthe Dowager, hearing of her summer visit to Ireland with Mona and Louisin her care, exacted a solemn promise from her that the party shouldspend one month with her at Castle Moyna, her dower home. 

"That lovely boy and girl, " said the Countess, "will find the placepleasant, and will make it pleasant for me; where usually I can inducenot even my son's children to come, they find it so dull. "

It did not matter much to Anne what happened thereafter. The farewells, the compliments, the joy of walking down to the coach on the arm ofVandervelt, were as dust to this invitation of the Dowager Countess ofSkibbereen. The glory of the dinner faded away. She looked down on theVandervelts from the heights of Castle Moyna. She lost all at once herfear of her son. From that moment the earth became as a rose-coloredflame. She almost ignored the adulation of Cherry Hill, and theastonished reverence of her friends over her success. Her success wastold in awesome whispers in the church as she walked to the third pew ofthe middle aisle. A series of legends grew about it, over which theexperienced gossips disputed in vain; her own description of the dinnerwas carried to the four quarters of the world by Sister Magdalen, MissConyngham, Senator Dillon, and Judy; the skeptical and envious pretendedto doubt even the paragraph in the journals. At last they were struckdumb with the rest when it was announced that on Saturday last Mrs. Montgomery Dillon, Miss Mona Everard, and Mr. Louis Everard had sailedon the City of London for a tour of Europe, the first month of whichwould be spent at Castle Moyna, Ireland, as guests of the DowagerCountess of Skibbereen!

CHAPTER XIV. 

ABOARD THE "ARROW. "

One month later sailed another ship. In the depth of night the _Arrow_slipped her anchor, and stole away from the suspicious eyes of harborofficials into the Atlantic; a stout vessel, sailed with discretion, hertrick being to avoid no encounters on the high seas and to seek none. Love and hope steered her course. Her bowsprit pointed, like the lanceof a knight, at the power of England. Her north star was the freedom ofa nation. War had nothing to do with her, however, though her missionwas warlike: to prove that one hundred similar vessels might sail fromvarious parts to the Irish coast, and land an army and its supplieswithout serious interference from the enemy. The crew was a select bodyof men, whose souls ever sought the danger of hopeless missions, asothers seek a holiday. In spite of fine weather and bracing seas, thecloud of a lonely fate hung over the ship. Arthur alone wasenthusiastic. Ledwith, feverish over slight success, because it rousedthe dormant appetite for complete success, and Honora, fed upondisappointment, feared that this expedition would prove ashen bread asusual; but the improvement in her father's health kept her cheerful. Doyle Grahame, always in high spirits, devoted his leisure to writingthe book which was to bring him fame and much money. He described itsmotive and aim to his companions. 

"It calls a halt, " he said "on the senseless haste of Christians to takeup such pagans as Matthew Arnold, and raises a warning cry againstsurrender to the pagan spirit which is abroad. "

"And do you think that the critics will read it and be overcome?" askedArthur. 

"It will convince the critics, not that they are pagans, but that I am. They will review it, therefore, just to annoy me. "

"You reason just like a critic, from anywhere to nowhere. "

"The book will make a stir, nevertheless, " and Doyle showed hisconfidence. 

"It's to be a loud protest, and will tangle the supple legs of HenryWard Beecher and other semi-pagans like a lasso. "

"How about the legs of the publishers?"

"That's their lookout. I have nothing against them, and I hope at theclose of the sale they will have nothing against me. "

"When, where, with what title, binding and so forth?"

"Speak not overmuch to thy dentist, " said Grahame slyly. "Already heknoweth too many of thy mouth's secrets. "

The young men kept the little company alive with their pranks and theirbadinage. Grahame discovered in the Captain a rare personality, who hadseen the globe in its entirety, particularly the underside, as adetective and secret service agent for various governments. He was atall, slender man, rather like a New England deacon than a daringadventurer, with a refined face, a handsome beard, and a speaking, languid gray eye. He spent the first week in strict devotion to hisduties, and in close observation of his passengers. In the second weekGrahame had him telling stories after dinner for the sole purpose ofdiverting the sad and anxious thoughts of Honora, although Arthur hardlygave her time to think by the multiplied services which he rendered her. There came an afternoon of storm, followed by a nasty night, which keptall the passengers in the cabin; and after tea there, a demand was madeupon Captain Richard Curran for the best and longest story in hisrepertory. The men lit pipes and cigars, and Honora brought hercrotcheting. The rolling and tossing of the ship, the beating of therain, and the roar of the wind, gave them a sense of comfort. The ship, in her element, proudly and smoothly rode the rough waves, showing herstrength like a racer. 

"Let us have a choice, Captain, " said Grahame, as the officer settledhimself in his chair. "You detectives always set forth your successes. Give us now a story of complete failure, something that remains amystery till now. "

"Mystery is the word, " said Honora. "This is a night of mystery. But astory without an end to it----"

"Like the history of Ireland, " said Ledwith dryly. 

"Is the very one to keep us thinking and talking for a month, " saidGrahame. "Captain, if you will oblige us, a story of failure and ofmystery. "

"Such a one is fresh in my mind, for I fled from my ill-success to takecharge of this expedition, " said the Captain, whose voice was singularlypleasant. "The detective grows stale sometimes, as singers and musiciansdo, makes a failure of his simplest work, and has to go off and sharpenhis wits at another trade. I am in that condition. For twenty months Isought the track of a man, who disappeared as if the air absorbed himwhere he last breathed. I did not find him. The search gave me a touchof monomania. For two months I have not been able to rest upon meeting anew face until satisfied its owner was not--let us say, Tom Jones. "

"Are you satisfied, then, " said Arthur, "that we are all right?"

"He was not an Irishman, but a Puritan, " replied the Captain, "and wouldnot be found in a place like this. I admit I studied your faces an houror so, and asked about you among the men, but under protest. I havegiven up the pursuit of Tom Jones, and I wish he would give up thepursuit of me. I had to quiet my mind with some inquiries. "

"Was there any money awaiting Tom? If so, I might be induced to bediscovered, " Grahame said anxiously. 

"You are all hopeless, Mr. Grahame. I have known you and Mr. Ledwithlong enough, and Mr. Dillon has his place secure in New York----"

"With a weak spot in my history, " said Arthur. "I was off in California, playing bad boy for ten years. "

The Captain waved his hand as admitting Dillon's right to hispersonality. 

"In October nearly two years ago the case of Tom Jones was placed in mycare with orders to report at once to Mrs. Tom. The problem of finding alost man is in itself very simple, if he is simply lost or in hiding. You follow his track from the place where he was last seen to his newabode. But around this simple fact of disappearance are often groupedthe interests of many persons, which make a tangle worse than a poorfisherman's line. A proper detective will make no start in his searchuntil the line is as straight and taut as if a black bass were sportingat the other end of it. "

All the men exchanged delighted glances at this simile. 

"I could spin this story for three hours straight talking of thecharacters who tangled me at the start. But I did not budge until I hadunraveled them every one. Mrs. Jones declared there was no reason forthe disappearance of Tom; his aunt Quincy said her flightiness haddriven him to it; and Cousin Jack, Mrs. Tom's adviser, thought it just afreak after much dissipation, for Tom had been acting queerly for monthsbefore he did the vanishing act. The three were talking either fromspleen or the wish to hide the truth. When there was no trace of Tomafter a month of ordinary searching much of the truth came out, and Idiscovered the rest. Plain speech with Mrs. Tom brought her to thehalf-truth. She was told that her husband would never be found if thedetective had to work in the dark. She was a clever woman, and very muchworried, for reasons, over her husband's disappearance. It was somethingto have her declare that he had suspected her fidelity, but chiefly outof spleen, because she had discovered his infidelity. A little siftingof many statements, which took a long time, for I was on the case nearlytwo years, as I said, revealed Mrs. Tom as a remarkable woman. Inviciousness she must have been something of a monster, though she wasbeautiful enough to have posed for an angel. Her corruption was of themarrow. She breathed crime and bred it. But her blade was too keen. Shewounded herself too often. Grit and ferocity were her strong points. Wemeet such women occasionally. When she learned that I knew as much abouther as need be, she threw off hypocrisy, and made me an offer of tenthousand dollars to find her husband. "

"I felt sure then of the money. Disappearance, for a living man, ifclever people are looking for him, is impossible nowadays. I can admitthe case of a man being secretly killed or self-buried, say, forinstance, his wandering into a swamp and there perishing: these cases ofdisappearance are common. But if he is alive he can be found. "

"Why are you so sure of that?" said Arthur. 

"Because no man can escape from his past, which is more a part of himthan his heart or his liver, " said Curran. "That past is the pathwaywhich leads to him. If you have it, it's only a matter of time when youwill have him. "

"Yet you failed to find Tom Jones. "

"For the time, yes, " said the Captain with an eloquent smile. "Then, Ihad an antagonist of the noblest quality. Tom Jones was a bud of theMayflower stock. All his set agreed that he was an exceptional man: aclean, honest, upright chap, the son of a soldier and a peerless mother, apparently an every-day lad, but really as fine a piece of manhood asthe world turns out. Anyhow, I came to that conclusion about him when Ihad studied him through the documents. What luck threw him between thefoul jaws of his wife I can't say. She was a----"

The detective coughed before uttering the word, and looked at the men ashe changed the form of his sentence. 

"She was a cruel creature. He adored her, and she hated him, and when hewas gone slandered him with a laugh, and defiled his honest name. "

"Oh, " cried Honora with a gasp of pain, "can there be such women now? Ihave read of them in history, but I always felt they were far off----"

"I hope they are not many, " said the Captain politely, "but in myprofession I have met them. Here was a case where the best of men wasthe victim of an Agrippina. "

"Poor, dear lad, " sighed she, "and of course he fled from her inhorror. "

"He was a wonder, Miss Ledwith. Think what he did. Such a man is morethan a match for such a woman. He discovered her unfaithfulness monthsbefore he disappeared. Then he sold all his property, turning all heowned into money, and transferred it beyond any reach but his own, leaving his wife just what she brought him--an income from her parentsof fifteen hundred a year: a mere drop to a woman whom he had doweredwith a share in one hundred thousand. Though I could not follow thetracks of his feet, I saw the traces of his thoughts as he executed hisscheme of vengeance. He discovered her villainy, he would have noscandal, he was disgusted with life, so he dropped out of it with theprize for which she had married him, and left her like a famished wolfin the desert. It would have satisfied him to have seen her rage anddismay, but he was not one of the kind that enjoys torture. "

"I watched Mrs. Tom for months, and felt she was the nearest thing to ademon I had ever met. Well, I worked hard to find Tom. We tried manytricks to lure him from his hiding-place, if it were near by, and wefollowed many a false trail into foreign lands. The result was dreadfulto me. We found nothing. When a child was born to him, and the factadvertised, and still he did not appear, or give the faintest sign, Isurrendered. It would be tedious to describe for you how I followed thesales of his property, how I examined his last traces, how I pursued allclues, how I wore myself out with study. At the last I gave outaltogether and cut the whole business. I was beginning to have Tom onthe brain. He came to live on my nerves, and to haunt my dreams, and toraise ghosts for me. He is gone two years, and Mrs. Tom is in Europewith her baby and Tom's aunt Quincy. When I get over my present trouble, and get back a clear brain, I shall take up the search. I shall find himyet. I'd like to show some of the documents, but the matter is stillconfidential, and I must keep quiet, though I don't suppose you know anyof the parties. When I find him I shall finish the story for you. "

"You will never find him, " said Honora with emphasis. "That fearfulwoman shattered his very soul. I know the sort of a man he was. He willnever go back. If he can bear to live, it will be because in hisobscurity God gave him new faith and hope in human nature, and in thewoman's part of it. "

"I shall find him, " said the detective. 

"You won't, " said Grahame. "I'll wager he has been so close to you allthis time, that you cannot recognize him. That man is living within yourhorizon, if he's living at all. Probably he has aided you in yoursearch. You wouldn't be the first detective fooled in that game. "

The Captain made no reply, but went off to see how his ship was bearingthe storm. The little company fell silent, perhaps depressed by thesounds of tempest without and the thought of the poor soul whosedeparture from life had been so strange. Arthur sat thinking of manythings. He remembered the teaching that to God the past, present, andfuture are as one living present. Here was an illustration: the old pastand the new present side by side to-night in the person of thisdetective. What a giant hand was that which could touch him, and fail toseize only because the fingers did not know their natural prey. No doubtthat the past is more a part of a man than his heart, for here was everynerve of his body tingling to turn traitor to his will. Horace Endicott, so long stilled that he thought him dead, rose from his sleep at thebidding of the detective, and fought to betray Arthur Dillon. The blush, the trembling of the hands, the tension of the muscles, the misty eye, the pallor of the cheek, the tremulous lip, the writhing tongue, seemedto put themselves at the service of Endicott, and to fight for thechance to betray the secret to Curran. He sat motionless, fighting, fighting; until after a little he felt a delightful consciousness of thestrength of Dillon, as of a rampart which the Endicott could notoverclimb. Then his spirits rose, and he listened without dread to thestory. How pitiful! What a fate for that splendid boy, the son of abrave soldier and a peerless mother! A human being allied with a beast!Oh, tender heart of Honora that sighed for him so pitifully! Oh, truespirit that recognized how impossible for Horace Endicott ever toreturn! Down, out of sight forever, husband of Agrippina! The furies liein wait for thee, wretched husband of their daughter! Have shame enoughto keep in thy grave until thou goest to meet Sonia at the judgmentseat!

Captain Curran was not at all flattered by the deep interest whichArthur took for the next two days in the case of Tom Jones; but theyoung man nettled him by his emphatic assertions that the detective hadadopted a wrong theory as to the mysterious disappearance. They wentover the question of motives and of methods. The shrewd objections ofDillon gave him favor in Curran's eyes. Before long the secret documentsin the Captain's possession were laid before him under obligations ofsecrecy. He saw various photographs of Endicott, and wondered at theblindness of man; for here side by side were the man sought and hisportrait, yet the detective could not see the truth. Was it possiblethat the exterior man had changed so thoroughly to match the innerpersonality which had grown up in him? He was conscious of such achange. The mirror which reflected Arthur Dillon displayed a figure inno way related to the portrait. 

"It seems to me, " said Arthur, after a study of the photograph, "that Iwould be able to reach that man, no matter what his disguise. "

"Disguises are mere veils, " said Curran, "which the trained eye of thedetective can pierce easily. But the great difficulty lies in a naturaldisguise, in the case where the man's appearance changes withoutartificial aids. Here are two photographs which will illustrate mymeaning. Look at this. "

Arthur saw a young and well-dressed fellow who might have been a studentof good birth and training. 

"Now look at this, " said the Captain, "and discover that they pictureone and the same individual, with a difference in age of two years. "

The second portrait was a vigorous, rudely-dressed, bearded adventurer, as much like the first as Dillon was like Grahame. Knowing that theportraits stood for the same youth, Arthur could trace a resemblance inthe separate features, but in the ensemble there was no likeness. 

"The young fellow went from college to Africa, " said Curran, "where heexplored the wilderness for two years. This photograph was taken on hisreturn from an expedition. His father and mother, his relatives andfriends, saw that picture without recognizing him. When told who it was, they were wholly astonished, and after a second study still failed torecognize their friend. What are you going to do in a case of that kind?You or Grahame or Ledwith might be Tom Jones, and how could I piercesuch perfect and natural disguises. "

"Let me see, " said Arthur, as he stood with Endicott's photograph in hishand and studied the detective, "if I can see this young man in you. "

Having compared the features of the portrait and of the detective, hehad to admit the absence of a likeness. Handing the photograph to theCaptain he said, "You do the same for me. "

"There is more likelihood in your case, " said Curran, "for your age isnearer that of Tom Jones, and youth has resemblances of color andfeature. "

He studied the photograph and compared it with the grave face beforehim. 

"I have done this before, " said Curran, "with the same result. You areten years older than Tom Jones, and you are as clearly Arthur Dillon ashe was Tom Jones. "

The young man and the Captain sighed together. 

"Oh, I brought in others, clever and experienced, " said Curran, "to trywhat a fresh mind could do to help me, but in vain. "

"There must have been something hard about Tom Jones, " said Arthur, "when he was able to stay away and make no sign after his child wasborn. "

The Captain burst into a mocking laugh, which escaped him before hecould repress the inclination. 

"He may never have heard of it, and if he did his wife's reputation----"

"I see, " said Arthur Dillon smiling, convinced that Captain Curran knewmore of Sonia Westfield than he cared to tell. At the detective'srequest the matter was dropped as one that did him harm; but hecomplimented Arthur on the shrewdness of his suggestions, which indeedhad given him new views without changing his former opinions. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE INVASION OF IRELAND. 

One lovely morning the good ship sailed into the harbor of Foreskillen, an obscure fishing port on the lonely coast of Donegal. The _Arrow_ hadbeen in sight of land all the day before. A hush had fallen on thespirits of the adventurers. The two innocents, Honora and her father, had sat on deck with eyes fixed on the land of their love, scarcely ableto speak, and unwilling to eat, in spite of Arthur's coaxing. Half thenight they sat there, mostly silent, talking reverently, every onetouched and afraid to disturb them; after a short sleep they were ondeck again to see the ship enter the harbor in the gray dawn. The sunwas still behind the brown hills. Arthur saw a silver bay, a mournfulshore with a few houses huddled miserably in the distance, and barehills without verdure or life. It was an indifferent part of the earthto him; but revealed in the hearts of Owen Ledwith and his daughter, nojewel of the mines could have shone more resplendent. He did notunderstand the love called patriotism, any more than the love of aparent for his child. These affections have to be experienced to beknown. He loved his country and was ready to die for it; but to havebled for it, to have writhed under tortures for it, to have groaned inunison with its mortal anguish, to have passed through the fire of deathand yet lived for it, these were not his glories. 

In the cool, sad morning the father and daughter stood glorified in hiseyes, for if they loved each other much, they loved this strange landmore. The white lady, whiter now than lilies, stood with her arm abouther father, her eyes shining; and he, poor man, trembled in an ague oflove and pity and despair and triumph, with a rapt, grief-stricken face, his shoulders heaving to the repressed sob, as if nature would theremake an end of him under this torrent of delight and pain. Arthurwrithed in secret humiliation. To love like this was of the gods, and hehad never loved anything so but Agrippina. As the ship glided to heranchorage the crew stood about the deck in absolute silence, every man'sheart in his face, the watch at its post, the others leaning on thebulwarks. Like statues they gazed on the shore. It seemed a phantomship, blown from ghostly shores by the strength of hatred against theenemy, and love for the land of Eire; for no hope shone in their eyes, or in the eyes of Ledwith and his daughter, only triumph at their ownlight success. What a pity, thought Dillon, that at this hour of timemen should have reason to look so at the power of England. He knew therewere millions of them scattered over the earth, studying in just hate toshake the English grip on stolen lands, to pay back the robberies ofyears in English blood. 

The ship came to anchor amid profound silence, save for the orders ofthe Captain and the movements of the men. Ledwith was speaking tohimself more than to Honora, a lament in the Irish fashion over theloved and lost, in a way to break the heart. The tears rolled downHonora's cheek, for the agony was beginning. 

"Land of love ... Land of despair ... Without a friend except among thyown children ... Here am I back again with just a grain of hope ... Ilove thee, I love thee, I love thee! Let them neglect thee ... Die everymoment under the knife ... Live in rags ... In scorn ... And hatred too... They have spared thee nothing ... I love thee ... I am faithful ... God strike me that day when I forget thee! Here is the first gift I haveever given thee besides my heart and my daughter ... A ship ... Nofreight but hope ... No guns alas! for thy torturers ... They are stillfree to tear thee, these wolves, and to lie about thee to the wholeworld ... Blood and lies are their feast ... And how sweet are thyshores ... After all ... Because thou art everlasting! Thy children aregone, but they shall come back ... The dead are dead, but the living arein many lands, and they will return ... Perhaps soon ... I am themessenger ... Helpless as ever, but I bring thee news ... Good news ... My beautiful Ireland! Poorer than ever I return ... I shall never seethee free----"

He was working himself into a fever of grief when Honora spoke to him. 

"You are forgetting, father, that this is the moment to thank Mr. Dillonin the name of our country----"

"I forget everything when I am here, " said Ledwith, breaking intocheerful smiles, and seizing Arthur's hand. "I would be ashamed to say'thank you, ' Arthur, for what you have done. Let this dear land herselfwelcome you to her shores. Never a foot stepped on them worthier ofrespect and love than you. "

They went ashore in silence, having determined on their course the nightprevious. They must learn first what had happened since their departurefrom New York, where there had been rumors of a rising, which Ledwithdistrusted. It was too soon for the Fenians to rise; but as the movementhad gotten partly beyond the control of the leaders, anything might havehappened. If the country was still undisturbed, they might enjoy a ridethrough wild Donegal; if otherwise, it was safer, having accomplishedthe purpose of the trip, to sail back to the West. The miserable villageat the head of the bay showed a few dwellers when they landed on thebeach, but little could be learned from them, save directions to adistant cotter who owned an ass and a cart, and always kept informationand mountain dew for travelers and the gentry. The young men visited thecotter, and returned with the cart and the news. The rising was said tohave begun, but farther east and south, and the cotter had seen soldiersand police and squads of men hurrying over the country; but so remotewas the storm that the whole party agreed a ride over the bare hillsthreatened no danger. 

They mounted the cart in high spirits, now that emotion had subsided. All matters had been arranged with Captain Curran, who was not to expectthem earlier than the next day at evening, and had his instructions forall contingencies. They set out for a village to the north, expressly toavoid encounters possible southward. The morning was glorious. Arthurwondered at the miles of uninhabited land stretching away on either sideof the road, at the lack of population in a territory so small. He hadheard of these things before, but the sight of them proved stranger thanthe hearing. Perhaps they had gone five miles on the road to Cruarig, when Grahame, driving, pulled up the donkey with suddenness, and criedout in horror. Eight men had suddenly come in sight on the road, armedwith muskets, and as suddenly fled up the nearest timbered hill anddisappeared. 

"I'll wager something, " said Grahame, "that these men are being pursuedby the police, or--which would be worse for us--by soldiers. There isnothing to do but retreat in good order, and send out a scout to makesure of the ground. We ought to have done that the very first thing. "

No one gainsaid him, but Arthur thought that they might go on a bitfurther cautiously, and if nothing suspicious occurred reach the town. Dubiously Grahame whipped up the donkey, and drove with eyes alert pastthe wooded hill, which on its north side dropped into a little glenwatered by the sweetest singing brook. They paused to look at the brookand the glen. The road stretched away above and below like a ribbon. Abody of soldiers suddenly brightened the north end of the ribbon twomiles off. 

"Now by all the evil gods, " said Grahame, "but we have dropped into thevery midst of the insurrection. "

He was about to turn the donkey, when Honora cried out in alarm andpointed back over the road which they had just traveled. Another scarlettroop was moving upon them from that direction. Without a word Grahameturned the cart into the glen, and drove as far as the limits wouldpermit within the shade. They alighted. 

"This is our only chance, " he said. "The eight men with muskets arerebels whom the troops have cornered. There may be a large force in thevicinity, ready to give the soldiers of Her Majesty a stiff battle. Thesoldiers will be looking for rebels and not for harmless tourists, andwe may escape comfortably by keeping quiet until the two divisionsmarching towards each other have met and had an explanation. If we arediscovered, I shall do the talking, and explain our embarrassment atmeeting so many armed men first, and then so many soldiers. We are infor it, I know. "

No one seemed to mind particularly. Honora stole an anxious glance ather father, while she pulled a little bunch of shamrock and handed it toArthur. He felt like saying it would yet be stained by his blood indefense of her country, but knew at the same moment how foolish andweak the words would sound in her ears. He offered himself as a scout toexamine the top of the hill, and discover if the rebels were there, andwas permitted to go under cautions from Grahame, to return withinfifteen minutes. He returned promptly full of enthusiasm. The eight menwere holding the top of the hill, almost over their heads, and wouldhave it out with the two hundred soldiers from the town. They hadexpected a body of one hundred insurgents at this point, but the partyhad not turned up. Eager to have a brush with the enemy, they intendedto hold the hill as long as possible, and then scatter in differentdirections, sure that pursuit could not catch them. 

"The thing for them to do is to save us, " said Grahame. "Let them moveon to another hill northward, and while they fight the soldiers we maybe able to slip back to the ship. "

The suggestion came too late. The troops were in full sight. Theirscouts had met in front of the glen, evidently acting upon informationreceived earlier, and seemed disappointed at finding no trace of a bodyof insurgents large enough to match their own battalion. The boys on thetop of the hill put an end to speculations as to the next move by firinga volley into them. A great scattering followed, and the bid for a fightwas cheerfully answered by the officer in command of the troops. Havingjoined his companies, examined the position and made sure that itsdefenders were few and badly armed, he ordered a charge. In five minutesthe troops were in possession of the hilltop, and the insurgents hadfled; but on the hillside lay a score of men wounded and dead. Therebels were good marksmen, and fleet-footed. The scouts beat the bushesand scoured the wood in vain. The report to the commanding officer wasthe wounding of two men, who were just then dying in a little glen closeby, and the discovery of a party of tourists in the glen, who hadevidently turned aside to escape the trouble, and were now ministeringto the dying rebels. 

Captain Sydenham went up to investigate. Before he arrived the littledrama of death had passed, and the two insurgents lay side by side atthe margin of the brook like brothers asleep. When the insurgents fledfrom their position, the two wounded ones dropped into the glen in thehope of escaping notice for the time; but they were far spent when theyfell headlong among the party in hiding below. Grahame and Ledwithpicked them up and laid them near the brook, Honora pillowed their headswith coats, Arthur brought water to bathe their hands and faces, grimywith dust of travel and sweat of death; for an examination of the woundsshowed Ledwith that they were speedily mortal. He dipped hishandkerchief in the flowing blood of each, and placed it reverently inhis breast. There was nothing to do but bathe the faces and moisten thelips of the dying and unconscious men. They were young, one rugged andhard, the other delicate in shape and color; the same grace of youthbelonged to both, and showed all the more beautifully at this momentthrough the heavy veil of death. 

Arthur gazed at them with eager curiosity, and at the red blood bubblingfrom their wounds. For their country they were dying, as his father haddied, on the field of battle. This blood, of which he had so often read, was the price which man pays for liberty, which redeems the slave;richer than molten gold, than sun and stars, priceless. Oh, sweet andglorious, unutterably sweet to die like this for men!

"Do you recognize him?" said Ledwith to Grahame, pointing to the elderof the two. Grahame bent forward, startled that he should know eitherunfortunate. 

"It is young Devin, the poet, " cried Ledwith with a burst of tears. Honora moaned, and Grahame threw up his hands in despair. 

"We must give the best to our mother, " said Ledwith, "but I would preferblood so rich to be scattered over a larger soil. "

He took the poet's hand in his own, and stroked it gently; Honora wipedthe face of the other; Grahame on his knees said the prayers heremembered for sinners and passing souls; secretly Arthur put in hispocket a rag stained with death-sweat and life-blood. Almost in silence, without painful struggle, the boys died. Devin opened his eyes onemoment on the clear blue sky and made an effort to sing. He chanted asingle phrase, which summed up his life and its ideals: "Mother, alwaysthe best for Ireland. " Then his eyes closed and his heart stopped. Thelittle party remained silent, until Honora, looking at the still faces, so young and tender, thought of the mothers sitting in her place, andbegan to weep aloud. At this moment Captain Sydenham marched up the glenwith clinking spur. He stopped at a distance and took off his hat withthe courtesy of a gentleman and the sympathy of a soldier. Grahame wentforward to meet him, and made his explanations. 

"It is perfectly clear, " said the Captain, "that you are tourists andfree from all suspicion. However, it will be necessary for you toaccompany me to the town and make your declarations to the magistrate aswell. As you were going there anyhow it will be no hardship, and I shallbe glad to make matters as pleasant as possible for the young lady. "

Grahame thanked him, and introduced him to the party. He bowed very lowover the hand which Honora gave him. 

"A rather unfortunate scene for you to witness, " he said. 

Yet she had borne it like one accustomed to scenes of horror. Hertraining in Ledwith's school bred calmness, and above all silence, amidanxiety, disappointment and calamity. 

"I was glad to be here, " she replied, the tears still coursing down herface, "to take their mother's place. "

"Two beautiful boys, " said the Captain, looking into the dead faces. "Killing men is a bad business anywhere, but when we have to kill ourown, and such as these, it is so much worse. "

Ledwith flashed the officer a look of gratitude. 

"I shall have the bodies carried to the town along with our own dead, and let the authorities take care of them. And now if you will have thegoodness to take your places, I shall do myself the pleasure of ridingwith you as far as the magistrate's. "

Honora knelt and kissed the pale cheeks of the dead boys, and thenaccepted Captain Sydenham's arm in the march out of the glen. The menfollowed sadly. Ledwith looked wild for a while. The tears pressedagainst Arthur's eyes. What honor gilded these dead heroes!

The procession moved along the road splendidly, the soldiers in frontand the cart in the rear, while a detail still farther off carried thewounded and dead. Captain Sydenham devoted himself to Honora, which gaveGrahame the chance to talk matters over with Ledwith on the other sideof the car. 

"Did you ever dream in all your rainbow dreams, " said Grahame, "ofmarching thus into Cruarig with escort of Her Majesty? It's damfunny. But the question now is, what are we to do with the magistrate? Any sortof an inquiry will prove that we are more than suspicious characters. Ifthey run across the ship we shall go to jail. If they discover you andme, death or Botany Bay will be our destination. "

"It is simply a case of luck, " Ledwith replied. "Scheming won't save us. If Lord Constantine were in London now----"

"Great God!" cried Grahame in a whisper, "there's the luck. Say no more. I'll work that fine name as it was never worked before. "

He called out to Captain Sydenham to come around to his side of the carfor a moment. 

"I am afraid, " he said, "that we have fallen upon evil conditions, andthat, before we get through with the magistrates, delays will be manyand vexatious. I feel that we shall need some of our English friends oflast winter in New York. Do you know Lord Constantine?"

"Are you friends of Lord Leverett?" cried the Captain. "Well, then, thatsettles it. A telegram from him will smooth the magistrate to thesilkiness of oil. But I do not apprehend any annoyance. I shall be happyto explain the circumstances, and you can get away to Dublin, or anyport where you hope to meet your ship. "

The Captain went back to Honora, and talked Lord Constantine until theyarrived in the town and proceeded to the home of the magistrate. Unfortunately there was little cordiality between Captain Sydenham andFolsom, the civil ruler of the district; and because the gallant Captainmade little of the episode therefore Folsom must make much of it. 

"I can easily believe in the circumstances which threw tourists into sounpleasant a situation, " said Folsom, "but at the same time I amcompelled to observe all the formalities. Of course the young lady isfree. Messrs. Dillon and Grahame may settle themselves comfortably inthe town, on their word not to depart without permission. Mr. Ledwithhas a name which my memory connects with treasonable doings and sayings. He must remain for a few hours at least in the jail. "

"This is not at all pleasant, " said Captain Sydenham pugnaciously. "Icould have let these friends of my friends go without troubling youabout them. I wished to make it easier for them to travel to Dublin bybringing them before you, and here is my reward. "

"I wish you had, Captain, " said the magistrate. "But now you've done it, neither is free to do more than follow the routine. We have enough realwork without annoying honest travelers. However, it's only a matter of afew hours. "

"Then you had better telegraph to Lord Constantine, " said Sydenham toGrahame. 

Folsom started at the name and looked at the party with a puzzled frown. Grahame wrote on a sheet of paper the legend: "A telegram from you tothe authorities here will get Honora and her party out of much trouble. "

"Is it as warm as that?" said the Captain with a smile, as he read thelines and handed the paper to Folsom with a broad grin. 

"I'm in for it now, " groaned Folsom to himself as he read. "Wish I'd letthe Captain alone and tended to strict business. "

While the wires were humming between Dublin and Cruarig, CaptainSydenham spent his spare time in atoning for his blunders against thecomfort of the party. Ledwith having been put in jail most honorably, the Captain led the others to the inn and located them sumptuously. Hearranged for lunch, at which he was to join them, and then left them totheir ease while he transacted his own affairs. 

"One of the men you read about, " said Grahame, as the three looked atone another dolorously. "Sorry I didn't confide in him from the start. Now it's a dead certainty that your father stays in jail, Honora, and Imay be with him. "

"I really can't see any reason for such despair, " said Arthur. 

"Of course not, " replied Grahame. "But even Lord Constantine could notsave Owen Ledwith from prison in times like these, if the authoritieslearn his identity. "

"What is to be done?" inquired Honora. 

"You will stay with your father of course?" Honora nodded. 

"I'm going to make a run for it at the first opportunity, " said Grahame. "I can be of no use here, and we must get back the ship safe and sound. Arthur, if they hold Ledwith you will have the honor of working for hisfreedom. Owen is an American citizen. He ought to have all the rightsand privileges of a British subject in his trial, if it comes to that. He won't get them unless the American minister to the court of St. Jamesinsists upon it. Said minister, being a doughhead, will not insist. Hewill even help to punish him. It will be your business to go up toLondon and make Livingstone do his duty if you have to choke him blackin the face. If the American minister interferes in this case LordConstantine will be a power. If the said minister hangs back, or says, hang the idiot, my Lord will not amount to a hill of beans. "

"If it comes to a trial, " said Arthur, "won't Ledwith get the samechance as any other lawbreaker?"

Honora and Grahame looked at each other as much as to say: "Poorinnocent!"

"When there's a rising on, my dear boy, there is no trial for Irishmen. Arrest means condemnation, and all that follows is only form. Go aheadnow and do your best. "

Before lunch the telegrams had done their best and worst. The party wasfree to go as they came with the exception of Ledwith. They had a merrylunch, enlivened by a telegram from Lord Constantine, and by Folsom'sdiscomfiture. Then Grahame drove away to the ship, Arthur set out forDublin, and Honora was left alone with her dread and her sorrows, whichCaptain Sydenham swore would be the shortest of her life. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

CASTLE MOYNA. 

The Dillon party took possession of Castle Moyna, its mistress, andCaptain Sydenham, who had a fondness for Americans. Mona Everard ownedany human being who looked at her the second time, as the oriole catchesthe eye with its color and then the heart with its song; and Louis hadthe same magnetism in a lesser degree. Life at the castle was not of theliveliest, but with the Captain's aid it became as rapid as theneighboring gentry could have desired. Anne cared little, so that herchildren had their triumph. Wrapped in her dreams of amethyst, theexquisiteness of this new world kept her in ecstasy. Its smallestdetails seemed priceless. She performed each function as if it were thelast of her life. While rebuffs were not lacking, she parried themeasily, and even the refusal of the parish priest to accept her aid inhis bazaar did not diminish the delight of her happy situation. She knewthe meaning of his refusal: she, an upstart, having got within the gatesof Castle Moyna by some servility, when her proper place was a _shebeen_in Cruarig, offered him charity from a low motive. She felt a rebukefrom a priest as a courtier a blow from his king; but keeping hertemper, she made many excuses for him in her own mind, without losingthe firm will to teach him better manners in her own reverent way. TheCountess heard of it, and made a sharp complaint to Captain Sydenham. The old dowager had a short temper, and a deep gratitude for Anne'sremarkable services in New York. Nor did she care to see her guestsslighted. 

"Father Roslyn has treated her shabbily. She suggested a booth at hisbazaar, offered to fit it up herself and to bring the gentry to buy. Shewas snubbed: 'neither your money nor your company. ' You must set thatright, Sydenham, " said she. 

"He shall weep tears of brine for it, " answered the Captain cheerfully. 

"Tell him, " said the Dowager, "the whole story, if your priest canappreciate it, which I doubt. A Cavan peasant, who can teach the fineladies of Dublin how to dress and how to behave; whose people are halfthe brains of New York; the prize-fighter turned senator, the Boss ofTammany, the son with a gold mine. Above all, don't forget to tell howshe may name the next ambassador to England. "

They laughed in sheer delight at her accomplishments and her triumphs. 

"Gad, but she's the finest woman, " the Captain declared. "At first Ithought it was acting, deuced fine acting. But it's only her naturefinding expression. What d'ye think she's planning now? An audience withthe Pope, begad, special, to present an American flag and a thousandpounds. And she laid out Lady Cruikshank yesterday, stone cold. Said herladyship: 'Quite a compliment to Ireland, Mrs. Dillon, that you kept theCavan brogue so well. ' Said Mrs. Dillon: 'It was all I ever got fromIreland, and a brogue in New York is always a recommendation to mercyfrom the court; then abroad it marks one off from the common English andtheir common Irish imitators. ' Did she know of Lady Cruikshank's effortto file off the Dublin brogue?"

"Likely. She seems to know the right thing at the right minute. "

Evidently Anne's footing among the nobility was fairly secure in spiteof difficulties. There were difficulties below stairs also, and JudyHaskell had the task of solving them, which she did with a success quiteequal to Anne's. She made no delay in seizing the position of arbiter inthe servants' hall, not only of questions touching the Dillons, andtheir present relations with the Irish nobility, but also on such vitaltopics as the rising, the Fenians, the comparative rank of the Irish athome and those in America, and the standing of the domestics in CastleMoyna from the point of experience and travel. Inwardly Judy had aprofound respect for domestics in the service of a countess, and lookedto find them as far above herself as a countess is above the rest of theworld. She would have behaved humbly among the servants of Castle Moyna, had not their airs betrayed them for an inferior grade. 

"These Americans, " said the butler with his nose in the air. 

"As if ye knew anythin' about Americans, " said Judy promptly. "Have yeever thraveled beyant Donegal, me good little man?"

"It wasn't necessary, me good woman. "

"Faith, it's yerself 'ud be blowin' about it if ye had. An' d'ye thinkpeople that thraveled five thousan' miles to spind a few dollars on yermiserable country wud luk at the likes o' ye? Keep yer criticisms onthese Americans in yer own buzzum. It's not becomin' that an ouldgossoon shud make remarks on Mrs. Dillon, the finest lady in New York, an' the best dhressed at this minnit in all Ireland. Whin ye'vethraveled as much as I have ye can have me permission to talk on what yehave seen. "

"The impidence o' some people, " said the cook with a loud and scornfullaugh. 

"If ye laughed that way in New York, " said Judy, "ye'd be sint to theIsland for breaking the public peace. A laugh like that manes noincrease o' wages. "

"The Irish in New York are allowed to live there I belave, " said a perthousemaid with a simper. 

"Oh, yes, ma'am, an' they are also allowed to sind home the rint o'their houses to kape the poor Irish from starvin', an' to help the lordsan' ladies of yer fine castles to kape the likes o' yees in a job. "

"'Twas always a wondher to me, " said the cook to the housemaid, as if noother was present, "how these American bigbugs wid their inilligant waysever got as far as the front door o' the Countess. "

"I can tell ye how Mrs. Dillon got in so far that her fut is on the neckof all o' yez this minnit, " said Judy. "If she crooked her finger at yethis hour, ye'd take yer pack on yer back an' fut it over to yerfather's shanty, wid no more chance for another place than if ye wor inTimbuctoo. The Countess o' Skibbereen kem over to New York to hould aconcert, an' to raise money for the cooks an' housemaids an' butlersthat were out of places in Donegal. Well, she cudn't get a singer, norshe couldn't get a hall, nor she cudn't sell a ticket, till Mrs. Dillongathered around her the Boss of Tammany Hall, an' Senator Dillon, an'Mayor Birmingham, an' Mayor Livingstone, an' says to thim, 'let theCountess o' Skibbereen have a concert an' let Tammany Hall buy everyticket she has for sale, an' do yeez turn out the town to make theconcert a success. ' An' thin she got the greatest singer in the world, Honora Ledwith, that ye cudn't buy to sing in Ireland for all the littlemoney there's in it, to do the singin', an' so the Countess med enoughmoney to buy shirts for the whole of Ireland. But not a door wud haveopened to her if Mrs. Dillon hadn't opened them all be wan word. That'swhy Castle Moyna is open to her to the back door. For me I wondher sheshtays in the poor little place, whin the palace o' the Americanambassador in London expects her. "

The audience, awed at Judy's assurance, was urged by pride to laughhaughtily at this last statement. 

"An' why wudn't his palace be open to her, " Judy continued with equalscorn. "He's afraid of her. She kem widin an ace o' spoilin' his chanceso' goin' to London an' bowin' to the Queen. An, bedad, he's not sure ofhis futtin' while she's in it, for she has her mind on the place for Mr. Vandervelt, the finest man in New York wid a family that goes back tothe first Dutchman that ever was, a little fellow that sat fishin' inthe say the day St. Pathrick sailed for Ireland. Now Mr. Livingstone sezto Mrs. Dillon whin he was leavin' for London, 'Come over, ' sez he, 'an'shtay at me palace as long as I'm in it. ' She's goin' there whin shelaves here, but I don't see why she shtays in this miserable place, whinshe cud be among her aquils, runnin' in an out to visit the Queen likewan o' thimselves. "

By degrees, as Judy's influence invaded the audience, alarm spread amongthem for their own interests. They had not been over polite to theAmericans, since it was not their habit to treat any but the nobilitywith more than surface respect. New York most of them hoped to visit anddwell within some day. What if they had offended the most influential ofthe great ladies of the western city! Judy saw their fear and guessedits motive. 

"Me last word to the whole o' yez is, get down an yer knees to Mrs. Dillon afore she l'aves, if she'll let yez. I hear that some o' ye thinkof immigratin' to New York. Are yez fit for that great city? What areyer wages here? Mebbe a pound a month. In our city the girls get fourpounds for doin' next to nothin'. An' to see the dhress an' the shtyleo' thim fine girls! Why, yez cudn't tell them from their ownmisthresses. What wud yez be doin' in New York, wid yer clothes thrun onyez be a pitchfork, an' lukkin' as if they were made in the ark? But ifye wor as smart as the lady that waits on the Queen, not wan fut will yeset in New York if Mrs. Dillon says no. Yez may go to Hartford orNewark, or some other little place, an' yez'll be mighty lucky if ye'renot sint sthraight on to quarantine wid the smallpox patients an' theTurks. "

The cook gave a gasp, and Judy saw that she had won the day. One morestruggle, however, remained before her triumph was complete. Thehousekeeper and the butler formed an alliance against her, and refusedto be awed by the stories of Mrs. Dillon's power and greatness; but asbecame their station their opposition was not expressed in merelanguage. They did not condescend to bandy words with inferiors. Thebutler fought his battle with Judy by simply tilting his nose toward thesky on meeting her. Judy thereupon tilted her nose in the same fashion, so that the servants' hall was convulsed at the sight, and the butlerhad to surrender or lose his dignity. The housekeeper carried on thebattle by an attempt to stare Judy out of countenance with a formidableeye; and the greatest staring-match on the part of rival servants inCastle Moyna took place between the representative of the Skibbereensand the maid of New York. The former may have thought her eye as good asthat of the basilisk, but found the eye of Miss Haskell much harder. 

The housekeeper one day met Judy descending the back stairs. She fixedher eyes upon her with the clear design of transfixing and paralyzingthis brazen American. Judy folded her arms and turned her glance uponher foe. The nearest onlookers held their breaths. Overcome by the calmmajesty of Judy's iron glance, which pressed against her face like aspear, the housekeeper smiled scornfully and began to ascend the stairswith scornful air. Judy stood on the last step and turned her neck roundand her eyes upward until she resembled the Gorgon. She had theadvantage of the housekeeper, who in mounting the stairs had to watchher steps; but in any event the latter was foredoomed to defeat. Theeyes that had not blinked before Anne Dillon, or the Senator, or MayorLivingstone, or John Everard, or the Countess of Skibbereen, or thegreat Sullivan, and had modestly held their own under the charmingglance of the Monsignor, were not to be dazzled by the fiercest glanceof a mere Donegal housekeeper. The contempt in Judy's eyes proved toomuch for the poor creature, and at the top of the stairs, with ahysterical shriek, she burst into tears and fled humbled. 

"I knew you'd do it, " said Jerry the third butler. "It's not in thimwake craythurs to take the luk from you, Miss Haskell. "

"Ye're the wan dacint boy in the place, " said Judy, remembering manyattentions from the shrewd lad. "An' as soon as iver ye come to NewYork, an' shtay long enough to become an American, I'll get ye a placeon the polls. "

From that day the position of the Dillon party became somethingcelestial as far as the servants were concerned, while Judy, as arbiterin the servants' hall, settled all questions of history, science, politics, dress, and gossip, by judgments from which there was nopresent appeal. All these details floated to the ears of CaptainSydenham, who was a favorite with Judy and shared her confidence; andthe Captain saw to it that the gossip of Castle Moyna also floated intothe parish residence daily. Some of it was so alarming that FatherRoslyn questioned his friend Captain Sydenham, who dropped in for aquiet smoke now and then. 

"Who are these people, these Americans, do you know, Captain? I meanthose just now stopping with the Countess of Skibbereen?"

"That reminds me, " replied the Captain. "Didn't you tell me FatherWilliam was going to America this winter on a collecting tour? Well, ifyou get him the interest of Mrs. Dillon his tour is assured of successbefore he begins it. "

A horrible fear smote the heart of the priest, nor did he see thepeculiar smile on the Captain's face. Had he made the dreadful mistakeof losing a grand opportunity for his brother, soon to undertake alaborious mission?

"Why do you think so?" he inquired. 

"You would have to be in New York to understand it, " replied theCaptain. "But the Countess of Skibbereen is not a patch in this countycompared to what Mrs. Dillon is in New York!"

"Oh, dear me! Do you tell me!"

"Her people are all in politics, and in the church, and in business. Herson is a--well, he owns a gold mine, I think, and he is in politics, too. In fact, it seems pretty clear that if you want anything in NewYork Mrs. Dillon is the woman to get it, as the Countess found it. Andif you are not wanted in New York by Mrs. Dillon, then you must go westas far as Chicago. "

"Oh, how unfortunate! I am afraid, Captain, that I have made a blunder. Mrs. Dillon came to me--most kindly of course--and made an offer to takecare of a booth at the bazaar, and I refused her. You know my feelingagainst giving these Americans any foothold amongst us----"

"Don't tell that to Father William, or he will never forgive you, " saidthe Captain. "But Mrs. Dillon is forgiving as well as generous. Do thehandsome thing by her. Go up to the castle and explain matters, and shewill forget your----"

"Oh, call it foolishness at once, " said the priest. "I'm afraid I'm toolate, but for the sake of charity I'll do what you say. "

A velvety welcome Anne gave him. Before all others she loved the priest, and but that she had to teach Father Roslyn a lesson he would have seenher falling at his feet for his blessing. In some fashion he madeexplanation and apology. 

"Father dear, don't mention it. Really, it is my place to makeexplanations and not yours. I was hurt, of course, that you refused thelittle I can give you, but I knew other places would be the richer byit, and charity is good everywhere. "

"A very just thought, madam. It would give us all great pleasure if youcould renew your suggestion to take a booth at the bazaar. We are allvery fond of Americans here--that is, when we understand them----"

"Only that I'm going up to London, father dear, I'd be only too happy. It was not the booth I was thinking of, you see, but the bringing of allthe nobility to spend a few pounds with you. "

"Oh, my dear, you could never have done it, " cried he in astonishment;"they are all Protestants, and very dark. "

"We do it in America, and why not here? I used to get more money fromProtestant friends than from me own. When I told them of my scheme herethey all promised to come for the enjoyment of it. Now, I'm so sorry Ihave to go to London. I must present my letters to the ambassador beforehe leaves town, and then we are in a hurry to get to Rome before the endof August. Cardinal Simeoni has promised us already a private audiencewith the Pope. Now, father dear, if there is anything I can do for youin Rome--of course the booth must go up at the bazaar just the same, only the nobility will not be there--but at Rome, now, if you wantedanything. "

"My dear Mrs. Dillon you overwhelm me. There is nothing I want formyself, but my brother, Father William----"

"Oh, to be sure, your brother, " cried Anne, when the priest paused inconfusion; "let him call on us in Rome, and I will take him to theprivate audience. "

"Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear madam, but my brother is not going toRome. It is to America I refer. His bishop has selected him from amongmany eminent priests of the diocese to make a collecting tour in Americathis winter. And I feel sure that if a lady of your rank took aninterest in him, it would save him much labor, and, what I fear isunavoidable, hardship. "

Anne rose up delighted and came toward Father Roslyn with a smile. Sheplaced her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

"Father dear, whisper. "

He bent forward. There was not a soul within hearing distance, but Anneloved a dramatic effect. 

"He need never leave New York. I'll see that Father William has the_entrée_ into the diocese, and I'll take care of him until he leaves forhome. "

She tapped him on the shoulder with her jeweled finger, and gave him amost expressive look of assurance. 

"Oh, how you overwhelm me, " cried Father Roslyn. "I thank you a hundredtimes, but I won't accept so kind an offer unless you promise me thatyou will preside at a booth in the bazaar. "

Of course she promised, much as the delay might embarrass the Americanminister in London, and the Cardinal who awaited with impatience herarrival in Rome. 

The bazaar became a splendid legend in the parish of Cruarig; how itsglory was of heaven; how Mrs. Dillon seemed to hover over it like anangel or a queen; how Father Roslyn could hardly keep out of her boothlong enough to praise the others; how the nobility flocked about itevery night of three, and ate wonderful dishes at fancy prices, and weredressed like princes; and how Judy Haskell ruled the establishment witha rod of iron from two to ten each day, devoting her leisure to theexplanation and description of the booths once presided over by hermistress in the great city over seas. All these incidents and others asgreat passed out of mind before the happenings which shadowed the lastdays at Castle Moyna with anxiety and dread. 

The Dowager gave a fête in honor of her guests one afternoon, and allthe county came. As a rule the gentry sneered at the American guests ofthe Countess, and found half their enjoyment at a garden fête in makingfun of the hostess and her friends in a harmless way. There might nothave been so much ridicule on this occasion for two reasons: thechildren were liked, and their guardian was dreaded. Anne had met andvanquished her critics in the lists of wit and polite insolence. Then afew other Americans, discovered by Captain Sydenham, were present, andbore half the brunt of public attention. The Dillons met theircountrymen for a moment and forgot them, even forgot the beautiful womanwhose appearance held the eyes of the guests a long time. CaptainSydenham was interesting them in a pathetic story of battle and deathwhich had just happened only a few miles away. When the two boys weredead beside the stream in the glen, and the tourists had met their fatebefore the magistrate in Cruarig, he closed the story by saying, "And now down in the hotel is the loveliest Irish girl you ever saw, waiting with the most patient grief for the help which will release herfather from jail. Am I not right, Mrs. Endicott?"

The beautiful American looked up with a smile. 

"Yes, indeed, " she replied in a clear, rich voice. "It is long since Imet a woman that impressed me more than this lonely creature. TheCaptain was kind enough to take me to see her, that I might comfort hera little. But she seemed to need little comfort. Very self-possessed youknow. Used to that sort of thing. "

"The others got scot free, no thanks to old Folsom, " said the Captain, "and one went off to their yacht and the other intended to start forDublin to interest the secretary. The Countess should interest herselfin her. Egad, don't you know, it's worth the trouble to take an interestin such a girl as Honora Ledwith. "

"Honora Ledwith, " said the Dowager at a little distance. "What do youknow of my lovely Honora?"

Already in the course of the story a suspicion had been shaping itselfin Anne's mind. The ship must have arrived, it was time to hear fromArthur and his party; the story warned her that a similar fate mighthave overtaken her friends. Then she braced herself for the shock whichcame with Honora's name; and at the same moment, as in a dream, she sawArthur swinging up the lawn towards her group; whereupon she gave afaint shriek, and rose up with a face so pale that all stretched outhands to her assistance; but Arthur was before them, as she tottered tohim, and caught her in his arms. After a moment of silence, Mona andLouis ran to his side, Captain Sydenham said some words, and then thelittle group marched off the lawn to the house, leaving the Captain toexplain matters, and to wonder at the stupidity which had made himoverlook the similarity in names. 

"Why, don't you know, " said he to Mrs. Endicott, "her son was one of theparty of tourists that Folsom sent to jail, and I never once connectedthe names. Absurd and stupid on my part. "

"Charming young man, " said the lady, as she excused herself and wentoff. Up in one of the rooms of Castle Moyna, when the excitement wasover and the explanations briefly made, Mona at the window described toArthur the people of distinction, as they made their adieus to theirhostess and expressed sympathy with the sudden and very properindisposition of Mrs. Dillon. He could not help thinking how small theworld is, what a puzzle is the human heart, how weird is the life ofman. 

"There she is now, " cried Mona, pointing to Mrs. Endicott and an oldlady, who were bidding adieu to the Countess of Skibbereen. "A perfectlylovely face, a striking figure--oh, why should Captain Sydenham say ourHonora was the loveliest girl he ever saw?--and he saw them together youknow----"

"Saw whom together?" said Arthur. 

"Why, Mrs. Endicott called on Honora at the hotel, you know. "

"Oh!"

He leaned out of the window and took a long look at her with scarcely anextra beat of the heart, except for the triumph of having met her faceto face and remained unknown. His longest look was for Aunt Lois, wholoved him, and was now helping to avenge him. Strange, strange, strange!

"Well?" cried Mona eagerly. 

"The old lady is a very sweet-looking woman, " he answered. "On the wholeI think Captain Sydenham was right. "

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE AMBASSADOR. 

After the happy reunion at Castle Moyna there followed a council of war. Captain Sydenham treasonably presided, and Honora sat enthroned amid thesilent homage of her friends, who had but one thought, to lift thesorrow from her heart, and banish the pallor of anxiety from her lovelyface. Her violet eyes burned with fever. The Captain drew his breathwhen he looked at her. 

"And she sings as she looks, " whispered the Countess noting his gasp. 

"It's a bad time to do anything for Mr. Ledwith, " the Captain said tothe little assembly. "The Fenian movement has turned out a completefailure here in Ireland, and abroad too. As its stronghold was theUnited States, you can see that the power of the American Minister willbe much diminished. It is very important to approach him in the rightway, and count every inch of the road that leads to him. We must notmake any mistakes, ye know, if only for Miss Ledwith's sake. "

His reward was a melting glance from the wonderful eyes. 

"I know the Minister well, and I feel sure he will help for the asking, "said Anne. 

"Glad you're so hopeful, mother, but some of us are not, " Arthurinterjected. 

"Then if you fail with His Excellency, Artie, " she replied composedly, "I shall go to see him myself. "

Captain and Dowager exchanged glances of admiration. 

"Now, there are peculiarities in our trials here, trials of rebels Imean ... I haven't time to explain them ... " Arthur grinned ... "butthey make imperative a certain way of acting, d'ye see? If I were in Mr. Dillon's place I should try to get one of two things from the AmericanMinister: either that the Minister notify Her Majesty's government thathe will have his representative at the trial of Ledwith; or, if thetrial is begun ... They are very summary at times ... That the samegentleman inform the government that he will insist on all the formsbeing observed. "

"What effect would these notifications have?" Arthur asked. 

"Gad, most wonderful, " replied the Captain. "If the Minister got in hiswarning before the trial began, there wouldn't be any trial; and iflater, the trial would end in acquittal. "

Every one looked impressed, so much so that the Captain had to explain. 

"I don't know how to explain it to strangers--we all know it here, doncheknow--but in these cases the different governments always havesome kind of an understanding. Ledwith is an American citizen, forexample; he is arrested as an insurgent, no one is interested in him, the government is in a hurry, a few witnesses heard him talk against thegovernment, and off he goes to jail. It's a troublesome time, d'ye see?But suppose the other case. A powerful friend interests the AmericanMinister. That official notifies the proper officials that he is goingto watch the trial. This means that the Minister is satisfied of theman's innocence. Government isn't going to waste time so, when there arehundreds to be tried and deported. So he goes free. Same thing if theMinister comes in while the trial is going on, and threatens to reviewall the testimony, the procedure, the character of the witnesses. Hesimply knocks the bottom out of the case, and the prisoner goes free. "

"I see your points, " said Arthur, smiling. "I appreciate them. Just thesame, we must have every one working on the case, and if I should failthe others must be ready to play their parts. "

"Command us all, " said the Captain with spirit. "You have LordConstantine in London. He's a host. But remember we are in the midst ofthe trouble, and home influence won't be a snap of my finger comparedwith the word of the Minister. "

"Then the Minister's our man, " said Anne with decision. "If Arthur failswith him, then every soul of us must move on London like an Irish army, and win or die. So, my dear Honora, take the puckers out of your face, and keep your heart light. I know a way to make Quincy Livingstone danceto any music I play. "

The smiles came back to Honora's face, hearts grew lighter, and Arthurstarted for London, with little confidence in the good-will ofLivingstone, but more in his own ability to force the gentleman to dohis duty. He ran up against a dead wall in his mission, however, for thequestion of interference on behalf of American citizens in English jailshad been settled months before in a conference between Livingstone andthe Premier, although feeling was cold and almost hostile between thetwo governments. Lord Constantine described the position with theaccuracy of a theorist in despair. 

"There's just a chance of doing something for Ledwith, " he saiddolorously. 

"By your looks a pretty poor one, I think, " Arthur commented. 

"Oh, it's got to be done, doncheknow, " he said irritably. "But thatda--that fool, Livingstone, is spoiling the stew with his rot. And I'vebeen watching this pot boil for five years at least. "

"What's wrong with our representative?" affecting innocence. 

"What's right with him would be the proper question, " growled hislordship. 

"In Ledwith's case the wrong is that he's gone and given assurances tothe government. He will not interfere with their disposition of Fenianprisoners, when these prisoners are American citizen. In other words, hehas given the government a free hand. He will not be inclined to showLedwith any favor. "

"A free hand, " repeated Arthur, fishing for information. "And what is afree hand?"

"Well, he could hamper the government very much when it is trying anAmerican citizen for crimes committed on British soil. Such a prisonermust get all the privileges of a native. He must be tried fairly, as hewould be at home, say. "

"Well, surely that strong instinct of fair play, that sense of justiceso peculiarly British, of which we have all heard in the school-books, would----"

"Drop it, " said Lord Constantine fiercely. "In war there's nothing butthe brute left. The Fenians--may the plague take them ... Will be hung, shipped to Botany Bay, and left to rot in the home prisons, withoutrespect to law, privilege, decency. Rebels must be wiped out, doncheknow. I don't mind that. They've done me enough harm ... Put backthe alliance ten years at least ... And left me howling in thewilderness. Livingstone will let every Fenian of American citizenship betried like his British mates ... That is, they will get no trial at all, except inform. They will not benefit by their American ties. "

"Why should he neglect them like that?"

"He has theories, of course. I heard him spout them at some beastlyreception somewhere. Too many Irish in America--too strong--toopopish--must be kept down--alliance between England and the UnitedStates to keep them down----"

"I remember he was one of your alliance men, " provokingly. 

"Alas, yes, " mourned his lordship. "The Fenians threatened to makemince-meat of it, but they're done up and knocked down. Now, thisLivingstone proposes a new form of mincing, worse than the Fenians athousand times, begad. "

"Begad, " murmured Arthur. "Surely you're getting excited. "

"The alliance is now to be argued on the plea of defense against popishaggressions, Arthur. This is the unkind cut. Before, we had to reunitethe Irish and the English. Now, we must soothe the prejudices of bigotsbesides. Oh, but you should see the programme of His Excellency for thealliance in his mind. You'll feel it when you get back home. A regularprogramme, doncheknow. The first number has the boards now: generalindignation of the hired press at the criminal recklessness of the Irishin rebelling against our benign rule. When that chorus is ended, therecomes a solo by an escaped nun. Did you ever hear of Sister ClaireThingamy----"

"Saw her--know her--at a distance. What is she to sing?"

"A book--confessions and all that thing--revelations of the horrors ofpapist life. It's to be printed by thousands and scattered over theworld. After that Fritters, our home historian at Oxford, is to travelin your county and lecture to the cream of society on the beauty ofBritish rule over the Irish. He is to affect the classes. The nun andthe press are to affect the masses. Between them what becomes of thealliance? Am I not patient? My pan demanded harmonious and brotherlyfeelings among all parties. Isn't that what an alliance must depend on?But Livingstone takes the other tack. To bring about his scheme we shallall be at each other's throats. Talk of the Kilkenny cats and Donnybrookfair, begad!"

"I don't wonder you feel so badly, " Arthur said, laughing. "But seehere: we're not afraid of Livingstone. We've knocked him out before, andwe can do it again. It will be interesting to go back home, and help toundo that programme. If you can manage him here, rely on Grahame and meand a few others in New York, to take the starch out of him at home. What's all this to do with Ledwith?"

"Nothing, " said his lordship with an apology. "But my own trouble seemsbigger than his. We'll get him out, of course. Go and see Livingstone, and talk to him on the uppish plan. Demand the rights and privileges ofthe British subject for our man. You won't get any satisfaction, but astiff talk will pave the way for my share in the scheme. You take theAmerican ground, and I come in on the British ground. We ought to makehim ashamed between us, doncheknow. "

Arthur had doubts of that, but no doubt at all that Lord Constantineowned the finest heart that ever beat in a man. He felt very cheerful atthe thought of shaking up the Minister. Half hopeful of success, curiousto test the strings which move an American Minister at the court of St. James, anxious about Honora and Owen, he presented himself atLivingstone's residence by appointment, and received a gracious welcome. Unknown to themselves, the two men had an attraction for each other. Fate opposed them strangely. This hour Arthur Dillon stood forth as theknight of a despised and desperate race, in a bloody turmoil at home, fighting for a little space on American soil, hopeful but spent with thelabor of upholding its ideals; and Livingstone represented a triumphantfaction in both countries, which, having long made life bitter andbloody for the Irish, still kept before them the choice of finaldestruction or the acceptance of the Puritan gods. To Arthur thestruggle so far seemed but a clever game whose excitement kept sorrowfrom eating out his heart. He saw the irony rather than the tragedy ofthe contest. It tickled him immensely just now that Puritan facedPuritan; the new striking at the old for decency's sake; a Protestantfighting a Protestant in behalf of the religious ideals of Papists. Hehad an advantage over his kinsman beyond the latter's ken; since to himthe humor of the situation seemed more vital than the tragedy, a mistakequite easy to youth. Arthur stated Ledwith's case beautifully, and askedhim to notify the British officials that the American Minister wouldsend his representative to watch the trial. 

"Impossible, " said Livingstone. "I am content with the ordinary coursefor all these cases. "

"We are not, " replied Arthur as decisively, "and we call upon ourgovernment to protect its citizens against the packed juries and otherinjustices of these Irish trials. "

"And what good would my interference do?" said Livingstone. Arthurgrinned. 

"Your Excellency, such a notification would open the doors of the jailto Ledwith to-morrow. There would be no trial. "

"My instructions from the President are precise in this matter. We aresatisfied that American citizens will get as fair a trial as Englishmenthemselves. There will be no interference until I am satisfied thatthings are not going properly. "

"Can you tell me, then, how I am to satisfy you in Ledwith's case?" saidthe young man good-naturedly. 

"I don't think you or any one else can, Mr. Dillon. I know Ledwith, aconspirator from his youth. He is found in Ireland in a time ofinsurrection. That's quite enough. "

"You forget that I have given you my word he was not concerned with theinsurrection, and did not know it was so imminent; that he went toIreland with his daughter on a business matter. "

"All which can be shown at the trial, and will secure his acquittal. "

"Neither I nor his daughter will ever be called as witnesses. Instead, apack of ready informers will swear to anything necessary to hurry himoff to life imprisonment. "

"That is your opinion. "

"Do you know who sent me here, your Excellency, with the request foryour aid?"

Livingstone stared his interrogation. 

"An English officer with whom you are acquainted, friendly to Ledwithfor some one else's sake. In plain words, he gave me to understand thatthere is no hope for Ledwith unless you interfere. If he goes to trial, he hangs or goes to Botany Bay. "

"You are pessimistic, " mocked Livingstone. "It is the fault of the Irishthat they have no faith in any government, because they cannot establishone of their own. "

"Outside of New York, " corrected Arthur, with delightful malice. 

"Amendment accepted. "

"Would you be able to interfere in behalf of my friend while the trialwas on, say, just before the summing up, when the informers had sworn toone thing, and the witnesses for the defense to another, if they are notshut out altogether?"

"Impossible. I might as well interfere now. "

"Then on the score of sentiment. Ledwith is failing into age. Even abrief term in prison may kill him. "

"He took the risk in returning to Ireland at this time. I would bewilling to aid him on that score, but it would open the door to athousand others, and we are unwilling to embarrass the Englishgovernment at a trying moment. "

"Were they so considerate when our moments were trying and they couldembarrass us?"

"That is an Irish argument. "

"What they said of your Excellency in New York was true, I am inclinedto believe: that you accepted the English mission to be of use to theEnglish in the present insurrection. "

"Well, " said the Minister, laughing in spite of himself at the audacityof Arthur, "you will admit that I have a right to pay back the Irish formy defeat at the polls. "

"You are our representative and defender, " replied Arthur gravely, "andyet you leave us no alternative but to appeal to the Englishthemselves. "

Livingstone began to look bored, because irritation scorched him and hadto be concealed. Arthur rose. 

"We are to understand, then, the friends of Ledwith, that you will donothing beyond what is absolutely required by the law, and after allformalities are complied with?" he said. 

"Precisely. "

"We shall have to depend on his English friends, then. It will lookqueer to see Englishmen take up your duty where you deserted it. "

The Minister waved his hand to signify that he had enough of that topic, but the provoking quality of Arthur's smile, for he did not seemchagrined, reminded him of a question. 

"Who are the people interested in Ledwith, may I ask?"

"All your old friends of New York, " said Arthur, "Birmingham, Sullivan, and so on. "

"Of course. And the English friends who are to take up my duties where Idesert them?"

"You must know some of them, " and Arthur grinned again, so that theMinister slightly winced. "Captain Sydenham, commanding in Donegal----"

"I met him in New York one winter--younger brother to Lord Groton. "

"The Dowager Countess of Skibbereen. "

"Very fine woman. Ledwith is in luck. "

"And Lord Constantine of Essex. "

"I see you know the value of a climax, Mr. Dillon. Well, good-night. Ihope the friends of Mr. Ledwith will be able to do everything for him. "

It irritated him that Arthur carried off the honors of the occasion, forthe young man's smiling face betrayed his belief that the mention ofthese noble names, and the fact that their owners were working forLedwith, would sorely trouble the pillow of Livingstone that night. Thecontrast between the generosity of kindly Englishmen and his ownharshness was too violent. He foresaw that to any determined attempt onthe part of Ledwith's English friends he must surrender as gracefully asmight be; and the problem was to make that surrender harmless. He hadsolved it by the time Anne Dillon reached London, and had composed thatmusic sure to make the Minister dance whether he would or no. In takingcharge of the case Anne briefly expressed her opinion of her son'smethods. 

"You did the best you could, Arthur, " she said sweetly. 

He could not but laugh and admire. Her instincts for the game were farsurer than his own, and her methods infallible. She made the road easyfor Livingstone, but he had to walk it briskly. How could the poor manhelp himself? She hurled at him an army of nobles, headed by theCountess and Lord Constantine; she brought him letters from his friendsat home; there was a dinner at the hotel, the Dowager being the hostess;and he was almost awed by the second generation of Anne's audaciousrace: Mona, red-lipped, jewel-eyed, sweeter than wild honey; Louis, whose lovely nature and high purpose shone in his face; and Arthur, sad-eyed, impudent, cynical, who seemed ready to shake dice with thedevil, and had no fear of mortals because he had no respect for them. These outcasts of a few years back were able now to seize the threads ofintrigue, and shake up two governments with a single pull! He mournedwhile he described what he had done for them. There would be no trialfor Ledwith. He would be released at once and sent home at governmentexpense. It was a great favor, a very great favor. Even Arthur thankedhim, though he had difficulty in suppressing the grin which stole to hisface whenever he looked at his kinsman. The Minister saw the grinpeeping from his eyes, but forgave him. 

Arthur had the joy of bringing the good news down to Donegal. Anne badehim farewell with a sly smile of triumph. Admirable woman! she floatedabove them all in the celestial airs. But she was gracious to her son. The poor boy had been so long in California that he did not know how togo about things. She urged him to join them in Rome for the visit to thePope, and sent her love to Honora and a bit of advice to Owen. WhenArthur arrived in Cruarig, whither a telegram had preceded him, he wassurprised to find Honora Ledwith in no way relieved of anxiety. 

"You have nothing to do but pack your trunk and get away, " he said. "There is to be no trial, you know. Your father will go straight to thesteamer, and the government will pay his expenses. It ought to pay morefor the outrage. "

She thanked him, but did not seem to be comforted. She made no comment, and he went off to get an explanation from Captain Sydenham. 

"I meant to have written you about it, " said the Captain, "but hopedthat it would have come out all right without writing. Ledwithmaintains, and I think he's quite right, that he must be permitted to gofree without conditions, or be tried as a Fenian conspirator. The caseis simple: an American citizen traveling in Ireland is arrested on acharge of complicity in the present rebellion; the government must proveits case in a public trial, or, unable to do that, must release him asan innocent man; but it does neither, for it leads him from jail to thesteamer as a suspect, ordering him out of the country. Ledwith demandseither a trial or the freedom of an innocent man. He will not help thegovernment out of the hole in which accident, his Excellency theMinister, and your admirable mother have placed it. Of course it's hardon that adorable Miss Ledwith, and it may kill Ledwith himself, if notthe two of them. Did you ever in your life see such a daughter and sucha father?"

"Well, all we can do is to make the trial as warm as possible for thegovernment, " said Arthur. "Counsel, witnesses, publicity, telegrams tothe Minister, cablegrams to our Secretary of State, and all the rest ofit. "

"Of no use, " said the Captain moodily. "You have no idea of an Irishcourt and an Irish judge in times of revolt. I didn't till I came here. If Ledwith stands trial, nothing can save him from some kind of asentence. "

"Then for his daughter's sake I must persuade him to get away. "

"Hope you can. All's fair in war, you know, but Ledwith is the worstkind of patriot, a visionary one, exalted, as the French say. "

Ledwith thanked Arthur warmly when he called upon him in jail, and madehis explanation as the Captain had outlined it. 

"Don't think me a fool, " he said. "I'm eager to get away. I have norelish for English prison life. But I am not going to promoteLivingstone's trickery. I am an American citizen. I have had no part, direct or indirect, in this futile insurrection. I can prove it in afair trial. It must be either trial or honorable release to do as anyAmerican citizen would do under the circumstances. If I go to prison Ishall rely on my friends to expose Livingstone, and to warm up theofficials at home who connive with him. "

Nor would he be moved from this position, and the trial came off with aspeed more than creditable when justice deals with pirates, butotherwise scandalous. 

It ended in a morning, in spite of counsel, quibbles, and otherornamental obstacles, with a sentence of twenty years at hard labor inan English prison. To this prison Ledwith went the next day at noon. There had not been much time for work, but Arthur had played his part tohis own satisfaction; the Irish and American journals buzzed with theitems which he provided, and the denunciations of the American Ministerwere vivid, biting, and widespread; yet how puerile it all seemed beforethe brief, half contemptuous sentence of the hired judge, who thusroughly shoved another irritating patriot out of the way. The farewellto Ledwith was not without hope. Arthur had declared his purpose to gostraight to New York and set every influence to work that could reachthe President. Honora was to live near the prison, support herself byher singing, and use her great friends to secure a mitigation of hissentence, and access to him at intervals. 

"I am going in joy, " he said to her and Arthur. "Death is the lightestsuffering of the true patriot. Nora and I long ago offered our lives forIreland. Perhaps they are the only useful things we could offer, for wehaven't done much. Poor old country! I wish our record of service hadsome brighter spots in it. "

"At the expense of my modesty, " said Arthur, "can't I mention myself asone of the brighter spots? But for you I would never have raised afinger for my mother's land. Now, I am enlisted, not only in the causeof Erin, but pledged to do what I can for any race that withers likeyours under the rule of the slave-master. And that means my money, mytime and thought and labor, and my life. "

"It is the right spirit, " said Ledwith, trembling. "I knew it was inyou. Not only for Ireland, but for the enslaved and outraged everywhere. God be thanked, if we poor creatures have stirred this spirit in you, lighted the flame--it's enough. "

"I have sworn it, " cried Arthur, betrayed by his secret rage intoeloquence. "I did not dream the world was so full of injustice. I couldnot understand the divine sorrow which tore your hearts for the wrongedeverywhere. I saw you suffer. I saw later what caused your suffering, and I felt ashamed that I had been so long idle and blind. Now I havesworn to myself that my life and my wealth shall be at the service ofthe enslaved forever. "

They went their different ways, the father to prison, Honora to theprison village, and Arthur with all speed to New York, burning withhatred of Livingstone. The great man had simply tricked them, hadstudied the matter over with his English friends, and had found a way tosatisfy the friends of Ledwith and the government at the same time. Well, it was a long lane that had no turning, and Arthur swore that hewould find the turning which would undo Quincy Livingstone. 

AN ESCAPED NUN. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

JUDY VISITS THE POPE. 

He used the leisure of the voyage to review recent events, and tomeasure his own progress. For the first time since his calamity he hadlost sight of himself in this poetic enterprise of Ledwith's, successfulbeyond all expectation. In this life of intrigue against the injusticeof power, this endless struggle to shake the grip of the master on theslave, he found an intoxication. Though many plans had come to nothing, and the prison had swallowed a thousand victims, the game was worth thedanger and the failure. In the Fenian uprising the proud rulers had lostsleep and comfort, and the world had raised its languid eyes for amoment to study events in Ireland. Even the slave can stir the selfishto interest by a determined blow at his masters. In his former existencevery far had been from him this glorious career, though honors lay inwait for an Endicott who took to statecraft. Shallow Horace, sprung fromstatesman, had found public life a bore. This feeling had saved himperhaps from the fate of Livingstone, who in his snail-shell could seeno other America than a monstrous reproduction of Plymouth colony. 

He had learned at last that his dear country was made for the humanrace. God had guided the little ones of the nations, wretched but hardy, to the land, the only land on earth, where dreams so often come true. Like the waves they surged upon the American shore. With ax and shoveland plow, with sweat of labor and pain, they fought the wilderness andbought a foothold in the new commonwealth. What great luck that his exitfrom the old life should prove to be his entrance into the very heart ofa simple multitude flying from the greed and stupidity of the decadentaristocracy of Europe! What fitness that he, child of a race which hadtriumphantly fought injustice, poverty, Indian, and wilderness, shouldnow be leader for a people who had fled from injustice at home only tobegin a new struggle with plotters like Livingstone, foolishrepresentative of the caste-system of the old world. 

Sonia Westfield, by strange fatality, was aboard with her child and AuntLois. Her presence, when first they came face to face, startled him; notthe event, but the littleness of the great earth; that his hatred andher crime could not keep them farther apart. The Endicott in him rose upfor a moment at the sight of her, and to his horror even sighed for her:this Endicott, who for a twelvemonth had been so submerged under the newpersonality that Dillon had hardly thought of him. He sighed for her!Her beauty still pinched him, and the memory of the first enchantmenthad not faded from the mind of the poor ghost. It mouthed in anger atthe master who had destroyed it, who mocked at it now bitterly: you arethe husband of Sonia Westfield, and the father of her fraudulent child;go to them as you desire. But the phantom fled humiliated, while Dillonremained horror-shaken by that passing fancy of the Endicott to take upthe dream of youth again. Could he by any fatality descend to thisshame? Her presence did not arouse his anger or his dread, hardly hiscuriosity. He kept out of her way as much as possible, yet more thanonce they met; but only at the last did the vague inquiry in her faceindicate that memory had impressions of him. 

Often he studied her from afar, when she sat deep in thought with herlovely eyes ... How he had loved them ... Melting, damnable, false eyesfixed on the sea. He wondered how she bore her misery, of which not asign showed on the velvet face. Did she rage at the depths of that seawhich in an instant had engulfed her fool-husband and his fortune? Thesame sea now mocked her, laughed at her rage, bearing on its bosom themystery which she struggled to steal from time. No one could punish thiscreature like herself. She bore her executioner about with her, AuntLois, evidently returning home to die. That death would complete theruin of Sonia, and over the grave she would learn once for all how wellher iniquity had been known, how the lost husband had risen from hisdarkness to accuse her, how little her latest crime would avail her. What a dull fool Horace Endicott had been over a woman suspected of herown world! Her beauty would have kept him a fool forever, had she beenless beastly in her pleasures. And this Endicott, down in the depths, sighed for her still!

But Arthur Dillon saw her in another light, as an unclean beast fromsin's wilderness, in the light that shone from Honora Ledwith. Messalinacowered under the halo of Beatrice! When that light shone full upon her, Sonia looked to his eye like a painted Phryne surprised by the daylight. Her corruption showed through her beauty. Honora! Incomparable woman!dear lady of whiteness! pure heart that shut out earthly love, while Godwas to be served, or men suffered, or her country bled, or her fatherlived! The thought of her purified him. He had not truly known his dearmother till now; when he knew her in Honora, in old Martha, in charmingMona, in Mary Everard, in clever Anne Dillon. These women would blesshis life hereafter. They refreshed him in mind and heart. It began todawn upon him that his place in life was fixed, that he would never goback even though he might do so with honor, his shame remaining unknown. It was mere justice that the wretched past should be in a grave, doomednever to see the light of resurrection. 

His mother and her party shared the journey with him. The delay ofLedwith's trial had enabled them to make the short tour on theContinent, and catch his steamer. Anne was utterly vexed with him thatLedwith had not escaped the prison. Her plain irritation gave Judy deepcontent. 

"She needs something to pull her down, " was her comment to Arthur, "orshe'll fly off the earth with the lightness of her head. My, my, but theairs of her since she laid out the ambassador, an' talked to the Pope!She can hardly spake at all now wid the grandher! Whin Father Phil ... Inever can call him Mounsinnyory ... An', be the way, for years wasn't Icallin' him Morrisania be mistake, an' the dear man never corrected mewanst ... But I learned the difference over in Rome ... Where was I?... Whin Father Phil kem back from Rome he gev us a grand lecther on what hesaw, an' he talked for two hours like an angel. But Anne Dillon can on'yshut her eyes, an' dhrop her head whin ye ask her a single questionabout it. Faith, I dinno if she'll ever get over it. Isn't that quarenow?"

"Very, " Arthur answered, "but give her time. So you saw the Pope?"

"Faith, I did, an' it surprised me a gra'dale to find out that he was adago, God forgi' me for sayin' as much. I was tould be wan o' theMounsinnyory that he was pure Italian. 'No, ' sez I, 'the Pope may beRooshin or German, though I don't belave he's aither, but he's notItalian. If he wor, he'd have the blessed sinse to hide it, for fear theIrish 'ud lave the Church whin they found it out. '"

"What blood do you think there's in him?" said Arthur. 

"He looked so lovely sittin' there whin we wint in that me sivin sinsesleft me, an' I cudn't rightly mek up me mind afterwards. Thin I was sotaken up wid Mrs. Dillon, " and Judy laughed softly, "that I wasbothered. But I know the Pope's not a dago, anny more than he's anaygur. I put him down in me own mind as a Roman, no more an' no less. "

"That's a safe guess, " said Arthur; "and you still have the choice ofhis being a Sicilian, a Venetian, or a Neapolitan. "

"Unless, " said the old lady cautiously, "he comes of the same stock asOur Lord Himself. "

"Which would make him a Jew, " Arthur smoothly remarked. 

"God forgive ye, Artie! G'long wid ye! If Our Lord was a Jew he was thefirst an' last an' on'y wan of his kind. "

"And that's true too. And how did you come to see the Pope so easy, andit in the summer time?"

The expressive grin covered Judy's face as with comic sunshine. 

"I dunno, " she answered. "If Anne Dillon made up her mind to be Impressof France, I dunno annythin' nor anny wan that cud hould her back; an'perhaps the on'y thing that kep' her from tryin' to be Impress was thatthe Frinch had an Impress already. I know they had, because I heard herladyship lamentin', whin we wor in Paris, that she didn't get a lettherof introduction to the Impress from Lady Skibbereen. She had anny numberof letthers to the Pope. I suppose that's how we all got in, for I winttoo, an' the three of us looked like sisters of mercy, dhressed in blackwid veils on our heads. Whin we dhruv up to the palace, her ladyship geva screech. 'Mother of heaven, ' says she, 'but I forgot me permit, an'we can't get in to see his Holiness. ' We sarched all her pockets, butfound on'y the square bit o' paper, a milliner's bill, that she tuk forthe permit be mistake. 'Well, this'll have to do, ' says she. Says I, 'Wud ye insult the Pope be shakin' a milliner's bill in his face as yego in the dure?' She never answered me, but walked in an' presented herbill to a Mounsinnyory----"

"What's that?" Arthur asked. "I was never in Rome. "

"Somethin' like the man that takes the tickets at the theayter, ou'yhe's a priest, an' looks like a bishop, but he cuts more capers than tenbishops in wan. He never opened the paper--faith, if he had, there'd bethe fine surprise--so we wint in. I knew the Pope the minnit I set eyeson him, the heavenly man. Oh, but I'd like to be as sure o' savin' mesoul as that darlin' saint. His eyes looked as if they saw heaven everynight an' mornin'. We dhropped on our knees, while the talkin' was goin'on, an' if I wasn't so frikened at bein' near heaven itself, I'd a diedlistenin' to her ladyship tellin' the Pope in French--in French, d'yemind?--how much she thought of him an' how much she was goin' to spindon him while she was in Rome. 'God forgive ye, Anne Dillon, ' says I tomeself, 'but ye might betther spind yer money an' never let an. ' She medquite free wid him, an' he talked back like a father, an' blessed ustwinty times. I dinno how I wint in or how I kem out. I was like a top, spinnin' an' spinnin'. Things went round all the way home, so that Ididn't dar say a word for fear herself might think I had been drinkin'. So that's how we saw the Pope. Ye can see now the terrible determinationof Anne Dillon, though she was the weeniest wan o' the family. "

In the early morning the steamer entered the lower bay, picking up DoyleGrahame from a tug which had wandered about for hours, not in search ofnews, but on the scent for beautiful Mona. He routed out the Dillonparty in short order. 

"What's up?" Arthur asked sleepily. "Are you here as a reporter----"

"As a lover, " Grahame corrected, with heaving chest and flashing eyes. "The crowd that will gather to receive you on the dock may have manydignitaries, but I am the only lover. That's why I am here. If I stayedwith the crowd, Everard, who hates me almost, would have taken pains toshut me out from even a plain how-de-do with my goddess. "

"I see. It's rather early for a goddess, but no doubt she will oblige. You mentioned a crowd on the dock to receive us. What crowd?"

"Your mother, " said Doyle, "is a wonderful woman. I have oftenspeculated on the absence of a like ability in her son. "

"Nature is kind. Wait till I'm as old as she is, " said the son. 

"The crowd awaits her to do her honor. The common travelers _will land_this morning, glad to set foot on solid ground again. Mrs. MontgomeryDillon and her party are the only personages that _will arrive fromEurope_. The crowd gathers to meet, not the passengers who merely land, but the personages who arrive from Europe. "

"Nice distinction. And who is the crowd?"

"Monsignor O'Donnell----"

"A very old and dear friend----"

"Who hopes to build his cathedral with her help. The Senator----"

"Representing the Dillon clan. "

"Who did not dare absent himself, and hopes for more inspiration likethat which took him out of the ring and made him a great man. Vandervelt. "

"Well, he, of course, is purely disinterested. "

"Didn't she inform him of her triumph over Livingstone in London? Andisn't he to be the next ambassador, and more power to him?"

"And John Everard of course. "

"To greet his daughter, and to prevent your humble servant from kissingthe same, " and he sighed with pleasure and triumph. "Where is she? ShallI have long to wait? Is she changed?"

"Ask her brother, " with a nod for the upper berth where Louis sleptserenely. 

"And of course you have news?"

"Loads of it. I have arranged for a breakfast and a talk after thearrival is finished. There'll be more to eat than the steak. "

The steamer swung to the pier some hours later, and Arthur walkedashore to the music of a band which played decorously the popularstrains for a popular hero returning crowned with glory. His motherarrived as became the late guest of the Irish nobility. Grahame handedMona into her father's arms with an exasperating gesture, and thenplunged into his note-book, as if he did not care. The surprisedpassengers wondered what hidden greatness had traveled with them acrossthe sea. On the deck Sonia watched the scene with dull interest, forsome one had murmured something about a notorious Fenian getting backhome to his kind. Arthur saw her get into a cab with her party a fewminutes later and drive away. A sadness fell upon him, the bitternesswhich follows the fading of our human dreams before the strong light ofday. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

LA BELLE COLETTE. 

After the situation had been discussed over the breakfast for tenminutes Arthur understood the mournful expression of the Senator, whosegaiety lapsed at intervals when bitterness got the better of him. 

"The boys--the whole town is raving about you, Artie, " said he withpride, "over the way you managed that affair of Ledwith's. There'll benothing too good for you this year, if you work all the points of thegame--if you follow good advice, I mean. You've got Livingstone in acorner. When this cruel war is over, and it is over for theFenians--they've had enough, God knows--it ought to be commencing forthe Honorable Quincy Livingstone. "

"You make too much of it, Senator, " Grahame responded. "We know what'sback of these attacks on you and others. It's this way, Arthur: theSenator and I have been working hard for the American citizens inEnglish jails, Fenians of course, and the Livingstone crowd have hitback at us hard. The Senator, as the biggest man in sight, got hithardest. "

"What they say of me is true, though. That's what hurts. "

"Except that they leave out the man whom every one admires for his goodsense, generous heart, and great success, " Arthur said to console him. 

"Of course one doesn't like to have the sins of his youth advertised fortwo civilizations, " Grahame continued. "One must consider the source ofthis abuse however. They are clever men who write against us, but toknow them is not to admire them. Bitterkin of the _Post_ has his brain, stomach, and heart stowed away in a single sack under his liver, whichis very torpid, and his stomach is always sour. His blood is three partswater from the Boyne, his food is English, his clothes are a very badfit, and his whiskers are so hard they dull the scissors. He lovesAmerica when he can forget that Irish and other foreign vermin inhabitit, otherwise he detests it. He loves England until he remembers that hecan't live in it. The other fellow, Smallish, writes beautiful English, and lives on the old clothes of the nobility. Now who would mourn overthe diatribes of such cats?"

The Senator had to laugh at the description despite his sadness. 

"This is only one symptom of the trouble that's brewing. There's no usein hiding the fact that things are looking bad. Since the Fenian schemewent to pieces, the rats have left their holes. The Irish aredemoralized everywhere, fighting themselves as usual after a collapse, and their enemies are quoting them against one another. Here in New Yorkthe hired bravos of the press are in the pay of the Livingstone crowd, or of the British secret service. What can you expect?"

"How long will it last? What is doing against it?" said Arthur. 

"Ask me easier questions. Anyway, I'm only consoling the Senator for thehard knocks he's getting for the sake of old Ireland. Cheer up, Senator. "

"Even when Fritters made his bow, " said the mournful Senator, "they madegame of me, " and the tears rose to his eyes. Arthur felt a secret rageat this grief. 

"You heard of Fritters?" and Arthur nodded. "He arrived, and theColumbia College crowd started him off with a grand banquet. He's anOxford historian with a new recipe for cooking history. The Columbiaprofessor who stood sponsor for him at the banquet told the world thatFritters would show how English government worked among the Irish, andhow impossible is the Anglo-Saxon idea among peoples in whom barbarismdoes not die with the appearance and advance of civilization. He touchedup the elegant parades and genial shindys of St. Patrick's Day as'inexplicable dumb shows and noise, '--see Hamlet's address to theplayers--and hoped the banks of our glorious Hudson would never witnessthe bloody rows peculiar to the banks of the immortal Boyne. Then hedragged in the Senator. "

"What's his little game?" Arthur asked. 

"Scientific ridicule ... The press plays to the galleries, and Frittersto the boxes ... It's a part of the general scheme ... I tell youthere's going to be fun galore this winter ... And the man in London isat the root of the deviltry. "

"What's to be done?"

"If we only knew, " the Senator groaned. "If we could only get them underour fists, in a fair and square tussle!"

"I think the hinge of the Livingstone plan is Sister Claire, the escapednun, " Grahame said thoughtfully. "She's the star of the combination, appeals to the true blue church-member with descriptions of the horrorsof convents. Her book is out, and you'll find a copy waiting for you athome. Dime novels are prayer-books beside it. French novels are virtuouscompared with it. It is raising an awful row. On the strength of itMcMeeter has begun an enterprise for the relief of imprisoned nuns--torescue them--house them for a time, and see them safely married. SisterClaire is to be matron of the house of escaped nuns. No one doubts herexperience. Now isn't that McMeeter all over? But see the book, the_Confessions of an Escaped Nun_. "

"You think she's the hinge of the great scheme?"

"She has the public eye and ear, " said Grahame, thinking out his owntheory as he talked. "Her book is the book of the hour ... Reviewed bythe press ... The theme of pulpits ... The text of speeches galore ... Common workmen thump one another over it at the bench. Now all theothers, Bradford, Fritters, the Columbia professors, Bitterkin and hisfollowers, seem to play second to her book. They keep away from hersociety, yet her strongest backing is from them. You know what I mean. It has occurred to me that if we got her history ... It must be prettysavory ... And printed it ... Traced her connection with the Livingstonecrowd ... It would be quite a black eye for the Honorable Quincy. "

"By George, but you've struck it, " cried Arthur waking up to thesituation. "If she's the hinge, she's the party to strike at. Tell me, what became of Curran?"

"Lucky thought, " shouted Grahame. "He's in town yet. The very man forus. "

"I'm going to have it out with Livingstone, " said Arthur, with a clearvision of an English prison and the patient woman who watched its wallsfrom a window in the town. "In fact, I _must_ have it out withLivingstone. He's good game, and I'd like to bring him back from Englandin a bag. Perhaps Sister Claire may be able to provide the bag. "

"Hands on it, " said Grahame, and they touched palms over the table, while the Senator broke into smiles. He had unlimited faith in hisnephew. 

"Lord Conny gave me an outline of Livingstone's program before I left. He's worried over the effect it's going to have on his alliance scheme, and he cursed the Minister sincerely. He'll help us. Let's begin withSister Claire in the hope of bagging the whole crowd. Let Curran hunt upher history. Above all let him get evidence that Livingstone providesthe money for her enterprise. "

Having come to a conclusion on this important matter, they dropped intomore personal topics. 

"Strangely enough, " said Grahame cheerfully, "my own destiny is mixed upwith this whole business. The bulwark of Livingstone in one quarter isJohn Everard. I am wooing, in the hope of winning, my futurefather-in-law. "

"He's very dead, " the Senator thought. 

"The art of wooing a father-in-law!--what an art!" murmured Grahame. "The mother-in-law is easy. She wishes her daughter married. Papadoesn't. At least in this case, with a girl like Mona. "

"Has Everard anything against you?"

"A whole litany of crimes. "

"What's wrong with Everard?"

"He was born the night of the first big wind, and he has had it in forthe whole world ever since. He's perverse. Nothing but another big windwill turn him round. "

Seeing Arthur puzzled over these allusions, Grahame explained. 

"Think of such a man having children like the twins, little lumps ofsweetness ... Like Louis ... Heavens! if I live to be the father of sucha boy, life will be complete ... Like my Mona ... Oh!"

He stalked about the room throwing himself into poses of ecstasy andadoration before an imaginary goddess to the delight of the Senator. 

"I've been there myself, " Arthur commented unmoved. "To the question:how do you hope to woo and win Everard?"

"First, by my book. It's the story of just such a fool as he: a chap whowears the American flag in bed and waves it at his meals, as a nightgownand a napkin; then, he is a religious man of the kind that finds noreligion to his liking, and would start one of his own if he thought itwould pay; finally, he is a purist in politics, believes in blue glass, drinks ten glasses of filtered water a day, which makes him as blue asthe glass, wears paper collars, and won't let his son be a monk becausethere are too many in the world. Now, Everard will laugh himself weakover this character. He's so perverse that he will never see himself inthe mirror which I have provided. "

"Rather risky, I should think. "

"But that's not all, " Grahame went on, "since you are kind enough tolisten. I'm going to wave the American flag, eat it, sing it, for thenext year, myself. Attend: the descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers aregoing to sit on what is left of Plymouth Rock next spring, and makespeeches and read poems, and eat banquets. I am to be invited to sing, to read the poem. Vandervelt is to see to that. Think of it, a wildIrishman, an exile, a conspirator against the British Crown, a subjectof the Pope, reading or singing the praises of the pilgrims, the grimpilgrims. Turn in your grave, Cotton Mather, as my melodious versesharrow your ears. "

"Will that impress John Everard?"

"Or give him a fatal fit. The book and the poem ought to do thebusiness. He can't resist. 'Never was Everard in this humor wooed, neverwas Everard in this humor won. ' Oh, that Shakespeare had known anEverard, and embalmed him like a fly in the everlasting amber of hisverse. But should these things fail, I have another matter. WhileEverard rips up Church and priest and doctrine at his pleasure, he hasone devotion which none may take liberties with. He swears by the nuns. He is foaming at the mouth over the injury and insult offered them bythe _Confessions_ of Sister Claire. We expose this clever woman. Pictureme, then, the despised suitor, after having pleased him by my book, andastounded him with my poem, and mesmerized him with the exposure ofClaire, standing before him with silent lips but eyes speaking: I wantyour daughter. Can even this perverse man deny me? Don't you think Ihave a chance?"

"Not with Everard, " said the Senator solemnly. "He's simply coke. "

"You should write a book, Doyle, on the art of wooing a father-in-law, and explain what you have left out here: how to get away with the dog. "

"Before marriage, " said the ready wit, "the girl looks after the dog;after marriage the dog can be trained to bite the father-in-law. "

Arthur found the _Confessions of an Escaped Nun_ interesting readingfrom many points of view, and spent the next three days analyzing thebook of the hour. His sympathy for convent life equaled hisunderstanding of it. He had come to understand and like Sister MaryMagdalene, in spite of a prejudice against her costume; but the motiveand spirit of the life she led were as yet beyond him. Nevertheless, hecould see how earnestly the _Confessions_ lied about what it pretendedto expose. The smell of the indecent and venal informer exhaled from thepages. The vital feature, however, lay in the revelation of SisterClaire's character, between the lines. Beneath the vulgarity andobscenity, poorly veiled in a mock-modest verbiage, pulsated a burningsensuality reaching the horror of mania. A well-set trap would have easywork in catching the feet of a woman related to the nymphs. Small wonderthat the Livingstone party kept her afar off from their perfumed andreputable society while she did her nasty work. The book must have beenoil to that conflagration raging among the Irish. The abuse of thepress, the criticism of their friends, the reproaches of their own, thehostility of the government, the rage and grief at the failure of theirhopes, the plans to annoy and cripple them, scorched indeed theirsensitive natures; but the book of the Escaped Nun, defiling their holyones so shamelessly, ate like acid into their hearts. Louis came in, when he had completed his analysis of the volume, and begun to think upa plan of action. The lad fingered the book gingerly, and said timidly:

"I'm going to see ... I have an appointment with this terrible womanfor to-morrow afternoon. In fact, I saw her this morning. I went to heroffice with Sister Mary Magdalen. "

"Of course the good Sister has a scheme to convert the poor thing!"Arthur said lightly, concealing his delight and surprise under apretense of indifference. 

"Well, yes, " and the lad laughed and blushed. "And she may succeed too. The greater the sin the deeper the repentance. The unfortunatewoman----"

"Who is making a fortune on her book by the way----"

"----received us very kindly. Sister Magdalen had been corresponding withher. She wept in admitting that her fall seemed beyond hope. She felt sotangled in her own sins that she knew no way to get out of them. Really, she _was_ so sincere. When we were leaving she begged me to call again, and as I have to return to the seminary Monday I named to-morrowafternoon. "

"You may then have the honor of converting her. "

"It would be an honor, " Louis replied stoutly. 

"Try it, " said Arthur after thinking the matter over. "I know what force_your_ arguments will have with her. And if you don't object I'll stay... By the way, where is her office?"

"In a quiet business building on Bleecker Street, near Broadway. "

"If you don't mind I'll stay outside in the hall, and rush in to act asaltar-boy, when she agrees to 'vert. "

"I'm going for all your ridicule, Arthur. "

"No objection, but keep a cool head, and bear in mind that I am in thehall outside. "

He suspected the motive of Sister Claire, both in making thisappointment, and in playing at conversion with Sister Magdalen. Perhapsit might prove the right sort of trap for her cunning feet. He doubtedthe propriety of exposing Louis to the fangs of the beast, and for amoment he thought to warn him of the danger. But he had no right tointerfere in Sister Magdalen's affair, and if a beginning had to be madethis adventure could be used effectively. He forgot the affair withinthe hour, in the business of hunting up Curran. 

He had a double reason for seeking the detective. Besides the task offerreting out the record of Sister Claire, he wished to get news of theEndicotts. Aunt Lois had slipped out of life two days after her returnfrom Europe. The one heart that loved him truly beat for him no more. Bythis time her vengeance must have fallen, and Sonia, learning the fullextent of her punishment, must now be writhing under a secondhumiliation and disappointment. He did not care to see her anguish, buthe did care to hear of the new effort that would undoubtedly be made tofind the lost husband. Curran would know. He met him that afternoon onthe street near his own house. 

"Yes, I'm back in the old business, " he said proudly; "the trip home sofreshened me that I feel like myself again. Besides, I have my own home, here it is, and my wife lives with me. Perhaps you have heard of her, LaBelle Colette. "

"And seen her too ... A beautiful and artistic dancer. "

"You must come in now and meet her. She is a trifle wild, you know, andonce she took to drink; but she's a fine girl, a real good fellow, andworth twenty like me. Come right in, and we'll talk business later. "

La Belle Colette! The dancer at a cheap seaside resort! The wildcreature who drank and did things! This shrewd, hard fellow, who faceddeath as others faced a wind, was deeply in love and happy in hercompanionship. What standard of womanhood and wifehood remained to suchmen? However, his wonder ceased when he had bowed to La Belle Colette inher own parlor, heard her sweet voice, and looked into the mostentrancing eyes ever owned by a woman, soft, fiery, tender, glad, candideyes. He recalled the dancer, leaping like a flame about the stage. Inthe plainer home garments he recognized the grace, quickness, and gaietyof the artist. Her charm won him at once, the spell which her rare kindhave ever been able to cast about the hearts of men. He understood whythe flinty detective should be in love with his wife at times, but notwhy he should continue in that state. She served them with wine andcigars, rolled a cigarette for herself, chatted with the ease andchumminess of a good fellow, and treated Arthur with tenderness. 

"Richard has told me so much of you, " she explained. 

"I have so admired your exquisite art, " he replied, "that we are alreadyfriends. "

"Que vous êtes bien gentil, " she murmured, and her tone would havecaressed the wrinkles out of the heart of old age. 

"Yes, I'm back at the old game, " said Curran, when they got away frompleasantry. "I'm chasing after Tom Jones. It's more desperate than ever. His old aunt died some days back, and left Tom's wife a dollar, andTom's son another dollar. "

"I can fancy her, " said Colette with a laugh, "repeating to herself thatmagic phrase, two dollars, for hours and hours. Hereafter she will getweak at sight of the figure two, and things that go in twos, likemarried people, she will hate. "

"How easy to see that you are French, Colette, " said Arthur, as acompliment. She threw him a kiss from her pretty fingers, and gave asidelong look at Curran. 

"There's a devil in her, " Arthur thought. 

"The will was very correct and very sound, " resumed the detective. "Nohope in a contest if they thought of such a thing among the West ... TheJones'. The heirs took pity on her, and gave her a lump for consolation. She took it and cursed them for their kindness. Her rage was somethingto see. She is going to use that lump, somewhere about twenty-fivethousand, I think, to find her accursed Tom. How do I know? That's partof the prize for me if I catch up with Tom Jones within three years. AndI draw a salary and expenses all the time. You should have seen Mrs. Tomthe day I went to see her. Colette, " with a smile for his wife, "yourworst trouble with a manager was a summer breeze to it. You're awhite-winged angel in your tempers compared with Mrs. Tom Jones. Herlanguage concerning the aunt and the vanished nephew was wonderful. Itried to remember it, and I couldn't. "

"I can see her, I can feel with her, " cried La Belle Colette, jumping toher feet, and rushing through a pantomime of fiendish rage, which madethe men laugh to exhaustion. As she sat down she said with emphasis, "She must find him, and through you. I shall help, and so will ourfriend Dillon. It's an outrage for any man to leave a woman in such ascrape ... For a mere trifle. "

"She has her consolations, " said the detective; "but the devil in her isnot good-natured like the devil in you, Colette. She wants to get holdof Tom and cut him in little bits for what he has made her suffer. "

"Did you get out any plans?" said Arthur. 

"One. Look for him between here and Boston. That's my wife's idea. TomJones was not clever, but she says ... Say it yourself, my dear. "

"Rage and disappointment, or any other strong feeling, " said the womansharply, with strong puffs at her cigarette, "turns a fool into a wiseman for a minute. It would be just like this fool to have a brilliantinterval while he dreamed of murdering his clever wife. Then he hit upona scheme to cheat the detectives. It's easy, if you know how stupid theyare, except Dick. Tom Jones is here, on his own soil. He was not goingto run away with a million and try to spend it in the desert of Sahara. He's here, or in Boston, enjoying the sight of his wife stewing inpoverty. It would be just like the sneak to do her that turn. "

She looked wickedly at Arthur. What a face! Thin, broad, yet finelyproportioned, with short, flaxen locks framing it, delicate eyebrowsmarking the brow and emphasizing the beautiful eyes. A woman to befeared, an evil spirit in some of her moods. 

"You tried the same plan, " Arthur began----

"But he had no partner to sharpen his wits, " she interrupted. Arthurbowed. 

"That makes all the difference in the world, " he said sincerely. "Let mehope that you will give your husband some hints in a case which I amgoing to give him. "

He described the career of Sister Claire briefly, and expressed the wishto learn as much as possible of her earlier history. The Curranslaughed. 

"I had that job before, " said the detective. "If the Jones case wereonly half a hundred times harder I might be happy. Her past is unknownexcept that she has been put out of many convents. I never looked up herbirthplace or her relatives. Her name is Kate Kerrigan along with tenother names. She drinks a little, and just now holds a fine stake in NewYork ... There's the whole of it. "

"Not much to build upon, if one wished to worry Claire, or otherpeople. "

"Depend upon it, " Colette broke in, "that Kate Kerrigan has a prettyhistory behind her. I'll bet she was an actress once. I've seen herstage poses ... Then her name, catchy ... And the way she rolls her eyesand looks at that congregation of elders, and deacons and female saints, when she sets them shivering over the nastiness that's coming. "

Curran glanced at her with a look of inquiry. She sat on the window-silllike a bird, watching the street without, half listening to the menwithin. Arthur made a close study of the weird creature, sure that astrain of madness ran in her blood. Her looks and acts had the grace ofa wild nature, which purrs, and kills, and purrs again. Quiet and dreamythis hour, in her dances she seemed half mad with vitality. 

"Tell him what you learned about her, " said Curran, and then to Arthur, "She can do a little work herself, and likes it. "

"To hunt a poor soul down, never!" she cried. "But when a mean thing ishiding what every one has a right to know, I like to tear the truth outof her ... Like your case of Tom Jones. Sister Claire is downright mean. Maybe she can't help it. But I know the nuns, and they're God's ownchildren. She knows it too, but, just for the sake of money, she's lyingnight and day against them, and against her own conscience. There's adevil in her. I could do a thing like that for deviltry, and I couldpull a load of money out of her backers, not for the money, but fordeviltry too, to skin a miser like McMeeter, and a dandy like Bradford. And she's just skinning them, to the last cent. "

She took a fit of laughing, then, over the embarrassment of SisterClaire's chief supporters. 

"Here's what I know about her, " she went on. "The museum fakirs areworshiping her as a wonderful success. They seem to feel by instinctthat she's one of themselves, but a genius. They have a lot of fairystories about her, but here's the truth: Bishop Bradford and ErastusMcMeeter are her backers. The Bishop plays high society for her, and thebawler looks after the mob. She gets fifty per cent. Of everything, andthey take all the risks. Her book, I know you read it, chock-full oflies, thrilling lies, for the brothers and the sisters who can't readFrench novels in public--well, she owns the whole thing and gets allthe receipts except a beggar's ten per cent. , thrown to the publishers... And they're the crack publishers of the town, the Hoppertons ... Butall the same they dassent let their names go on the title-page ... Theyhad that much shame ... So old Johnson, whom nobody knows, is printerand publisher. The book is selling like peanuts. There's more than oneway of selling your soul to the devil. "

After this surprising remark, uttered without a smile, she looked out ofthe window sadly, while Curran chuckled with delight. 

"It takes the woman to measure the woman, " he said. Arthur was delightedat this information. 

"I wish you would learn some more about her, Mrs. Curran. "

She mimicked the formal name in dumb show. 

"Well, La Belle Colette, then, " he said laughing. She came over to himand sat on the arm of his chair, her beautiful eyes fixed on his with anexpression well understood by both the men. 

"You are going to hunt that dreadful creature down, " said she. "I won'thelp you. What do you know about her motives? She may have good reasonfor playing the part ... She may have suffered?"

"One must protect his own, " replied Arthur grimly. 

"What are we all but wolves that eat one another?--lambs by day, wolvesin the night. We all play our part----"

"All the world's a stage, of course----"

"Even you are playing a part, " with sudden violence. "I have studiedyou, young man, since you came in. Lemme read your palm, and tell you. "

She held his hand long, then tossed it aside with petulance, parted hishair and peered into his face, passed her hands lightly over his headfor the prominences, dashed unexpected tears from her eyes, and thensaid with decision:

"There are two of you in there, " tapping his chest. "I can't tell why, but I can read, or feel one man, and outside I see another. "

"Your instinct is correct, " said Arthur seriously. "I have long beenaware of the same fact, peculiar and painful. But for a long time theoutside man has had the advantage. Now with regard to this SisterClaire, not to change the subject too suddenly----"

Colette deserted his chair, and went to her husband. She had lostinterest in the matter and would not open her lips again. The mendiscussed the search for Endicott, and the inquiry into the history ofSister Claire, while the dancer grew drowsy after the fashion of achild, her eyes became misty, her red lips pouted, her voice drawledfaint and complaining music in whispers, and Curran looked often andlong at her while he talked. Arthur went away debating with himself. Hismind had developed the habit of reminiscence. Colette reminded him of aface, which he had seen ... No, not a face but a voice ... Or was it amanner?... Or was it her look, which seemed intimate, as of earlieracquaintance?... What was it? It eluded him however. He felt happy andsatisfied, now that he had set Curran on the track of the uncleanbeast. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE ESCAPED NUN. 

Sister Claire sat in her office the next afternoon awaiting Louis as thegorged spider awaits the fly, with desire indeed, but without anxiety. Her office consisted of three rooms, opening into one another within, each connected by doors with the hall without. A solemn youth kept guardin the antechamber, a bilious lad whose feverish imagination enshrinedSister Claire and McMeeter on the same altar, and fed its fires on thepromises of the worthy pair some day to send him on a mission asglorious as their own. The furnishings had the severe simplicity of theconvent. The brilliant costume of the woman riveted the eye by the verydulness of her surroundings. At close view her beauty seemed morespiritual than in her public appearances. The heavy eyebrows were ablemish indeed, but like a beauty-spot emphasized the melting eyes andthe peachy skin. 

The creamy habit of the nun and the white coif about her head left onlyher oval face and her lovely hands visible; but what a revelation werethese of loveliness and grace! One glance at her tender face and thelittle hands would have scattered to the winds the slanders of Colette. Success had thrilled but not coarsened the escaped nun. As Grahame hadsurmised, she was now the hinge of Livingstone's scheme. The success ofher book and the popularity of her lectures, together with her discreetbehavior, had given her immense influence with her supporters and withthe leaders. Their money poured into her lap. She did not need it whileher book sold and her lectures were crowded. 

The office saw come and go the most distinguished visitors. Even theEnglish historian did not begin to compare with her in glory, and so farhis lectures had not been well attended. Thinking of many things withdeep pride, she remembered that adversity had divided the leisure ofher table with prosperity. Hence, she could not help wondering how longthis fine success would last. Her peculiar fate demanded an end to itsometime. As if in answer to her question, the solemn youth in theantechamber knocked at her door, and announced with decorum Mr. RichardCurran. 

"I have made the inquiries you wanted, " Curran said, as he took a chairat her bidding. "Young Everard is a special pet of Dillon. This boy isthe apple of his eye. And Everard, the father, is an ardent supporter ofLivingstone. I think you had better drop this affair, if you wouldescape a tangle--a nasty tangle. "

"If the boy is willing, where's the tangle, Mr. Curran?" she answeredplacidly. 

"Well, you know more about the thing than I can tell you, " he said, asif worried. "You know them all. But I can't help warning you againstthis Dillon. If you lay your hand on anything of his, I'm of opinionthat this country will not be big enough for you and him at the sametime. "

"I shall get him also, and that'll put an end to his enmity. He's a finefellow. He's on my track, but you'll see how enchantment will put himoff it. Now, don't grumble. I'll be as tender and sweet with the boy asa siren. You will come in only when I feel that the spell doesn't work. Rely on me to do the prudent thing. "

That he did not rely on her his expression showed clearly. 

"You have made a great hit in this city, Sister Claire, " he began----

"And you think I am about to ruin my chances of a fortune?" sheinterrupted. "Well, I am willing to take the risk, and you have nothingto say about it. You know your part. Go into the next room, and wait foryour cue. I'll bet any sum that you'll never get the cue. If you do, besure to make a quick entrance. "

He looked long at her and sighed, but made no pretense to move. Sherose, and pointed to the third room of the suite. Sheepishly, moodily, in silent protest, he obeyed the gesture and went out humbly. Beforethat look the brave detective surrendered like a slave to his chains. The door had hardly closed behind him, when the office-boy solemnlyannounced Louis, and at a sign from Sister Claire ushered in the friendof Arthur Dillon. She received him with downcast eyes, standing at alittle distance. With a whispered welcome and a drooping head, shepointed to a seat. Louis sat down nervous and overawed, wishing that hehad never undertaken this impossible and depressing task. Who was he tobe dealing with such a character as this dubious and disreputable woman?

"I feared you would not come, " she began in a very low tone. "I fearedyou would misunderstand ... What can one like you understand of sin andmisery?... But thank Heaven for your courage ... I may yet owe to you mysalvation!"

"I was afraid, " said the lad frankly, gladdened by her cunning words. "Idon't know of what ... But I suppose it was distrust of myself. If I canbe of any service to you how glad I shall be!"

"Oh, you can, you can, " she murmured, turning her beautiful eyes on him. Her voice failed her, and she had to struggle with her sobs. 

"What do you think I can do for you?" he asked, to relieve the suspense. 

"I shall tell you that later, " she replied, and almost burst outlaughing. "It will be simple and easy for you, but no one else cansatisfy me. We are alone. I must tell you my story, that you may be thebetter able to understand the service which I shall ask of you. It is ashort story, but terrible ... Especially to one like you ... Promise methat you will not shrink, that you will not despise me----"

"I have no right to despise you, " said Louis, catching his breath. 

She bowed her head to hide a smile, and appeared to be irresolute for amoment. Then with sudden, and even violent, resolve, she drew a chair tohis side, and began the history of her wretched career. Her position wassuch, that to see her face he had to turn his head; but her delicatehands rested on the arm of his chair, clasped now, and again twistedwith anguish, and then stretched out with upward palms appealing forpity, or drooping in despair. She could see his profile, and watch thegrowing uneasiness, the shame of innocence brought face to face withdirt unspeakable, the mortal terror of a pure boy in the presence ofPhryne. With this sport Sister Claire had been long familiar. 

Her caressing voice and deep sorrow stripped the tale of half itsvileness. At times her voice fell to a breath. Then she bent towards himhumbly, and a perfume swept over him like a breeze from the tropics. Thetale turned him to stone. Sister Claire undoubtedly drew upon herimagination and her reading for the facts, since it rarely falls to thelot of one woman to sound all the depths of depravity. Louis had littlenonsense in his character. At first his horror urged him to fly from theplace, but whenever the tale aroused this feeling in him, the cunningcreature broke forth into a strain of penitence so sweet and touchingthat he had not the heart to desert her. At the last she fell upon herknees and buried her face in his lap, crying out:

"If you do not hate me now ... After all this ... Then take pity on me. "

 * * * * *

Arthur sauntered into the hall outside the office of Sister Claire abouthalf-past four. He had forgotten the momentous interview which bid sofair to end in the conversion of the escaped nun; also his declarationto be within hailing distance in case of necessity. In a lucky moment, however, the thought of Sister Mary Magdalen and her rainbow enterprise, so foolish, so incredible, came to his mind, and sent him in haste tothe rescue of his friend. Had Louis kept his engagement and received thevows and the confession of the audacious tool of Livingstone? No soundcame from the office. It would hardly do for him to make inquiry. 

He observed that Sister Claire's office formed a suite of three rooms. The door of the first looked like the main entrance. It had theappearance of use, and within he heard the cough of the solemnoffice-boy. A faint murmur came from the second room. This must be theprivate sanctum of the spider; this murmur might be the spider'senchantment over the fly. What should the third room be? The trap? Heturned the knob and entered swiftly and silently, much to thedetective's surprise and his own. 

"I had no idea that door was unlocked, " said Curran helplessly. 

"Nor I. Who's within? My friend, young Everard?"

"Don't know. She shoved me in here to wait until some visitor departed. Then we are to consider a proposition I made her, " said the calmdetective. 

"So you have made a beginning? That's good. Don't stir. Perhaps it is aswell that you are here. Let me discover who is in here with the goodsister. "

"I can go to the first room, the front office, and inquire, " saidCurran. 

"Never mind. "

He could hear no words, only the low tones of the woman speaking; untilof a sudden the strong, manly voice of Louis, but subdued by emotion, husky and uncertain, rose in answer to her passionate outburst. 

"He's inside ... My young man ... Hopes to convert her, " Arthurwhispered to Curran, and they laughed together in silence. "Now I havemy own suspicion as to her motive in luring the boy here. If he goes ashe came, why I'm wrong perhaps. If there's a rumpus, I may have herlittle feet in the right sort of a trap, and so save you labor, and therest of us money. If anything happens, Curran, leave the situation tome. I'm anxious for a close acquaintance with Sister Claire. "

Curran sat as comfortably, to the eye, as if in his own houseentertaining his friend Dillon. The latter occasionally made the verynatural reflection that this brave and skilful man lay in the trap ofjust such a creature as Sister Claire. Suddenly there came a burst ofsound from the next room, exclamations, the hurrying of feet, the crashof a chair, and the trying of the doors. A frenzied hand shook the knobof the door at which Arthur was looking with a satisfied smile. 

"Locked in?" he said to Curran, who nodded in a dazed way. 

Then some kind of a struggle began on the other side of that door. Arthur stood there like a cat ready to pounce on the foolish mouse, andthe detective glared at him like a surly dog eager to rend him, butafraid. They could hear smothered calls for help in a woman's voice. 

"If she knew how near the cat is, " Arthur remarked patiently. 

At last the key clicked in the lock, the door half opened, and as Arthurpushed it inwards Sister Claire flung herself away from it, and gaspedfeebly for help. She was hanging like a tiger to Louis, who in a gentleway tried to shake her hands and arms from his neck. The young fellow'sface bore the frightful look of a terrified child struggling for lifeagainst hopeless odds--mingled despair and pain. Arthur remained quietlyin the entrance, and the detective glared over his shoulder warningly atClaire. At sight of the man who stood there, she would have shrieked inher horror and fright, but that sound died away in her throat. Sheloosened her grip, and stood staring a moment, then swiftly andmeaningly began to arrange her disordered clothing. Louis made a dashfor the door, seeing only a way of escape and not recognizing hisfriend. Arthur shook him. 

"Ah, you will go converting before your time, " he said gayly. 

"Oh, Arthur, thank God----" the lad stammered. 

"Seize him, " Claire began to shriek, very cautiously however. "Hold him, gentlemen. Get the police. He is an emissary of the papists----"

"Let me go, " Louis cried in anguish. 

"Steady all round, " Arthur answered with a laugh. "Sister Claire, if youwant the police raise your voice. One harlot more on the Island will notmatter. Louis, get your nerve, man. Did I not tell you I would be in thehall? Go home, and leave me to deal with this perfect lady. Look afterhim, " he flung at Curran, and closed the door on them, quite happy atthe result of Sister Magdalen's scheme of conversion. 

He did not see the gesture from Curran which warned Sister Claire tomake terms in a hurry with this dangerous young man. The fury stood atthe far end of the office, burning with rage and uncertainty. Havingfallen into her own trap, she knew not what to do. The situation hadfound its master. Arthur Dillon evidently took great pleasure in thisclimax of her making. He looked at her for a moment as one might at awild animal of a new species. The room had been darkened so that onecould not see distinctly. He knew that trick too. Her beauty improvedupon acquaintance. For the second time her face reminded him that theyhad met before, and he considered the point for an instant. What did itmatter just then? She had fallen into his hands, and must be disposedof. Pointing to a chair he sat down affably, his manner making histhought quite plain. She remained standing. 

"You may be very tired before our little talk is concluded----"

"Am I to receive your insults as well as your agent's?" she interrupted. 

"Now, now, Sister Claire, this will never do. You have been acting" ... He looked at his watch ... "since four o'clock. The play is over. We arein real life again. Talk sense. Since Everard failed to convert you, andyou to convert Everard, try the arts of Cleopatra on me. Or, let meconvince you that you have made a blunder----"

"I do not wish to listen you, " she snapped. "I will not be insulted asecond time. "

"Who could insult the author of the _Confessions_? You are beyondinsult, Claire. I have read your book with the deepest interest. I haveread you between every line, which cannot be said of most of yourreaders. I am not going to waste any words on you. I am going to giveyou an alternative, which will do duty until I find rope enough to hangyou as high as Jack Sheppard. You know what you are, and so do I. Thefriends of this young man who fell so nicely into your claws will beanxious to keep his adventure with you very quiet. "

A light leaped into her eyes. She had feared that outside, in the hall, this man might have his hirelings ready to do her mischief, that somedreadful plot had come to a head which meant her ruin. Light began todawn upon her. He laughed at her thoughts. 

"One does not care to make public an adventure with such a woman asyou, " said he affably. "A young man like that too. It would be fatal forhim. Therefore, you are to say nothing about it. You are not eager totalk about your failure ... Cleopatra blushes for your failure ... But aheedless tongue and a bitter feeling often get the better of sense. Ifyou remain silent, so shall I. "

"Very generous, " she answered calmly, coming back to her naturalcoolness and audacity. "As you have all to lose, and I have all to gainby a description of the trap set for me by your unclean emissary, yourproposition won't go. I shall place the matter before my friends, andbefore the public, when I find it agreeable. "

"When!" he mocked. "You know by this time that you are playing a losinggame, Claire. If you don't know it, then you are not smart enough forthe game. Apart from that, remember one thing: when you speak I shallwhisper the truth to the excitable people whom your dirty book isharrying now. "

"I am not afraid of whispers, quite used to them in fact, " she drawled, as if mimicking him. 

"I see you are not smart enough for the game, " and the remark startledher. "You can see no possible results from that whisper. Did you everhear of Jezebel and her fate? Oh, you recall how the dogs worried herbones, do you? So far your evil work has been confined to glitteringgeneralities. To-day you took a new tack. Now you must answer to me. Letit once become known that you tried to defile the innocent, to work harmto one of mine, and you may suffer the fate of the unclean things towhich you belong by nature. The mob kills without delicacy. It will tearyou as the dogs tore the painted Jezebel. "

"You are threatening me, " she stammered with a show of pride. 

"No. That would be a waste of time. I am warning you. You have still theform of a woman, therefore I give you a chance. You are at the end ofyour rope. Stretch it further, and it may become the noose to hang you. You have defiled with your touch one whom I love. He kept his innocence, so I let it pass. But a rat like you must be destroyed. Very soon too. We are not going to stand your abominations, even if men likeLivingstone and Bradford encourage you. I am giving you a chance. Whatdo you say? Have I your promise to be silent?"

"You have, " she replied brokenly. 

He looked at her surprised. The mask of her brazen audacity remained, but some feeling had overpowered her, and she began to weep like anywoman in silent humiliation. He left her without a word, knowing enoughof her sex to respect this inexplicable grief, and to wait for a morefavorable time to improve his acquaintance. "Sonia's mate, " he said tohimself as he reached the street. The phrase never left him from thatday, and became a prophecy of woe afterwards. He writhed as he saw hownearly the honor and happiness of Louis had fallen into the hands ofthis wretch. Protected by the great, she could fling her dirt upon theclean, and go unpunished. Sonia's mate! He had punished one creature ofher kind, and with God's help he would yet lash the backs of SisterClaire and her supporters. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

AN ANXIOUS NIGHT. 

Curran caught up with him as he turned into Broadway. He had waited tolearn if Arthur had any instructions, as he was now to return to SisterClaire's office and explain as he might the astounding appearance ofDillon at a critical moment. 

"She's a ripe one, " Arthur said, smiling at thought of her collapse, butthe next moment he frowned. "She's a devil, Curran, a handsome devil, and we must deal with her accordingly--stamp her out like a snake. Didyou notice her?"

"No doubt she's a bad one, " Curran answered thickly, but Arthur's bitterwords gave him a shiver, and he seemed to choke in his utterance. 

"Make any explanation you like, Curran. She will accuse you of lettingme in perhaps. It looks like a trap, doesn't it? By the way, what becameof the boy?"

"He seemed pretty well broken up, " the detective answered, "and sent meoff as soon as he learned that I had him in charge. I told him that youhad the whole business nicely in hand, and not to worry. He mutteredsomething about going home. Anyway, he would have no more of me, and hewent off quite steady, but looking rather queer, I thought. "

Arthur, with sudden anxiety, recalled that pitiful, hopeless look of theterrified child in Louis' face. Perhaps he had been too dazed tounderstand how completely Arthur had rescued him in the nick of time. Tothe lad's inexperience this cheap attempt of Claire to overcome hisinnocence by a modified badger game might have the aspect of a tragedy. Moreover, he remained ignorant of the farce into which it had beenturned. 

"I am sorry you left him, " he said, thoughtfully weighing thecircumstances. "This creature threatened him, of course, withpublicity, an attack on her honor by a papist emissary. He doesn't knowhow little she would dare such adventure now. He may run away in hisfright, thinking that his shame may be printed in the papers, and thatthe police may be watching for him. Public disgrace means ruin for him, for, as you know, he is studying to be a priest. "

"I didn't know, " Curran answered stupidly, a greenish pallor spreadingover his face. "That kind of work won't bring her much luck. "

"It occurs to me now that he was too frightened to understand what myappearance meant, and what your words meant, " Arthur resumed. "He mayfeel an added shame that we know about it. I must find him. Do you go atonce to Sister Claire and settle your business with her. Then ride overto the Everards, and tell the lad, if he be there, that I wish to seehim at once. If he has not yet got back, leave word with his mother ... Keep a straight face while you talk with her ... To send him over to meas soon as he gets home. And tell her that if I meet him before he doesget home, that I shall keep him with me all night. Do you see the point?If he has gone off in his fright, we have sixteen hours to find him. Noone must know of his trouble, in that house at least, until he is safe. Do you think we can get on his trail right away, Curran?"

"We must, " Curran said harshly, "we must. Has he any money?"

"Not enough to carry him far. "

"Then ten hours' search ought to capture him. "

"Report then to me at my residence within an hour. I have hopes thatthis search will not be needed, that you will find him at home. But bequicker than ever you were in your life, Curran. I'd go over to CherryStreet myself, but my inquiries would frighten the Everards. There mustbe no scandal. "

Strange that he had not foreseen this possibility. For him the escapadewith the escaped nun would have been a joke, and he had not thought howdifferently Louis must have regarded it. If the lad had really fled, andhis friends must learn of it, Sister Claire's share in the matter wouldhave to remain a profound secret. With all their great love for thisboy, his clan would rather have seen him borne to the grave than livingunder the shadow of scandal in connection with this vicious woman. Herperfidy would add disgrace to grief, and deepen their woe beyond time'spower to heal. 

For with this people the prejudice against impurity was so noblyunreasonable that mere suspicion became equal to crime. This feelingintensified itself in regard to the priesthood. The innocence of Louiswould not save him from lifelong reproach should his recent adventurefinds its way into the sneering journals. Within the hour Curran, moreanxious than Arthur himself, brought word that the lad had not yetreached home. His people were not worried, and promised to send him withspeed to Arthur. 

"Begin your search then, " said Arthur, "and report here every hour. Ihave an idea he may have gone to see an aunt of his, and I'll go thereto find out. What is your plan?"

"He has no money, and he'll want to go as far as he can, and where hewon't be easily got at. He'll ship on an Indiaman. I'll set a few men tolook after the outgoing ships as a beginning. "

"Secrecy above all things, understand, " was the last admonition. 

Darkness had come on, and the clocks struck the hour of seven as Arthurset out for a visit to Sister Mary Magdalen. Possibly Louis had soughther to tell the story of failure and shame, the sad result of herfoolish enterprise; and she had kept him to console him, to put him inshape before his return home, so that none might mark the traces of hisfrightful emotion. Alas, the good nun had not seen him since their visitto Claire's office in Bleecker Street the day before. He concealed fromher the situation. 

"How in the name of Heaven, " said he, "did you conceive this scheme ofconverting this woman?"

"She has a soul to be saved, and it's quite saveable, " answered the nuntartly. "The more hopeless from man's view, the more likely from God's. I have a taste for hopeless enterprises. "

"I wish you had left Louis out of this one, " Arthur thought. "But todeal with a wretch like her, so notorious, so fallen, " he said aloud, "you must have risked too much. Suppose, after you had entered heroffice, she had sent for a reporter to see you there, to see you leavingafter kissing her, to hear a pretty story of an embassy from thearchbishop to coax her back to religion; and the next morning a longaccount of this attempt on her resolution should appear in the papers?What would your superiors say?"

"That could happen, " she admitted with a shiver, "but I had her wordthat my visit was to be kept a secret. "

"Her word!" and he raised his hands. 

"Oh, I assure you the affair was arranged beforehand to the smallestdetail, " she declared. "Of course no one can trust a woman like thatabsolutely. But, as you see, in this case everything went off smoothly. "

"I see indeed, " said Arthur too worried to smile. 

"I arranged the meeting through Miss Conyngham, " the nun continued, "avery clever person for such work. I knew the danger of the enterprise, but the woman has a soul, and I thought if some one had the courage totake her by the hand and lead her out of her wicked life, she might dopenance, and even become a saint. She received Miss Conyngham quitenicely indeed; and also my message that a helping hand was ready for herat any moment. She was afraid too of a trap; but at the last she beggedto see me, and I went, with the consent of my superior. "

"And how did you come to mix Louis up in the thing?"

"He happened to drop in as I was going, and I took him along. He wasvery much edified, we all were. "

"And he has been more edified since, " observed Arthur, but the good nunmissed the sarcasm. 

"She made open confession before the three of us, " warming up at thememory of that scene. "With tears in her eyes she described her fall, her present remorse, her despair of the future, and her hope in us. Mostremarkable scene I ever witnessed. I arranged for her to call at thisconvent whenever she could to plan for her return. She may be here anytime. Oh, yes, I forgot. The most touching moment of all came at thelast. When we were leaving she took Louis' hand, pressed it to herheart, kissed it with respect, and cried out: 'You happy soul, oh, keepthe grace of God in your heart, hold to your high vocation through anytorment: to lose it, to destroy it, as I destroyed mine, is to open widethe soul to devils. ' Wasn't that beautiful now? Then she asked him inthe name of God to call on her the next day, and he promised. He may behere to-night to tell me about it. "

"You say three. Was Edith Conyngham the third?"

"Oh, no, only a sister of our community. "

He burst out laughing at the thought of the fox acting so cleverlybefore the three geese. Claire must have laughed herself into a fit whenthey had gone. He had now to put the Sister on her guard at the expenseof her self-esteem. He tried to do so gently and considerately, fearinghysterics. 

"You put the boy in the grasp of the devil, I fear, " he said. "ConvertSister Claire! You would better have turned your prayers on Satan! Shegot him alone this afternoon in her office, as you permitted, and madehim a proposition, which she had in her mind from the minute she firstsaw him. I arrived in time to give her a shock, and to rescue him. Nowwe are looking for him to tell him he need not fear Sister Claire'sthreats to publish how he made an attack upon her virtue. "

"I do not quite understand, " gasped Sister Magdalen stupefied. WhatArthur thought considerate others might have named differently. Exasperation at the downright folly of the scheme, and its threatenedresults, may have actuated him. His explanation satisfied the nun, andher fine nerve resisted hysterics and tears. 

"It is horrible, " she said at the last word. "But we acted honestly, andGod will not desert us. You will find Louis before morning, and I shallspend the night in prayer until you have found him ... For him and you... And for that poor wretch, that dreadful woman, more to be pitiedthan any one. "

His confidence did not encourage him. Hour by hour the messengers ofCurran appeared with the one hopeless phrase: no news. He walked aboutthe park until midnight, and then posted himself in the basement withcigar and journal to while away the long hours. Sinister thoughtstroubled him, and painful fancies. He could see the poor lad hiding inthe slums, or at the mercy of wretches as vile as Claire; wanderingabout the city, perhaps, in anguish over his ruined life, horrified atwhat his friends must read in the morning papers, planning helplessly toescape from a danger which did not exist, except in his own mind. Oh, no doubt Curran would find him! Why, he _must_ find him!

Across the sea in London, Minister Livingstone slept, full fed with theflatteries of a day, dreaming of the pleasures and honors sure to comewith the morning. Down in the prison town lived Honora, with her eyesdulled from watching the jail and her heart sore with longing. For Owenthe prison, for Louis the pavement, for Honora and himself the sleeplesshours of the aching heart; but for the responsible Minister and hisresponsible tool sweet sleep, gilded comfort, overwhelming honors. Suchthings could be only because men of his sort were craven idiots. What awretched twist in all things human! Why not, if nothing else could bedone, go and set fire to Claire's office, the bishop's house, and theLivingstone mansion?

However, joy came at the end of the night, for the messenger broughtword that the lad had been found, sound as a bell, having just shippedas a common sailor on an Indiaman. Since Curran could not persuade himto leave his ship, the detective had remained on the vessel to awaitArthur's arrival. A cab took him down to the wharf, and a man led himalong the dock to the gang-plank, thence across the deck to a space nearthe forecastle, where Curran sat with Louis in the starlight. 

"Then it's all true ... What he has been telling me?" Louis cried as heleaped to his feet and took the hearty grasp of his friend. 

"As true as gospel, " said Arthur, using Judy's phrase. "Let's get out ofthis without delay. We can talk about it at home. Curran, do you settlewith the captain. "

They hurried away to the cab in silence. Before entering Arthur wrungthe hand of the detective warmly. 

"It would take more than I own to pay you for this night's work, Curran. I want you to know how I feel about it, and when the time comes ask yourown reward. "

"What you have just said is half of it, " the man answered in a strangetone. "When the time comes I shall not be bashful. "

"It would have been the greatest blunder of your life, " Arthur said, asthey drove homeward, "if you had succeeded in getting away. It cannot bedenied, Louis, that from five o'clock this afternoon till now you made afool of yourself. Don't reply. Don't worry about it. Just think of thisgold-plate fact: no one knows anything about it. You are supposed to besleeping sweetly at my house. I settled Claire beautifully. And SisterMagdalen, too. By the way, I must send her word by the cabby ... Betterlet her do penance on her knees till sunrise ... She's praying for you... But the suspense might kill her ... No, I'll send word. As I wassaying, everything is as it was at four o'clock this afternoon. "

He chattered for the lad's benefit, noting that at times Louis shiveredas with ague, and that his hands were cold. He has tasted calamity, Arthur thought with resignation, and life will never be quite the samething again. In the comfortable room the marks of suffering becamepainfully evident. Even joy failed to rouse his old self. Pale, wrinkledlike age, shrunken, almost lean, he presented a woful spectacle. Arthurmixed a warm punch for him, and spread a substantial lunch. 

"The sauce for this feast, " said he, "is not appetite, but this fact:that your troubles are over. Now eat. "

Louis made a pretense of eating, and later, under the influence of thepunch, found a little appetite. By degrees his mind became clearer ashis body rested, the wrinkles began to disappear, his body seemed tofill out while the comfort of the situation invaded him. Arthur, puffinghis cigar and describing his interview with Claire, looked so stanch andsolid, so sure of himself, so at ease with his neighbors, that one couldscarcely fail to catch his happy complaint. 

"She has begun her descent into hell, " he said placidly, "but since youare with us still, I shall give her plenty of time to make it. What I amsurprised at is that you did not understand what my entrance meant. Sheunderstood it. She thought Curran was due as her witness of the assault. What surprises me still more is that you so completely forgot my advice:no matter what the trouble and the shame, come straight to me. Here wasa grand chance to try it. "

"I never thought of this kind of trouble, " said Louis dully. "Anyway, Igot such a fright that I understood nothing rightly up to midnight. Theterrible feeling of public disgrace eat into me. I saw and heard peoplecrying over me as at a funeral, you know that hopeless crying. The roadahead looked to be full of black clouds. I wanted to die. Then I wantedto get away. When I found a ship they took me for a half-drunk sailor, and hustled me into the forecastle in lively shape. When Curran found meand hauled me out of the bunk, I had been asleep enjoying the awfullestdreams. I took him for a trickster, who wanted to get me ashore and jailme. I feel better. I think I can sleep now. "

"Experience maybe has given you a better grip on the meaning of thatwise advice which I repeat now: no matter what the trouble, come to me. "

"I shall come, " said the lad with a show of spirit that delightedArthur. "Even if you should see me hanged the next day. "

"That's a fine sentiment to sleep on, so we'll go to bed. However, remind yourself that a little good sense when you resume business ... Bythe way, it's morning ... No super-sensitiveness, no grieving, for youwere straight all through ... Go right on as if nothing had happened ... And in fact nothing has happened yet ... I can see that you understand. "

They went to bed, and slept comfortably until noon. After breakfastLouis looked passably well, yet miserable enough to make explanationsnecessary for his alarmed parents. Arthur undertook the disagreeableoffice, which seemed to him delightful by comparison with that otherstory of a runaway son _en route_ in fancied disgrace for India. All'swell that ends well. Mary Everard wept with grief, joy, and gratitude, and took her jewel to her arms without complaint or question. Thecrotchety father was disposed to have it out with either the knaves orthe fools in the game, did not Arthur reduce him to quiet by his littleindictment. 

"There is only one to quarrel with about this sad affair, John Everard, "said he smoothly, "and that only one is your friend and well wisher, Quincy Livingstone. I want you to remember that, when we set out to takehis scalp. It's a judgment on you that you are the first to sufferdirectly by this man's plotting. You needn't talk back. The boy is goingto be ill, and you'll need all your epithets for your chief and yourselfbefore you see comfort again. "

Recalling his son's appearance the father remained silent. Arthur'sprevision came true. The physician ordered Louis to bed for anindefinite time, having found him suffering from shock, and threatenedwith some form of fever. The danger did not daunt his mother. Whateverof suffering yet remained, her boy would endure it in the shelter of herarms. 

"If he died this night, " she said to Arthur, "I would still thank Godthat sent him back to die among his own; and after God, you, son dear, who have been more than a brother to him. "

Thus the items in his account with kinsman Livingstone kept mountingdaily. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE END OF A MELODRAMA. 

Louis kept his bed for some weeks, and suffered a slow convalescence. Private grief must give way to public necessity. In this case theprivate grief developed a public necessity. Arthur took pains to tellhis story to the leaders. It gave point to the general onslaught nowbeing made on the Irish by the hired journals, the escaped nun, and, assome named him, the escaped historian. A plan was formulated to dealwith all three. Grahame entered the lists against Bitterkin andSmallish, Vandervelt denounced the _Confessions_ and its author at abanquet _vis-à-vis_ with Bradford, and Monsignor pursued the escapedhistorian by lecturing in the same cities, and often on the sameplatform. Arthur held to Sister Claire as his specialty, as the hinge ofthe Livingstone scheme, a very rotten hinge on which to depend. Nevertheless, she kept her footing for months after her interview withhim. 

Curran had laid bare her life and exposed her present methods nicely;but neither afforded a grip which might shake her, except inasmuch as itgave him an unexpected clue to the Claire labyrinth. Her history showedthat she had often played two parts in the same drama. Without doubt asimilar trick served her now, not only to indulge her riotous passions, but to glean advantages from her enemies and useful criticism from herfriends. He cast about among his casual acquaintance for characters thatClaire might play. Edith Conyngham? Not impossible! The Brand who heldforth at the gospel hall? Here was a find indeed! Comparing theimpressions left upon him by these women, as a result he gave Curran thecommission to watch and study the daily living of Edith Conyngham. Eventhis man's nerve shook at a stroke so luckily apt. 

"I don't know much about the ways of escaped nuns, " said Arthur, "but Iam going to study them. I'll wager you find Claire behind the rustygarments of this obscure, muddy, slimy little woman. They have the sameappetite anyway. "

This choice bit of news, carried at once to the escaped nun, sounded inSister Claire's ear like the crack of doom, and she stared at Curran, standing humbly in her office, with distorted face. 

"Is this the result of your clever story-telling, Dick Curran?" shegasped. 

"It's the result of your affair with young Everard, " he replied sadly. "That was a mistake altogether. It waked up Arthur Dillon. "

"The mistake was to wake that man, " she said sourly. "I fear him. There's something hiding in him, something terrible, that looks out ofhis eyes like a ghost in hell. The dogs ... Jezebel ... That was histhreat ... Ugh!"

"He has waked up the whole crowd against you and frightened yourfriends. If ever he tells the Clan-na-Gael about young Everard, yourlife won't be worth a pin. "

"With you to defend me?" ironically. 

"I could only die with you ... Against that crowd. "

"And you would, " she said with conviction, tears in her eyes. "My onefriend. "

His cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkled at the fervent praise of hisfidelity. 

"Well, it's all up with me, " changing to a mood of gaiety. "The EscapedNun must escape once more. They will all turn their coldest shoulders tome, absolutely frightened by this Irish crowd, to which we belong afterall, Dick. I'm not sorry they can stand up for themselves, are you? So, there's nothing to do but take up the play, and begin work on it in deadearnest. "

"It's a bad time, " Curran ventured, as she took a manuscript from adesk. "But you know how to manage such things, you are so clever, " hehastened to add, catching a fiery glance from her eye. "Only you must gowith caution. "

"It's a fine play, " she said, turning the pages of the manuscript. "Dick, you are little short of a genius. If I had not liked the realplay so well, playing to the big world this rôle of escaped nun, Iwould have taken it up long ago. The little stage of the theater isnothing to the grand stage of the world, where a whole nation applauds;and men like the Bishop take it for the real thing, this impersonationof mine. But since I am shut out ... And my curse on this Arthur Dillon... No, no, I take that back ... He's a fine fellow, working accordingto his nature ... Since he will shut me out I must take to the imitationstage. Ah, but the part is fine! First act: the convent garden, thenovice reading her love in the flowers, the hateful old mother superiorchoking her to get her lover's note from her, the reading of the note, and the dragging of the novice to her prison cell, down in the depths ofthe earth. How that will draw the tears from the old maids of Methodismall over the country!"

She burst into hearty laughter. 

"Second act: the dungeon, the tortures, old superior again, and thehateful hag who is in love with the hero and would like to wreak herjealousy on me, poor thing, all tears and determination. I loathe thetwo women. I denounce the creed which invents such tortures. I lie downto die in the dungeon while the music moans and the deacons and theirfamilies in the audience groan. Don't you think, Dicky dear, I can dothe dying act to perfection?"

"On the stage perfectly. "

"You're a wretch, " she shrieked with sudden rage. "You hint at the nightI took a colic and howled for the priest, when you know it was only thewhisky and the delirium. How dare you!"

"It slipped on me, " he said humbly. 

"The third act is simply beautiful: chapel of the convent, a fat priestat the altar, all the nuns gathered about to hear the charges againstme, I am brought in bound, pale, starved, but determined; the trial, thesentence, the curse ... Oh, that scene is sublime, I can see Booth in it... Pity we can't have him ... Then the inrush of my lover, the terror, the shrieks, the confusion, as I am carried off the stage with thecurtain going down. At last the serene fourth act: another garden, thevillains all punished, my lover's arms about me, and we two reading theflowers as the curtain descends. Well, " with a sigh of pleasure, "ifthat doesn't take among the Methodists and the general public out Westand down South, what will?"

"I can see the fire with which you will act it, " said Curran eagerly. "You are a born actress. Who but you could play so many parts at once?"

"And yet, " she answered dreamily, giving an expressive kick withunconscious grace, "this is what I like best. If it could be introducedinto the last act ... But of course the audiences wouldn't tolerate it, dancing. Well, " waking up suddenly to business, "are you all ready forthe _grand coup_--press, manager, all details?"

"Ready long ago. "

"Here then is the program, Dicky dear. To-morrow I seek the seclusion ofthe convent at Park Square--isn't _seclusion_ good? To-night letters goout to all my friends, warning them of my utter loneliness, and dread ofimpending abduction. In two or three days you get a notice in the papersabout these letters, and secure interviews with the Bishop if possible, with McMeeter anyway ... Oh, he'll begin to howl as soon as he gets hisletter. Whenever you think the public interest, or excitement, is at itsheight, then you bring your little ladder to the convent, and waitoutside for a racket which will wake the neighborhood. In the midst ofit, as the people are gathering, up with the ladder, and down with me inyour triumphant arms. Pity we can't have a calcium light for that scene. If there should be any failure ... Of course there can't be ... Then anote of warning will reach me, with any instructions you may wish togive me ... To the old address of course. "

Both laughed heartily at this allusion. 

"It has been great fun, " she said, "fooling them all right and left. That Dillon is suspicious though ... Fine fellow ... I like him. Dicky, ... You're not jealous. What a wonder you are, dear old faithful Dicky, my playwright, manager, lover, detective, everything to me. Well, runalong to your work. We strike for fortune this time--for fortune and forfame. You will not see me again until you carry me down the ladder fromthe convent window. What a lark! And there's money in it for you andme. "

He dared not discourage her, being too completely her slave, like wax inher hands; and he believed, too, that her scheme of advertising thedrama of _The Escaped Nun_ would lead to splendid and profitablenotoriety. A real escape, from a city convent, before the very eyes ofrespectable citizens, would ring through the country like an alarm, andset the entire Protestant community in motion. While he feared, he wasalso dazzled by the brilliancy of the scheme. 

It began very well. The journals one morning announced the disappearanceof Sister Claire, and described the alarm of her friends at her failureto return. Thereupon McMeeter raised his wonderful voice over the lettersent him on the eve of her flight, and printed the pathetic epistlealong with his denunciation of the cowardice which had given her over toher enemies. Later Bishop Bradford, expressing his sympathy in a speechto the Dorcas' Society, referred to the walling up of escaped nunsduring the dark ages. A little tide of paragraphs flowed from thepapers, plaintively murmuring the one sad strain: the dear sister couldnot be far distant; she might be in the city, deep in a convent dungeon;she had belonged to the community of the Good Shepherd, whose conventstood in Morris Street, large enough, sufficiently barred with iron tosuggest dungeons; the escaped one had often expressed her dread ofabduction; the convents ought to be examined suddenly and secretly; andso on without end. 

"What is the meaning of it?" said Monsignor. "I thought you hadextinguished her, Arthur. "

"Another scheme of course. I was too merciful with her, I imagine. Allthis noise seems to have one aim: to direct attention to these convents. Now if she were hidden in any of them, and a committee should visit thatconvent and find her forcibly detained, as she would call it; or if shecould sound a fire alarm and make a spectacular escape at two in themorning, before the whole world, what could be said about it?"

"Isn't it rather late in history for such things?" said Monsignor. 

"A good trick is as good to-day as a thousand years ago. I can pictureyou explaining to the American citizen, amid the howls of McMeeter andthe purring speeches of the Bishop, how Sister Claire came to be in theconvent from which her friends rescued her. "

"It would be awkward enough I admit. You think, then, that she ... Butwhat could be her motive?"

"Notoriety, and the sympathy of the people. I would like to trip her upin this scheme, and hurl her once for all into the hell which she seemsanxious to prepare for other people. You Catholics are altogether tooeasy with the Claires and the McMeeters. Hence the tears of theEverards. "

"We are so used to it, " said the priest in apology. "It would befoolish, however, not to heed your warning. Go to the convents of thecity from me, and put them on their guard. Let them dismiss allstrangers and keep out newcomers until the danger appears to be over. "

The most careful search failed to reveal a trace of Sister Claire'shiding-place among the various communities, who were thrown into a feverof dread by the warning. The journals kept up their crescendo of inquiryand information. One must look for that snake, Arthur thought, not withthe eyes, but through inspiration. She hid neither in the clouds nor inArizona, but in the grass at their feet. Seeking for inspiration, hewent over the ground a second time with Sister Magdalen, who had lostflesh over the shame of her dealings with Claire, the Everard troubles, and the dread of what was still to come. She burned to atone for herholy indiscretions. The Park Square convent, however, held no strangers. In the home attached to it were many poor women, but all of them known. Edith Conyngham the obscure, the mute, the humble, was just thenoccupying a room in the place, making a retreat of ten days in charge ofSister Magdalen. At this fact Arthur was seized by his inspiration. 

"She must give up her retreat and leave the place, " he said quietly, though his pulse was bounding. "Make no objection. It's only a case ofbeing too careful. Leave the whole matter to me. Say nothing to herabout it. To-night the good creature will have slipped away withoutnoise, and she can finish her retreat later. It's absurd, but better beabsurd than sorry. "

And Sister Magdalen, thinking of the long penance she must undergo forher folly, made only a polite objection. He wrote out a note at once ina disguised hand, giving it no signature:

 "The game is up. You cannot get out of the convent too quick or too soon. At ten o'clock a cab will be at the southwest corner of Park Square. Take it and drive to the office. Before ten I shall be with you. Don't delay an instant. State prison is in sight. Dillon is on your track. "

"At eight o'clock this evening where will Miss Conyngham be, Sister?"

"In her room, " said the nun, unhappy over the treatment intended for herclient, "preparing her meditation for the morning. She has a great lovefor meditation on the profound mysteries of religion. "

"Glad to know it, " he said dryly. "Well, slip this note under her door, make no noise, let no one see you, give her no hint of your presence. Then go to bed and pray for us poor sinners out in the wicked world. "

One must do a crazy thing now and then, under cover of the proprieties, if only to test one's sanity. Edith and Claire, as he had suggested toCurran, might be the same person. What if Claire appeared tall, portly, resonant, youthful, abounding in life, while Edith seemed mute, old, thin, feeble? The art of the actor can work miracles in personalappearance. A dual life provided perfect security in carrying outClaire's plans, and it matched the daring of the Escaped Nun to live asEdith in the very hearts of the people she sought to destroy. Good senseopposed his theory of course, but he made out a satisfactory argumentfor himself. How often had Sister Claire puzzled him by her resemblanceto some one whom he could not force out of the shadows of memory! Evennow, with the key of the mystery in his hands, he could see no likenessbetween them. Yet no doubt remained in his mind that a dual life wouldexplain and expose Sister Claire. 

That night he sat on the seat of a cab in proper costume, at thesouthwest corner of Park Square. The convent, diagonally opposite, wasdark and silent at nine o'clock; and far in the rear, facing the sidestreet, stood the home of the indigent, whose door would open for theexit of a clever actress at ten o'clock, or, well closed, reproach himfor his stupidity. The great front of the convent, dominating theSquare, would have been a fine stage for the scene contemplated bySister Claire, and he laughed at the spectacle of the escaped oneleaping from a window into her lover's arms, or sliding down a rope amidthe cheers of the mob and the shrieks of the disgraced poor soulswithin. Then he gritted his teeth at the thought of Louis, and Mary hismother, and Mona his sister. His breath came short. Claire was a woman, but some women are not dishonored by the fate of Jezebel. 

Shortly after ten o'clock a small, well-wrapped figure turned the remotecorner of the Home, came out to the Square, saw the cab, and comingforward with confidence opened the door and stepped in. As Arthur droveoff the blood surged to his head and his heart in a way that made hisears sing. It seemed impossible that the absurd should turn out wisdomat the first jump. As he drove along he wondered over the capacities ofart. No two individuals could have been more unlike in essentials thanEdith Conyngham and Sister Claire. Now it would appear that high-heeledshoes, padded clothes, heavy eyebrows, paint, a loud and confidentvoice, a bold manner, and her beautiful costume had made Sister Claire;while shoes without heels, rusty clothes, a gray wig, a weak voice, andtimid manner, had given form to Edith Conyngham. 

A soul is betrayed by its sins. The common feature of the two characterswas the sensuality which, neither in the nun nor in her double, would berepressed or disguised. Looking back, Arthur could see some points ofresemblance which might have betrayed the wretch to a clever detective. Well, he would settle all accounts with her presently, and he debatedonly one point, the flinging of her to the dogs. In twenty minutes theyreached the office of the Escaped Nun. He opened the door of the cab andshe stepped out nervously, but walked with decision into the building, for which she had the keys. 

"Anything more, mum?" he said respectfully. 

"Come right in, and light up for me, " she said ungraciously, in atowering rage. He found his way to the gas jets and flooded the officewith the light from four. She pulled down the curtains, and flung asideher rusty shawl. At the same moment he flung an arm about her, and withhis free hand tore the gray wig from her head, and shook free the massof yellow hair which lay beneath it. Then he flung her limp into thenearest chair, and stood gazing at her, frozen with amaze. She cowered, pale with the sudden fright of the attack. It was not Sister Claire whostood revealed, but the charming and lovely La Belle Colette. The nextinstant he laughed like a hysterical woman. 

"By heavens, but that _was_ an inspiration!" he exclaimed. "Don't befrightened, beautiful Colette. I was prepared for a tragedy, but thisdiscovery reveals a farce. "

Her terror gave way to stupefaction when she recognized him. 

"So it's three instead of two, " he went on. "The lovely dancer is alsothe Escaped Nun and the late Edith Conyngham. And Curran knew it ofcourse, who was our detective. That's bad. But Judy Haskell claims youas a goddaughter. You are Curran's wife. You are Sister Magdalen's poorfriend. You are Katharine Kerrigan. You are Sister Claire. You areMessalina. La Belle Colette, you are the very devil. "

She recovered from her fright at his laugh, in which some amusementtinkled, and also something terrible. They were in a lonely place, hehad made the situation, and she felt miserably helpless. 

"You need not blame Curran, " she said decisively. "He knew the game, buthe has no control over me. I want to go home, and I want to know rightaway your terms. It's all up with me. I confess. But let me know whatyou are going to do with me. "

"Take you home to your husband, " said Arthur. "Come. "

They drove to the little apartment where Curran lay peacefully sleeping, and where he received his erratic wife with stupor. The three sat downin the parlor to discuss the situation, which was serious enough, thoughArthur now professed to take it lightly. Colette stared at him like afascinated bird and answered his questions humbly. 

"It's all very simple, " said she. "I am truly Edith Conyngham, and JudyHaskell is my godmother, and I was in a convent out West. I was expelledfor a love caper, and came back to my friends much older in appearancethan I had need to be. The Escaped-Nun-racket was a money-maker. What Ireally am, you see. I am the dancer, La Belle Colette. All the rest isdisguise. "

Curran asked no questions and accepted the situation composedly. 

"She is in your hands, " he said. 

"I place her in yours for the present, " Arthur replied, glowering as hethought of Louis. "Detectives will shadow you both until I come to adecision what to do with you. Any move to escape and you will be nipped. Then the law takes its course. As for you, La Belle Colette, say yourprayers. I am still tempted to send you after Jezebel. "

"You are a terrible man, " she whimpered, as he walked out and left themto their sins. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FIRST BLOW. 

Mayor Birmingham and Grahame, summoned by messengers, met him in theforever-deserted offices of Sister Claire. He made ready for them byturning on all the lights, setting forth a cheerful bottle and some sodafrom Claire's hidden ice-box, and lighting a cigar. Delight ran throughhis blood like fire. At last he had his man on the hip, and the visionof that toss which he meant to give him made his body tingle from theroots of his hair to the points of his toes. However, the case was notfor him to deal with alone. Birmingham, the man of weight, prudence, fairness, the true leader, really owned the situation. Grahame, experienced journalist, had the right to manage the publicity departmentof this delicious scandal. His own task would be to hold Claire in thetraces, and drive her round the track, show the world her paces, pastthe judge's stand. Ah, to see the face of the Minister as he read thestory of exposure--her exposure and his own shame!

The two men stared at his comfortable attitude in that strange inn, andfairly gasped at the climax of his story. 

"The devil's in you. No one but you would have thought out such ascheme, " said Grahame, recalling the audacity, the cleverness, thesurprises of his friend's career from the California episode to theinvasion of Ireland. "Great heavens! but you have the knack of seizingthe hinge of things. "

"I think we have Livingstone and his enterprise in the proper sort ofhole, " Arthur answered. "The question is how to use our advantage?"

The young men turned to Birmingham with deference. 

"The most thorough way, " said the Mayor, after complimenting Arthur onhis astonishing success, "would be to hale Claire before the courts forfraud, and subpoena all our distinguished enemies. That course hassome disagreeable consequences, however. "

"I think we had better keep out of court, " Arthur said quickly. 

His companions looked surprised at his hesitation. He did not understandit himself. For Edith Conyngham he felt only disgust, and for SisterClaire an amused contempt; but sparkling Colette, so clever, bright, andamiable, so charmingly conscienceless, so gracefully wicked, inspiredhim with pity almost. He could not crush the pretty reptile, or thrusther into prison. 

"Of course I want publicity, " he hastened to add, "the very widest, toreach as far as London, and strike the Minister. How can that be got, and keep away from the courts?"

"An investigating committee is what you are thinking of, " said theMayor. "I can call such a body together at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, ourmost distinguished citizens. They could receive the confession of thiswoman, and report to the public on her character. "

"That's the plan, " Arthur interrupted with joy. "That _must_ be carriedout. I'll see that Claire appears before that committee and confessesher frauds. But mark this: on that committee you should have the agentsof Livingstone: Bradford, Bitterkin ... I owe him one for his meannessto the Senator ... Smallish in particular, and McMeeter for the fun ofthe thing. "

"Wild horses wouldn't drag them to it, " Grahame thought. 

"I have something better than wild horses, the proofs of theirconspiracy, of their league with this woman, " and Arthur pointed to thelocked drawers of the office. "How will our minister to England like tohave his name connected with this scandal openly. Now, if these peoplerefuse to serve, by heavens, I'll take the whole case to court, and giveit an exposure as wide as the earth. If they're agreeable, I'll keepaway from the courts, and the rougher part of the scandal. "

"There's your weapon, " said the Mayor, "the alternative of committee orcourt. I'll see to that part of the business. Do you get the escaped nunready for her confession, and I'll guarantee the committee, let us sayinside of ten days. Your part, Grahame, will be to write up a story forthe morning papers, covering dramatically the details of this veryremarkable episode. "

They sat long discussing the various features of the scheme. 

Next morning Curran and Arthur sat down to talk over the terms ofsurrender in the detective's house. Colette still kept her bed, distracted with grief, and wild with apprehension over the sensationalarticles in the morning papers. Curran saw little hope for himself andhis wife in the stern face of Dillon. 

"At the start I would like to hear your explanation, " Arthur begancoldly. "You were in my employ and in hers. "

"In hers only to hinder what evil I could, and to protect her fromherself, " the detective answered steadily and frankly. "I make noexcuse, because there isn't any to make. But if I didn't live up to mycontract with you, I can say honestly that I never betrayed yourinterest. You can guess the helplessness of a man in my fix. I have noinfluence over Colette. She played her game against my wish and prayer. Most particular did I warn her against annoying you and yours. I wasgoing to break up her designs on young Everard, when you did ityourself. I hope you----"

In his nervous apprehension for Colette's fate the strong-willed manbroke down. He remained silent, struggling for his vanishingself-control. 

"I understand, and I excuse you. The position was nasty. I have alwaystrusted you without knowing why exactly, " and he reflected a moment onthat interesting fact. "You did me unforgettable service in saving LouisEverard. "

"How glad I am you remember that service, " Curran gasped, like one whograsping at a straw finds it a plank. "I foresaw this moment when I saidto you that night, 'I shall not be bashful about reminding you of it andasking a reward at the right time. ' I ask it now. For the boy's sake bemerciful with her. Don't hand her over to the courts. Deal with heryourself, and I'll help you. "

For the boy's sake, for that service so aptly rendered, for the joy itbrought and the grief it averted, he could forget justice and crownColette with diamonds! Curran trembled with eagerness and suspense. Heloved her, --this wretch, witch, fiend of a woman!

"The question is, can I deal with her myself? She is intractable. "

"You ought to know by this time that she will do anything for you ... And still more when she has to choose between your wish and jail. "

"I shall require a good deal of her, not for my own sake, but to undothe evil work----"

"How I have tried to keep her out of that evil work, " Curran criedfiercely. "We are bad enough as it is without playing traitors to ourown, and throwing mud on holy things. There can be no luck in it, andshe knows it. When one gets as low as she has, it's time for thefuneral. Hell is more respectable. "

Arthur did not understand this feeling in Curran. The man's degradationseemed so complete to him that not even sacrilege could intensify it;yet clearly the hardened sinner saw some depths below his own whichexcited his horror and loathing. 

"If you think I can deal with her, I shall not invoke the aid of thelaw. "

The detective thanked him in a breaking voice. He had enjoyed a very badnight speculating on the probable course of events. Colette came inshortly, and greeted Arthur as brazenly as usual, but with extremesadness, which became her well; so sweet, so delicate, so fragile, thathe felt pleased to have forgiven her so early in the struggle. He hadpersecuted her, treated her with violence, and printed her history forthe scornful pleasure of the world; he had come to offer her thealternative of public shame or public trial and jail; yet she had apatient smile for him, a dignified submission that touched him. Afterall, he thought with emotion, she is of the same nature with myself; apoor castaway from conventional life playing one part or another bycaprice, for gain or sport or notoriety; only the devil has entered intoher, while I have been lucky enough to cast my lot with the exorcists ofthe race. He almost regretted his duty. 

"I have taken possession of your office and papers, Colette, " said hewith the dignity of the master. "I dismissed the office-boy with hiswages, and notified the owner that you would need the rooms no moreafter the end of the month. "

"Thanks, " she murmured with downcast eyes. 

"I am ready now to lay before you the conditions----"

"Are you going to send me to jail?"

"I leave that to you, " he answered softly. "You must withdraw your bookfrom circulation. You must get an injunction from the courts to restrainthe publishers, if they won't stop printing at your request, and youmust bring suit against them for your share of the profits. I want themto be exposed. My lawyer is at your service for such work. "

"This for the beginning?" she said in despair. 

"You must write for me a confession next, describing your career, andthe parts which you played in this city; also naming your accomplices, your supporters, and what money they put up for your enterprise. "

"You will find all that in my papers. "

"Is Mr. Livingstone's name among your papers?"

"He was the ringleader. Of course. "

"Finally you must appear before a committee of gentlemen at the FifthAvenue Hotel, and show how you disguised yourself for the three parts ofEdith Conyngham, Sister Claire, and the Brand of the gospel-hall. "

She burst out crying then, looking from one man to the other with thetears streaming down her lovely face. Curran squirmed in anguish. Arthurstudied her with interest. Who could tell when she was not acting?

"Ah, you wretch! I am bad. Sometimes I can't bear myself. But you areworse, utterly without heart. You think I don't feel my position. "

Her sobbing touched him by its pathos and its cleverness. 

"You are beyond feeling, but you _must_ talk about feeling, " was hishard reply. "Probably I shall make you feel before the end of thisadventure. "

"As if you hadn't done it already, " she fairly bawled like a hurt child. "For months I have not left the house without seeing everywhere the dogsthat tore Jezebel. "

"You might also have seen that poor child whom you nearly drove todeath, " he retorted, "and the mother whose heart you might have broken. "

"Poor child!" she sneered, and burst out laughing while the tears stilllingered on her cheek. "He was a milksop, not a man. I thought he was aman, or I never would have offered him pleasure. And you want me to makea show of myself before.... "

"Your old friends and well-wishers, McMeeter, Bradford and Co. "

"Never, never, never, " she screamed, and fell to weeping again. "I'lldie first. "

"You won't be asked to die, madam. You'll go to jail the minute I leavethis house, and stand trial on fifty different charges. I'll keep you injail for the rest of your life. If by any trick you escape me, I'lldeliver you to the dogs. "

"Can he do this?" she said scornfully to Curran, who nodded. 

"And if I agree to it, what do I get?" turning again to Dillon. 

"You can live in peace as La Belle Colette the dancer, practise yourprofession, and enjoy the embraces of your devoted husband. I let youoff lightly. Your private life, your stage name, will be kept from thepublic, and, by consequence, from the dogs. "

She shivered at the phrase. Shame was not in her, but fear could gripher heart vigorously. Her nerve did not exclude cowardice. This man shehad always feared, perceiving in him not only a strength beyond thecommon, but a mysterious power not to be analyzed and named. Her flimsyrage would break hopelessly on this rock. Still before surrendering, hercrooked nature forced her to the petty arts in which she excelled. Veryclearly in this acting appeared the various strokes of characterpeculiar to Edith, Claire, and the Brand. She wheedled and whined onemoment in the husky tones of Sister Magdalen's late favorite; whendignity was required she became the escaped nun; and in her rage shewould burst into the melodramatic frenzy dear to the McMeeter audiences;but Colette, the heedless, irresponsible, half-mad butterfly, dominatedthese various parts, and to this charming personality she returned. Through his own sad experience this spectacle interested him. He subduedher finally by a precise description of consequences. 

"You have done the Catholics of this city harm that will last a longtime, Colette, " said he. "That vile book of yours ... You ought to behung for it. It will live to do its miserable work when you are in hellhowling. I really don't know why I should be merciful to you. Did youever show mercy to any one? The court would do this for you and for us:the facts, figures, and personages of your career would be dragged intothe light of day ... What a background that would be ... Not a badcompany either ... Not a fact would escape ... You would be painted asyou are. I'll not tell you what you are, but I know that you would dieof your own colors ... You would go to jail, and rot there ... Everytime you came out I'd have a new charge on which to send you back. Yourinfamy would be printed by columns in the papers ... And the dogs wouldbe put on your trail ... Ah, there's the rub ... If the law let you gofree, what a meal you'd make for the people who think you ought to betorn limb from limb, and who would do it with joy. I really do notunderstand why I offer you an alternative. Perhaps it's for the sake ofthis man who loves you ... For the great service he did me. "

He paused to decide this point, while she gazed like a fascinated bird. 

"What I want is this really, " he went on. "I want to let the city seejust what tools Livingstone, your employer, is willing to do his dirtywork with. I want this committee to assemble with pomp and circumstance... Those are the right words ... And to see you, in your very cleverestway, act the parts through which you fooled the wise. I want them tohear you say in that sweetest of voices, how you lied to them to gettheir dollars ... How you lied about us, your own people, threw mud onus, as Curran says, to get their dollars ... How your life, and yourbook, and your lectures, are all lies ... Invented and printed becausethe crowd that devoured them were eager to believe us the horriblecreatures you described. When you have done that, you can go free. Noone will know your husband, or your name, or your profession. I don'tsee why you hesitate. I don't know why I should offer you this chance. When Birmingham hears your story he will not approve of my action. Butif you agree to follow my directions to the letter I'll promise that thelaw will not seize you. "

What could she do but accept his terms, protesting that death waspreferable? The risk of losing her just as the committee would be readyto meet, for her fickleness verged on insanity, he had to accept. Hetrusted in his own watchfulness, and in the fidelity of Curran to keepher in humor. Even now she forgot her disasters in the memory of hersuccess as an impersonator, and entertained the men with scenes from hermasquerade as Edith, Claire, and the Brand. From such a creature, soilly balanced, one might expect anything. 

However, by judicious coddling and terrorizing, her courage and spiritwere kept alive to the very moment when she stood before Birmingham andhis committee, heard her confession of imposture read, signed it withperfect sang-froid, and illustrated for the scandalized members hermethod of impersonation. So had Arthur worked upon her conceit that shetook a real pride in displaying her costumes, and in explaining howskilfully she had led three lives in that city. Grim, bitter, sickenedwith disappointment, yet masked in smiles, part of the committee watchedher performance to the end. They felt the completeness of Arthur'striumph. With the little airs and graces peculiar to a stage artiste, Edith put on the dusty costume of Edith Conyngham, and limped feeblyacross the floor; then the decorous garments of the Brand, and whisperedtenderly in McMeeter's ear; last, the brilliant habit of the escapednun, the curious eyebrows, the pallid face; curtseying at the close ofthe performance with her bold eyes on her audience, as if beseeching themerited applause. In the dead silence afterwards, Arthur mercifully ledher away. 

The journals naturally gave the affair large attention, and the netresults were surprisingly fine. The house of cards so lovingly built upby Livingstone and his friends tumbled in a morning never to rise again. All the little plans failed like kites snipped of their tails. Fritterswent home, because the public lost interest in his lectures. The book ofthe escaped nun fell flat and disappeared from the market. McMeeter gaveup his scheme of rescuing the inmates of convents and housing them untilmarried. The hired press ignored the Paddies and their island for awhole year. Best of all, suddenly, on the plea of dying among hisfriends, Ledwith was set free, mainly through the representations ofLord Constantine in London and Arthur in Washington. These rebuffs toldupon the Minister severely. He knew from whose strong hand they came, and that the same hand would not soon tire of striking. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

ANNE MAKES HISTORY. 

In the months that followed Anne Dillon lived as near to perfectfelicity as earthly conditions permit. A countess and a lord breathedunder her roof, ate at her table, and talked prose and poetry with heras freely as Judy Haskell. The Countess of Skibbereen and LordConstantine had accompanied the Ledwiths to America, after Owen'sliberation from jail, and fallen victims to the wiles of this cleverwoman. Arthur might look after the insignificant Ledwiths. Anne wouldhave none of them. She belonged henceforth to the nobility. His lordshipwas bent on utilizing his popularity with the Irish to further the causeof the Anglo-American Alliance. As the friend who had stood by theFenian prisoners, not only against embittered England, but againstindifferent Livingstone, he was welcomed; and if he wanted an alliance, or an heiress, or the freedom of the city, or anything which the Irishcould buy for him, he had only to ask in order to receive. Anne sweetlytook the responsibility off his shoulders, after he had outlined hisplans. 

"Leave it all to me, " said she. "You shall win the support of all thesepeople without turning your hand over. "

"You may be sure she'll do it much better than you will, " was theopinion of the Countess, and the young man was of the same mind. 

She relied chiefly on Doyle Grahame for one part of her program, butthat effervescent youth had fallen into a state of discouragement whichthreatened to leave him quite useless. He shook his head to her demandfor a column in next morning's _Herald_. 

"Same old story ... The Countess and you ... Lovely costumes ... Visits... It won't go. The editors are wondering why there's so much of you. "

"Hasn't it all been good?"

"Of course, or it would not have been printed. But there must come anend sometime. What's your aim anyway?"

"I want a share in making history, " she said slyly. 

"Take a share in making mine, " he answered morosely, and thereupon shelanded him. 

"Oh, run away with Mona, if you're thinking of marrying. "

"Thinking of it! Talking of it! That's as near as I can get to it, " hegroaned. "John Everard is going to drive a desperate bargain with me. Iwrote a book, I helped to expose Edith Conyngham, I drove Fritters outof the country with my ridicule, I shocked Bradford, and silencedMcMeeter; and I have failed to move that wretch. All I got out of mylabors was permission to sit beside Mona in her own house with herfather present. "

"You humor the man too much, " Anne said with a laugh. "I can twist JohnEverard about my finger, only----"

"There it is, " cried Grahame. "Behold it in its naked simplicity! Only!Well, if anything short of the divine can get around, over, under, through, or by his sweet, little 'only, ' he's fit to be the next king ofIreland. What have I not done to do away with it? Once I thought, Ihoped, that the invitation to read the poem on the landing of thePilgrim Fathers, coming as a climax to multitudinous services, wouldsurely have fetched him. Now, with the invitation in my pocket, I'mafraid to mention it. What if he should scorn it?"

"He won't if I say the word. Give me the column to-morrow, and any timeI want it for a month or two, and I'll guarantee that John Everard willdo the right thing by you. "

"You can have the column. What do you want it for?"

"The alliance, of course. I'm in the business of making history, as Itold you. Don't open your mouth quite so wide, please. There's to be ameeting of the wise in this house, after a dinner, to express favorableopinions about the alliance. Then in a month or two a distinguishedpeer, member of the British Cabinet, is coming over to sound the greatmen on the question.... What are you whistling for?"

"You've got a fine thing, Mrs. Dillon, " said he. "By Jove, but I'll helpyou spread this for all it's worth. "

"Understand, " she said, tapping the table with emphasis, "the alliancemust go through as far as we can make it go. Now, do your best. When yougo over to see John Everard next, go with a mind to kill him if hedoesn't take your offer to marry his daughter. I'll see to it that thepoem on the Pilgrims does the trick for you. "

"I'd have killed him long ago, if I thought it worth the trouble, " hesaid. 

He felt that the crisis had come for him and Mona. That charming girl, in spite of his entreaties, of his threats to go exploring Africa, remained as rigidly faithful to her ideas of duty as her father to hisobstinacy. She would not marry without his consent. With all hisconfidence in Anne's cleverness, how could he expect her to do theimpossible? To change the unchangeable? John Everard showed no sign ofthe influence which had brought Livingstone to his knees, when Grahameand Mona stood before him, and the lover placed in her father's handsthe document of honor. 

"Really, this is wonderful, " said Everard, impressed to the point ofviolence. "You are to compose and to read the poem on the PilgrimFathers?"

"That's the prize, " said Grahame severely. He might be squaring off atthis man the next moment, and could not carry his honors lightly. "Andnow that it has come I want my reward. We must be married two weeksbefore I read that poem, and the whole world must see and admire thesource of my inspiration. "

He drew his beloved into his arms and kissed her pale cheek. 

"Very well. That will be appropriate, " the father said placidly, clearing his throat to read the invitation aloud. He read pompously, quite indifferent to the emotion of his children, proud that they wereto be prominent figures in a splendid gathering. They, beatified, pale, unstrung by this calm acceptance of what he had opposed bitterly twoyears, sat down foolishly, and listened to the pompous utterance ofpompous phrases in praise of dead heroes and a living poet. Thought andspeech failed together. If only some desperado would break in upon himand try to kill him! if the house would take fire, or a riot begin inthe street! The old man finished his reading, congratulated the poet, blessed the pair in the old-fashioned style, informed his wife of thedate of the wedding, and marched off to bed. After pulling at that doorfor years it was maddening to have the very frame-work come out as ifcemented with butter. What an outrage to come prepared for heroicaction, and to find the enemy turned friend! Oh, admirable enchantresswas this Anne Dillon!

The enchantress, having brought Grahame into line and finally into goodhumor, took up the more difficult task of muzzling her stubborn son. Towin him to the good cause, she had no hope; sufficient, if he could bewon to silence while diplomacy shaped the course of destiny. 

"Better let me be on that point, " Arthur said when she made her attack. "I'm hostile only when disturbed. Lord Conny owns us for the present. Iwon't say a word to shake his title. Neither will I lift my eyebrows tohelp this enterprise. "

"If you only will keep quiet, " she suggested. 

"Well, I'm trying to. I'm set against alliance with England, until wehave knocked the devil out of her, begging your pardon for my frankness. I must speak plainly now so that we may not fall out afterwards. ButI'll be quiet. I'll not say a word to influence a soul. I'll do just asLedwith does. "

He laughed at the light which suddenly shone in her face. 

"That's a fair promise, " she said smoothly, and fled before he could addconditions. 

Her aim and her methods alike remained hidden from him. He knew onlythat she was leading them all by the nose to some brilliant climax ofher own devising. He was willing to be led. The climax turned out to bea dinner. Anne had long ago discovered the secret influence of a finedinner on the politics of the world. The halo of a saint pales beforethe golden nimbus which well-fed guests see radiating from their hostessafter dinner. A good man may possess a few robust virtues, but thedinner-giver has them all. Therefore, the manager of the alliancegathered about her table one memorable evening the leaders whose goodopinion and hearty support Lord Constantine valued in his task ofwinning the Irish to neutrality or favor for his enterprise. Arthurrecognized the climax only when Lord Constantine, after the champagnehad sparkled in the glasses, began to explain his dream to Sullivan. 

"What do you think of it?" said he. 

"It sounds as harmless as a popgun, and looks like a vision. I don't seeany details in your scheme, " said the blunt leader graciously. 

"We can leave the details to the framers of the alliance, " said HisLordship, uneasy at Arthur's laugh. "What we want first is a large, generous feeling in its favor, to encourage the leaders. "

"Well, in general, " said the Boss, "it is a good thing for all countriesto live in harmony. When they speak the same language, it's stillbetter. I have no feeling one way or the other. I left Ireland young, and would hardly have remembered I'm Irish but for Livingstone. What doyou think of it, Senator?"

"An alliance with England!" cried he with contempt. "Fancy me walkingdown to a district meeting with such an auctioneer's tag hanging on myback. Why, I'd be sold out on the spot. Those people haven't forgot howthey were thrown down and thrown out of Ireland. No, sir. Leave us outof an alliance. "

"That's the popular feeling, I think, " Sullivan said to His Lordship. 

"I can understand the Senator's feelings, " the Englishman repliedsoftly. "But if, before the alliance came to pass, the Irish questionshould be well settled, how would that affect your attitude, Senator?"

"My attitude, " replied the Senator, posing as he reflected that abudding statesman made the inquiry, "would be entirely in your favor. "

"Thank you. What more could I ask?" Lord Constantine replied with afierce look at Arthur. "I say myself, until the Irish get their rights, no alliance. "

"Then we are with you cordially. We want to do all we can for a man whohas been so fair to our people, " the Boss remarked with the flush ofgood wine in his cheek. "Champagne sentiments, " murmured Arthur. 

Monsignor, prompted by Anne, came to the rescue of the young nobleman. 

"There would be a row, if the matter came up for discussion just now, "he said. "Ten years hence may see a change. There's one thing in favorof Irish ... Well, call it neutrality. Speaking as a churchman, Catholics have a happier lot in English-speaking lands than in othercountries. They have the natural opportunity to develop, they are nothampered in speech and action as in Italy and France. "

"How good of you to say so, " murmured His Lordship. 

"Then again, " continued Monsignor, with a sly glance at Arthur, "itseems to me inevitable that the English-speaking peoples must come intocloser communion, not merely for their own good, or for selfish aims, but to spread among less fortunate nations their fine politicalprinciples. There's the force, the strength, of the whole scheme. Putpoor Ireland on her feet, and I vote for an alliance. "

"Truly, a Daniel come to judgment, " murmured Arthur. 

"It's a fine view to take of it, " the Boss thought. 

"Are you afraid to ask Ledwith for an opinion?" Arthur suggested. 

"What's he got to do with it?" Everard snapped, unsoftened by the mellowatmosphere of the feast. 

"It is no longer a practical question with me, " Owen said cheerfully. "Ihave always said that if the common people of the British Isles got anunderstanding of each other, and a better liking for each other, the endof oppression would come very soon. They are kept apart by theartificial hindrances raised by the aristocracy of birth and money. Thecommon people easily fraternize, if they are permitted. See them in thiscountry, living, working, intermarrying, side by side. "

"How will that sound among the brethren?" said Arthur disappointed. 

His mother flashed him a look of triumph, and Lord Constantine lookedfoolishly happy. 

"As the utterance of a maniac, of course. Have they ever regarded me assane?" he answered easily. 

"And what becomes of your dream?" Arthur persisted. 

"I have myself become a dream, " he answered sadly. "I am passing intothe land of dreams, of shadows. My dream was Ireland; a principle thatwould bring forth its own flower, fruit, and seed; not a department ofan empire. Who knows what is best in this world of change? Some day menmay realize the poet's dream:

 "The parliament of man, the federation of the world. "

Arthur surrendered with bad grace. He had expected from Ledwith thelast, grand, fiery denunciation which would have swept the room as abroadside sweeps a deck, and hurled the schemes of his mother and LordConstantine into the sea. Sad, sad, to see how champagne can undo such apatriot! For that matter the golden wine had undone the entire party. Judy declared to her dying day that the alliance was toasted amid cheersbefore the close of the banquet; that Lord Constantine in his delightkissed Anne as she left the room; with many other circumstances tooimprobable to find a place in a veracious history. It is a fact, however, that the great scheme which still agitates the peoplesinterested, had its success depended on the guests of Anne Dillon, wouldhave been adopted that night. The dinner was a real triumph. 

Unfortunately, dinners do not make treaties; and, as Arthur declared, one dinner is good enough until a better is eaten. When the member ofthe British Cabinet came to sit at Anne's table, if one might say so, the tables were turned. Birmingham instead of Monsignor played the lead;the man whose practical temperament, financial and political influence, could soothe and propitiate his own people and interest the moneyed menin the alliance. It was admitted no scheme of this kind could progresswithout his aid. He had been reserved for the Cabinet Minister. 

No one thought much about the dinner except the hostess, who felt, asshe looked down the beautiful table, that her glory had reached itsbrilliant meridian. A cabinet minister, a lord, a countess, a leadingKnickerbocker, the head of Tammany, and a few others who did not matter;what a long distance from the famous cat-show and Mulberry Street!Arthur also looked up the table with satisfaction. If his part in theplay had not been dumb show (by his mother's orders), he would havequoted the famous grind of the mills of the gods. The two races, sounequally matched at home, here faced each other on equal ground. Birmingham knew what he had to do. 

"I am sure, " he said to the cabinet minister, "that in a matter soserious you want absolute sincerity?"

"Absolute, and thank you, " replied the great man. 

"Then let me begin with myself. Personally I would not lift my littlestfinger to help this scheme. I might not go out of my way to hinder it, but I am that far Irish in feeling, not to aid England so finely. For anation that will soon be without a friend in the world, an alliance withus would be of immense benefit. No man of Irish blood, knowing what hisrace has endured and still endures from the English, can keep hisself-respect and back the scheme. "

Arthur was sorry for his lordship, who sat utterly astounded and castdown wofully at this expression of feeling from such a man. 

"The main question can be answered in this way, " Birmingham continued. "Were I willing to take part in this business, my influence with theIrish and their descendants, whatever it may be, would not be able tobring a corporal's guard into line in its behalf. "

Lord Constantine opened his mouth, Everard snorted his contempt, but thegreat man signaled silence. Birmingham paid no attention. 

"In this country the Irish have learned much more than saving money andacquiring power; they have learned the unredeemed blackness of theinjustice done them at home, just as I learned it. What would Grahamehere, Sullivan, Senator Dillon, or myself have been at this moment hadwe remained in Ireland? Therefore the Irish in this country are morebitter against the English government than their brethren at home. I amcertain that no man can rally even a minority of the Irish to thesupport of the alliance. I am sure I could not. I am certain the formalproposal of the scheme would rouse them to fiery opposition. "

"Remember, " Arthur whispered to Everard, raging to speak, "that theCabinet Minister doesn't care to hear anyone but Birmingham. "

"I'm sorry for you, Conny, " he whispered to his lordship, "but it's thetruth. "

"Never enjoyed anything so much, " said Grahame _sotto voce_, his eyes onEverard. 

"However, let us leave the Irish out of the question, " the speaker wenton. "Or, better, let us suppose them favorable, and myself able to winthem over. What chance has the alliance of success? None. "

"Fudge!" cried Everard, unabashed by the beautiful English stare of theC. M. 

"The measure is one-sided commercially. This country has nothing to gainfrom a scheme, which would be a mine to England; therefore the moneyedmen will not touch it, will not listen to it. Their time is toovaluable. What remains? An appeal to the people on the score ofhumanity, brotherhood, progress, what you please? My opinion is that thedead weight there could not be moved. The late war and the English sharein it are too fresh in the public mind. The outlook to me is utterlyagainst your scheme. "

"It might be objected to your view that feeling is too strong an elementof it, " said the Cabinet Minister. 

"Feeling has only to do with my share in the scheme, " Birminghamreplied. "As an Irishman I would not further it, yet I might be glad tosee it succeed. My opinion is concerned with the actual conditions as Isee them. "

With this remark the formal discussion ended. Mortified at this outcomeof his plans, Lord Constantine could not be consoled. 

"As long as Livingstone is on your side, Conny, " said Arthur, "you areforedoomed. "

"I am not so sure, " His Lordship answered with some bitterness. "TheChief Justice of the United States is a good friend to have. "

A thrill shot through Dillon at this emphasis to a rumor hitherto toolight for printing. The present incumbent of the high office mentionedby Lord Constantine lay dying. Livingstone coveted few places, and thiswould be one. In so exalted a station he would be "enskied and sainted. "Even his proud soul would not disdain to step from the throne-room ofWindsor to the dais of the Supreme Court of his country. And to strikehim in the very moment of his triumph, to snatch away the prize, toclose his career like a broken sentence with a dash and a mark ofinterrogation, to bring him home like any dead game in a bag: here wouldbe magnificent justice!

"Have I found thee, O mine enemy?" Arthur cried in his delight. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE CATHEDRAL. 

Ledwith was dying in profound depression, like most brave souls, whosesuccess has been partial, or whose failure has been absolute. Thismournful ending to a brave, unselfish life seemed to Arthur pitiful andmonstrous. A mere breathing-machine like himself had enjoyed astimulating vengeance for the failure of one part of his life. Oh, howsweet had been that vengeance! The draught had not yet reached thebottom of the cup! His cause for the moment a ruin, dragged down withFenianism; his great enemy stronger, more glorious, and more pitilessthan when he had first raised his hand against her injustice; now thenight had closed in upon Ledwith, not merely the bitter night ofsickness and death and failure, but that more savage night ofdespondency, which steeps all human sorrow in the black, pollutedatmosphere of hell. For such a sufferer the heart of Arthur Dillonopened as wide as the gates of heaven. Oh, had he not known what it isto suffer so, without consolation!

He was like a son to Owen Ledwith. 

Every plan born in the poetic and fertile brain of the patriot he tookoath to carry out; he vowed his whole life to the cause of Ireland; andhe consoled Owen for apparent failure by showing him that he had notaltogether failed, since a man, young, earnest, determined, and wealthyshould take up the great work just where he dropped it. Could any workerask more of life? A hero should go to his eternity with lofty joy, leaving his noble example to the mean world, a reproach to thedespicable among rulers, a star in the night to the warriors of justice. 

In Honora her father did not find the greatest comfort. His soul was ofthe earth and human liberty was his day-star; her soul rose above thatgreat human good to the freedom of heaven. Her heart ached for him, that he should be going out of life with only human consolation. Thefather stood in awe of an affection, which at the same time humbled andexalted him; she had never loved man or woman like him; he was next toGod in that virginal heart, for with all her love of country, the fatherhad the stronger hold on her. Too spiritual for him, her sublime faithdid not cheer him. Yet when they looked straight into each other's eyeswith the consciousness of what was coming, mutual anguish terriblyprobed their love. He had no worry for her. 

"She has the best of friends, " he said to Arthur, "she is capable, andtrained to take care of herself handsomely; but these things will not beof any use. She will go to the convent. "

"Not if Lord Constantine can hinder it, " Arthur said bluntly. 

"I would like to see her in so exalted and happy a sphere as LordConstantine could give her. But I am convinced that the man is not bornwho can win the love of this child of mine. Sir Galahad might, but notthe stuff of which you and I are made. "

"I believe you, " said Arthur. 

Honora herself told him of her future plans, as they sat with the sickman after a trying evening, when for some hours the end seemed near. Thehour invited confidences, and like brother and sister at the sick-bed ofa beloved parent they exchanged them. When she had finished telling himhow she had tried to do her duty to her father, and to her country, andhow she had laid aside her idea of the convent for their sake, but wouldnow take up her whole duty to God by entering a sisterhood, he saidcasually:

"It seems to me these three duties work together; and when you werebusiest with your father and your country, then were you most faithfulto God. "

"Very true, " she replied, looking up with surprise. "Obedience is betterthan sacrifice. "

"Take care that you are not deceiving yourself, Honora. Which wouldcause more pain, to give up your art and your cause, or to give up theconvent?"

"To give up the convent, " she replied promptly. 

"That looks to me like selfishness, " he said gently. "There are manynuns in the convents working for the wretched and helping the poor andpraying for the oppressed, while only a few women are devoted directlyto the cause of freedom. It strikes me that you descend when you retirefrom a field of larger scope to one which narrows your circle anddiminishes your opportunities. I am not criticizing the nun's life, butsimply your personal scheme. "

"And you think I descend?" she murmured with a little gasp of pain. "Why, how can that be?"

"You are giving up the work, the necessary work, which few women aredoing, to take up a work in which many women are engaged, " he answered, uncertain of his argument, but quite sure of his intention. "You losegreat opportunities to gain small ones, purely personal. That's the wayit looks to me. "

With wonderful cunning he unfolded his arguments in the next few weeks. He appealed to her love for her father, her wish to see his workcontinued; he described his own helplessness, very vaguely though, incarrying out schemes with which he was unacquainted, and to which he wasvowed; he mourned over the helpless peoples of the world, for whom a newcommunity was needed to fight, as the Knights of St. John fought forChristendom; and he painted with delicate satire that love of ease whichleads heroes to desert the greater work for the lesser on the plea ofthe higher life. Selfishly she sought rest, relief for the taxinglabors, anxieties, and journeys of fifteen years, and not the will ofGod, as she imagined. Was he conscious of his own motives? Did hediscover therein any selfishness? Who can say?

He discoursed at the same time to Owen, and in the same fashion. Ledwithfelt that his dreams were patch work beside the rainbow visions of thisCalifornia miner, who had the mines which make the wildest dreams cometrue sometimes. The wealthy enthusiast might fall, however, into thehands of the professional patriot, who would bleed him to death inbehalf of paper schemes. To whom could he confide him? Honora! It hadalways been Honora with him, who could do nothing without her. He didnot wish to hamper her in the last moment, as he had hampered her sinceshe had first planned her own life. 

It was even a pleasant thought for him, to think of his faithful childliving her beautiful, quiet, convent life, after the fatigues andpilgrimages of years, devoted to his memory, mingling his name with herprayers, innocent of any other love than for him and her Creator. Yes, she must be free as the air after he died. However, the sick are notmasters of their emotions. A great dread and a great anguish filled him. Would it be his fate to lose Arthur to Ireland by consideration forothers? But he loved her so! How could he bind her in bonds at the verymoment of their bitter separation? He would not do it! He would not doit! He fought down his own longing until he woke up in a sweat of terrorone night, and called to her loudly, fearing that he would die before heexacted from her the last promise. He must sacrifice all for hiscountry, even the freedom of his child. 

"Honora, " he cried, "was I ever faithless to Erin? Did I ever hesitatewhen it was a question of money, or life, or danger, or suffering forher sake?"

"Never, father dear, " she said, soothing him like a child. 

"I have sinned now, then. For your sake I have sinned. I wished to leaveyou free when I am gone, although I saw you were still necessary toEire. Promise me, my child, that you will delay a little after I amgone, before entering the convent; that you will make sure beforehandthat Erin has no great need of you ... Just a month or a year ... Anydelay----"

"As long as you please, father, " she said quietly. "Make it five yearsif you will----"

"No, no, " he interrupted with anguish in his throat. "I shall neverdemand again from you the sacrifices of the past. What may seem just toyou will be enough. I die almost happy in leaving Arthur Dillon to carryon with his talent and his money the schemes of which I only dreamed. But I fear the money patriots will get hold of him and cheat him of hisenthusiasm and his money together. If you were by to let him know whatwas best to be done--that is all I ask of you----"

"A year at least then, father dear! What is time to you and me that weshould be stingy of the only thing we ever really possessed. "

"And now I lose even that, " with a long sigh. 

Thus gently and naturally Arthur gained his point. 

Monsignor came often, and then oftener when Owen's strength began tofail rapidly. The two friends in Irish politics had little agreement, but in the gloom of approaching death they remembered only theirfriendship. The priest worked vainly to put Owen into a proper frame ofmind before his departure for judgment. He had made his peace with theChurch, and received the last rites like a believer, but with thecoldness of him who receives necessities from one who has wronged him. He was dying, not like a Christian, but like the pagan patriot who hasfailed: only the shades awaited him when he fled from the darkness ofearthly shame. They sat together one March afternoon facing the windowand the declining sun. To the right another window gave them a good viewof the beautiful cathedral, whose twin spires, many turrets, and noblewalls shone blue and golden in the brilliant light. 

"I love to look at it from this elevation, " said Monsignor, who had justbeen discoursing on the work of his life. "In two years, just think, themost beautiful temple in the western continent will be dedicated. "

"The money that has gone into it would have struck a great blow forErin, " said Ledwith with a bitter sigh. 

"So much of it as escaped the yawning pockets of the numberlesspatriots, " retorted Monsignor dispassionately. "The money would not havebeen lost in so good a cause, but its present use has done more for yourpeople than a score of the blows which you aim at England. "

"Claim everything in sight while you are at it, " said Owen. "In God'sname what connection has your gorgeous cathedral with any one'sfreedom?"

"Father dear, you are exciting yourself, " Honora broke in, but neitherheeded her. 

"Christ brought us true freedom, " said Monsignor, "and the Church aloneteaches, practises, and maintains it. "

"A fine example is provided by Ireland, where to a dead certaintyfreedom was lost because the Church had too unnatural a hold upon thepeople. "

"What was lost on account of the faith will be given back again withcompound interest. Political and military movements have done much forIreland in fifty years; but the only real triumphs, universal, brilliant, enduring, significant, leading surely up to greater things, have been won by the Irish faith, of which that cathedral, shining sogloriously in the sun this afternoon, is both a result and a symbol. "

"I believe you will die with that conviction, " Ledwith said in wonder. 

"I wish you could die with the same, Owen, " replied Monsignor tenderly. 

They fell silent for a little under the stress of sudden feeling. 

"How do men reason themselves into such absurdities?" Owen askedhimself. 

"You ought to know. You have done it often enough, " said the priesttartly. 

Then both laughed together, as they always did when the argument becamepersonal. 

"Do you know what Livingstone and Bradford and the people whom theyrepresent think of that temple?" said Monsignor impressively. 

"Oh, their opinions!" Owen snorted. 

"They are significant, " replied the priest. "These two leaders wouldgive the price of the building to have kept down or destroyed the spiritwhich undertook and carried out the scheme. They have said to themselvesmany times in the last twenty years, while that temple rose slowly butgloriously into being, what sort of a race is this, so despised andill-treated, so poor and ignorant, that in a brief time on our shorescan build the finest temple to God which this country has yet seen? Whatwill the people, to whom we have described this race as sunk inpapistical stupidity, debased, unenterprising, think, when they gaze onthis absolute proof of our mendacity?"

Ledwith, in silence, took a second look at the shining walls and towers. 

"Owen, your generous but short-sighted crowd have fought England brieflyand unsuccessfully a few times on the soil of Ireland ... But thechildren of the faith have fought her with church, and school, andcatechism around the globe. Their banner, around which they fought, wasnot the banner of the Fenians but the banner of Christ. What did you dofor the scattered children of the household? Nothing, but collect theirmoneys. While the great Church followed them everywhere with herpriests, centered them about the temple, and made them the bulwark ofthe faith, the advance-guard, in many lands. Here in America, and in allthe colonies of England, in Scotland, even in England itself, whereverthe Irish settled, the faith took root and flourished; the faith whichmeans death to the English heresy, and to English power as far as itrests upon the heresy. "

"The faith kept the people together, scattered all over the world. Itorganized them, it trained them, it kept them true to the Christpreached by St. Patrick; it built the fortress of the temple, and therampart of the school; it kept them a people apart, it kept themcivilized, saved them from inevitable apostasy, and founded a force fromwhich you collect your revenues for battle with your enemies; a forcewhich fights England all over the earth night and day, in legislatures, in literature and journalism, in social and commercial life ... Why, man, you are a fragment, a mere fragment, you and your warriors, of thatgreat fight which has the world for an audience and the English earthsfor its stage. "

"When did you evolve this new fallacy?" said Ledwith hoarsely. 

"You have all been affected with the spirit of the anti-Catholicrevolution in Europe, whose cry is that the Church is the enemy ofliberty; yours, that it has been no friend to Irish liberty. Takeanother look at that cathedral. When you are dead, and many others thatwill live longer, that church will deliver its message to the people whopass: 'I am the child of the Catholic faith and the Irish; the broadshoulders of America waited for a simple, poor, cast-out people, to digme from the earth and shape me into a thing of beauty, a glory of thenew continent; I myself am not new; I am of that race which in Europespeaks in divine language to you pigmies of the giants that lived inancient days; I am a new bond between the old continent and the new, between the old order and the new; I speak for the faith of the past; Ivoice the faith of the hour; the hands that raised me are not unskilledand untrained; from what I am judge, ye people, of what stuff mybuilders are made. ' And around the world, in all the capitals, in thegreat cities, of the English-speaking peoples, temples of lesser worthand beauty, are speaking in the same strain. "

Honora anxiously watched her father. A new light shone upon him, a newemotion disturbed him; perhaps that old hardness within was giving way. Ledwith had the poetic temperament, and the philosopher's power ofgeneralization. A hint could open a grand horizon before him, and thecathedral in its solemn beauty was the hint. Of course, he could see itall, blind as he had been before. The Irish revolution worked fitfully, and exploded in a night, its achievement measured by the period of amonth; but this temple and its thousand sisters lived on doing theirgood work in silence, fighting for the truth without noise orconspiracy. 

"And this is the glory of the Irish, " Monsignor continued, "this is thefact which fills me with pride, American as I am, in the race whoseblood I own; they have preserved the faith for the greatEnglish-speaking world. Already the new principle peculiar to that faithhas begun its work in literature, in art, in education, in social life. Heresy allowed the Christ to be banished from all the departments ofhuman activity, except the home and the temple. Christ is not in theschools of the children, nor in the books we read, nor in the picturesand sculptures of our studios, nor in our architecture, even of thechurches, nor in our journalism, any more than in the market-place andin the government. These things are purely pagan, or worthlesscomposites. It looks as if the historian of these times, a century ortwo hence, will have hard work to fitly describe the Gesta Hibernicorum, when this principle of Christianity will have conquered the Americanworld as it conquered ancient Europe. I tell you, Owen, " and he strodeto the window with hands outstretched to the great building, "in spiteof all the shame and suffering endured for His sake, God has been verygood to your people, He is heaping them with honors. As wide as is thepower of England, it is no wider than the influence of the Irish faith. Stubborn heresy is doomed to fall before the truth which alone can setmen free and keep them so. "

Ledwith had begun to tremble, but he said never a word. 

"I am prouder to have had a share in the building of that temple, "Monsignor continued, "than to have won a campaign against the English. This is a victory, not of one race over another, but of the faith overheresy, truth over untruth. It will be the Christ-like glory of Irelandto give back to England one day the faith which a corrupt kingdestroyed, for which we have suffered crucifixion. No soul ever loses byclimbing the cross with Christ. "

Ledwith gave a sudden cry, and raised his hands to heaven, but grewquiet at once. 

The priest watched contentedly the spires of his cathedral. 

"You have touched heart and reason together, " Honora whispered. 

Ledwith remained a long time silent, struggling with a new spirit. Atlast he turned the wide, frank eyes on his friend and victor. 

"I am conquered, Monsignor. "

"Not wholly yet, Owen. "

"I have been a fool, a foolish fool, --not to have seen and understood. "

"And your folly is not yet dead. You are dying in sadness and despairalmost, when you should go to eternity in triumph. "

"I go in triumph! Alas! if I could only be blotted out with my lastbreath, and leave neither grave nor memory, it would be happiness. Whydo you say, 'triumph'?"

"Because you have been true to your country with the fidelity of asaint. That's enough. Besides you leave behind you the son born of yourfidelity to carry on your work----"

"God bless that noble son, " Owen cried. 

"And a daughter whose prayers will mount from the nun's cell, to blessyour cause. If you could but go from her resigned!"

"How I wish that I might. I ought to be happy, just for leaving two suchheirs, two noble hostages to Ireland. I see my error. Christ is theKing, and no man can better His plans for men. I surrender to Him. "

"But your submission is only in part. You are not wholly conquered. "

"Twice have you said that, " Owen complained, raising his heavy eyes inreproach. 

"Love of country is not the greatest love. "

"No, love of the race, of humanity, is more. "

"And the love of God is more than either. With all their beauty, what dothese abstract loves bring us? The country we love can give us a graveand a stone. Humanity crucifies its redeemers. Wolsey summed up thematter: 'Had I but served my God with half the zeal with which I servedmy king, He would not in mine age, have left me naked to mine enemies. '"

He paused to let his words sink into Ledwith's mind. 

"Owen, you are leaving the world oppressed by the hate of a lifetime, the hate ingrained in your nature, the fatal gift of persecutor andpersecuted from the past. "

"And I shall never give that up, " Owen declared, sitting up and fixinghis hardest look on the priest. "I shall never forget Erin's wrongs, norAlbion's crimes. I shall carry that just and honorable hate beyond thegrave. Oh, you priests!"

"I said you were not conquered. You may hate injustice, but not theunjust. You will find no hate in heaven, only justice. The persecutorsand their victims have long been dead, and judged. The welcome of thewretched into heaven, the home of justice and love, wiped out all memoryof suffering here, as it will for us all. The justice measured out totheir tyrants even you would be satisfied with. Can your hate addanything to the joy of the blessed, or the woe of the lost?"

"Nothing, " murmured Owen from the pillow, as his eyes looked afar, wondering at that justice so soon to be measured out to him. "You areagain right. Oh, but we are feeble ... But we are foolish ... To thinkit. What is our hate any more than our justice ... Both impotent andridiculous. "

There followed a long pause, then, for Monsignor had finished hisargument, and only waited to control his own emotion before sayinggood-by. 

"I die content, " said Ledwith with a long restful sigh, coming back toearth, after a deep look into divine power and human littleness. "Bringme to-morrow, and often, the Lord of Justice. I never knew till now thatin desiring Justice so ardently, it was He I desired. Monsignor, I diecontent, without hate, and without despair. "

If ever a human creature had a foretaste of heaven it was Honora duringthe few weeks that followed this happy day. The bitterness in the soulof Owen vanished like a dream, and with it went regret, and vainlonging, and the madness which at odd moments sprang from theseemotions. His martyrdom, so long and ferocious, would end in the gloryof a beautiful sunset, the light of heaven in his heart, shining in hisface. He lay forever beyond the fire of time and injustice. 

Every morning Honora prepared the little altar in the sick-room, andMonsignor brought the Blessed Sacrament. Arthur answered the prayers andgazed with awe upon the glorified face of the father, with somethinglike anger upon the exalted face of the daughter; for the two were gonesuddenly beyond him. Every day certain books provided by Monsignor wereread to the dying man by the daughter or the son; describing themigration of the Irish all over the English-speaking world, their growthto consequence and power. Owen had to hear the figures of this growth, see and touch the journals printed by the scattered race, and to hearthe editorials which spoke their success, their assurance, theirconvictions, their pride. 

Then he laughed so sweetly, so naturally, chuckled so mirthfully thatHonora had to weep and thank God for this holy mirthfulness, whichsounded like the spontaneous, careless, healthy mirth of a boy. Monsignor came evenings to explain, interpret, put flesh and life intothe reading of the day with his vivid and pointed comment. Ledwithwalked in wonderland. "The hand of God is surely there, " was his onesaying. The last day of his pilgrimage he had a long private talk withArthur. They had indeed become father and son, and their mutualtenderness was deep. 

Honora knew from the expression of the two men that a new element hadentered into her father's happiness. 

"I free you from your promise, my child, " said Ledwith, "my mostfaithful, most tender child. It is the glory of men that the race isnever without such children as you. You are free from any bond. It is mywish that you accept your release. "

She accepted smiling, to save him from the stress of emotion. Then hewished to see the cathedral in the light of the afternoon sun, andArthur opened the door of the sick-room. The dying man could see fromhis pillow the golden spires, and the shining roof, that spoke to him sowonderfully of the triumph of his race in a new land, the triumph whichhad been built up in the night, unseen, uncared for, unnoticed. 

"God alone has the future, " he said. 

Once he looked at Honora, once more, with burning eyes, that never couldlook enough on that loved child. With his eyes on the great temple, smiling, he died. They thought he had fallen asleep in his weakness. Honora took his head in her arms, and Arthur Dillon stood beside her andwept. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE FALL OF LIVINGSTONE. 

The ending of Quincy Livingstone's career in England promised to be likethe setting of the sun: his glory fading on the hills of Albion only toburn with greater splendor in his native land: Chief Justice of theSupreme Court! He needed the elevation. True, his career at court hadbeen delightful, from the English point of view even brilliant; thenobility had made much of him, if not as much as he had made of thenobility; the members of the government had seriously praised him, faras they stood from Lord Constantine's theory of American friendship. However pleasant these things looked to the Minister, of what accountcould they be to a mere citizen returning to private life in New York?Could they make up for the failures of the past year at home, the utterdestruction of his pet schemes for the restraint of the Irish in theland of the Puritans?

What disasters! The alliance thrust out of consideration by the stronghand of Birmingham; the learned Fritters chased from the platform bycold audiences, and then from the country by relentless ridicule; SisterClaire reduced to the rank of a tolerated criminal, a ticket-of-leavegirl; and the whole movement discredited! Fortunately these calamitiesremained unknown in London. 

The new honors, however, would hide the failure and the shame. Hiselevation was certain. The President had made known his intention, andhad asked Minister Livingstone to be ready within a short time to sailfor home for final consultation. His departure from the court of St. James would be glorious, and his welcome home significant; afterwardshis place would be amongst the stars. He owned the honorable pride thatloves power and place, when these are worthy, but does not seek them. From the beginning the Livingstones had no need to run after office. Italways sought them, receiving as rich a lustre as it gave in therecognition of their worth. His heart grew warm that fortune had singledhim out for the loftiest place in his country's gift. To diechief-justice atoned for life's shortcomings. Life itself was at oncesteeped in the color and perfume of the rose. 

Felicitations poured in from the great. The simplicities of lifesuddenly put on a new charm, the commonplaces a new emphasis. My LordTomnoddy's 'how-de-do' was uttered with feeling, men took a second lookat him, the friends of a season felt a warmth about their language, ifnot about the heart, in telling of his coming dignity. The governmentpeople shook off their natural drowsiness to measure the facts, tounderstand that emotion should have a share in uttering the words offarewell. "Oh, my _dear_, DEAR Livingstone!" cried the Premier as hepressed his hand vigorously at their first meeting after the news hadbeen given out. Society sang after the same fashion. Who could resistthe delight of these things?

His family and friends exulted. Lovable and deep-hearted with them, harsh as he might be with opponents, their gladness gave him joy. Thenews spread among the inner circles with due reserve, since no oneforgot the distance between the cup and the lip; but to intimates theappointment was said to be a certainty, and confirmation by the Senateas sure as anything mortal. Of course the Irish would raise a clamor, but no arm among them had length or strength enough to snatch away theprize. Not in many years had Livingstone dipped so deeply into thewaters of joy as in the weeks that followed the advice from thePresident. 

Arthur Dillon knew that mere opposition would not affect Livingstone'schances. His position was too strong to be stormed, he learned uponinquiry in Washington. The political world was quiet to drowsiness, andthe President so determined in his choice that candidates would not comeforward to embarrass his nominee. The public accepted the rumor of theappointment with indifference, which remained undisturbed when a secondrumor told of Irish opposition. But for Arthur's determination theselection of a chief-justice would have been as dull as the naming of aconsul to Algiers. 

"We can make a good fight, " was Grahame's conclusion, "but the fieldbelongs to Livingstone. "

"Chance is always kind to the unfit, " said Arthur, "because the Irishare good-natured. "

"I don't see the connection. "

"I should have said, because mankind is so. In this case Quincy gets theprize, because the Irish think he will get it. "

"You speak like the oracle, " said Grahame. 

"Well, the fight must be made, a stiff one, to the last cartridge. Butit won't be enough, mere opposition. There must be another candidate. Wecan take Quincy in front; the candidate can take him in the rear. Itmust not be seen, only said, that the President surrendered to Irishpressure. There's the plan: well-managed opposition, and anothercandidate. We can see to the first, who will be the other?"

They were discussing that point without fruit when Anne knocked at thedoor of the study, and entered in some anxiety. 

"Is it true, what I heard whispered, " said she, "that they will soon belooking for a minister to England, that Livingstone is coming back?"

"True, mother dear, " and he rose to seat her comfortably. "But if youcan find us a chief-justice the good man will not need to come back. Hecan remain to help keep patriots in English prisons. "

"Why I want to make sure, you know, is that Vandervelt should get theEnglish mission this time without fail. I wouldn't have him miss it forthe whole world. "

"There's your man, " said Grahame. 

"Better than the English mission, mother, " Arthur said quickly, "wouldbe the chief-justiceship for so good a man as Vandervelt. If you can gethim to tell his friends he wants to be chief-justice, I can swear thathe will get one place or the other. I know which one he would prefer. No, not the mission. That's for a few years, forgotten honors. Theother's for life, lasting honor. Oh, how Vandervelt must sigh for thatnoble dais, the only throne in the Republic, the throne of Americanjustice. Think, how Livingstone would defile it! The hater andpersecutor of a wronged and hounded race, who begrudges us all but thehonors of slavery, how could he understand and administer justice, evenamong his own?"

"What are you raving about, Artie?" she complained. "I'll get Vanderveltto do anything if it's the right thing for him to do; only explain to mewhat you want done. "

He explained so clearly that she was filled with delight. With aquickness which astonished him, she picked up the threads of theintrigue; some had their beginning five years back, and she had notforgotten. Suddenly the root of the affair bared itself to her: this sonof hers was doing battle for his own. She had forgotten Livingstone longago, and therefore had forgiven him. Arthur had remembered. Her finespirit stirred dubious Grahame. 

"Lave Vandervelt to me, " she said, for her brogue came back and gentlytripped her at times, "and do you young men look after Livingstone. Ihave no hard feelings against him, but, God forgive me, when I think ofLouis Everard, and all that Mary suffered, and Honora, and the shame putupon us by Sister Claire, something like hate burns me. Anyway we're notworth bein' tramped upon, if we let the like of him get so high, when wecan hinder it. "

"Hurrah for the Irish!" cried Grahame, and the two cheered her as sheleft the room to prepare for her share of the labor. 

The weight of the work lay in the swift and easy formation of anopposition whose strength and temper would be concealed except from thePresident, and whose action would be impressive, consistent, anddramatic. The press was to know only what it wished to know, withoutprovocation. The main effort should convince the President of theunfitness of one candidate and the fitness of the other. There were tobe no public meetings or loud denunciations. What cared the officialsfor mere cries of rage? Arthur found his task delightful, and he workedlike a smith at the forge, heating, hammering, and shaping his engine ofwar. When ready for action, his mother had won Vandervelt, convinced himthat his bid for the greater office would inevitably land him in eitherplace. He had faith in her, and she had prophesied his future glory!

Languidly the journals gave out in due time the advent of anothercandidate for the chief-justiceship, and also cloudy reports of Irishopposition to Livingstone. No one was interested but John Everard, stillfaithful to the Livingstone interest in spite of the gibes of Dillon andGrahame. The scheme worked so effectively that Arthur did not care tohave any interruptions from this source. The leaders talked to thePresident singly, in the order of their importance, against his nominee, on the score of party peace. What need to disturb the Irish by naming aman who had always irritated and even insulted them? The representationin the House would surely suffer by his action, because in this way onlycould the offended people retaliate. They detested Livingstone. 

Day after day this testimony fairly rained upon the President, unanimous, consistent, and increasing in dignity with time, eachprotester seeming more important than he who just went out the door. Inquiries among the indifferent proved that the Irish would give much tosee Livingstone lose the honors. And always in the foreground of thepicture of protest stood the popular and dignified Vandervelt surroundedby admiring friends!

Everard had the knack of ferreting out obscure movements. When thisintrigue was laid bare he found Arthur Dillon at his throat on themorning he had chosen for a visit to the President. To promise theexecutive support from a strong Irish group in the appointment ofLivingstone would have been fatal to the opposition. Hence the lookwhich Arthur bestowed on Everard was as ugly as his determination to putthe marplot in a retreat for the insane, if no other plan kept him athome. 

"I want to defeat Livingstone, " said Arthur, "and I think I have himdefeated. You had better stay at home. You are hurting a good cause. "

"I am going to destroy that good cause, " John boasted gayly. "Youthought you had the field to yourself. And you had, only that Idiscovered your game. "

"It's a thing to be proud of, " Arthur replied sadly, "this steadysupport of the man who would have ruined your boy. Keep quiet. You'vegot to have the truth rammed down your throat, since you will take it inno other way. This Livingstone has been plotting against your race fortwenty years. It may not matter to a disposition as crooked as yours, that he opened the eyes of English government people to the meaning ofIrish advance in America, that he is responsible for Fritters, for thealliance, for McMeeter, for the escaped nun, for her vile _Confessions_, for the kidnapping societies here. You are cantankerous enough to forgetthat he used his position in London to do us harm, and you won't seethat he will do as much with the justiceship. Let these things pass. Ifyou were a good Catholic one might excuse your devotion to Livingstoneon the score that you were eager to return good for evil. But you're ahalf-cooked Catholic, John. Let that pass too. Have you no manhood leftin you? Are you short on self-respect? This man brought out and backedthe woman who sought to ruin your son, to break your wife's heart, todestroy your own happiness. With his permission she slandered the poornuns with tongue and pen, a vile woman hired to defile the innocent. Andfor this man you throw dirt on your own, for this man you are going tofight your own that he may get honors which he will shame. Isn't it fairto think that you are going mad, Everard?"

"Don't attempt, " said the other in a fury, "to work off your oratory onme. I am going to Washington to expose your intrigues against agentleman. What! am I to tremble at your frown----?"

"Rot, man! Who asked you to tremble? I saved your boy from Livingstone, and I shall save you from yourself, even if I have to put you in anasylum for the harmless insane. Don't you believe that Livingstone isthe patron of Sister Claire? that he is indirectly responsible for thatscandal?"

"I never did, and I never shall, " with vehemence. "You are one of thosethat can prove anything----"

"If you were sure of his responsibility, would you go to Washington?"

"Haven't I the evidence of my own senses? Were not all Livingstone'sfriends on the committee which exposed Sister Claire?"

"Because we insisted on that or a public trial, and they came with sourstomachs, " said Arthur, glad that he had begun to discuss the point. "Would you go to Washington if you were sure he backed the woman?"

"Enough, young man. I'm off for the train. Here, Mary, my satchel----"

Two strong bands were laid on his shoulders, he was pushed back into hischair, and the face which glowered on him after this astonishingviolence for the moment stilled his rage and astonishment. 

"Would you go to Washington if you were sure Livingstone backed SisterClaire?" came the relentless question. 

"No, I wouldn't, " he answered vacantly. 

"Do you wish to be made sure of it?"

He began to turn purple and to bluster. 

"Not a word, " said his master, "not a cry. Just answer that question. Doyou wish to be made sure of this man's atrocious guilt and your ownfolly?"

"I want to know what is the meaning of this, " Everard sputtered, "thisviolence? In my own house, in broad day, like a burglar. "

"Answer the question. "

Alarm began to steal over Everard, who was by no means a brave man. HadArthur Dillon, always a strange fellow, gone mad? Or was this scene ahint of murder? The desperate societies to which Dillon was said tobelong often indulged in violence. It had never occurred to him beforethat these secret forces must be fighting Livingstone through Dillon. They would never permit him to use his influence at Washington in theMinister's behalf. Dreadful! He must dissemble. 

"If you can make me sure, I am willing, " he said meekly. 

"Read that, then, " and Arthur placed his winning card, as he thought, inhis hands; the private confession of Sister Claire as to the persons whohad assisted her in her outrageous schemes; and the chief, of course, was Livingstone. Everard read it with contempt. 

"Legally you know what her testimony is worth, " said he. 

"You accepted her testimony as to her own frauds, and so did the wholecommittee. "

"We had to accept the evidence of our own senses. "

Obstinate to the last was Everard. 

"You will not be convinced, " said Arthur rudely, "but you can bemuzzled. I say again: keep away from Washington, and keep your hands offmy enterprise. You have some idea of what happens to men like you forinterfering. If I meet you in Washington, or find any trace of yourmeddling in the matter, here is what I shall do; this whole scandal ofthe escaped nun shall be reopened, this confession shall be printed, andthe story of Louis' adventure, from that notable afternoon at fouro'clock until his return, word for word, with portraits of hisinteresting family, of Sister Claire, all the details, will be given tothe journals. Do you understand? Meanwhile, study this problem inpsychology: how long will John Everard be able to endure life after Itell the Irish how he helped to enthrone their bitterest enemy?"

He did not wait for an answer, but left the baffled man to wrestle withthe situation, which must have worsted him, for his hand did not appearin the game at Washington. Very smoothly the plans of Arthur worked totheir climax. The friends of Vandervelt pressed his cause as urgentlyand politely as might be, and with increasing energy as theembarrassment of the President grew. The inherent weakness ofVandervelt's case appeared to the tireless Dillon more appalling in thelast moments than at the beginning: the situation had no logicaloutcome. It was merely a question whether the President would risk apassing unpopularity. 

He felt the absence of Birmingham keenly, the one man who could say tothe executive with authority, this appointment would be a blunder. Birmingham being somewhere on the continent, out of reach of appeals forhelp, his place was honorably filled by the General of the Army, with aninfluence, however, purely sentimental. Arthur accompanied him for thelast interview with the President. Only two days intervened before theinvitation would be sent to Livingstone to return home. The great manlistened with sympathy to the head of the army making his protest, butwould promise nothing; he had fixed an hour however for the settlementof the irritating problem; if they would call the next morning at ten, he would give them his unalterable decision. 

Feeling that the decision must be against his hopes, Arthur passed amiserable night prowling with Grahame about the hotel. Had he omittedany point in the fight? Was there any straw afloat which could be ofservice? Doyle used his gift of poetry to picture for him the return ofLivingstone, and his induction into office; the serenity of mind, thesense of virtue and patriotism rewarded, his cold contempt of thedefeated opposition and their candidate, the matchless dignity, whichwould exalt Livingstone to the skies as the Chief-Justice. Their onlyconsolation was the fight itself, which had shaken for a moment theedifice of the Minister's fame. 

The details went to London from friends close to the President, andenabled Livingstone to measure the full strength of a young man'shatred. The young man should be attended to after the struggle. Therewas no reason to lose confidence. While the factions were stillworrying, the cablegram came with the request that he sail on Saturdayfor home, the equivalent of appointment. When reading it at the SavageClub, whither a special messenger had followed him, the heavy mustacheand very round spectacles of Birmingham rose up suddenly before him, andthey exchanged greetings with the heartiness of exiles from the sameland. The Minister remembered that his former rival had no share in theattempt to deprive him of his coming honors, and Birmingham recalled therumor picked up that day in the city. 

"I suppose there's no truth in it, " he said. 

The Minister handed him the cablegram. 

"Within ten days, " making a mental calculation, "I should be on my wayback to London, with the confirmation of the Senate practicallysecured. "

"When it comes I shall be pleased to offer my congratulations, "Birmingham replied, and the remark slightly irritated Livingstone. 

Could he have seen what happened during the next few hours his sleepwould have lost its sweetness. Birmingham went straight to the telegraphoffice, and sent a cipher despatch to his man of business, ordering himto see the President that night in Washington, and to declare in hisname, with all the earnestness demanded by the situation, that theappointment of Livingstone would mean political death to him and immenseembarrassment to his party for years. As it would be three in themorning before a reply would reach London, Birmingham went to bed with agood conscience. Thus, while the two young men babbled all night in thehotel, and thought with dread of the fatal hour next morning, wire, andtrain, and business man flew into the capital and out of it, carryingone man's word in and another man's glory out, fleet, silent, unrecognized, unhonored, and unknown. 

At breakfast Birmingham read the reply from his business man withprofound satisfaction. At breakfast the Minister read a second cablegramwith a sudden recollection of Birmingham's ominous words the nightbefore. He knew that he would need no congratulations, for the prize hadbeen snatched away forever. The cablegram informed him that he shouldnot sail on Saturday, and that explanations would follow. For a momenthis proud heart failed him. Bitterness flowed in on him, so that thefood in his mouth became tasteless. What did he care that his enemieshad triumphed? Or, that he had been overthrown? The loss of the visionwhich had crowned his life, and made a hard struggle for what he thoughtthe fit and right less sordid, even beautiful; that was a calamity. 

He had indulged it in spite of mental protests against the dangerousfolly. The swift imagination, prompted by all that was Livingstone inhim, had gone over the many glories of the expected dignity; thedeparture from beautiful and flattering England, the distinction of thereturn to his beloved native land, the splendid interval before theglorious day, the crowning honors amid the applause of his own, and thelong sweet afternoon of life, when each day would bring its owndistinction! He had had his glimpse of Paradise. Oh, never, never wouldlife be the same for him! He began to study the reasons for hisill-success.... 

At ten o'clock that day the President informed the General of the Armyin Mr. Dillon's presence that he had sent the name of Hon. VanRensselaer Vandervelt to the Senate for the position of Chief-Justice!

THE TEST OF DISAPPEARANCE. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A PROBLEM OF DISAPPEARANCE. 

After patient study of the disappearance of Horace Endicott, for fiveyears, Richard Curran decided to give up the problem. All clues had cometo nothing. Not the faintest trace of the missing man had been found. His experience knew nothing like it. The money earned in the pursuitwould never repay him for the loss of self-confidence and of nerve, dueto study and to ill success. But for his wife he would have withdrawnlong ago from the search. 

"Since you have failed, " she said, "take up my theory. You will findthat man in Arthur Dillon. "

"That's the strongest reason for giving up, " he replied. "Once before Ifelt my mind going from insane eagerness to solve the problem. It wouldnot do to have us both in the asylum at once. "

"I made more money in following my instincts, Dick, than you have madein chasing your theories. Instinct warned me years ago that ArthurDillon is another than what he pretends. It warns me now that he isHorace Endicott. At least before you give up for good, have a shy at mytheory. "

"Instinct! Theory! It is pure hatred. And the hate of a woman can makeher take an ass for Apollo. "

"No doubt I hate him. Oh, how I hate that man ... And young Everard.... "

"Or any man that escapes you, " he filled in with sly malice. 

"Be careful, Dick, " she screamed at him, and he apologized. "That hateis more to me than my child. It will grow big enough to kill him yet. But apart from hate, Arthur Dillon is not the man he seems. I couldswear he is Horace Endicott. Remember all I have told you about hisreturn. He came back from California about the time Endicottdisappeared. I was playing Edith Conyngham then with great success, though not to crowded houses. "

She laughed heartily at the recollection. 

"I remarked to myself even then that Anne Dillon ... She's the choicehypocrite ... Did not seem easy in showing the letter which told of hiscoming back, how sorry he was for his conduct, how happy he would makeher with the fortune he had earned. "

"All pure inference, " said Curran. "Twenty men arrived home in New Yorkabout the same time with fortunes from the mines, and some withoutfortunes from the war. "

"Then how do you account for this, smart one? Never a word of his lifein California from that day to this. Mind that. No one knows, or seemsto know, just where he had been, just how he got his money ... Youunderstand ... All the little bits o' things that are told, and guessed, and leak out in a year. I asked fifty people, I suppose, and all theyknew was: California. You'd think Judy Haskell knew, and she told meeverything. What had she to tell? that no one dared to ask him aboutsuch matters. "

"Dillon is a very close man. "

"Endicott had to be among that long-tongued Irish crowd. I watched him. He was stupid at first ... Stuck to the house ... No one saw him forweeks ... Except the few. He listened and watched ... I saw him ... Hiseyes and his ears ought to be as big as a donkey's from it ... And hesaid nothing. They made excuses for a thing that everyone saw and talkedabout. He was ill. I say he wanted to make no mistakes; he was learninghis part; there was nothing of the Irish in him, only the sharp Yankee. It made me wonder for weeks what was wrong. He looked as much like theboy that ran away as you do. And then I had no suspicions, mind you. Ibelieved Anne Dillon's boy had come back with a fortune, and I wasthinking how I could get a good slice of it. "

"And you didn't get a cent, " Curran remarked. 

"He hated me from the beginning. It takes one that is playing a part tocatch another in the same business. After a while he began to bloom. Hegot more Irish than the Irish. There's no Yankee living, no Englishman, can play the Irishman. He can give a good imitation maybe, d'ye hear?That's what Dillon gave. He did everything that young Dillon used to dobefore he left home ... A scamp he was too. He danced jigs, flatteredthe girls, chummed with the ditch-diggers and barkeepers ... And hehated them all, women and men. The Yankees hate the Irish as easy asthey breathe. I tell you he had forgotten nothing that he used to do asa boy. And the fools that looked on said, oh, it's easy to see he wassick, for now that he is well we can all recognize our old dare-devil, Arthur. "

"He's dare-devil clear enough, " commented her husband. 

"First point you've scored, " she said with contempt. "Horace Endicottwas a milksop: to run away when he should have killed the two idiots. Dillon is a devil, as I ought to know. But the funniest thing was hisdealings with his mother. She was afraid of him ... As much as I am ... She is till this minute. Haven't I seen her look at him, when she daredto say a sharp thing? And she's a good actress, mind you. It took heryears to act as a mother can act with a son. "

"Quite natural, I think. He went away a boy, came back a rich man, andwas able to boss things, having the cash. "

"You think! You! I've seen ten years of your thinking! Well, I thoughttoo. I saw a chance for cash, where I smelled a mystery. Do you knowthat he isn't a Catholic? Do you know that he's strange to all Catholicways? that he doesn't know how to hear Mass, to kneel when he enters apew, to bless himself when he takes the holy water at the door? Do youknow that he never goes to communion? And therefore he never goes toconfession. Didn't I watch for years, so that I might find out what waswrong with him, and make some money?"

"All that's very plausible, " said her husband. "Only, there are manyCatholics in this town, and in particular the Californians, that forgotas much as he forgot about their religion, and more. "

"But he is not a Catholic, " she persisted. "There's an understandingbetween him and Monsignor O'Donnell. They exchange looks when they meet. He visits the priest when he feels like it, but in public they keepapart. Oh, all round, that Arthur Dillon is the strangest fellow; buthe plays his part so well that fools like you, Dick, are tricked. "

"You put a case well, Dearie. But it doesn't convince me. However, " forhe knew her whim must be obeyed, "I don't mind trying again to findHorace Endicott in this Arthur Dillon. "

"And of course, " with a sneer, "you'll begin with the certainty thatthere's nothing in the theory. What can the cleverest man discover, whenhe's sure beforehand that there's nothing to discover?"

"My word, Colette, if I take up the matter, I'll convince you thatyou're wrong, or myself that you're right. And I'll begin right herethis minute. I believe with you that we have found Endicott at last. Then the first question I ask myself is: who helped Horace Endicott tobecome Arthur Dillon?"

"Monsignor O'Donnell of course, " she answered. 

"Then Endicott must have known the priest before he disappeared: knownhim so as to trust him, and to get a great favor from him? Now, Soniadidn't know that fact. "

"That fool of a woman knows nothing, never did, never will, " shesnapped. 

"Well, for the sake of peace let us say he was helped by Monsignor, andknew the priest a little before he went away. Monsignor helped him tofind his present hiding-place; quite naturally he knew Mrs. Dillon, howher son had gone and never been heard of: and he knew it would be agreat thing for her to have a son with an income like Endicott's. Thenext question is: how many people know at this moment who Dillon reallyis?"

"Just two, sir. He's a fox ... They're three foxes ... Monsignor, AnneDillon, and Arthur himself. I know, for I watched 'em all, his uncle, his friends, his old chums ... The fellows he played with before he ranaway ... And no one knows but the two that had to know ... Sly Anne andsmooth Monsignor. They made the money that I wasn't smart enough to gethold of. "

"Then the next question is: is it worth while to make inquiries amongthe Irish, his friends and neighbors, the people that knew the realDillon?"

"You won't find out any more than I've told you, but you may prove howlittle reason they have for accepting him as the boy that ran away. "

"After that it would be necessary to search California. "

"Poor Dick, " she interrupted with compassion, smoothing his beard. "Youare really losing your old cleverness. Search California! Can't you seeyet the wonderful 'cuteness of this man, Endicott? He settled all thatbefore he wrote the letter to Anne Dillon, saying that her son wascoming home. He found out the career of Arthur Dillon in California. Ifhe found that runaway he sent him off to Australia with a lump of money, to keep out of sight for twenty years. Did the scamp need muchpersuading? I reckon not. He had been doing it for nothing ten years. Or, perhaps the boy was dead: then he had only to make the properconnections with his history up to the time of his death. Or he may havedisappeared forever, and that made the matter all the simpler forEndicott. Oh, you're not clever, Dick, " and she kissed him to sweetenthe bitterness of the opinion. 

"I'm not convinced, " he said cheerfully. "Then tell me what to do. "

"I don't know myself. Endicott took his money with him. Where doesArthur Dillon keep his money? How did it get there? Where was it keptbefore that? How is he spending it just now? Does he talk in his sleep?Are there any mementoes of his past in his private boxes? Could he besurprised into admissions of his real character by some trick, such asbringing him face to face on a sudden with Sonia? Wouldn't that be worthseeing? Just like the end of a drama. You know the marks on Endicott'sbody, birthmarks and the like ... Are they on Dillon's body? The boythat ran away must have had some marks.... Judy Haskell would know ... Are they on Endicott's body?"

"You've got the map of the business in that pretty head perfect, " saidCurran in mock admiration. "But don't you see, my pet, that if this manis as clever as you would have him he has already seen to these things?He has removed the birthmarks and peculiarities of Horace, and adoptedthose of Arthur? You'll find it a tangled business the deeper you diveinto it. "

"Well, it's your business to dive deeper than the tangle, " she answeredcrossly. "If I had your practice----"

"You would leave me miles behind, of course. Here's the way I wouldreason about this thing: Horace Endicott is now known as Arthur Dillon;he has left no track by which Endicott can be traced to his presentlocality; but there must be a very poor connection between the Dillon athome and the real Dillon in California, in Australia, or in his grave;if we can trace the real Arthur Dillon then we take away the foundationsof his counterfeit. Do you see? I say a trip to California and a cleanexamination there, after we have done our best here to pick flaws in theposition of the gentleman who has been so cruel to my pet. He must gethis punishment for that, I swear. "

"Ah, there's the rub, " she whimpered in her childish way. "I hate him, and I love him. He's the finest fellow in the world. He has the strengthof ten. See how he fought the battles of the Irish against his own. Oneminute I could tear him like a wolf, and now I could let him tear me topieces. You are fond of him too, Dick. "

"I would follow him to the end of the world, through fire and flood andfighting, " said the detective with feeling. "He loves Ireland, he lovesand pities our poor people, he is spending his money for them. But Icould kill him just the same for his cruelty to you. He's a hard man, Colette. "

"Now I know what you are trying to do, " she said sharply. "You think youcan frighten me by telling me what I know already. Well, you can't. "

"No, no, " he protested, "I was thinking of another thing. We'll come tothe danger part later. There is one test of this man that ought to betried before all others. When I have sounded the people about ArthurDillon, and am ready for California, Sonia Endicott should be broughthere to have a good look at him in secret first; and then, perhaps, inthe open, if you thought well of it. "

"Why shouldn't I think well of it? But will it do any good, and mayn'tit do harm? Sonia has no brains. If you can't see any resemblancebetween Arthur and the pictures of Horace Endicott, what can Sonia see?"

"The eyes of hate, and the eyes of love, " said he sagely. 

"Then I'd be afraid to bring them together, " she admitted whisperingagain, and cowering into his arms. "If he suspects I am hunting himdown, he will have no pity. "

"No doubt of it, " he said thoughtfully. "I have always felt the devil inhim. Endicott was a fat, gay, lazy sport, that never so much as rodeafter the hounds. Now Arthur Dillon has had his training in the mines. That explains his dare-devil nature. "

"And Horace Endicott was betrayed by the woman he loved, " she cried withsudden fierceness. "That turns a man sour quicker than all themining-camps in the world. That made him lean and terrible like a wolf. That sharpened his teeth, and gave him a taste for woman's blood. That'swhy he hates me. "

"You're wrong again, my pet. He has a liking for you, but you spoil itby laying hands on his own. You saw his looks when he was hunting foryoung Everard. "

"Oh, how he frightens me, " and she began to walk the room in a rage. "How I would like to throw off this fear and face him and fight him, asI face you. I'll do it if the terror kills me. I shall not be terrifiedby any man. You shall hunt him down, Dick Curran. Begin at once. Whenyou are ready send for Sonia. I'll bring them together myself, and takethe responsibility. What can he do but kill me?"

Sadness came over the detective as she returned to her seat on his knee. 

"He is not the kind, little girl, " said he, "that lays hands on a womanor a man outside of fair, free, open fight before the whole world. "

"What do you mean?" knowing very well what he meant. 

"If he found you on his trail, " with cunning deliberation, so that everyword beat heart and brain like a hammer, "and if he is really HoraceEndicott, he would only have to give your character and youraddress----"

"To the dogs, " she shrieked in a sudden access of horror. 

Then she lay very still in his arms, and the man laughed quietly tohimself, sure that he had subdued her and driven her crazy scheme intolimbo. The wild creature had one dread and by reason of it one master. Never had she been so amenable to discipline as under Dillon's remoteand affable authority. Curran had no fear of consequences in studyingthe secret years of Arthur Dillon's existence. The study might revealthings which a young man preferred to leave in the shadows, but wouldnot deliver up to Sonia her lost Horace; and even if Arthur came to knowwhat they were doing, he could smile at Edith's vagaries. 

"What shall we do?" he ventured to say at last. 

"Find Horace Endicott in Arthur Dillon, " was the unexpected answer, energetic, but sighed rather than spoken. "I fear him, I love him, Ihate him, and I'm going to destroy him before he destroys me. Beginto-night. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A FIRST TEST. 

Curran could not study the Endicott problem. His mind had lost edge inthe vain process, getting as confused over details as the experimenterin perpetual motion after an hundred failures. In favor of Edith he saidto himself that her instincts had always been remarkable, alwayshelpful; and her theory compared well with the twenty upon which he hadworked years to no purpose. Since he could not think the matter out, hewent straight on in the fashion which fancy had suggested. Taking it forgranted that Dillon and Endicott were the same man, he must establishthe connection; that is, discover the moment when Horace Endicott passedfrom his own into the character of Arthur Dillon. 

Two persons would know the fact: Anne Dillon and her son. Four othersmight have knowledge of it; Judy, the Senator, Louis, and Monsignor. Afifth might be added, if the real Arthur Dillon were still living inobscurity, held there by the price paid him for following his own whim. Others would hardly be in the secret. The theory was charming in itself, and only a woman like Edith, whose fancy had always been sportive, wouldhave dreamed it. The detective recalled Arthur's interest in his pursuitof Endicott; then the little scenes on board the _Arrow_; and grew dizzyto think of the man pursued comparing his own photograph with hispresent likeness, under the eyes of the detective who had grown stale inthe chase of him. 

He knew of incidents quite as remarkable, which had a decent explanationafterwards, however. He went about among the common people of CherryHill, who had known Arthur Dillon from his baptism, had petted him everyweek until he disappeared, and now adored him in his success. He renewedacquaintance with them, and heaped them with favors. Loitering about intheir idling places, he threw out the questions; hints, surmises, whichmight bring to the surface their faith in Arthur Dillon. He reported theresult to Edith. 

"Not one of them" said he, "but would go to court and swear a bushel ofoaths that Arthur Dillon is the boy who ran away. They have theirreasons too; how he dances, and sings, and plays the fiddle, and teasesthe girls, just as he did when a mere strip of a lad; how the devil wasalways in him for doing the thing that no one looked for; how he had nofear of even the priest, or of the wildest horse; and sought outterrible things to do and to dare, just as now he shakes up your latebackers, bishops, ministers, ambassadors, editors, or plots againstEngland; all as if he earned a living that way. "

She sneered at this bias, and bade him search deeper. 

It was necessary to approach the Senator on the matter. He secured fromhim a promise that their talk would remain a secret, not only becausethe matter touched one very dear to the Senator, but also becausepublicity might ruin the detective himself. If the Senator did not careto give his word, there would be no talk, but his relative might also beexposed to danger. The Senator was always gracious with Curran. 

"Do you know anything about Arthur's history in California?" and hislazy eyes noted every change in the ruddy, handsome face. 

"Never asked him but one question about it. He answered that straight, and never spoke since about it. Nothing wrong, I hope?" the Senatoranswered with alarm. 

"Lots, I guess, but I don't know for sure. Here are the circumstances. Think them out for yourself. A crowd of sharp speculators in Californiamines bought a mine from Arthur Dillon when he was settling up hisaccounts to come home to his mother. As trouble arose lately about thatmine, they had to hunt up Arthur Dillon. They send their agent to NewYork, he comes to Arthur, and has a talk with him. Then he goes back tohis speculators, and declares to them that this Arthur Dillon is not theman who sold the mine. So the company, full of suspicion, offers me thejob of looking up the character of Arthur, and what he had been doingthese ten years. They say straight out that the real Arthur Dillon hasbeen put out of the way, and that the man who is holding the name andthe stakes here in New York is a fraud. "

This bit of fiction relieved the Senator's mind. 

"A regular cock-and-bull story, " said he with indignation. "What's theirgame? Did you tell them what we think of Artie? Would his own mothermistake him? Or even his uncle? If they're looking for hurt, tell themthey're on the right road. "

"No, no, " said Curran, "these are straight men. But if doubt is cast ona business transaction, they intend to clear it away. It would be justlike them to bring suit to establish the identity of Arthur with theArthur Dillon who sold them the mine. Now, Senator, could you go intocourt and swear positively that the young man who came back fromCalifornia five years ago is the nephew who ran away from home at theage of fifteen?"

"Swear it till I turned blue; why, it's foolish, simply foolish. Andevery man, woman, and child in the district would do the same. Why don'tyou go and talk with Artie about it?"

"Because the company doesn't wish to make a fuss until they have someground to walk on, " replied Curran easily. "When I tell them how surethe relatives and friends of Arthur are about his identity, they maydrop the affair. But now, Senator, just discussing the thing as friends, you know, if you were asked in court why you were so sure Arthur is yournephew, what could you tell the court?"

"If the court asked me how I knew my mother was my mother----"

"That's well enough, I know. But in this case Arthur was absent tenyears, in which time you never saw him, heard of him, or from him. "

"Good point, " said the Senator musingly. "When Artie came home fromCalifornia, he was sick, and I went to see him. He was in bed. Say, I'llnever forget it, Curran. I saw Pat sick once at the same age ... Pat washis father, d'ye see?... And here was Pat lying before me in the bed. Itell you it shook me. I never thought he'd grow so much like his father, though he has the family features. Know him to be Pat's son? Why, if hetold me himself he was any one else, I wouldn't believe him. "

Evidently the Senator knew nothing of Horace Endicott and recognisedArthur Dillon as his brother's son. The detective was not surprised;neither was Edith at the daily report. 

"There isn't another like him on earth, " she said with the pride of adiscoverer. "Keep on until you find his tracks, here or in California. "

Curran had an interesting chat with Judy Haskell on a similar theme, butwith a different excuse from that which roused the Senator. The old ladyknew the detective only as Arthur's friend. He approached hermysteriously, with a story of a gold mine awaiting Arthur in California, as soon as he could prove to the courts that he was really ArthurDillon. Judy began to laugh. "Prove that he's Arthur Dillon! Faith, an'long I'd wait for a gold mine if I had to prove I was Judy Haskell. Howcan any one prove themselves to be themselves, Misther Curran? Are thecourts goin' crazy?"

The detective explained what evidence a court would accept as proof ofpersonality. 

"Well, Arthur can give that aisy enough, " said she. 

"But he won't touch the thing at all, Mrs. Haskell. He was absent tenyears, and maybe he doesn't want that period ripped up in a court. Itmight appear that he had a wife, you know, or some other disagreeablething might leak out. When the lawyers get one on the witness stand, they make hares of him. "

"Sure enough, " said Judy thoughtfully. Had she not suggested this verysuspicion to Anne? The young are wild, and even Arthur could haveslipped from grace in that interval of his life. Curran hoped thatArthur could prove his identity without exposing the secrets of thepast. 

"For example, " said he smoothly, with an eye for Judy's expression, "could you go to court to-morrow and swear that Arthur is the same ladthat ran away from his mother fifteen years ago?"

"I cud swear as manny oaths on that point as there are hairs in yerhead, " said Judy. 

"And what would you say, Mrs. Haskell, if the judge said to you: Now, madam, it's very easy for you to say you know the young man to be thesame person as the runaway boy; but how do you know it? what makes youthink you know it?"

"I'd say he was purty sassy, indade. Of coorse I'd say that to meself, for ye can't talk to a judge as aisy an' free as to a lawyer. Well, I'dsay manny pleasant things. Arthur was gone tin years, but I knew him an'he knew me the minute we set eyes on aich other. Then, agin, I knew himout of his father. He doesn't favor the mother at all, for she's lightan' he's dark. There's a dale o' the Dillon in him. Then, agin, howmanny things he tould me of the times we had together, an' he even askedme if Teresa Flynn, his sweetheart afore he wint off, was livin' still. Oh, as thrue as ye're sittin' there! Poor thing, she was married. An' heremembered how fond he was o' rice puddin' ice cold. An' he knew LouisEverard the minute he shtud forninst him in the door. But what's the useo' talkin'? I cud tell ye for hours all the things he said an' did toshow he was Arthur Dillon. "

"Has he any marks on his body that would help to identify him, if heundertook to get the gold mine that belongs to him?"

"Artie had only wan mark on him as a boy ... He was the most spotlesschild I ever saw ... An' that was a mole on his right shoulder. He tukit wid him to California, an' he brought it back, for I saw it meself inthe same spot while he was sick, an' I called his attintion to it, an'he was much surprised, for he had never thought of it wanst. "

"It's my opinion, " said Curran solemnly, "that he can prove his identitywithout exposing his life in the west. I hope to persuade him to it. Maybe the photographs of himself and his father would help. Have you anycopies of them?"

"There's jist two. I wudn't dare to take thim out of his room, but if yecare to walk up-stairs, Mr. Curran, an' luk at thim there, ye'rewelcome. He an' his mother are away the night to a gran' ball. "

They entered Arthur's apartments together, and Judy showed the picturesof Arthur Dillon as a boy of fourteen, and of his youthful father; olddaguerreotypes, but faithful and clear as a likeness. Judy rattled onfor an hour, but the detective had achieved his object. She had no sharein the secret. 

Arthur Dillon was his father's son, for her. He studied the pictures, and carefully examined the rooms, his admiration provoking Judy into adisplay of their beauties. With the skill and satisfaction of an artistin man-hunting, he observed how thoroughly the character of the youngman displayed itself in the trifles of decoration and furnishing. 

The wooden crucifix with the pathetic figure in bronze on the wall overthe desk, the holy water stoup at the door, carved figures of the HolyFamily, a charming group, on the desk, exquisite etchings of the Christand the Madonna after the masters, a _prie-dieu_ in the inner room witha group of works of devotion: and Edith had declared him no Catholic. Here was the refutation. 

"He is a pious man, " Curran said. 

"And no wan sees it but God and himself. So much the betther, I say, "Judy remarked. "Only thim that had sorra knows how to pray, an' he prayslike wan that had his fill of it. "

The tears came into the man's eyes at the indications of Arthur's lovefor poor Erin. Hardness was the mark of Curran, and sin had been hislifelong delight; but for his country he had kept a tenderness anddevotion that softened and elevated his nature at times. Of little useand less honor to his native land, he felt humbled in this room, whosebooks, pictures, and ornaments revealed thought and study in behalf of aharried and wretched people, yet the student was not a native ofIreland. It seemed profane to set foot here, to spy upon its holyprivacy. He felt glad that its details gave the lie so emphatically toEdith's instincts. 

The astonishing thing was the absence of Californian relics andmementoes. Some photographs and water colors, whose names Curranmentally copied for future use, pictured popular scenes on the Pacificslope; but they could be bought at any art store. Surely his life in themines, with all the luck that had come to him, must have held some greatbitterness, that he never spoke of it casually, and banished allremembrances. 

That would come up later, but Curran had made up his mind that no secretof Arthur's life should ever see the light because he found it. Not evenvengeful Edith, and she had the right to hate her enemy, should wringfrom him any disagreeable facts in the lad's career. So deeply thedetective respected him!

In the place of honor, at the foot of his bed, where his eyes rested onthem earliest and latest, hung a group of portraits in oil, in the sameframe, of Louis the beloved, from his babyhood to the present time: onthe side wall hung a painting of Anne in her first glory as mistress ofthe new home in Washington Square; opposite, Monsignor smiled down inpurple splendor; two miniatures contained the grave, sweet, motherlyface of Mary Everard and the auburn hair and lovely face of Mona. 

"There are the people he loves, " said Curran with emotion. 

"Ay, indade, " Judy said tenderly, "an' did ever a wild boy like him lovehis own more? Night an' day his wan thought is of them. The sun risesan' sets for him behind that picther there, " pointing to Louis'portraits. "If annythin' had happened to that lovely child last Springhe'd a-choked the life out o' wan woman wid his own two hands. He's aisyenough, God knows, but I'd rather jump into the say than face him whenthe anger is in him. "

"He's a terrible man, " said Curran, repeating Edith's phrase. 

He examined some manuscript in Arthur's handwriting. How different fromthe careless scrawl of Horace Endicott this clear, bold, dashing script, which ran full speed across the page, yet turned with ease and leisurelyfrom the margin. What a pity Edith could not see with her own eyes thesesilent witnesses to the truth. Beyond the study was a music-room, wherehung his violin over some scattered music. Horace Endicott hated thepractising of the art, much as he loved the opera. It was all verysweet, just what the detective would have looked for, beautiful to see. He could have lingered in the rooms and speculated on that secret andmanly life, whose currents were so feebly but shiningly indicated inlittle things. It occurred to him that copies of the daguerreotypes, Arthur at fourteen and his father at twenty-five, would be of service inthe search through California. He spoke of it to Judy. 

"Sure that was done years ago, " said Judy cautiously. "Anne Dillonwouldn't have it known for the world, ye see, but I know that she sint athousand o' thim to the polis in California; an' that's the way she kemacross the lad. Whin he found his mother shtill mournin' him, he wroteto her that he had made his pile an' was comin' home. Anne has the pridein her, an' she wants all the world to believe he kem home of himself, d'ye see? Now kape that a secret, mind. "

"And do you never let on what I've been telling you, " said Currangravely. "It may come to nothing, and it may come to much, but we mustbe silent. "

She had given her word, and Judy's word was like the laws of the Medesand Persians. Curran rejoiced at the incident of the daguerreotypes, which anticipated his proposed search in California. Vainly however didhe describe the result of his inquiry for Edith. She would have none ofhis inferences. He must try to entrap Anne Dillon and the priest, andafterwards he might scrape the surface of California. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE NERVE OF ANNE. 

Curran laid emphasis in his account to his wife on the details ofArthur's rooms, and on the photographs which had helped to discover thelost boy in California. Edith laughed at him. 

"Horace Endicott invented that scheme of the photographs, " said she. "The dear clever boy! If he had been the detective, not a stupid likeyou! I saw Arthur Dillon in church many times in four years, and I tellyou he is not a Catholic born, no matter what you saw in his rooms. He'splaying the part of Arthur Dillon to the last letter. Don't look at methat way, Dick or I'll scratch your face. You want to say that I amcrazy over this theory, and that I have an explanation ready for allyour objections. "

"I have nothing to say, I am just working on your lines, dearie, " hereplied humbly. 

"Just now your game is busy with an affair of the heart. He won't be toowatchful, unless, as I think, he's on our tracks all the time. You oughtto get at his papers. "

"A love affair! Our tracks!" Curran repeated in confusion. 

"Do you think you can catch a man like Arthur napping?" she sneered. "Isthere a moment in the last four years that he has been asleep? See to itthat you are not reported to him every night. But if he is in love withHonora Ledwith, there's a chance that he won't see or care to see whatyou are doing. She's a lovely girl. A hint of another woman would settlehis chances of winning her. I can give her that. I'd like to. A woman ofher stamp has no business marrying. "

She mused a few minutes over her own statements, while Curran stared. Hebegan to feel that the threads of this game were not all in his hands. 

"You must now go to the priest and Anne Dillon, " she resumed, "and sayto them plump ... Take the priest first ... Say to them plump beforethey can hold their faces in shape: do you know Horace Endicott? Thenwatch the faces, and get what you can out of them. "

"That means you will have Arthur down on you next day. "

"Sure, " catching her breath. "But it is now near the end of the season. When he comes to have it out with me, he will find himself face to facewith Sonia. If it's to be a fight, he'll find a tiger. Then we can runaway to California, if Sonia says so. "

"You are going to bring Sonia down, then?"

"You suggested it. Lemme tell you what you're going to find out to-day. You're going to find out that Monsignor knew Horace Endicott. After thatI think it would be all right to bring down Sonia. "

Little use to argue with her, or with any woman for that matter, once anidea lodged so deep in her brain. He went to see Monsignor, with theintention of being candid with him: in fact there was no other way ofdealing with the priest. In his experience Curran had found no class sodifficult to deal with as the clergy. They were used to keeping otherpeople's secrets as well as their own. He did not reveal his plan toEdith, because he feared her criticism, and could not honestly followher methods. He had not, with all his skill and cunning, her genius forferreting. 

Monsignor, acquainted with him, received him coldly. Edith'sinstructions were, ask the question plump, watch his face, and then runto Anne Dillon before she can be warned by the Monsignor's messenger. Looking into the calm, well-drilled countenance of the priest, Curranfound it impossible to surprise him so uncourteously. Anyway thedetective felt sure that there would be no surprise, except at the merequestion. 

"I would like to ask you a question, Monsignor, " said Curran smoothly, "which I have no right to ask perhaps. I am looking for a man whodisappeared some time ago, and the parties interested hope that you cangive some information. You can tell me if the question is at allimpertinent, and I will go. Do you know Horace Endicott?"

There was no change in the priest's expression or manner, no starting, no betrayal of feeling. Keeping his eyes on the detective's face, herepeated the name as one utters a half-forgotten thing. 

"Why has that name a familiar sound?" he asked himself. 

"You may have read it frequently in the papers at the time HoraceEndicott disappeared, " Curran suggested. 

"Possibly, but I do not read the journals so carefully, " Monsignoranswered musingly. "Endicott, Endicott ... I have it ... And it bringsto my mind the incident of the only railroad wreck in which I have everhad the misfortune to be ... Only this time it was good fortune for onepoor man. "

Very deliberately he told the story of the collision and of his slightacquaintance with the young fellow whose name, as well as he couldremember, was Endicott. The detective handed him a photograph of theyoung man. 

"How clearly this picture calls up the whole scene, " said Monsignor muchpleased. "This is the very boy. Have you a copy of this? Do send meone. "

"You can keep that, " said Curran, delighted at his progress, astonishedthat Edith's prophecy should have come true. Naturally the next questionwould be, have you seen the young man since that time? and Curran wouldhave asked it had not the priest broken in with a request for the storyof his disappearance. It was told. 

"Of course I shall be delighted to give what information I possess, "said Monsignor. "There was no secret about him then ... Many others sawhim ... Of course this must have been some time before he disappeared. But let me ask a question before we go any further. How did you suspectmy acquaintance with a man whom I met so casually? The incident hadalmost faded from my mind. In fact I have never mentioned it to a soul. "

"It was a mere guess on the part of those interested in finding him. "

"Still the guess must have been prompted by some theory of the search. "

"I am almost ashamed to tell it, " Curran said uneasily. "The truth isthat my employers suspect that Horace Endicott has been hiding for yearsunder the character of Arthur Dillon. "

Monsignor looked amazed for a moment and then laughed. 

"Interesting for Mr. Dillon and his friends, particularly if thisEndicott is wanted for any crime.... "

"Oh, no, no, " cried the detective. "It is his wife who is seeking him, aperfectly respectable man, you know ... It's a long story. We havechased many a man supposed to be Endicott, and Mr. Dillon is the latest. I don't accept the theory myself. I know Dillon is Dillon, but adetective must sift the theories of his employers. In fact my work up tothis moment proves very clearly that of all our wrong chases this is theworst. "

"It looks absurd at first sight. I remember the time poor Mrs. Dillonsent out her photographs, scattered a few hundred of them among thepolice and the miners of California, in the hope of finding her lostson. That was done with my advice. She had her first response, a letterfrom her son, about the very time that I met young Endicott. For thelife of me I cannot understand why anyone should suppose ArthurDillon.... "

He picked up the photograph of Endicott again. 

"The two men look as much alike as I look like you. I'm glad youmentioned the connection which Dillon has with the matter. You willkindly leave me out of it until you have made inquiries of Mr. Dillonhimself. It would not do, you understand, for a priest in my position togive out any details in a matter which may yet give trouble. I fear thatin telling you of my meeting with Endicott I have already oversteppedthe limits of prudence. However, that was my fault, as you warned me. Thanks for the photograph, a very nice souvenir of a tragedy. Poor youngfellow! Better had he perished in the smash-up than to go out of life inso dreary a way. "

"If I might venture another----"

"Pardon, not another word. In any official and public way I am alwaysready to tell what the law requires, or charity demands. "

"You would be willing then to declare that Arthur Dillon----"

"Is Mrs. Dillon's son? Certainly ... At any time, under properconditions. Good morning. Don't mention it, " and Curran was outside thedoor before his thoughts took good shape; so lost in wonder over thediscovery of Monsignor's acquaintance with Endicott, that he forgot tovisit Anne Dillon. Instead he hurried home with the news to Edith, andblushed with shame when she asked if he had called on Anne. She forgavehis stupidity in her delight, and put him through his catechism on allthat had been said and seen in the interview with Monsignor. 

"You are a poor stick, " was her comment, and for the first time in yearshe approved of her opinion. "The priest steered you about and out withhis little finger, and the corner of his eye. He did not give you achance to ask if he had ever seen Horace Endicott since. Monsignor willnot lie for any man. He simply refuses to answer on the ground that hisposition will not permit it. You will never see the priest again on thismatter. Arthur Dillon will bid you stand off. Well, you see what myinstinct is now! Are you more willing to believe in it when it says:Arthur Dillon is Horace Endicott?"

"Not a bit, sweetheart. "

"I won't fight with you, since you are doing as I order. Go to AnneDillon now. Mind, she's already prepared by this time for your visit. You may run against Arthur instead of her. While you are gone I shallwrite to Sonia that we have at last found a clue, and ask her to come onat once. Dillon may not give us a week to make our escape after helearns what we have been doing. We must be quick. Go, my dear oldstupid, and bear in mind that Anne Dillon is the cunningest cat you'vehad to do with yet. "

She gave an imitation of the lady that was funny to a degree, and sentthe detective off laughing, but not at all convinced that there was anysignificance in his recent discovery. He felt mortified to learn againfor the hundredth time how a prejudice takes the edge off intellect. Though certain Edith's theory was wrong, why should he act like a donkeyin disproving it? On the contrary his finest skill was required, andmethods as safe as if Dillon were sure to turn out Endicott. Hesharpened his blade for the coming duel with Anne, whom Monsignor hadwarned, without doubt. However, Anne had received no warning and she metCurran with her usual reserve. He was smoothly brutal. 

"I would like to know if you are acquainted with Mr. Horace Endicott?"said he. 

Anne's face remained as blank as the wall, and her manner tranquil. Shehad never heard the name before, for in the transactions betweenherself and her son only the name of Arthur Dillon had been mentioned, while of his previous life she knew not a single detail. Curran notdisappointed, hastened, after a pause, to explain his own rudeness. 

"I never heard the name, " said Anne coldly. "Nor do I see by what rightyou come here and ask questions. "

"Pardon my abruptness, " said the detective. "I am searching for a youngman who disappeared some years ago, and his friends are still huntingfor him, still anxious, so that they follow the most absurd clues. I amforced to ask this question of all sorts of people, only to get theanswer which you have given. I trust you will pardon me for mypresumption for the sake of people who are suffering. "

His speech warned her that she had heard her son's name for the firsttime, that she stood on the verge of exposure; and her heart failed her, she felt that her voice would break if she ventured to speak, her kneesgive way if she resented this man's manner by leaving the room. Yet theweakness was only for a moment, and when it passed a wild curiosity tohear something of that past which had been a sealed book to her, to knowthe real personality of Arthur Dillon, burned her like a flame, andsteadied her nerves. For two years she had been resenting his secrecy, not understanding his reasons. He was guarding against the verysituation of this moment. 

"Horace Endicott, " she repeated with interest. "There is no one of thatname in my little circle, and I have never heard the name before. Whowas he? And how did he come to be lost?"

And she rose to indicate that his reply must be brief. 

Curran told with eloquence of the disappearance and the long search, andgave a history of Endicott's life in nice detail, pleased with theunaffected interest of this severe but elegant woman. As he spoke hiseye took in every mark of feeling, every gesture, every expression. Herself-command, if she knew Horace Endicott, remained perfect; if she knewhim not, her manner seemed natural. 

"God pity his poor people, " was her fervent comment as she took her seatagain. "I was angry with you at first, sir, " looking at his card, "andof a mind to send you away for what looked like impertinence. But it's Iwould be only too glad to give you help if I could. I never even heardthe young man's name. And it puzzles me, why you should come to me. "

"For this reason, Mrs. Dillon, " he said with sincere disgust. "Thepeople who are hunting for Horace Endicott think that Arthur Dillon isthe man; or to put it in another way, that you were deceived when youwelcomed back your son from California. Horace Endicott and not ArthurDillon returned. "

"My God!" cried she, and sat staring at him; then rose up and began tomove towards the door backwards, keeping an eye upon him. Her thoughtshowed clear to the detective: she had been entertaining a lunatic. Helaughed. 

"Don't go, " he said. "I know what you imagine, but I'm no lunatic. Idon't believe that your son is an impostor. He is a friend of mine, andI know that he is Arthur Dillon. But a man in my business must do as heis ordered by his employers. I am a detective. "

For a minute she hesitated with hand outstretched to the bell-rope. Hermind acted with speed; she had nothing to fear, the man was friendly, his purpose had failed, whatever it was, the more he talked the more shewould learn, and it might be in her power to avert danger by policy. Shewent back to her seat, having left it only to act her part. Taking thehint provided by Curran, she pretended belief in his insanity, andpassed to indignation at this attempt upon her happiness, hermotherhood. This rage became real, when she reflected that the Aladdinpalace of her life was really threatened by Curran's employers. To herthe prosperity and luxury of the past five years had always beendream-like in its fabric, woven of the mists of morning, a fairyenchantment, which might vanish in an hour and leave poor Cinderellasitting on a pumpkin by the roadside, the sport of enemies, the burdenof friends. How near she had been to this public humiliation! Whatwretches, these people who employed the detective!

"My dear boy was absent ten years, " she said, "and I suffered agony allthat time. What hearts must some people have to wish to put me throughanother time like that! Couldn't any wan see that I accepted him as myson? that all the neighbors accepted him? What could a man want todeceive a poor mother so? I had nothing to give him but the love of amother, and men care little for that, wild boys care nothing for it. Hebrought me a fortune, and has made my life beautiful ever since he cameback. I had nothing to give him. Who is at the bottom of this thing?"

The detective explained the existence and motives of a deserted, poverty-stricken wife and child. 

"I knew a woman would be at the bottom of it, " she exclaimed viciously, feeling against Sonia a hatred which she knew to be unjust. "Well, isn'tshe able to recognize her own husband? If I could tell my son after tenyears, when he had grown to be a man, can't she tell her own husbandafter a few years? Could it be that my boy played Horace Endicott inBoston and married that woman, and then came back to me?"

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Dillon, " cried the detective in alarm, "do not exciteyourself over so trifling a thing. Your son is your son no matter whatour theories may be. This Endicott was born and brought up in thevicinity of Boston, and came from a very old family. Your suspicion isbaseless. Forget the whole matter I beg of you. "

"Have you a picture of the young man?"

He handed her the inevitable photograph reluctantly, quite sure that shewould have hysterics before he left, so sincere was her excitement. Annestudied the portrait with keen interest, it may be imagined, astonishedto find it so different from Arthur Dillon. Had she blundered as well asthe detective? Between this portrait and any of the recent photographsof Arthur there seemed no apparent resemblance in any feature. She hadbeen exciting herself for nothing. 

"Wonderful are the ways of men, " was her comment. "How any one ... " herbrogue had left her ... "could take Arthur Dillon for this man, evensupposing he was disguised now, is strange and shameful. What is to bethe end of it?"

"Just this, dear madam, " said Curran, delighted at her returningcalmness. "I shall tell them what you have said, what every one says, and they'll drop the inquiry as they have dropped about one hundredothers. If they are persistent, I shall add that you are ready to gointo any court in the land and swear positively that you know your ownson. "

"Into twenty courts, " she replied with fervor, and the tears, real tearscame into her eyes; then, at sight of Aladdin's palace as firm as everon its frail foundations, the tears rolled down her cheeks. 

"Precisely. And now if you would be kind enough to keep this matter fromthe ears of Mr. Dillon ... He's a great friend of mine ... I admire him... I was with him in the little expedition to Ireland, you know ... Andit was to save him pain that I came to you first ... If it could be keptquiet----"

"I want it kept quiet, " she said with decision, "but at the same timeArthur must know of these cruel suspicions. Oh, how my heart beats whenI think of it! Without him ten years, and then to have strangers plan totake him from me altogether ... Forever ... Forever ... Oh!"

Curran perspired freely at the prospect of violent hysterics. No mancould deal more rudely with the weak and helpless with right on hisside, or if his plans demanded it. Before a situation like this he feltlost and foolish. 

"Certainly he must know in time. I shall tell him myself, as soon as Imake my report of the failure of this clue to my employers. I would takeit as a very great favor if you would permit me to tell him. It mustcome very bitter to a mother to tell her son that he is suspected of notbeing her son. Let me spare you that anguish. "

Anne played with him delightfully, knowing that she had him at hermercy, not forgetting however that the sport was with tigers. Persuadedto wait a few days while Curran made his report, in return he promisedto inform her of the finding of poor Endicott at the proper moment. Thedetective bowed himself out, the lady smiled. A fair day's work! She hadlearned the name and the history of the young man known as Arthur Dillonin a most delightful way. The doubt attached to this conclusion did notdisturb her. Wonderful, that Arthur Dillon should look so little likethe portrait of Horace Endicott! More wonderful still that she, knowingArthur was not her son, had come to think of him, to feel towards him, and to act accordingly, as her son! Her rage over this attempt upon thetruth and the fact of their relationship grew to proportions. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

UNDER THE EYES OF HATE. 

Edith's inference from the interviews with the Monsignor and Anne didjustice to her acuteness. The priest alone knew the true personality ofArthur. From Anne all but the fact of his disappearance had been kept, probably to guard against just such attempts as Curran's. The detectivereminded her that her theory stood only because of her method ofselection from his investigations. Nine facts opposed and one favoredher contention: therefore nine were shelved, leaving one to support theedifice of her instincts or her suspicions. She stuck out her tongue athim. 

"It shows how you are failing when nine out of ten facts, gathered in awhole day's work, are worthless. Isn't that one fact, that the priestknew Horace Endicott, worth all your foolish reasonings? Who discoveredit? Now, will you coax Sonia Endicott down here to have a look at thisArthur Dillon? Before we start for California?"

He admitted humbly that the lady would not accept his invitation, without stern evidence of a valuable clue. The detectives had given hermany a useless journey. 

"She'll be at the Everett House to-morrow early in the morning, " saidEdith proudly. "Want to know why, stupid? I sent her a message that hergame had been treed at last ... By me. "

He waved his hands in despair. 

"Then you'll do the talking, Madam Mischief. "

"And you'll never say a word, even when asked. What! would I let youmesmerize her at the start by telling her how little you think of myidea and my plans? She would think as little of them as you do, when yougot through. No! I shall tell her, I shall plan for her, I shall leadher to the point of feeling where that long experience with HoraceEndicott will become of some use in piercing the disguise of ArthurDillon. You would convince her she was not to see Horace Endicott, andof course she would see only Arthur Dillon. I'll convince her she is tosee her runaway husband, and then if she doesn't I'll confess defeat. "

"There's a good deal in your method, " he admitted in a hopeless way. 

"We are in for it now, " she went on, scorning the compliment. "By thistime Arthur Dillon knows, if he did not before, that I am up tomischief. He may fall on us any minute. He will not suffer thisinterference: not because he cares two cents one way or the other, butbecause he will not have us frightening his relatives and friends, telling every one that he is two. Keep out of his way so that he shallhave to come here, and to send word first that he is coming. I'llarrange a scene for him with his Sonia. It may be sublime, and again itmay be a fizzle. One way or the other, if Sonia says so, we'll fly tothe west out of his way. The dear, dear boy!"

"He'll _dear_ you after that scene!"

"Now, do you make what attempts you may to find out where he keeps hismoney, he must have piles of it, and search his papers, his safe.... "

"He has nothing of the kind ... Everything about him is as open as theday ... It's an impertinence to bother him so ... Well, he can manageyou, I think ... No need for me to interfere or get irritated. "

Then she had a tantrum, which galled the soul of Curran, except that itended as usual in her soft whimpering, her childish murmuring, her sweetcomplaint against the world, and her falling asleep in his arms. Thuswas he regularly conquered and led captive. 

They went next day at noon to visit Sonia Endicott at the Everett House, where she had established herself with her little boy and his nurse. Herreception of the Currans, while supercilious in expression, was reallysincere. They represented her hope in that long search of five years, which only a vigorous hate had kept going. Marked with thecharacteristics of the cat, velvety to eye and touch, insolent andelusive in her glance, undisciplined, she could act a part for a time. To Horace Endicott she had played the rôle of a child of light, an elf, a goddess, for which nature had dressed her with golden hair, meltingeyes of celestial blue, and exquisite form. 

The years had brought out the animal in her. She found it more and moredifficult to repress the spite, rage, hatred, against Horace and fate, which consumed her within, and violated the external beauty with unholytouches, wrinkles, grimaces, tricks of sneering, distortions of rage. Her dreams of hatred had only one scene: a tiger in her own form rendingthe body of the man who had discovered and punished her with a powerlike omnipotence; rending him but not killing him, leaving his heart tobeat and his face unmarked, that he might feel his agony and show it. 

"If _you_ had sent me the telegram, " she remarked to Curran, "I wouldnot have come. But this dear Colette, she is to be my good angel andlead me to success, aren't you, little devil? Ever since she took up thematter I have had my beautiful dreams once more, oh, such thrillingdreams! Like the novels of Eugene Sue, just splendid. Well, why don'tyou speak?"

He pointed to Edith with a gesture of submission. She was hugging thelittle boy before the nurse took him away, teasing him into baby talk, kissing him decorously but lavishly, as if she could not get enough ofhim. 

"He's not to speak until asked, " she cried. 

"And then only say what she thinks, " he added. 

"La! are you fighting over it already? That's not a good sign. "

With a final embrace which brought a howl from young Horace, Edith gavethe boy to the nurse and began her story of finding Horace Endicott inthe son of Anne Dillon. She acted the story, admirably keeping back thepoints which would have grated on Sonia's instincts, or ratherexpectations. The lady, impressed, evidently felt a lack of somethingwhen Curran refused his interest and his concurrence to the description. 

"What do you wish me to do?" said she. 

"To see this Dillon and to study him, as one would a problem. The man'sbeen playing this part, living it indeed, nearly five years. Can any oneexpect that the first glance will pierce his disguise? He must bewatched and studied for days, and if that fetches nothing, then you mustmeet him suddenly, and say to him tenderly, 'at last, Horace!' If thatfetches nothing, then we must go to California, and work until we getthe evidence which will force him to acknowledge himself and give up hismoney. But by that time, if we can make sure it is he, and if we can gethis money, then I would recommend one thing! Kill him!"

Sonia's eyes sparkled at the thought of that sweet murder. 

"And wait another five years for all this, " was her cynical remark. 

"If the question is not settled this Fall, then let it go forever, " saidEdith with energy. 

"The scheme is well enough, " Sonia said lazily. "Is this Arthur Dillonhandsome, a dashing blade?"

"Better, " murmured Edith with a smack of her lips, "a virtuous sport, who despises the sex in a way, and can master woman by a look. He is mymaster. And I hate him! It will be worth your time to see him and meethim. "

"And now you, " to Curran. 

Sonia did not know, nor care why Edith hated Dillon. 

"I protest, Sonia. He will put a spell on you, and spoil our chances. Let him talk later when we have succeeded or failed. "

"Nonsense, you fool. I must hear both sides, but I declare now that Isubmit myself to you wholly. What do you say, Curran?"

"Just this, madam: if this man Arthur Dillon is really your husband, then he's too clever to be caught by any power in this world. Any wayyou choose to take it, you will end as this search has always ended. "

"Why do you think him so clever? My Horace was anything but clever ... At least we thought so ... Until now. "

"Until he has foiled every attempt to find him, " said Curran. "Colettehas her own ideas, but she has kept back all the details that make orunmake a case. She is so sure of her instincts! No doubt they are good. "

"But not everything, hey?" said the lady tenderly. "Ah, a woman'sinstincts lead her too far sometimes.... " they all laughed. "Well, giveme the details Colette left out. No winking at each other. I won't raisea hand in this matter until I have heard both sides. "

"This Arthur Dillon is Irish, and lives among the Irish in theold-fashioned Irish way, half in the slums, and half in the swellplaces.... "

"_Mon Dieu_, what is this I hear! The Irish! My Horace live among theIrish! That's not the man. He could live anywhere, among the Chinese, the Indians, the niggers, but with that low class of people, never!" andshe threw up her hands in despair. "Did I come from Boston to pursue alow Irishman!"

"You see, " cried Edith. "Already he has cast his spell on you. Hedoesn't believe I have found your man, and he won't let you believe it. Can't you see that this Horace went to the very place where you weresure he would not go?"

"You cannot tell him now from an Irishman, " continued the detective. "Hehas an Irish mother, he is a member of Tammany Hall, he is a politicianwho depends on Irish voters, he joined the Irish revolutionists and wentover the sea to fight England, and he's in love with an Irish girl. "

"Shocking! Horace never had any taste or any sense, but I know hedetested the Irish around Boston. I can't believe it of him. But, asColette says truly, he would hide himself in the very place where weleast think of looking for him. "

"Theories have come to nothing, " screamed Edith, until the lady placedher hands on her ears. "Skill and training and coolness and all that rothave come to nothing. Because I hate Arthur Dillon I have discoveredHorace Endicott. Now I want to see your eyes looking at this man, eyeswith hate in them, and with murder in them. They will discover more thanall the stupid detectives in the country. See what hate did for HoraceEndicott. He hated you, and instead of murdering you he learned totorture you. He hated you, and it made him clever. Oh, hate is a greatteacher! This fool of mine loves Arthur Dillon, because he is a patriotand hates England. Hate breeds cleverness, it breeds love, it opens themind, it will dig out Horace Endicott and his fortune, and enrich usall. "

"La, but you are strenuous, " said the lady placidly, but impressed. Shewas a shallow creature in the main, and Curran compared his little wife, eloquent, glowing with feeling, dainty as a flame, to the slower-wittedbeauty, with plain admiration in his gaze. She deserves to succeed, hethought. Sonia came to a conclusion, languidly. 

"We must try the eyes of hate, " was her decision. 

The pursuit of Arthur proved very interesting. The detective knew hishabits of labor and amusement, his public haunts and loitering-places. Sonia saw him first at the opera, modestly occupying a front seat in thebalcony. 

"Horace would never do that when he could get a box, " and she leveledher glass at him. 

Edith mentally dubbed her a fool. However, her study of the face andfigure and behavior of the man showed care and intelligence. Edith'spreparation had helped her. She saw a lean, nervous young man, whoseflowing black hair and full beard were streaked with gray. His darkface, hollow in the cheeks and not too well-colored with the glow ofhealth, seemed to get light and vivacity from his melancholy eyes. Seriousness was the characteristic expression. Once he laughed, in thewhole evening. Once he looked straight into her face, with so fixed, sointense an expression, so near a gaze, so intimate and penetrating, thatshe gave a low cry. 

"You have recognized him?" Edith whispered mad with joy. 

"No, indeed, " she answered sadly, "That is not Horace Endicott. Not afeature that I recall, certainly no resemblance. I was startled becauseI saw just now in his look, ... He looked towards me into the glass ... An expression that seemed familiar ... As if I had seen it before, andit had hurt me then as it hurts me now. "

"There's a beginning, " said Edith with triumph. "Next time for a nearerlook. "

"Oh, he could never have changed so, " Sonia cried with bitterness ofheart. 

Curran secured tickets for a ball to be held by a political associationin the Cherry Hill district, and placed the ladies in a quiet corner ofthe gallery of the hall. Arthur Dillon, as a leading spirit in thesociety, delighted to mingle with the homely, sincere, warm-hearted, andsimple people for whom this occasion was a high festival; and nowheredid his sorrow rest so lightly on his soul, nowhere did he feel sokeenly the delight of life, or give freer expression to it. Edith keptSonia at the highest pitch of excitement and interest. 

"Remember, " she said now, "that he probably knows you are in town, thatyou are here watching him; but not once will he look this way, nor do athing other than if you were miles away. My God, to be an actor likethat!"

The actor played his part to perfection and to the utter disappointmentof the women. The serious face shone now with smiles and color, with theflash of wit and the play of humor. Horace Endicott had been a merryfellow, but a Quaker compared with the butterfly swiftness and gaiety ofthis young man, who led the grand march, flirted with the damsels andchatted with the dames, danced as often as possible, joked with the men, found partners for the unlucky, and touched the heart of everyrollicking moment. The old ladies danced jigs with him, proud to theirmarrow of the honor, and he allowed himself ... Sonia gasped at thesight ... To execute a wild Irish _pas seul_ amid the thunderousapplause of the hearty and adoring company. 

"That man Horace Endicott!" she exclaimed with contempt. "Bah! But it'sinteresting, of course. "

"What a compliment! what acting! oh, incomparable man!" said Edith, enraged at his success before such an audience. Her husband smiledbehind his hand. 

"You have a fine imagination, Colette, but I would not give a penny foryour instinct, " said Sonia. 

"My instinct will win just the same, but I fear we shall have to go toCalifornia. This man is too clever for commonplace people. "

"Arthur Dillon is a fine orator, " said Curran mischievously, "andto-morrow night you shall hear him at his best on the sorrows ofIreland. "

Sonia laughed heartily and mockingly. Were not these same sorrows, fromtheir constancy and from repetition, become the joke of the world?Curran could have struck her evil face for the laugh. 

"Was your husband a speaker?" he asked. 

"Horace would not demean himself to talk in public, and he couldn't makea speech to save his life. But to talk on the sorrows of Ireland ... Oh, it's too absurd. "

"And why not Ireland's sorrows as well as those of America, or any othercountry?" he replied savagely. 

"Oh, I quite forgot that you were Irish ... A thousand pardons, " shesaid with sneering civility. "Of course, I shall be glad to hear hisdescription of the sorrows. An orator! It's very interesting. "

The occasion for the display of Arthur's powers was one of the numerousmeetings for which the talking Irish are famous all over the world, andin which their clever speakers have received fine training. Even Sonia, impressed by the enthusiasm of the gathering, and its esteem for Dillon, could not withhold her admiration. Alas, it was not her Horace whopoured out a volume of musical tone, vigorous English, elegant rhetoric, with the expression, the abandonment, the picturesqueness of a greatactor. She shuddered at his descriptions, her heart melted and her eyesmoistened at his pathos, she became filled with wonder. It was notHorace! Her husband might have developed powers of eloquence, but wouldhave to be remade to talk in that fashion of any land. This Dillon hadterrible passion, and her Horace was only a a handsome fool. She couldhave loved Dillon. 

"So you will have to arrange the little scene where I shall stand beforehim without warning, and murmur tenderly, 'at last, Horace!' And it mustbe done without delay, " was her command to Edith. 

"It can be done perhaps to-morrow night, " Edith said in a secret rage, wondering what Arthur Dillon could have seen in Sonia. "But bear in mindwhy I am doing this scene, with the prospects of a furious timeafterwards with Dillon. I want you to see him asleep, just for tenminutes, in the light of a strong lamp. In sleep there is no disguise. When he is dressed for a part and playing it, the sharpest eyes, eventhe eyes of hate, may not be able to escape the glamour of the disguise. The actor asleep is more like himself. You shall look into his face, andturn it from side to side with your own hands. If you do not catch somefeeling from that, strike a resemblance, I shall feel like giving up. "

"La, but you are an audacious creature, " said Sonia, and the trivialityof the remark sent Edith into wild laughter. She would like to havebitten the beauty. 

The detective consented to Edith's plans, in his anxiety to bring thefarce to an end before the element of danger grew. Up to this point theymight appeal to Arthur for mercy. Later the dogs would be upon them. Asyet no sign of irritation on Arthur's part had appeared. The day afterthe oration on the sorrows of Erin he sent a note to Curran announcinghis intention to call the same evening. Edith, amazed at her own couragein playing with the fire which in an instant could destroy her, againstthe warning of her husband, was bent on carrying out the scene. 

Dearly she loved the dramatic off the stage, spending thought and timein its arrangement. How delicious the thought of this man and his wifemeeting under circumstances so wondrous after five years of separation. Though death reached her the next moment she would see it. The weaknessof the plot lay in Sonia's skepticism and Arthur's knowledge that a trapwas preparing. He would brush her machinery aside like a cobweb, butthat did not affect the chance of his recognition by Sonia. 

Dillon had never lost his interest in the dancer and her husband. Theyattracted him. In their lives ran the same strain of madness, themadness of the furies, as in his own. Their lovable qualities were notfew. Occasionally he dropped in to tease Edith over her lack ofconscience, or her failures, and to discuss the cause of freedom withthe smooth and flinty Curran. Wild humans have the charm of theirwilderness. One must not forget their teeth and their claws. This nightthe two men sat alone. Curran filled the glasses and passed the cigars. Arthur made no comment on the absence of Edith. He might have been awarethat the curtains within three feet of his chair, hiding the roombeyond, concealed the two women, whose eyes, peering through smallglasses fixed in the curtains, studied his face. He might even haveguessed that his easy chair had been so placed as to let the light fallupon him while Curran sat in the dim light beyond. The young man gave nosign, spoke freely with Curran on the business of the night, and actedas usual. 

"Of course it must be stopped at once, " he said. "Very much flattered ofcourse that I should be taken for Horace Endicott ... You gave away TomJones' name at last ... But these things, so trifling to you, jar thenerves of women. Then it would never do for me, with my little career inCalifornia unexplained, to have stories of a double identity ... Is thatwhat you call it?... Running around. Of course I know it's that devilEdith, presuming always on good nature ... That's _her_ nature ... Butif you don't stop it, why I must. "

"You'll have to do it, I think, " the detective replied maliciously. "Ican do only what she orders. I had to satisfy her by running to thepriest, and your mother, and the Senator----"

"What! even my poor uncle! Oh, Curran!"

"The whole town, for that matter, Mr. Dillon. It was done in such a way, of course, that none of them suspected anything wrong, and we talkedunder promise of secrecy. I saw that the thing had to be done to satisfyher and to bring you down on us. Now you're down and the trouble's overas far as I am concerned. "

"And Tom Jones was Horace Endicott, " Arthur mused, "I knew it of courseall along, but I respected your confidence. I had known Endicott. "

"You knew Horace Endicott?" said Curran, horrified by a sudden vision ofhis own stupidity. 

"And his lady, a lovely, a superb creature, but just a shade too sharpfor her husband, don't you know. He was a fool in love, wasn't he?judging from your story of him. Has she become reconciled to her smallincome, I wonder? She was not that kind, but when one has to, that's theend of it. _And there are consolations. _ How the past month has tiredme. I could go to sleep right in the chair, only I want to settle thismatter to-night, and I must say a kind word to the little devil----"

His voice faded away, and he slept, quite overpowered by the drug placedin his wine. After perfect silence for a minute, Curran beckoned to thewomen, who came noiseless into the room, and bent over the sleepingface. In his contempt for them, the detective neither spoke nor left hisseat. Harpies brooding over the dead! Even he knew that!

Arthur's face lay in profile, its lines all visible, owing to the stronglight, through the disguise of the beard. The melancholy which marks theface of any sleeper, a foreshadow of the eternal sleep, had become onthis sleeper's countenance a profound sadness. From his seat Currancould see the pitiful droop of the mouth, the hollowness of the eyes, the shadows under the cheek-bones; marks of a sadness too deep fortears. Sonia took his face in her soft hands and turned the rightprofile to the light. She looked at the full face, smoothed his hair asif trying to recall an ancient memory. 

"The eyes of hate, " murmured Edith between tears and rage. She pitiedwhile she hated him, understanding the sorrow that could mark a man'sface so deeply, admiring the courage which could wear the mask so well. Sonia was deeply moved in spite of disappointment. At one moment shecaught a fleeting glimpse of her Horace, but too elusive to hold andanalyze. Something pinched her feelings and the great tears fell fromher soft eyes. Emotion merely pinched her. Only in hate could she writheand foam and exhaust nature. She studied his hands, observed thefingers, with the despairing conviction that this was not the man; toolean and too coarse and too hard; and her rage began to burn againstdestiny. Oh, to have Horace as helpless under her hands! How she couldrend him!

"Do you see any likeness?" whispered Edith. 

"None, " was the despairing answer. 

"Be careful, " hissed Curran. "In this sleep words are heard andremembered sometimes. "

Edith swore the great oaths which relieved her anger. But what use tocurse, to look and curse again? At the last moment Curran signalled themaway, and began talking about his surprise that Arthur should have knownthe lost man. 

"Because you might have given me a clue, " Arthur heard him saying as hecame back from what he thought had been a minute's doze, "and saved me ayear's search, not to mention the money I could have made. "

"I'll tell you about it some other time, " said Arthur with a yawn, as helit a fresh cigar. "Ask madam to step in here, will you. I must warn herin a wholesome way. "

"I think she is entertaining a friend, " Curran said, hinting plainly ata surprise. 

"Let her bring the friend along, " was the careless answer. 

The two women entered presently, and Edith made the introduction. Thehusband and wife stood face to face at last. Her voice failed in herthroat from nervousness, so sure was she that the Endicotts had metagain! They had the center of the stage, and the interest of theaudience, but acted not one whit like the people in a play. 

"Delighted, " said Arthur in his usual drawling way on these occasions. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Endicott before. "

"Indeed, " cried the lady. "I regret that my memory.... "

"At Castle Moyna, a little fête, mother fainted because she saw merunning across the lawn ... Of course you remember.... "

"Why, certainly ... We all felt so sorry for the young singer ... Herfather.... "

"He was in jail and died since, poor man. Then I saw you coming acrosson the steamer with a dear, sweet, old lady.... "

"My husband's aunt, " Sonia gasped at the thought of Aunt Lois. 

"Oh, but he's letter-perfect, " murmured Edith in admiration. 

"And you might remember me, " said the heartless fellow, "but of courseon a wedding-tour no one can expect the parties to remember anything, asthe guide for a whole week to your party in California. "

"Of course there was a guide, " she admitted, very pleasant to meet himagain, and so on to the empty end. Edith, stunned by her defeat, satcrushed, for this man no more minded the presence of his wife than didCurran. It was true. Arthur had often thought that a meeting like thisin the far-off years would rock his nature as an earthquake rocks thesolid plain. Though not surprised at her appearance, for Edith's schemeshad all been foreseen, he felt surprise at his own indifference. Soutterly had she gone out of his thought, that her sudden appearance, lovely and seductive as of old, gave him no twinge of hate, fear, repugnance, disgust, horror, shame, or pain. 

He took no credit to himself for a self-control, which he had not beencalled upon by any stress of feeling to exercise. He was only ArthurDillon, encountering a lady with a past; a fact in itself more or lessamusing. Once she might have been a danger to be kept out like a pest, or barricaded in quarantine. That time had gone by. His indifference forthe moment appalled him, since it showed the hopeless depth ofEndicott's grave. After chatting honestly ten minutes, he went awaylight of heart, without venturing to warn Edith. Another day, he toldher, and be good meanwhile. 

Curran became thoughtful, and the women irritable after he had gone. Edith felt that her instincts had no longer a value in the market. Inthis wretched Endicott affair striking disappointment met the mostbrilliant endeavors. Sonia made ready to return to her hotel. Dolorouslythe Currans paid her the last courtesies, waiting for the word whichwould end the famous search for her Horace. 

"I have been thinking the matter over, " she said sweetly, "and I havethought out a plan, not in your line of course, which I shall see to atonce. I think it worth while to look through California for points inthe life of this interesting young man, Mr. Dillon. "

When the door closed on her, Edith began to shriek in hystericallaughter. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE HEART OF HONORA. 

While Edith urged the search for Endicott, the little world to behorrified by her success enjoyed itself north and south as the seasonsuggested, and the laws of fashion permitted. At the beginning of June, Anne settled herself comfortably for the summer in a roomy farmhouse, overlooking Lake Champlain and that particular island of Valcour, whichonce witnessed the plucky sea-fight and defeat of dare-devil Arnold. Only Honora accompanied her, but at the close of the month Louis, thedeacon, and Mrs. Doyle Grahame joined them; and after that the wholeworld came at odd times, with quiet to-day and riot to-morrow. Honora, the center of interest, the storm-center, as we call it in these days, turned every eye in her direction with speculative interest. Would sheretire to the convent, or find her vocation in the world? She had morethan fulfilled her father's wish that she remain in secular life for ayear. Almost two years had passed. He could not reproach her from hisgrave. 

One divine morning she came upon the natural stage which had been thescene of a heart-drama more bitter to her than any sorrow. Walking alonein the solemn woods along the lake shore, the path suddenly ended on arocky terrace, unshaded by trees, and directly over the water. Raspberrybushes made an enclosure there, in the center of which the stumps of twotrees held a rough plank to make a seat. A stony beach curved inwardfrom this point, the dark woods rose behind, and the soft waters mademusic in the hollows of the rock beneath her feet. Delightful with theperfume of the forest, the placid shores of Valcour, sun, and flower, and bird filling eye and ear with beauty, the sight of the spot chilledher heart. Here Lord Constantine had offered her his love and his lifethe year before. To her it had been a frightful scene, this strong, handsome, clever man, born to the highest things of mind, heart, talentand rank, kneeling before her, pleading with pallid face for her love, ... And all the rest of it! She would have sunk down with shame but forhis kindness in accepting the situation, and carrying her through it. 

Why his proposal shocked her his lordship could not see at first. Heunderstood before his mournful interview and ended. Honora was of thatclass, to whom marriage does not present itself as a personal concern. She had the true feminine interest in the marriage of her friends, andhad vaguely dreamed of her own march to the altar, an adoring lover, ahappy home and household cares. Happy in the love of a charming motherand a high-hearted father, she had devoted her youthful days to them andto music. They stood between her and importunate lovers, whoseintentions she had never divined. 

With the years came trouble, the death of the mother, the earning of herliving by her art, the care of her father, and the work for her nativeland. Lovers could not pursue this busy woman, occupied with father andnative land, and daily necessity. The eternal round of travel, conspiracy, scheming, planning, spending, with its invariable ending ofdisappointment and weariness of heart, brought forth a longing for thepeace of rest, routine, satisfied aspirations; and from a dream theconvent became a passion, longed for as the oasis by the traveler in thesands. 

Simple and sincere as light, the hollow pretence of the world disgustedher. Her temperament was of that unhappy fiber which sees the end almostas speedily as the beginning; change and death and satiety treading onthe heels of the noblest enterprise. For her there seemed no happinessbut in the possession of the everlasting, the unchangeable, the divinelybeautiful. Out of these feelings and her pious habits rose the longingfor the convent, for what seemed to be permanent, fixed, proportioned, without dust and dirt and ragged edges, and wholly devoted to God. 

After a little Lord Constantine understood her astonishment, herhumiliation, her fright. He had a wretched satisfaction in knowing thatno other man would snatch this prize; but oh, how bitter to give her upeven to God! The one woman in all time for him, more could be said inher praise still; her like was not outside heaven. How much thissplendid lake, with sapphire sky and green shores, lacked of true beautyuntil she stepped like light into view; then, as for the first time, onesaw the green woods glisten, the waters sparkle anew, the sky deepen inrichness! One had to know her heart, her nature, so nobly dowered, tosee this lighting up of nature's finest work at her coming. She wasbeautiful, white as milk, with eyes like jewels, framed in lashes ofsilken black, so dark, so dark!

Honora wept at the sight of his face as he went away. She had seen thatdespair in her father's face. And she wept to-day as she sat on therough bench. Had she been to blame? Why had she delayed her entranceinto the convent a year beyond the time? Arthur had declared his workcould not get on without her for at least an extra half year. She waslingering still? Had present comfort shaken her resolution?

A cry roused her from her mournful thoughts, and she looked up to seeMona rounding the point at the other end of the stony beach, laboring atthe heavy oars. Honora smiled and waved her handkerchief. Here was onewoman for whom life had no problems, only solid contentment, andperennial interest; and who thought her husband the finest thing in theworld. She beached her boat and found her way up to the top of the rock. To look at her no one would dream, Honora certainly did not, that shehad any other purpose than breathing the air. 

Mrs. Doyle Grahame enjoyed the conviction that marriage settles alldifficulties, if one goes about it rightly. She had gone about itrightly, with marvellous results. That charming bear her father had puthis neck in her yoke, and now traveled about in her interest as mild asa clam. All men gasped at the sight of his meekness. When John EverardGrahame arrived on this planet, his grandfather fell on his knees beforehim and his parents, and never afterwards departed from that attitude. Doyle Grahame laid it to his art of winning a father-in-law. Mona foundthe explanation simply in the marriage, which to her, from the making ofthe trousseau to the christening of the boy, had been wonderful enoughto have changed the face of the earth. The delicate face, a triflefuller, had increased in dignity. Her hair flamed more glorious thanever. As a young matron she patronized Honora now an old maid. 

"You've been crying, " said she, with a glance around, "and I don'twonder. This is the place where you broke a good man's heart. It willremain bewitched until you accept some other man in the same spot. Howdid we know, Miss Cleverly? Do you think Conny was as secret as you? Anddidn't I witness the whole scene from the point yonder? I couldn't hearthe words, but there wasn't any need of it. Heavens, the expression ofyou two!"

"Mona, do you mean to tell me that every one knew it?"

"Every soul, my dear ostrich with your head in the sand. The hope isthat you will not repeat the refusal when the next lover comes along. And if you can arrange to have the scene come off here, as you arrangedfor the last one ... I have always maintained that the lady with aconvent vocation is by nature the foxiest of all women. I don't knowwhy, but she shows it. "

The usual fashion of teasing Honora attributed to her qualities opposedto a religious vocation. 

"Well, I have made up my mind to fly at once to the convent, " she said, "with my foxiness and other evil qualities. If it was my fault that oneman proposed to me----"

"It was your fault, of course. Why do you throw doubt upon it?"

"It will not be my fault that the second man proposes. So, this placemay remain accursed forever. Oh, my poor Lord Constantine! After all hiskindness to father and me, to be forced to inflict such suffering onhim! Why do men care for us poor creatures so much, Mona?"

"Because we care so much for them ... " Honora laughed ... "and becausewe are necessary to their happiness. You should go round the stations onyour knees once a day for the rest of your life, for having rejectedLord Conny. It wasn't mere ingratitude ... That was bad enough; but tothrow over a career so splendid, to desert Ireland so outrageously, "this was mere pretence ... "to lose all importance in life for the sakeof a dream, for the sake of a convent. "

"You have a prejudice against convents, Mona. "

"No, dear, I believe in convents for those who are made that way. Ihave noticed, perhaps you have too, that many people who should go to aconvent will not, and many people at present in the cloisters ought tohave stayed where nature put them first. "

"It's pleasant on a day like this for you to feel that you are justwhere nature intended you to be, isn't it? How did you leave the baby?"

Mona leaped into a rhapsody on the wonderful child, who was just thenfilling the time of Anne, and at the same time filling the air withhowlings, but returned speedily to her purpose. 

"Did you say you had fixed the day, Honora?"

"In September, any day before the end of the month. "

"You were never made for the convent, " with seriousness. "Too fond ofthe running about in life, and your training is all against it. "

"My training!" said Honora. 

"All your days you were devoted to one man, weren't you? And to thecause of a nation, weren't you? And to the applause of the crowd, weren't you? Now, my dear, when you find it necessary to make a changein your habits, the changes should be in line with those habits. Otherwise you may get a jolt that you won't forget. In a convent, therewill be no man, no Ireland, and no crowd, will there? What you shouldhave done was to marry Lord Conny, and to keep right on doing what youhad done before, only with more success. Now when the next man comesalong, do not let the grand opportunity go. "

"I'll risk the jolt, " Honora replied. "But this next man about whom youhave been hinting since you came up here? Is this the man?"

She pointed to the path leading into the woods. Louis came towards themin a hurry, having promised them a trip to the rocks of Valcour. Theyoung deacon was in fighting trim after a month on the farm, the pallorof hard study and confinement had fled, and the merry prospect aheadmade his life an enchantment. Only his own could see the slight butineffaceable mark of his experience with Sister Claire. 

"Take care, " whispered Mona. "He is not the man, but the man's agent. "

Louis bounced into the raspberry enclosure and flung himself at theirfeet. 

"Tell me, " said Honora mischievously. "Is there any man in love with me, and planning to steal away my convent from me? Tell me true, Louis. "

The deacon sat up and cast an indignant look on his sister. 

"Shake not thy gory locks at me, " she began cooly.... 

"There it is, " he burst out. "Do you know, Honora, I think marriageturns certain kinds of people, the redheads in particular, quite daft. This one is never done talking about her husband, her baby, herexperience, her theory, her friends who are about to marry, or who wantto marry, or who can't marry. She can't see two persons together withoutpatching up a union for them.... "

"Everybody should get married, " said Mona serenely, "except priests andnuns. Mona is not a nun, therefore she should get married. "

"The reasoning is all right, " replied the deacon, "but it doesn't applyhere. Don't you worry, Honora. There's no man about here that will worryyou, and even if there was, hold fast to that which is given thee.... "

"Don't quote Scripture, Reverend Sir, " cried Mona angrily. 

"The besotted world is not worth the pother this foolish young marriedwoman makes over it. "

The foolish young woman received a warning from her brother when Monawent into the woods to gather an armful of wild blossoms for the boat. 

"Don't you know, " said he with the positiveness of a young theologian, "that Arthur will probably never marry? Has he looked at a girl in thatway since he came back from California? He's giddy enough, I know, butone that studies him can see he has no intention of marrying. Now why doyou trouble this poor girl, after her scene with the Englishman, withhints of Arthur? I tell you he will never marry. "

"You may know more about him than I do, " his sister placidly answered, "but I have seen him looking at Honora for the last five years, andworking for her, and thinking about her. His look changed recently. Perhaps you know why. There's something in the air. I can feel it. Youcan't. None of you celibates can. And you can't see beyond your books inmatters of love and marriage. That's quite right. We can manage suchthings better. And if Arthur makes up his mind to win her, I'm boundshe shall have him. "

"We can manage! I'm bound!" he mimicked. "Well, remember that I warnedyou. It isn't so much that your fingers may be burned ... That's whatyou need, you married minx. You may do harm to those two. They seem tobe at peace. Let 'em alone. "

"What was the baby doing when you left the house?" said she for answer. 

"Tearing the nurse's hair out in handfuls, " said the proud uncle, as heplunged into a list of the doings of the wonderful child, who fittedinto any conversation as neatly as a preposition. 

Mona, grew sad at heart. Her brother evidently knew of some obstacle tothis union, something in Arthur's past life which made his marriage withany woman impossible. She recalled his silence about the Californiaepisode, his indifference to women, his lack of enthusiasm as tomarriage. 

They rowed away over the lake, with the boat half buried in wild bushes, sprinkled with dandelion flowers and the tender blossoms of the appletrees. Honora was happy, at peace. She put the scene with LordConstantine away from her, and forgot the light words of Mona. 

Whoever the suitor might be, Arthur did not appear to her as a lover. Socareful had he been in his behavior, that Louis would have as much placein her thought as Arthur, who had never discouraged her hope of theconvent, except by pleading for Ireland. The delay in keeping her ownresolution had been pleasant. Now that the date was fixed, the gratefulenclosure of the cloister seemed to shut her in from all this dust andclamor of men, from the noisome sights and sounds of world-living, fromthe endless coming and going and running about, concerning trifles, fromthe injustice and meanness and hopeless crimes of men. 

In the shade of the altar, in the restful gloom of Calvary, she couldlook up with untired eyes to the calm glow of the celestial life, unchanging, orderly, beautiful with its satisfied aspiration, and richin perfect love and holy companionship. Such a longing came over her towalk into this perfect peace that moment! Mona well knew this mood, andLouis in triumph signalled his sister to look. Her eyes, turned to therocky shore of Valcour, saw far beyond. On her perfect face lay ashadow, the shadow of her longing, and from her lips came now and thenthe perfume of a sigh. 

In silence these two watched her, Louis recognizing the borderland ofholy ecstasy, Mona hopeful that the vision was only a mirage. The boatfloated close to the perpendicular rocks and reflected itself in thedeep waters; far away the farmhouse lay against the green woods; to thenorth rose the highest point of the bluff, dark with pines; farther onwas the sweep of the curved shore, and still farther the red walls ofthe town. Never boat carried freight so beautiful as this which borealong the island the young mother, the young deacon, and deep-heartedHonora, who was blessing God. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE PAULINE PRIVILEGE. 

For a week at the end of July Arthur had been in the city closing up theCurran episode. On his return every one felt that change of marked andmysterious kind had touched him. His face shone with joy. The broodingshadow, acquired in his exile, had disappeared. Light played about hisface, emanated from it, as from moonlit water, a phosphorescence of thedaylight. His mother studied him with anxiety, without which she had notbeen since the surprising visit of Curran. The old shadow seemed to havefled forever. 

One night on the lake, as Louis and he floated lazily towards theisland, he told the story. After enjoying a moonlight swim at the footof the bluff, they were preparing to row over to Valcour when Honora'sglorious voice rang out from the farmhouse on the hill above, singing toMona's accompaniment. The two sat in delight. A full moon stood in thesky, and radiance silvered the bosom of the lake, the mystic shores, thefar-off horizon. This singer was the voice of the night, whose mysticbeauty and voiceless feeling surged into the woman's song like watersescaping through a ravine. Dillon was utterly oppressed by happiness. When the song had ceased, he stretched out his arms towards her. 

"Dearest and best of women! By God's grace I shall soon call you mine!"

Louis took up the oars and pulled with energy in the direction ofValcour. "Is that the meaning of the look on your face since yourreturn?" said he. 

"That's the meaning. I saw you all watching me in surprise. My mothertold me of it in her anxiety. If my face matched my feelings the moonthere would look sickly besides its brightness. I have been in jail forfive years, and to-day I am free. "

"And how about that other woman ... ?"

"Dead as far as I am concerned, the poor wretch! Yesterday I could curseher. I pity her to-day. She has gone her way and I go mine. Monsignorhas declared me free. Isn't that enough?"

"That's enough, " cried Louis, dropping the oars in his excitement. "Butis it enough to give you Honora? I'm so glad you think of her that way. Mona told her only yesterday that some lover was pursuing her, notmentioning your name. I assured her on the contrary that the road to theconvent would have no obstacles. And I rebuked Mona for herinterference. "

"You were right, and she was right, " said Arthur sadly. "I never daredto show her my love, because I was not free. But now I shall declare it. What did she think of Mona's remarks?"

"She took them lightly. I am afraid that your freedom comes at a poortime, Arthur; that you may be too late. I have had many talks with her. Her heart is set on the convent, she has fixed the date for September, and she does not seem to have love in her mind at all. "

"Love begets love. How could she think of love when I never gave anysign, except what sharp-eyed Mona saw. You can conceal nothing from awoman. Wait until I have wooed her ... But apart from all that you musthear how I came to be free ... Oh, my God, I can hardly believe it evennow after three days ... I have been so happy that the old anguish whichtore my soul years ago seemed easier to bear than this exquisite pain. Imust get used to it. Listen now to the story of my escape, and rowgently while you listen so as to miss not a word. "

Arthur did not tell his chum more than half of the tale, chiefly becauseLouis was never to know the story of Horace Endicott. He had gone to NewYork at the invitation of Livingstone. This surprising incident began aseries of surprises. The Currans had returned from California, and madetheir report to Sonia; and to Livingstone of all men the wife of HoraceEndicott had gone for advice in so delicate an affair as forcing ArthurDillon to prove and defend his identity. After two or three interviewswith Livingstone Arthur carried his report to Monsignor. 

"All this looks to me, " said the priest, "as if the time for a returnto your own proper personality had come. You know how I have feared theconsequences of this scheme. The more I look into it, the more terribleit seems. "

"And why should I give up now of all times? when I am a success?" criedthe young fellow. "Do I fear Livingstone and the lawyers? Curran and hiswife have done their best, and failed. Will the lawyers do any better?"

"It is not that, " said the priest. "But you will always be annoyed inthis way. The sharks and blackmailers will get after you later.... "

"No, no, no, Monsignor. This effort of the Currans and Mrs. Endicottwill be the last. I won't permit it. There will be no result fromLivingstone's interference. He can go as far as interviews with me, butnot one step beyond. And I can guarantee that no one will ever take upthe case after him. "

"You are not reasonable, " urged the priest. "The very fact that thesepeople suspect you to be Horace Endicott is enough; it proves that youhave been discovered. "

"I am only the twentieth whom they pursued for Horace, " he laughed. "Curran knows I am not Endicott. He has proved to the satisfaction ofLivingstone that I am Arthur Dillon. But the two women are pertinacious, and urge the men on. Since these are well paid for their trouble, whyshould they not keep on?"

"They are not the only pertinacious ones, " the priest replied. 

"You may claim a little of the virtue yourself, " Arthur slyly remarked. "You have urged me to betray myself into the hands of enemies once amonth for the last five years. "

"In this case would it not be better to get an advantage by declaringyourself, before Livingstone can bring suit against you?"

"There will be no suit, " he answered positively. "I hold the winningcards in this game. There is no advantage in my returning to a lifewhich for me holds nothing but horror. Do you not see, Monsignor, thatthe same reasons which sent me out of it hold good to keep me out ofit?"

"Very true, " said Monsignor reluctantly, as he viewed the situation. 

"And new reasons, not to be controverted, have sprung up around ArthurDillon. For Horace Endicott there is nothing in that old life but publicdisgrace. Do you know that I hate that fat fool, that wretched cuckoldwho had not sense enough to discover what the uninterested knew aboutthat woman? I would not wear his name, nor go back to his circle, if theman and woman were dead, and the secret buried forever. "

"He was young and innocent, " said the priest with a pitiful glance atArthur. 

"And selfish and sensual too. I despise him. He would never have beenmore than an empty-headed pleasure-seeker. With that wife he could havebecome anything you please. The best thing he did was his flight intoeverlasting obscurity, and that he owed to the simple, upright, strong-hearted woman who nourished him in his despair. Monsignor, " andhe laid his firm hand on the knee of the priest and looked at him withterrible eyes, "I would choose death rather than go back to what I was. I shall never go back. I get hot with shame when I think of the part anEndicott played as Sonia Westfield's fool. "

"And the reason not to be controverted?"

"In what a position my departure would leave my mother. Have you thoughtof that? After all her kindness, her real affection, as if I had beenher own son. She thinks now that I am her son, and I feel that she is mymother. And what would induce me to expose her to the public gaze as thechief victim, or the chief plotter in a fraud? If it had to be done, Iwould wait in any event until my mother was dead. But beyond all theseminor reasons is one that overshadows everything. I am Arthur Dillon. That other man is not only dead, he is as unreal to me as the hero ofany book I read in my boyhood. It was hard to give up the oldpersonality; to give up what I am now would be impossible. I am what Iseem. I feel, think, speak, dream Arthur Dillon. The roots would bleedif I were to transplant myself. I found my career among your people, andthe meaning of life. There is no other career for me. These are thepeople I love. I will never raise between them and me so odious abarrier as the story of my disappearance would be. They could nevertake to Horace Endicott. Oh, I have given the matter a moment's thought, Monsignor. The more I dwell on it, the worse it seems. "

He considered the point for a moment, and then whispered with joyoustriumph, "I have succeeded beyond my own expectations. I havedisappeared even from myself. An enemy cannot find me, not even my ownconfession would reveal me. The people who love me would swear to a manthat I am Arthur Dillon, and that only insanity could explain my ownconfession. At the very least they would raise such a doubt in the mindof a judge that he would insist on clean proofs from both sides. Butthere's the clear fact. I have escaped from myself, disappeared from thesight of Arthur Dillon. Before long I can safely testify to a dream Ihad of having once been a wretch named Horace Endicott. But I have adoubt even now that I was such a man. "

"My God, but it's weird, " said Monsignor with emotion, as he rose towalk the room. "I have the same notion myself at times. "

"It's a matter to be left undisturbed, or some one will go crazy overit, " Arthur said seriously. 

"And you are happy, really happy? The sight of this woman did not revivein you any regret.... "

"I am happy, Monsignor, beyond belief, " with a contented sigh. "It wouldbe too much to expect perfect happiness. Yet that is within my reach. IfI were only free to marry Honora Ledwith. "

"I heard of that too, " said the priest meditatively. "Has she any regardfor you?"

"As a brother. How could I have asked any other love? And I am rich inthat. Since there is no divorce for Catholics, I could not let her seethe love which burned in me. I had no hope. "

"And she goes into the convent, I believe. You must not stand in God'sway. "

"I have not, though I delayed her going because I could not bear to partfrom her. Willingly I have resigned her to God, because I know that inHis goodness, had I been free, He would have given her to me. "

Monsignor paused as if struck by the thought and looked at him for amoment. 

"It is the right spirit, " was his brief comment. 

He loved this strange, incomprehensible man, who had stood for fiveyears between his adopted people and their enemies in many a fight, whohad sought battle in their behalf and heaped them with favors. His eyessaw the depth of that resignation which gave to God the one jewel thatwould have atoned for the horrid sufferings of the past. If he werefree! He thought of old Lear moaning over dead Cordelia. 

 She lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. 

"It is the right spirit, " he repeated as he considered the matter. "Onemust not stand in the way of a soul, or in the way of God. Yet were youfree, where would be the advantage? She is for the convent, and hasnever thought of you in the way of love. "

"Love begets love, father dear. I could light the flame in her heart, for I am dear to her as a brother, as her father's son. "

"Then her dream of the convent, which she has cherished so many years, cannot be more than a dream, if she resigned it for you. "

"I cannot argue with you, " he said hopelessly, "and it's a sad subject. There is only the will of God to be done. "

"And if you were free, " went on Monsignor smiling, "and tried and failedto light love in her heart, you would suffer still more. "

"A little more or less would not matter. I would be happy still to giveher to God. "

"I see, I see, " shaking his sage head. "To God! As long as it is not toanother and luckier fellow, the resignation is perfect. "

Arthur broke into a laugh, and the priest said casually:

"I think that by the law of the Church you are a free man. "

Arthur leaped to his feet with a face like death. 

"In the name of God!" he cried. 

Monsignor pushed him back into his chair. 

"That's my opinion. Just listen, will you. Then take your case to adoctor of the law. There is a kind of divorce in the Church known as thePauline Privilege. Let me state the items, and do you examine if you canclaim the privilege. Horatius, an infidel, that is, unbaptized, desertshis wife legally and properly, because of her crimes; later he becomes aCatholic; meeting a noble Catholic lady, Honoria, he desires to marryher; question, is he free to contract this marriage? The answer of thedoctors of the law is in the affirmative, with the following conditions:that the first wife be an infidel, that is, unbaptized; that to livewith her is impossible; that she has been notified of his intention tobreak the marriage. The two latter conditions are fulfilled in your casethe moment the first wife secures the divorce which enables her to marryher paramour. Horatius is then free to marry Honoria, or any otherCatholic lady, but not a heretic or a pagan. This is called the PaulinePrivilege because it is described in the Epistle of St. Paul to theCorinthians. My opinion is that you are free. "

The man, unable to speak, or move, felt his hope grow strong and violentout of the priest's words. 

"Mind, it's only my opinion, " said Monsignor, to moderate histransports. 

"You must go to Dr. Bender, the theologian, to get a purely legaldecision. I fear that I am only adding to your misery. What if he shoulddecide against you? What if she should decide against you?"

"Neither will happen, " with painful effort. Sudden joy overcame him withthat anguish of the past, and this was overwhelming, wonderful. 

"The essence of love is sacrifice, " said Monsignor, talking to give himtime for composure. "Not your good only, but the happiness of her youlove must control your heart and will; and above all there must besubmission to God. When He calls, the child must leave the parent, thelover his mistress, all ties must be broken. "

"I felt from the beginning that this would come to pass, " said Arthurweakly. "Oh, I made my sacrifice long ago. The facts were all againstme, of course. Easy to make the sacrifice which had to be made. I canmake another sacrifice, but isn't it now her turn? Oh, Monsignor, all myjoy seems to come through you! From that first moment years ago, when wemet, I can date----"

"All your sorrow, " the priest interrupted. 

"And all my joy. Well, one cannot speak of these great things, only act. I'm going to the theologian. Before I sleep to-night he must settle thatcase. I know from your eyes it will be in my favor. I can beardisappointment. I can bear anything now. I am free from that creature, she is without a claim on me in any way, law, fact, religion, sympathy. Oh, my God!"

Monsignor could not hinder the tears that poured from his eyes silently. He clasped Arthur's hand and saw him go as he wept. In his varied lifehe had never seen so intimately any heart, none so strange and woful inits sorrow and its history, none so pathetic. The man lived entirely onthe plane of tragedy, in the ecstasy of pain; a mystery, a problem, awonder, yet only an average, natural, simple man, that had foughtdestiny with strange weapons. 

This story Arthur whispered to Louis, floating between the moonlitshores of Champlain. He lay in the stern watching the rhythmic rise ofthe oar-blades, and the flashing of the water-drops falling back likediamonds into the wave. Happiness lay beside him steering the boat, aseraph worked the oars, the land ahead must be paradise. His was alover's story, clear, yet broken with phrases of love; for was he notspeaking to the heart, half his own, that beat with his in unison? Thetears flowed down the deacon's cheek, tears of dread and of sympathy. What if Honora refused this gift laid so reverently at her feet? Hespoke his dread. 

"One must take the chance, " said the lover calmly. "She is free too. Iwould not have her bound. The very air up here will conspire with me towin her. She must learn at once that I want her for my wife. Then letthe leaven work. "

The boat came back to the landing. The ladies sat on the verandachatting quietly, watching the moon which rose higher and higher, andthrew Valcour into shadow so deep, that it looked like a great serpentasleep on a crystal rock, nailed by a golden spike through its head tothe crystal rock beneath. The lighthouse lamp burning steadily at thesouth point, and its long reflection in the still waters, was the goldennail. A puffing tug passed by with its procession of lumber boats, fanciful with colored lights, resounding with the roaring songs of theboatmen; and the waves recorded their protest against it in long groanson the shore. Arthur drank in the scene without misgiving, bathed inlove as in moonlight. This moon would see the consummation of his joy. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

LOVE IS BLIND. 

Next morning after breakfast the house began to echo with the singing ofthe inmates. Mona sang to the baby in an upper room, the Deacon thrummedthe piano and hummed to himself in the raucous voice peculiar to mostchurchmen. Judy in the kitchen meditatively crooned to her maids anancient lamentation, and out on the lawn, Arthur sang to his mother anamorous ditty in compliment to her youthful appearance. Honora, thesong-bird, silent, heard with amusement this sudden lifting up ofvoices, each unconscious of the other. Arthur's bawling dominated. 

"Has the house gone mad?" she inquired from the hallway stairs, soclearly that the singers paused to hear. "What is the meaning of allthis uproar of song. Judy in the kitchen, Mona in the nursery, Louis inthe parlor, Arthur on the lawn?"

The criminals began to laugh at the coincidence. 

"I always sing to baby, " Mona screamed in justification. 

"I wasn't singing, I never sing, " Louis yelled from the parlor. 

"Mother drove me to it, " Arthur howled through the door. 

"I think the singin' was betther nor the shoutin', " Judy observedleaning out of the window to display her quizzical smile. 

A new spirit illumined the old farmhouse. Love had entered it, and hopehad followed close on his heels; hope that Honora would never get to herbeloved convent. They loved her so and him that with all their faith, their love and respect for the convent life, gladly would they have seenher turn away from the holy doors into Arthur's reverential arms. Withthe exception of Anne. So surely had she become his mother that thethought of giving him up to any woman angered her. She looked coldly onHonora for having inspired him with a foolish passion. 

"Come down, celestial goddess, " said Arthur gayly, "and join the Deaconand me in a walk over the bluff, through the perfumed woods, down theloud-resounding shore. Put on rubbers, for the dew has no respect forthe feet of such divinity. "

They went off together in high spirits, and Mona came down to theveranda with the baby in her arms to look after them. Anne grieved atthe sight of their intimacy. 

"I have half a mind, " she said, "to hurry Honora off to her convent, orto bring Sister Magdalen and the Mother Superior up here to strengthenher. If that boy has his way, he'll marry her before Christmas. He hasthe look of it in his eye. "

"And why shouldn't he?" Mona asked. "If she will have him, then she hasno business with the convent, and it will be a good opportunity for herto test her vocation. "

"And what luck will there be in it for him?" said the mother bitterly. "How would you feel if some hussy cheated Louis out of his priesthood, with blue eyes and golden hair and impudence? If Arthur wants to marryafter waiting so long, let him set eyes on women that ask for marriage. He'll never have luck tempting a poor girl from the convent. "

"Little ye think o' the luck, " said Judy, who had come out to have hermorning word with the mistress. "Weren't ye goin' into a convent yerselfwhin Pat Dillon kem along, an' wid a wink tuk ye to church undher hisarm. An' is there a woman in the whole world that's had greater luckthan yerself?"

"Oh, I know you are all working for the same thing, all against me, "Anne said pettishly. 

"Faith we are, and may the angels guide him and her to each other. Can'ta blind man see they wor made to be man an' wife? An' I say it, knowin'that the convent is the best place in the world for anny girl. I wishevery girl that was born wint there. If they knew what is lyin' in waitfor thim whin they take up wid a man, there wouldn't be convents enoughto hould all that wud be runnin' to thim. But ye know as well as I dothat the girls are not med for the convent, except the blessed few.... "

Anne fled from the stream of Judy's eloquence, and the old lady lookedexpressively at Mona. 

"She's afraid she's goin' to lose her Artie. Oh, these Irish mothers!they'd kape a boy till his hairs were gray, an' mek him belave it too, if they cud. I never saw but wan mother crazy to marry her son. That wasBiddy Brady, that wint to school wid yer mother, an' poor Micksheen wasa born ijit, wid a lip hangin' like a sign, so's ye cud hang an auctionnotice on it. Sure, the poor boy wudn't lave his mother for Vanusherself, an' the mother batin' him out o' the house every day, an' hebawlin' for fear the women wud get hould of him. "

Honora had observed the happy change in Arthur, her knight of service, who had stood between her and danger, and had fought her battles withchivalry; asking no reward, hinting at none, because she had alreadygiven him all, a sister's love. What tenderness, what adoration, whatservice had he lavished on her, unmarred by act, or word, or hint! Godwould surely reward him for his consideration. Walking through thescented woods she found it easy to tell them of the date fixed for herentrance into the convent. Grand trees were marshalled along the path, supporting a roof of gold and green, where the sun fell strong on theheavy foliage. 

"September, " said Arthur making a calculation. "Why not wait untilOctober and then shed your colors with the trees. I can see her, " hewent on humorously, "decorously arranging the black dress so that itwill hang well, and not make her a fright altogether before the otherwomen; and getting a right tilt to the black bonnet and enough lace init to set off her complexion. "

"Six months later, " said the Deacon taking up the strain, "she will dobetter than that. Discarding the plain robes of the postulant, she willget herself into the robes of a bride.... "

"Oh, sooner than that, " said Arthur with a meaning which escaped her. 

"No, six months is the period, " she corrected seriously. 

"In wedding finery she will prance before her delighted friends for afew minutes, and then march out to shed white silk and fleecy tulle. Avengeful nun, whose hair has long been worn away, will then clip withone snip of the scissors her brown locks from her head.... "

"Horror!" cried Arthur. 

"Sure, straight across the neck, you know, like the women's-rightspeople. Then the murder of the hair has to be concealed, so they put ona nightcap, and hide that with a veil, and then bring her into thebishop to tell him it's all right, and that she's satisfied. "

"And what do they make of the hair?" said Arthur. 

"That's one of the things yet to be revealed. "

"And after that she is set at chasing the rule, or being chased by therule for two years. She studies striking examples of observing the rule, and of the contrary. She has a shy at observing it herself, and thecontrary. The rule is it when she observes it; she's it when shedoesn't. At this point the mother superior comes into the game. "

"Where do the frowsy children come in?"

"At meals usually. Honora cuts the bread and her fingers, butters it, and passes it round; the frowsy butter themselves, and Honora; this isan act of mortification, which is intensified when the mistress ofnovices discovers the butter on her habit. "

"Finally the last stage is worse than the first, I suppose. Havingacquired the habit she gets into it so deeply.... "

"She sheds it once more, Arthur. Then she's tied to the frowsy childrenforever, and is known as Sister Mary of the Cold Shoulder to the world. "

"This is a case of rescue, " said Arthur with determination, "I move werescue her this minute. Help, help!"

The woods echoed with his mocking cries. Honora had not spoken, thesmile had died away, and she was plainly offended. Louis observantpassed a hint to Arthur, who made the apology. 

"We shall be there, " he said humbly, "with our hearts bleeding becausewe must surrender you. And who are we that you need care? It is poorIreland that will mourn for the child that bathed and bound her wounds, that watched by her in the dark night, and kept the lamp of hope andcomfort burning, that stirred hearts to pity and service, that woke upLord Constantine and me, and strangers and enemies like us, to renderservice; the child whose face and voice and word and song made themeanest listen to a story of injustice; all shut out, concealed, putaway where the mother may never see or hear her more. "

His voice broke, his eyes filled with tears at the vividness of thevision called up in the heart of the woods; and he walked ahead toconceal his emotion. Honora stopped dead and looked inquiringly at theDeacon, who switched the flowers with downcast eyes. 

"What is the meaning of it, Louis?"

He knew not how to make answer, thinking that Arthur should be the firstto tell his story. 

"Do you think that we can let you go easily?" he said. "If we tease youas we did just now it is to hide what we really suffer. His feeling gotthe better of him, I think. "

The explanation sounded harmless. For an instant a horrid fear thatthese woods must witness another scene like Lord Constantine's chilledher heart. She comforted Arthur like a sister. 

"Do not feel my going too deeply. Change must come. Let us be glad it isnot death, or a journey into distant lands with no return. I shall beamong you still, and meanwhile God will surely comfort you. "

"Oh, if we could walk straight on like this, " Arthur answered, "throughthe blessed, free, scented forest, just as we are, forever! And walkingon for years, content with one another, you, Louis, and I, come out atlast, as we shall soon come out here on the lake, on the shore ofeternity, just as life's sun sets, and the moon of the immortal liferises; and then without change, or the anguish of separation and dying, if we could pass over the waters, and enter the land of eternity, takingour place with God and His children, our friends, that have been thereso long!"

"Is not that just what we are to do, not after your fashion, but afterthe will of God, Arthur? Louis at the altar, I in the convent before thealtar, and you in the field of battle fighting for us both. Aaron, Miriam, Moses, here are the three in the woods of Champlain, as once inthe desert of Arabia, " and she smiled at the young men. 

Louis returned the smile, and Arthur gave her a look of adoration, sotender, so bold, that she trembled. The next moment, when the broadspace through which they were walking ended in a berry-patch, he plungedamong the bushes with eagerness, to gather for her black raspberries inhis drinking-cup. Her attempt to discuss her departure amiably hadfailed. 

"I am tired already, " said she to Louis helplessly. "I shall go back tothe house, and leave you to go on together. "

"Don't blame him, " the Deacon pleaded, perceiving how useless wasconcealment. "If you knew how that man has suffered in his life, and howyou opened heaven to him ... " she made a gesture of pain ... "rememberall his goodness and be gentle with him. He must speak before you go. Hewill take anything from you, and you alone can teach him patience andsubmission. "

"How long.... " she began. He divined what she would have asked. 

"Mona has known it more than a year, but no one else, for he gave nosign. I know it only a short time. After all it is not to be wonderedat. He has been near you, working with you for years. His life has beenlonely somehow, and you seemed to fill it. Do not be hasty with him. Lethim come to his avowal and his refusal in his own way. It is all you cando for him. Knowing you so well he probably knows what he has toreceive. "

Arthur came back with his berries and poured them out on a leaf for herto eat. Seated for a little on a rock, while he lay on the ground at herfeet, she ate to please him; but her soul in terror saw only the whiteface of Lord Constantine, and thought only of the pain in store for thismost faithful friend. Oh, to have it out with him that moment! Yet itseemed too cruel. But how go on for a month in dread of what was tocome?

She loved him in her own beautiful way. Her tears fell that night as shesat in her room by the window watching the high moon, deep crimson, rising through the mist over the far-off islands. How bitter to leaveher beloved even for God, when the leaving brought woe to them! So longshe had waited for the hour of freedom, and always a tangle at thesupreme moment! How could she be happy and he suffering without theconvent gates? This pity was to be the last temptation, her greatesttrial. Its great strength did not disarm her. If twenty broke theirhearts on that day, she would not give up her loved design. Let Godcomfort them, since she could not. But the vision of a peacefulentrance into the convent faded. She would have to enter, as she hadpassed through life, carrying the burden of another's woe, in tears. 

She could see that he never lost heart. The days passed delightfully, and somehow his adoration pleased her. Having known him in many lights, there was novelty in seeing him illumined by candid love. How could hekeep so high a courage with the end so dark and so near? Honora had noexperience of love, romantic love, and she had always smiled at itsexpression in the novels of the time. If Arthur only knew the task hehad set for himself! She loved him truly, but marriage repelled heralmost, except in others. 

Therefore, having endured the uncertainty of the position a week, shehad it out with Arthur. Sitting on the rocks of an ancient quarry, highabove the surface of the lake, they watched the waters rough and whitefrom the strong south wind. The household had adjourned that day forlunch to this wild spot, and the members were scattered about, leavingthem, as they always did now, by common consent alone. 

"Perhaps, " she said calmly, "this would be a good time to talk to you, Arthur, as sister to brother ... Can't we talk as brother and sister?"

For a change came over his face that sickened her. The next moment hewas ready for the struggle. 

"I fear not, Honora, " said he humbly. "I fear we can never do thatagain. "

"Then you are to stand in my way too?" with bitterness. 

"No, but I am not going to stand in my own way, " he replied boldly. "Have I ever stood in your way, Honora?"

"You have always helped me. Do not fail me at the last, I beg of you. "

"I shall never fail you, nor stand in your way. You are free now as yourfather wished you to be. You shall go to the convent on the date whichyou have named. Neither Ireland, nor anything but your heart shallhinder you. You have seen my heart for a week as you never saw itbefore. Do not let what you saw disturb or detain you. I told yourfather of it the last day of his life, and he was glad. He said it waslike ... He was satisfied. Both he and I were of one mind that youshould be free. And you are. "

Ideas and words fled from her. The situation of her own making she knewnot how to manage. What could be more sensible than his speech?

"Very well, thank you, " she said helplessly. 

He had perfect control of himself, but his attitude expressed hisuneasiness, his face only just concealed his pain. All his life inmoments like this, Arthur Dillon would suffer from his earliest sorrow. 

"I hope you will all let me go with resignation, " she began again. 

"I give you to God freely, " was his astonishing answer, "but I may tellyou it is my hope He will give you back to me. I have nothing, and He isthe Lord of all. He has permitted my heart to be turned to ashes, andyet gave it life again through you. I have confidence in Him. To you Iam nothing; in the future I shall be only a memory to be prayed for. Ifwe had not God to lift us up, and repay us for our suffering, to whatwould we come? I could not make my heart clear to you, show you itsdepths of feeling, frightful depths, I think sometimes, and secure yourpity. God alone, the master of hearts, can do that. I have been generousto the last farthing. He will not be outdone by me. "

"Oh, my God!" she murmured, looking at him in wonder, for his wordssounded insanely to her ear. 

"I love you, Honora, " he went on, with a flush on his cheek, and sohumble that he kept his eyes on the ground. "Go, in spite of that, ifGod demands it. If you can, knowing that I shall be alone, how muchalone no one may know, go nevertheless. Only bear it in mind, that Ishall wait for you outside the convent gate. If you cannot remainthinking of me, I shall be ready for you. If not here, then hereafter, as God wills. But you are free, and I love you. Before you go, God'sbeloved, " and he looked at her then with eyes so beautiful that herheart went out to him, "you must let me tell you what I have been. Youwill pray for me better, when you have learned how far a man can sinkinto hell, and yet by God's grace reach heaven again. "

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A HARPY AT THE FEAST. 

Honora now saw that suffering was not to be avoided. Experience hadtaught her how to economize with it. In the wood one day she watched forminutes two robins hopping about in harmony, feeding, singing now andthen low notes of content from a bough, and always together. A thirdrobin made appearance on the scene, and their content vanished. Irritated and uneasy, even angered, they dashed at the intruder, whostood his ground, confident of his strength. For a long time he foughtthem, leaving only at his own pleasure. Longer still the pair remainedunquiet, distressed by the struggle rather than wearied, complaining toeach other tenderly. 

Behold a picture of her own mind, its order upset by the entrance of anew idea. That life of the mind, which is our true life, had to changeits point of view in order to meet and cope with the newcomer. Arthur'slove had the fiber of tragedy. She felt rather than knew its nature. Foryears it had been growing in his strong heart, disciplined by steadybuffeting, by her indifference, by his own hard circumstances; nopassion of an hour like Romeo's; more like her father's love for Erin. 

Former ideas began to shift position, and to struggle against theintruder vainly. Some fought in his favor. The vision of convent peacegrew dim. She must take it with tears, and his sorrow would cloud itsbeauty. Marriage, always so remote from her life, came near, and triedto prove the lightness of its yoke with Arthur as the mate. The passionof her father's life awoke. Dear Erin cried out to her for the helpwhich such a union would bring. 

Her fixed resolve to depart for her convent in September kept theprocess from tangle. Sweet indeed was the thought of how nobly he lovedher. She was free. God alone was the arbiter. None would hinder hergoing, if her heart did not bid her stay for his sake. Her father hadneeded her. She would never have forgiven herself had she left him tocarry his sorrow alone. Perhaps this poor soul needed her more. Withdelight one moment and shame the next, she saw herself drifting towardshim. Nevertheless she did not waver, nor change the date of herdeparture. 

Arthur continued to adore at her shrine as he had done for years, andshe studied him with the one thought: how will he bear new sorrow? Noman bore the mark of sorrow more terribly when he let himself go, and attimes his mask fell off in spite of resolve. As a lover Honora, with allher distaste for marriage, found him more lovable than ever, and had toadmit that companionship with her hero would not be irritating. Theconspiracy in his favor flourished within and without the citadel. Knowing that he adored her, she liked the adoration. To any goddess thesmell of the incense is sweet, the sight of the flowers, the humid eyes, the leaping heart delightful. Yet she put it one side when the day over, and she knelt in her room for prayer. Like a dream the meanings of theday faded, and the vision of her convent cell, its long desired peaceand rest, returned with fresher coloring. The men and women of herlittle world, the passions and interests of the daylight, so faded, thatthey seemed to belong to another age. 

While this comedy went on the farmhouse and its happy life were keenlyand bitterly watched by the wretched wife of Curran. It was her luck, like Sonia's, to spoil her own feast in defiling her enemy's banquet. Having been routed at all points and all but sent to Jezebel's fate byArthur Dillon, she had stolen into this paradise to do what mischief shecould. Thus it happened, at the moment most favorable for Arthur'shopes, when Honora inclined towards him out of sisterly love and pity, that the two women met in a favorite haunt of Honora's, in the woodsnear the lake shore. 

To reach it one took a wild path through the woods, over the bluff, andalong the foot of the hill, coming out on a small plateau some fifteenfeet above the lake. Behind rose a rocky wall, covered with slenderpines and cedars; noble trees shaded the plateau, leaving a clearingtowards the lake; so that one looked out as from a frame of foliage onthe blue waters, the islet of St. Michel, and the wooded cape known asCumberland Head. 

As Honora entered this lovely place, Edith sat on a stone near the edgeof the precipice, enjoying the view. She faced the newcomer withunfailing impertinence, and coolly studied the woman whom Arthur Dillonloved. Sickness of heart filled her with rage. The evil beauty of Soniaand herself showed purely animal beside the pale spiritual luster thatshone from this noble, sad-hearted maid. Honora bowed distantly andpassed on. Edith began to glow with delight of torturing her presently, and would not speak lest her pleasure be hurried. The instinct of thewild beast, to worry the living game, overpowered her. What business hadHonora with so much luck? The love of Arthur, fame as a singer, beauty, and a passion for the perfect life? God had endowed herself with threeof these gifts. Having dragged them through the mud, she hated the womanwho had used them with honor. What delight that in a moment she couldtorture her with death's anguish!

"I came here in the hope of meeting you, madam, " she began suddenly, "ifyou are Miss Ledwith. I come to warn you. "

"I do not need warnings from strangers, " Honora replied easily, studyingthe other for an instant with indifferent eyes, "and if you wished me tosee on proper matters you should have called at the house. "

"For a scene with the man who ran away from his wife before he deceivedme, and then made love to you? I could hardly do that, " said she asdemure and soft as a purring cat. 

Honora's calm look plainly spoke her thought: the creature was mad. 

"I am not mad. Miss Ledwith, and your looks will not prevent me warningyou. Arthur Dillon is not the man he pretends----"

"Please go away, " Honora interrupted. 

"He is not the son of Anne Dillon----"

"Then I shall go, " said Honora, but Edith barred the only way out of theplace, her eyes blazing with the insane pleasure of torturing theinnocent. Honora turned her back on her and walked down to the edge ofthe cliff, where she remained until the end. 

"I know Arthur Dillon better than you know him, " Edith went on, "and Iknow you better than you think. Once I had the honor of youracquaintance. That doesn't matter. Neither does it matter just whoArthur Dillon is. He's a fraud from cover to cover. His deserted wife isliving, poor as well as neglected. The wretched woman has sought himlong----"

"Why don't you put her on the track?" Honora asked, relieved that thelunatic wished only to talk. 

"He makes love to you now as he has done for years, and he hopes tomarry you soon. I can tell that by his behavior. I warn you that he isnot free to marry. His wife lives. If you marry him I shall put her onhis track, and give you a honeymoon of scandal. It was enough for him tohave wrecked my life and broken my heart. I shall not permit him torepeat that work on any other unfortunate. "

"Is that all?"

Edith, wholly astonished at the feeble impression made by her story, sawthat her usual form had been lacking. Her scorn for Honora suggestedthat acting would be wasted on her; that the mere news of the livingwife would be sufficient to plunge her into anguish. But here was nodelight of pallid face and trembling limbs. Her tale would have gonejust as well with the trees. 

"I have risked my life to tell you this, " said she throwing in the noteof pathos. "If Arthur Dillon, or whoever he is, hears of it, he willkill me. "

"Don't worry then, " and Honora turned about with benign face and manner, quite suited to the need of a crazy patient escaped from her keepers, "Ishall never tell him. But please go, for some one is coming. It may behe. "

Edith turned about swiftly and saw a form approaching through the trees. She had her choice of two paths a little beyond, and fled by the upperone. Her fear of Arthur had become mortal. As it was she rushed into thearms of Louis, who had seen the fleeing form, and thought to play a jokeupon Mona or Honora. He dropped the stranger and made apologies for hisrudeness. She curtsied mockingly, and murmured:

"Possibly we have met before. "

The blood rose hot to his face as he recognized her, and her face paledas he seized her by the wrist with scant courtesy. 

"I scarcely hoped for the honor of meeting you again, Sister Claire. Ofcourse you are here only for mischief, and Arthur Dillon must see youand settle with you. I'll trouble you to come with me. "

"You have not improved, " she snarled. "You would attack my honor again. "

Then she screamed for help once, not the second time, which might havebrought Arthur to the scene; but Honora came running to her assistance. 

"Ah, this was your prey, wolf?" said Louis coolly. "Honora, has she beenlying to you, this fox, Sister Claire, Edith Conyngham, with a string ofother names not to be remembered? Didn't you know her?"

Honora recoiled. Edith stood in shame, with the mortified expression ofthe wild beast, the intelligent fox, trapped by an inferior boy. 

"Oh, let her go, Louis, " she pleaded. 

"Not till she has seen Arthur. The mischief she can do is beyondcounting. Arthur knows how to deal with her. "

"I insist, " said Honora. "Come away, Louis, please, come away. "

He flung away her wrist with contempt, and pointed out her path. In ashort time she had disappeared. 

"And what had she to tell you, may I ask?" said the Deacon. "Like thebanshee her appearance brings misfortune to us. "

"You have always been my confidant, Louis, " she answered after somethought. "Do you know anything about the earlier years of ArthurDillon?"

"Much. Was that her theme?"

"That he was married and his wife still lives. "

"He will tell you about that business himself no doubt. I know nothingclear or certain ... Some hasty expressions of feeling ... Part of adream ... The declaration that all was well now ... And so on. But Ishall tell him. Don't object, I must. The woman is persistent anddiabolical in her attempts to injure us. He must know at least that sheis in the vicinity. He will guess what she's after without any furtherhint. But you mustn't credit her, Honora. As you know.... "

"Oh, I know, " she answered with a smile. "The wretched creature is notto be believed under any circumstances. Poor soul!"

Nevertheless she felt the truth of Edith's story. It mattered littlewhether Arthur was Anne Dillon's son, he would always be the faithful, strong friend, and benefactor. That he had a wife living, the livingwitness of the weakness of his career in the mines, shocked her for themoment. The fact carried comfort too. Doubt fled, and the weighing ofinclinations, the process kept up by her mind apart from her will, ceased of a sudden. The great pity for Arthur, which had welled up inher heart like a new spring, dried up at its source. For the first timeshe felt the sin in him, the absence of the ideal. He had tripped andfallen like all his kind in the wild days of youth; and according to hisnature had been repeating with her the drama enacted with his firstlove. She respected his first love. She respected the method of nature, but did not feel forced to admire it. 

Her distaste for the intimacy of marriage returned with tenfoldstrength. One might have become submissive and companionable with avirgin nature; to marry another woman's lover seemed ridiculous. Thisstorm cleared the air beautifully. Her own point of view became plainer, and she saw how far inclination had hurried her. For some hours she hadbeen near to falling in love with Arthur, had been willing to yield totender persuasion. The woman guilty of such weakness did not seem atthis moment to have been Honora Ledwith; only a poor soul, like a littleship in a big wind, borne away by the tempest of emotion. 

She had no blame for Arthur. His life was his own concern. Part of ithad brought her much happiness. Edith's scandalous story did not shakeher confidence in him. Undoubtedly he was free to marry, or he would nothave approached her. His freedom from a terrible bond must have beenrecent, since his manner towards herself had changed only that summer, within the month in fact. The reserve of years had been prompted by hardconditions. In honor he could not woo. Ah, in him ran the fibre of thehero, no matter what might have been his mistakes! He had resisted everynatural temptation to show his love. Once more they were brother andsister, children of the dear father whose last moments they hadconsoled. Who would regret the sorrow which led to such a revealing ofhearts?

The vision of her convent rose again to her pleased eye, fresh andbeautiful as of old, and dearer because of the passing darkness whichhad concealed it for a time; the light from the chapel windows fallingupon the dark robes in the choir, the voices of the reader, chanter, andsinger, and the solemn music of the organ; the procession filingsilently from one duty to another, the quiet cell when the day was over, and the gracious intimacy with God night and day. Could her belief andher delight in that holy life have been dim for an instant? Ah, weaknessof the heart! The mountain is none the less firm because clouds obscureits lofty form. She had been wrapped in the clouds of feeling, but neveronce had her determination failed. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

SONIA CONSULTS LIVINGSTONE. 

Edith's visit, so futile, so unlike her, had been prompted by thehatefulness of her nature. The expedition to California had failed, hereffort to prove her instincts true had come to nothing, and ArthurDillon had at last put his foot down and extinguished her and Soniatogether. Free to snarl and spit if they chose, the two cats could neverplot seriously against him more. Curran triumphed in the end. TrackingArthur Dillon through California had all the features of a chase throughthe clouds after a bird. The scene changed with every step, and theground just gone over faded like a dream. 

They found Dillons, a few named Arthur, some coincidences, severalmysteries, and nothing beyond. The police still had the photographs sentout by Anne Dillon, and a record that the man sought for had been foundand returned to his mother. The town where the search ended had only aruined tavern and one inhabitant, who vaguely remembered the close ofthe incident. Edith surrendered the search in a violent temper, and allbut scratched out the eyes of her devoted slave. To Sonia the detectiveput the net result very sensibly. 

"Arthur Dillon did not live in California under his own name, " said he, "and things have so changed there in five years that his tracks havebeen wiped out as if by rain. All that has been done so far proves thisman to be just what he appears. We never had a worse case, and nevertook up a more foolish pursuit. We have proved just one sure thing: thatif this man be Horace, then he can't be found. He is too clever to becaught, until he is willing to reveal himself. If you pursue him to thepoint which might result in his capture, there'll be murder or worsewaiting for you at that point. It might be better for you two not tofind him. "

This suggestion, clever and terrifying, Sonia could not understand asclearly as Curran. She thought the soft nature of Horace quitemanageable, and if murder were to be done her knife should do it. Oh, toseize his throat with her beautiful hands, to press and squeeze and diguntil the blood gorged his face, and to see him die by inches, gasping!He had lied like a coward! Nothing easier to destroy than such a wretch!

"Don't give up, Sonia, " was Edith's comment on the wise words of Curran. "Get a good lawyer, and by some trick drag Dillon and his mother and thepriest to court, put them on oath as to who the man is; they won'tperjure themselves, I'll wager. "

"That is my thought, " said Sonia tenderly nursing the idea. "There seemsto be nothing more to do. I have thought the matter over very carefully. We are at the end. If this fails I mean to abandon the matter. But forhis money I would have let him go as far as he wanted, and I would letthis man pass too but for the hope of getting at his money. It is theonly way to punish Horace, as he punished me. I feel like you, that themystery is with this Arthur Dillon. Since I saw you last, he has filledmy dreams, and always in the dreams he has been so like Horace that Inow see more of a likeness in Arthur Dillon. I have a relative in thecity, a very successful lawyer, Quincy Livingstone. I shall consult him. Perhaps it would be well for you to accompany me, Edith. You explainthis case so well. "

"No, she'll keep out of it, by your leave, " the detective answered forher. "Dillon has had patience with this woman, but he will resentinterference so annoying. "

Edith made a face at him. 

"As if I could be bossed by either you or Arthur. Sonia, you have theright stuff in you, clear grit. This trick will land your man. "

"You'll find an alligator who will eat the legs off you both before youcan run away, " said Curran. 

"Do you know what I think, Dick Curran?" she snapped at him. "That youhave been playing the traitor to us, telling Arthur Dillon all we'vebeen doing. Oh, if I could prove that, you wretch!"

"You have a high opinion of his softness, if you think he would throwaway money to learn what any schoolboy might learn by himself. How muchdid you, with all your cleverness, get out of him in the last fiveyears?"

He laughed joyfully at her wicked face. 

"Let me tell you this, " he added. "You have been teasing that boy as amonkey might a lion. Now you will set on him the man that he likes leastin this world, Livingstone. What a pretty mouthful you will be when hemakes up his mind that you've done enough. "

Nevertheless the two women called on Livingstone. The great man, nolonger great, no longer in the eye of the world, out of politics becausethe charmed circle had closed, and no more named for high places becausehis record had made him impossible, had returned to the practice of law. Eminent by his ability, his achievement, and his blood, but only aprivate citizen, the shadow of his failure lay heavy on his life andshowed clearly in his handsome face. That noble position which he hadmissed, so dear to heart and imagination, haunted his moments of leisureand mocked his dreams. He had borne the disappointment bravely, hadlightly called it the luck of politics. Now that the past lay in clearperspective, he recognized his own madness. 

He had fought with destiny like a fool, had stood in the path of apeople to whom God had given the chance which the rulers of the earthdenied them; and this people, through a youth carrying the sling ofDavid, had ruined him. He had no feeling against Birmingham, nor againstArthur Dillon. The torrent, not the men, had destroyed him. Yet he hadlearned nothing. With a fair chance he would have built another dam thenext morning. He was out of the race forever. In the English mission hehad touched the highest mark of his success. He mourned in quiet. Lifehad still enough for him, but oh! the keenness of his regret. 

Sonia's story he had heard before, at the beginning of the search, as amember of the Endicott family. The details had never reached him. Thecause of Horace Endicott's flight he had forgotten. Edith in her presentcostume remained unknown, nor did she enlighten him. Her thought as shestudied him was of Dillon's luck in his enterprises. Behold three of hisvictims. Sonia repeated for the lawyer the story of her husband'sdisappearance, and of the efforts to find him. 

"At last I think that I have found him, " was her conclusion, "in theperson of a man known in this city as Arthur Dillon. "

Livingstone started slightly. However, there must be many ArthurDillons, the Irish being so numerous, and tasteless in the matter ofnames. When she described her particular Arthur his astonishment becameboundless at the absurdity of the supposition. 

"You have fair evidence I suppose that he is Horace Endicott, madam?"

"I am sorry to tell you that I have none, because the statement makesone feel so foolish. On the contrary the search of a clever detective... He's really clever, isn't he, Edith?... Shows that Dillon is justwhat he appears to be, the son of Mrs. Anne Dillon. The whole townbelieves he is her son. The people who knew him since he was borndeclare him to be the very image of his father. Still, I think that heis Horace Endicott. Why I think so, ... Edith, my dear, it is your turnnow. Do explain to the lawyer. "

Livingstone wondered as the dancer spoke where that beautiful voice andfluent English had become familiar. Sister Claire had passed from hismind with all the minor episodes of his political intrigues. He couldnot find her place in his memory. Her story won him against hisjudgment. The case, well put, found strength in the contention that thelast move had not been made, since the three most important charactersin the play had not been put to the question. 

His mind ran over the chief incidents in that remarkable fight whichArthur Dillon had waged in behalf of his people: the interview beforethe election of Birmingham, ... The intrigues in London, the dexterousmaneuvers which had wrecked the campaign against the Irish, had silencedMcMeeter, stunned the Bishop, banished Fritters, ruined Sister Claire, tumbled him from his lofty position, and cut off his shining future. Howfrightful the thought that this wide ruin might have been wrought by anEndicott, one of his own blood!

"A woman's instincts are admirable, " he said, politely and gravely, "andthey have led you admirably in this case. But in face of three facts, the failure of the detective, the declaration of Mr. Dillon, and yourfailure to recognize your husband after five years, it would be absurdto persist in the belief that this young man is your husband. Moreoverthere are intrinsic difficulties, which would tell even if you had madeout a good case for the theory. No Endicott would take up intimateconnection with the Irish. He would not know enough about them, he couldnot endure them; his essence would make the scheme, even if it werepresented to him by others, impossible. One has only to think of two orthree main difficulties to feel and see the utter absurdity of the wholething. "

"No doubt, " replied Sonia sweetly. "Yet I am determined not to miss thislast opportunity to find my husband. If it fails I shall get my divorce, and ... Bother with the matter no more. "

Edith smiled faintly at the suggestive pause, and murmured the intendedphrase, "marry Quincy Lenox. "

"Very well, " said the lawyer. "You have only to begin divorceproceedings here, issue a summons for the real Horace Endicott, andserve the papers on Mr. Arthur Dillon. You must be prepared for manyevents however. The whole business will be ventilated in the journals. The disappearance will come up again, and be described in the light ofthis new sensation. Mr. Dillon is eminent among his people, and wellknown in this city. It will be a year's wonder to have him sued in adivorce case, to have it made known that he is supposed to be HoraceEndicott. "

"That is unavoidable, " Edith prompted, seeing a sudden shrinking on thepart of Sonia. "Do not forget, sir, that all Mrs. Endicott wants is thesworn declaration of Arthur Dillon that he is not Horace Endicott, ofhis mother that he is her son, of Father O'Donnell that he knows nothingof Horace Endicott since his disappearance. "

"You would not like the case to come to trial?" said the lawyer toSonia. 

"I must get my divorce, " she answered coolly, "whether this is the rightman or no. "

"Let me tell you what may happen after the summons, or notice, is servedon Mr. Dillon, " said the lawyer. "The serving can be done so quietlythat for some time no others but those concerned need know about it. Ishall assume that Mr. Dillon is not Horace Endicott. In that case he canignore the summons, which is not for him, but for another man. He neednever appear. If you insisted on his appearance, you would have to offersome evidence that he is really Horace Endicott. This you cannot do. Hecould make affidavit that he is not the man. By that time the matterwould be public property, and he could strike back at you for thescandal, the annoyance, and the damage done to his good name. "

"What I want is to have his declaration under oath that he is notHorace. If he is Horace he will never swear to anything but the truth. "

For the first time Sonia showed emotion, tears dropped from her lovelyeyes, and the lawyer wondered what folly had lost to her husband sosweet a creature. Evidently she admired one of Horace's good qualities. 

"You can get the declaration in that way. To please you, he might at myrequest make affidavit without publicity and scenes at court. "

"I would prefer the court, " said Sonia firmly. 

"She's afeared the lawyer suspects her virtue, " Edith said to herself. 

"Let me now assume that Arthur Dillon is really Horace Endicott, "continued Livingstone. "He must be a consummate actor to play his partso well and so long. He can play the part in this matter also, byignoring the summons, and declaring simply that he is not the man. Inthat case he leaves himself open to punishment, for if he shouldthereafter be proved to be Horace Endicott, the court could punish himfor contempt. Or, he can answer the summons by his lawyer, denying thefact, and stating his readiness to swear that he is not any other thanArthur Dillon. You would then have to prove that he is Horace Endicott, which you cannot do. "

"All I want is the declaration under oath, " Sonia repeated. 

"And you are ready for any ill consequences, the resentment and suit ofMr. Dillon, for instance? Understand, my dear lady, that suit fordivorce is not a trifling matter for Mr. Dillon, if he is not Endicott. "

"Particularly as he is about to marry a very handsome woman, " Edithinterjected, heedless of the withering glance from Sonia. 

"Ah, indeed!"

"Then I think some way ought to be planned to get Anne Dillon and thepriest into court, " Edith suggested. "Under oath they might give us somehint of the way to find Horace Endicott. The priest knows somethingabout him. "

"I shall be satisfied if Arthur Dillon swears that he is not Horace, "Sonia said, "and then I shall get my divorce and wash my hands of thetiresome case. It has cost me too much money and worry. "

"Was there any reason alleged for the remarkable disappearance of theyoung man? I knew his father and mother very well, and admired them. Isaw the boy in his schooldays, never afterwards. You have a child, Iunderstand. "

Edith lowered her eyes and looked out of the window on the busy street. 

"It is for my child's sake that I have kept up the search, " Soniaanswered with maternal tenderness. "Insanity is supposed to be thecause. Horace acted strangely for three months before his disappearance, he grew quite thin, and was absent most of the time. As it was summer, which I spent at the shore with friends, I hardly noticed his condition. It was only when he had gone, without warning, taking considerable moneywith him, that I recalled his queer behavior. Since then not a scrap ofinformation, not a trace, nor a hint of him, has ever come back to me. The detectives did their best until this moment. All has failed. "

"Very sad, " Livingstone said, touched by the hopeless tone. "Well, asyou wish it then, I shall bring suit for divorce and alimony againstHorace Endicott, and have the papers served on Arthur Dillon. He canignore them or make his reply. In either case he must be brought to makeaffidavit that he is not the man you look for. "

"And the others? The priest and Mrs. Dillon?" asked Edith. 

"They are of no consequence, " was Sonia's opinion. 

After settling unimportant details the two women departed. Livingstonefound the problem which they had brought to his notice fascinating. Hehad always marked Arthur Dillon among his associates, as an able andpeculiar young man, he had been attracted by him, and had listened tohis speeches with more consideration than most young men deserved. Hisamazing success in dealing with a Livingstone, his audacity and nervein attacking the policy which he brought to nothing, were more wonderfulto the lawyer than to the friends of Dillon, who had not seen the taskin its entirety. 

And this peculiar fellow was thought to be an Endicott, of his ownfamily, of the English blood, more Irish than the Irish, bitterertowards him than the priests had been. The very impossibility of thething made it charming. What course of thought, what set ofcircumstances, could turn the Puritan mind in the Celtic direction? Wasthere such genius in man to convert one personality into another soneatly that the process remained undiscoverable, not to be detected bythe closest observation? He shook off the fascination. These two womenbelieved it, but he knew that no Endicott could ever be converted. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

ARTHUR'S APPEAL. 

Suit was promptly begun by Livingstone on behalf of Sonia for a divorcefrom Horace Endicott. Before the papers had been fully made out, evenbefore the officer had been instructed to serve them on Arthur Dillon, the lawyer received an evening visit from the defendant himself. As asuspicious act he welcomed it; but a single glance at the frank face andeasy manner, when one knew the young man's ability, disarmed suspicion. The lawyer studied closely, for the first time with interest, the manwho might yet prove to be his kinsman. He saw a form inclined toleanness, a face that might have been handsome but for the sunkencheeks, dark and expressive eyes whose natural beauty faded in the darkcircles around them, a fine head with dead black hair, and a handsomebeard, streaked with gray. His dress, gentleman-like but of a strangefashion, the lawyer did not recognize as the bachelor costume of CherryHill prepared by his own tailor. Nothing of the Endicott in face ormanner, nothing tragical, the expression decorous and formal, perhaps atrifle quizzical, as this was their first meeting since the interview inLondon. 

"I have called to enter a protest, " Arthur began primly, "against theserving of the papers in the coming Endicott divorce case on your humbleservant. "

"As the papers are to be served only on Horace Endicott, I fail to seehow you have any right or reason to protest, " was the suave answer. 

"I know all about the matter, sir, for very good reasons. For somemonths the movements of the two women concerned in this affair have beenwatched in my interest. Not long after they left you a few days ago, theresult of their visit was made known to me. To anticipate thedisagreeable consequences of serving the papers on me, I have notwaited. I appeal to you not only as the lawyer of Mrs. Endicott, butalso as one much to blame for the new persecution which is about to fallupon me. "

"I recognize the touch, " said Livingstone, unable to resist a smile. "Mr. Dillon must be audacious or nothing. "

"I am quite serious, " Arthur replied. "You know part of the story, whatMrs. Endicott chose to tell you, but I can enlighten you still more. Iappeal to you, as the lady's lawyer, to hinder her from doing mischief;and again I appeal to you as one to blame in part for the threatenedannoyances. But for the lady who accompanied Mrs. Endicott, I would notbe suspected of relationship with your honored family. But for thediscipline which I helped to procure for that lady, she would have leftme in peace. But for your encouragement of the lady, I would not havebeen forced to subject a woman to discipline. You may remember theeffective Sister Claire?"

So true was the surprise that Livingstone blushed with sudden violence. 

"That woman was the so-called escaped nun?" he exclaimed. 

"Now Mrs. Curran, wife of the detective employed by Mrs. Endicott forfive years to discover her lost husband. She satisfies her noblestaspirations by dancing in the theaters, ... And a very fine dancer sheis. Her leisure is devoted to plotting vengeance on me. She pretends tobelieve that I am Horace Endicott; perhaps she does believe it. Anywayshe knows that persecution will result, and she has persuaded Mrs. Endicott to inaugurate it. I do not know if you were her selection tomanage the case. "

This time Livingstone did not blush, being prepared for any turn of moodand speech from this singular young man. 

"As the matter was described to me, " he said, "only a sentimental reasonincluded you in the divorce proceedings. I can understand Mrs. Curran'sfeelings, and to what they would urge a woman of that character. Still, her statements here were very plausible. "

"Undoubtedly. She made her career up to this moment on the plausible. Let me tell you, if it is not too tedious, how she has pursued thistheory in the face of all good sense. "

The lawyer bowed his permission. 

"I am of opinion that the creature is half mad, or subject to fits ofinsanity. Her husband had talked much of the Endicott case, which wasnot good for a woman of her peculiarities. By inspiration, insanesuggestion, she assumed that I was the man sought for, and built up thetheory as you have heard. First, she persuaded her good-natured husband, with whom I am acquainted, to investigate among my acquaintances for themerest suspicion, doubt, of my real personality. A long and minuteinquiry, the details of which are in writing in my possession, was madeby the detective with one result: that no one doubted me to be what Iwas born. "

Livingstone cast a look at him to see the expression which backed thatnatural and happy phrase. Arthur Dillon might have borne it. 

"She kept at her husband, however, until he had tried to surprise myrelatives, my friends, my nurse, and my mother, ... Yes, even myconfessor, into admissions favorable to her mad dream. My rooms, mypapers, my habits, my secrets were turned inside out; Mrs. Endicott wasbrought on from Boston to study me in my daily life; for days I waswatched by the three. In the detective's house I was drugged into aprofound sleep, and for ten minutes the two women examined my sleepingface for signs of Horace Endicott. When all these things failed, SisterClaire dragged her unwilling husband to California, where I had spentten years of my life, and tried hard to find another Arthur Dillon, orto disconnect me with myself. She proved to her own satisfaction thatthese things could not be done. But there is a devil of perversity inher. She is like a boa constrictor ... I think that's the snake whichcannot let go its prey once it has seized it. She can't let go. Indesperation she is risking her own safety and happiness to make publicher belief that I am Horace Endicott. In spite of the overwhelmingproofs against the theory, and in favor of me, she is bent on bringingthe case into court. "

"Risking her own safety and happiness?" Livingstone repeated. 

"If the wild geese among the Irish could locate Sister Claire, who issupposed to have fled the town long ago, her life would be taken. Ifthis suit continues she will have to leave the city forever. Knowingthis the devil in her urges her to her own ruin. "

"You have kept close track of her, " said Livingstone. 

"You left me no choice, " was the reply, "having sprung the creature onus, and then thrown her off when you found out her character. If she hadonly turned on her abettors and wracked them I wouldn't have cared. "

"You protest then against the serving of these papers on you. Would itnot be better to settle forever the last doubts in so peculiar amatter?"

"What have I to do with the doubts of an escaped nun, and of Mrs. Endicott? Must I go to court and stand the odium of a shamefulimputation to settle the doubts of a lunatic criminal and a woman whosehusband fled from her with his entire fortune?"

"It is regrettable, " the lawyer admitted with surprise. "As Mrs. Endicott is perhaps the most deeply interested, I fear that the casemust go on. "

"I have come to show you that it will not be to the interest of the twowomen that it should go on. In fact I feel quite certain that you willnot serve those papers on me after I have laid a few facts before you. "

"I shall be glad to examine them in the interest of my client. "

"Having utterly failed to prove me other than I am, " Arthur said easily, while the lawyer watched with increasing interest the expressive face, "these women have accepted your suggestion to put me under oath as to myown personality. I would not take affidavit, " and his contempt wasevident. "I am not going to permit any public or official attempt tocast doubt on my good name. You can understand the feeling. My motherand my friends are not accustomed to the atmosphere of courts, nor ofscandal. It would mean severe suffering for them to be dragged into sosensational a trial. The consequences one cannot measure beforehand. Theunpleasantness lives after all the parties are dead. Since I can preventit I am going to do it. As far as I am concerned Mrs. Endicott must becontent with a simple denial, or a simple affirmation rather, that I amArthur Dillon, and therefore not her husband. It is more than shedeserves, because there is not a shred of evidence to warrant her makinga single move against me. She has not been able to find in me a featureresembling her husband. "

"Then, you are prepared to convince Mrs. Endicott that she has more tolose than to gain by bringing you into her divorce suit?"

"Precisely. Here is the point for her to consider: if the papers in thissuit are served upon me, then there will be no letting-up afterward. Heraffairs, the affairs of this woman Curran, the lives of both to the lastdetail, will be served up to the court and the public. You know how thatcan be done. I would rather not have it done, but I proffer Mrs. Endicott the alternative. "

"I do not know how strong an argument that would be with Mrs. Endicott, "said Livingstone with interest. 

"She is too shallow a woman to perceive its strength, unless you, as herlawyer and kinsman, make it plain to her, " was the guileless answer. "Mrs. Curran knows nothing of court procedure, but she is clever enoughto foresee consequences, and her history before her New York fiascoincludes bits of romance from the lives of important people. "

Livingstone resisted the inclination to laugh, and then to get angry. 

"You think then, that if Mrs. Endicott could be made to see thepossibilities of a desperate trial, the possible exposures of her sinsand the sins of others, that she would not risk it?"

"She has family pride, " said Arthur seriously, "and would not care toexpose her own to scorn. I presume you know something about the Endicottdisappearance?"

"Nothing more than the fact, and the failure to find the young man?"

"His wife employed the detective Curran to make the search for Endicott, and Curran is a Fenian, as interested as myself in such matters. He waswith me in the little enterprise which ended so fatally for Ledwith and... Others. " Livingstone was too sore on this subject to smile at thepause and the word. "Curran told me the details after he had left thepursuit of Endicott. They are known now to Mrs. Endicott's family inpart. It is understood that she will marry her cousin Quincy Lenox whenshe gets a divorce. He was devoted to her before her marriage and isfaithful still, I am told. "

Not a sign of feeling in the utterance of these significant words!

"It is not affection, then, which prompts the actions of my client? Shewishes to make sure of the existence or non-existence of her husbandbefore entering upon this other marriage?"

"Of course I can tell you only what the detective and one other toldus, " Arthur said. "When Horace Endicott disappeared, it is said, he tookwith him his entire fortune, something over a million, leaving not onecent to his wife. He had converted his property into cash secretly. Heranxiety to find him is very properly to get her lawful share in thatproperty, that is, alimony with her divorce?"

"I see, " said Livingstone, and he began to understand the lines andshadows on this young man's face. "A peculiar, and I suppose thorough, revenge. "

"If the papers are served on me, you understand, then in one fashion oranother Mrs. Endicott shall be brought to court, and Quincy Lenox too, with the detective and his wife, and a few others. It is almost too muchthat you have been made acquainted with the doubts of these people. Ibear with it, but I shall not endure one degree more of publicity. Onceit is known that I am thought to be Horace Endicott, then the wholeworld must know quite as thoroughly that I am Arthur Dillon; and alsowho these people are that so foolishly pursue me. It cannot but appearto the average crowd that this new form of persecution is no more thanan outgrowth of the old. "

Then they glared at each other mildly, for the passions of yesterdaywere still warm. Livingstone's mood had changed, however. He feltspeculatively certain that Horace Endicott sat before him, and he knewSonia to be a guilty woman. As his mind flew over the humiliating eventswhich connected him with Dillon, consolation soothed his wounded heartthat he had been overthrown perhaps by one of his own, rather than bythe Irish. The unknown element in the contest had given victory to thelucky side. He recalled his sense of this young fellow's superiority tohis environment. He tried to fathom Arthur's motive in this visit, butfailed. As a matter of fact Arthur was merely testing the thoroughnessof his own disappearance. His visit to Livingstone the real Dillon wouldhave made. It would lead the lawyer to believe that Sonia, in giving upher design, had been moved by his advice and not by a quiet, secretconversation with her husband. Livingstone quickly made up his mind thatthe divorce suit would have to be won by default, but he wished to learnmore of this daring and interesting kinsman. 

"The decision must remain with Mrs. Endicott, " he said after a pause. "Ishall tell her, before your name is mixed up with the matter, just whatshe must expect. If she has anything to fear from a public trial you areundoubtedly the man to bring it out. "

"Thank you. "

"I might even use persuasion ... "

"It would be a service to the Endicott family, " Arthur said earnestly, "for I can swear to you that the truth will come out, the scandal whichHorace Endicott fled to avoid and conceal forever. "

"Did you know Endicott?"

"Very well indeed. I was his guide in California every time he made atrip to that country. "

"I might persuade Mrs. Endicott, " said the lawyer with deeper interest, "for the sake of the family name, to surrender her foolish theory. It isquite clear to any one with unbiased judgment that you are not HoraceEndicott, even if you are not Arthur Dillon. I knew the young manslightly, and his family very well. I can see myself playing the partwhich you have presented to us for the past five years, quite asnaturally as Horace Endicott would have played it. It was not inHorace's nature, nor in the Endicott nature to turn Irish socompletely. "

Arthur felt all the bitterness and the interest which this shot implied. 

"I had the pleasure of knowing Endicott well, much better than you, sir, " he returned warmly, "and while I know he was something of agood-natured butterfly, I can say something for his fairness andcourage. If he had known what I know of the Irish, of their treatment bytheir enemies at home and here, of English hypocrisy and Americanmeanness, of their banishment from the land God gave them and yourattempt to drive them out of New York or to keep them in the gutter, hewould have taken up their cause as honestly as I have done. "

"You are always the orator, Mr. Endi ... Dillon. "

"I have feeling, which is rare in the world, " said Arthur smiling. "Doyou know what this passion for justice has done for me, Mr. Livingstone?It has brought out in me the eloquence which you have praised, andinspired the energy, the deviltry, the trickery, the courage, that wereused so finely at your expense. 

"I was like Endicott, a wild irresponsible creature, thinking only of myown pleasure. Out of my love for one country which is not mine, out of astudy of the wrongs heaped upon the Irish by a civilized people, I havesecured the key to the conditions of the time. I have learned to despiseand pity the littleness of your party, to recognize the shams of thetime everywhere, the utter hypocrisy of those in power. 

"I have pledged myself to make war on them as I made war on you; on thepower that, mouthing liberty, holds Ireland in slavery; on the powersthat, mouthing order and peace, hold down Poland, maintain Turkey, roband starve India, loot the helpless wherever they may. I was a harmlesshypocrite and mostly a fool once. Time and hardship and other things, chiefly Irish and English, have given me a fresh start in the life ofthought. You hardly understand this, being thoroughly English in yourmake-up. 

"You love good Protestants, pagans who hate the Pope, all who bow toEngland, and that part of America which is English. You can blow abouttheir rights and liberties, and denounce their persecutors, if thesehappen to be French or Dutch or Russian. For a Pole or an Irishman youhave no sympathy, and you would deny him any place on the earth but agrave. Liberty is not for him unless he becomes a good EnglishProtestant at the same time. In other words liberty may be the propersauce for the English goose but not for the Irish gander. "

"I suppose it appears that way to you, " said Livingstone, who hadlistened closely, not merely to the sentiments, but to the words, thetone, the idiom. Could Horace Endicott have ever descended to this viewof his world, this rawness of thought, sentiment, and expression? Sopeculiarly Irish, anti-English, rich with the flavor of the Fourth Ward, and nevertheless most interesting. 

"I shall not argue the point, " he continued. "I judge from yourearnestness that you have a well-marked ambition in life, and that youwill follow it. "

"My present ambition is to see our grand cathedral completed anddedicated as soon as possible, as the loudest word we can speak to youabout our future. But I fear I am detaining you. If during the next fewdays the papers in the divorce case are not served on me, I may feelcertain that Mrs. Endicott has given up the idea of including me in thesuit?"

"I shall advise her to leave you in peace for the sake of the Endicottname, " said Livingstone politely. 

Arthur thanked him and departed, while the lawyer spent an hour enjoyinghis impressions and vainly trying to disentangle the Endicott from theDillon in this extraordinary man. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE END OF MISCHIEF. 

Arthur set out for the Curran household, where he was awaited withanxiety. Quite cheerful over his command of the situation, and inclinedto laugh at the mixed feelings of Livingstone, he felt only reverenceand awe before the human mind as seen in the light of his ownexperience. His particular mind had once been Horace Endicott's, but nowrepresented the more intense and emotional personality of Arthur Dillon. He was neither Horace, nor the boy who had disappeared; but a new beingfashioned after the ideal Arthur Dillon, as Horace Endicott hadconceived him. What he had been seemed no more a part of his past, but amemory attached to another man. All his actions proved it. 

The test of his disappearance delighted him. He had gone through itsvarious scenes with little emotion, with less than Edith had displayed;far less than Arthur Dillon would have felt and shown. Who can measurethe mind? Itself the measure of man's knowledge, the judge in the courtof human destiny, how feeble its power over itself! A few years backthis mind directed Horace Endicott; to-day it cheerfully served theconscience of Arthur Dillon!

Edith and her husband awaited their executioner. The detective sufferedfor her rather than himself. From Dillon he had nothing to fear, and forhis sake, also for the strange regard he had always kept for Curran'swife, Arthur had been kind when harshness would have done more good. Nowthe end had come for her and Sonia. As the unexpected usually came fromthis young man, they had reason to feel apprehension. He took his seatcomfortably in the familiar chair, and lit his cigar while chaffing her. 

"They who love the danger shall perish in it, " he said for a beginning. "You court it, Colette, and not very wisely. "

"How, not wisely?" she asked with a pretence of boldness. 

"You count on the good will of the people whom you annoy and wrong, andyet you have never any good will to give them in return. You have hatedme and pursued me on the strength of my good will for you. It seemsnever to have occurred to you to do me a good turn for the many I havedone for you. You are a bud of incarnate evil, Colette. "

How she hated him when he talked in that fashion!

"Well, it's all settled. I have had the last talk with Livingstone, andspoiled your last trick against the comfort of Arthur Dillon. There willbe no dragging to court of the Dillon clan. Mr. Livingstone believeswith me that the publicity would be too severe for Mrs. Endicott and herfamily, not to mention the minor revelations connected with yourself. Sothere's the end of your precious tomfoolery, Colette. "

She burst into vehement tears. 

"But you weep too soon, " he protested. "I have saved you as usual fromyourself, but only to inflict my own punishment. Don't weep thosecrocodile diamonds until you have heard your own sentence. Of course youknow that I have followed every step you took in this matter. You areclever enough to have guessed that. You discovered all that was to bediscovered, of course. But you are too keen. If this trial had come topass you would have been on the witness stand, and the dogs would havecaught the scent then never to lose it. You would have ruined yourhusband as well as yourself. "

"Why do you let him talk to me so?" she screamed at Curran. 

"Because it is for your good, " Arthur answered. "But here's briefness. You must leave New York at once, and forever. Get as far from it as youcan, and stay there while I am alive. And for consolation in your exiletake your child with you, your little boy, whom Mrs. Endicott parades asher little son, the heir of her beloved Horace. "

A frightful stillness fell in the room with this terrific declaration. But for pity he could have laughed at the paralysis which seized boththe detective and his wife. Edith sat like a statue, white-faced, pouting at him, her hands clasped in her lap. 

"Well, are you surprised? You, the clever one? If I am Horace Endicott, as you pretend to believe, do I not know the difference between my ownchild and another's? I am Arthur Dillon only, and yet I know how youconspired with Mrs. Endicott to provide her with an heir for theEndicott money. You did this in spite of your husband, who has neverbeen able to control you, not even when you chose to commit so grave acrime. Now, it is absolutely necessary for the child's sake that yousave him from Mrs. Endicott's neglect, when he is of no further use toher. She loves children, as you know. "

"Who are you, anyway?" Curran burst out hoarsely after a while. 

"Not half as good a detective as you are, but I happen in this matter tobe on the inside, " Arthur answered cheerfully. "I knew Horace Endicottmuch better than his wife or his friends. The poor fellow is dead andgone, and yet he left enough information behind him to trouble theclever people. Are you satisfied, Colette, that this time everythingmust be done as I have ordered?"

"You have proved yourself Horace Endicott, " she gasped in her rage, burning with hate, mortification, shame, fifty tigerish feelings thatcould not find expression. 

"Fie, fie, Colette! You have proved that I am Arthur Dillon. Why go backon your own work? If you had known Horace Endicott as I did, you wouldnot compare the meek and civilized Dillon with the howling demon intowhich his wife turned him. That fellow would not have sat in yourpresence ten minutes knowing that you had palmed off your child as his, without taking your throat in his hands for a death squeeze. His wifewould not have escaped death from the madman had he ever encounteredher. Here are your orders now; it is late and I must not keep you fromyour beauty sleep; take the child as soon as the Endicott woman sendshim to you, and leave New York one hundred miles behind you. If you arefound in this city any time after the month of September, you take allthe risks. I shall not stand between you and justice again. You are themost ungrateful sinner that I have ever dealt with. Now go and weep foryourself. Don't waste any tears on Mrs. Endicott. "

Sobbing like an angry and humiliated child, Edith rushed out of theroom. Curran felt excessively foolish. Though partly in league withArthur, the present situation went beyond him. 

"Be hanged if I don't feel like demanding an explanation, " he saidawkwardly. 

"You don't need it, " said Arthur as he proceeded to make it. "Can't yousee that Horace Endicott is acting through me, and has been from thefirst, to secure the things I have secured. He is dead as I told you. How he got away, kept himself hid, and all that, you are as good anauthority as I. While he was alive you could have found him as easily asI could, but he was beyond search always, though I guess not beyondbetrayal. Well, let me congratulate you on getting your little familytogether again. Don't worry over what has happened to-night. Drop theEndicott case. You can see there's no luck in it for any one. "

Certainly there had been no luck in it for the Currans. Arthur went tohis club in the best humor, shaking with laughter over the completecrushing of Edith, with whom he felt himself quite even in the contestthat had endured so long. Next morning it would be Sonia's turn. Ah, what a despicable thing is man's love, how unstable and profitless! Nowonder Honora valued it so lightly. How Horace Endicott had raved overthis whited sepulcher five years ago, believed in her, sworn by hervirtue and truth! And to-day he regarded her without feeling, neitherlove nor hate, perfect indifference only marking his mental attitude inher regard. Somehow one liked to feel that love is unchangeable, as withthe mother, the father; as with God also, for whom sin does not changerelationship with the sinner. 

When he stood before her the next day in the hotel parlor, she remindedhim in her exquisite beauty of a play seen from the back of the stage;the illusion so successful with the audience is there an exposed sham, without coherence, and without beauty. Her eyes had a scared look. Shehad to say to herself, if this is Horace then my time has come, if it isArthur Dillon I have nothing to worry about, before her hate came to heraid and gave her courage. She murmured the usual formula of unexpectedpleasure. He bowed, finding no pleasure in this part of his revenge. Arthur Dillon could not have been more considerate of Messalina. 

"It is certainly a privilege and an honor, " said he, "to be suspected ofso charming a relationship with Mrs. Endicott. Nevertheless I havepersuaded your lawyer, Mr. Livingstone, that it would be unprofitableand imprudent to bring me into the suit for divorce. He will so adviseyou I think to-day. "

She smiled at the compliment and felt reassured. 

"There were some things which I could not tell the lawyer, " he went on, "and so I made bold to call on you personally. It is disagreeable, whatI must tell you. My only apology is that you yourself have made thisvisit necessary by bringing my name into the case. "

Her smile died away, and her face hardened. She prepared herself fortrouble. 

"I told your lawyer that if the papers were served on me, and a publicand official doubt thrown on my right to the name of Arthur Dillon, Iwould not let the business drop until the Endicott-Curran-Dillon mysteryhad been thoroughly ventilated in the courts. He agreed with me thatthis would expose the Endicott name to scandal. "

"We have been perhaps too careful from the beginning about the Endicottname, " she said severely. "Which is the reason why no advance has beenmade in the search for my dear husband. "

"That may be true, Mrs. Endicott. You must not forget, however, that youwill be a witness, and Mrs. Curran, and her husband, and Mr. QuincyLenox, and others besides. How do you think these people would standquestioning as to who your little boy, called Horace Endicott, reallyis?"

She sat prepared for a dangerous surprise, but not for this horror; andthe life left her on the spot, for the poor weed was as soft andcowardly as any other product of the swamp. He rang for restoratives andsent for her maid. In ten minutes, somewhat restored, she faced theordeal, if only to learn what this terrible man knew. 

"Who are you?" she asked feebly, the same question asked by Curran inhis surprise. 

"A friend of Horace Endicott, " he answered quietly. 

"And what do you know of us?"

"All that Horace knew. "

She could not summon courage to put a third question. He came to heraid. 

"Perhaps you are not sure about what Horace knew? Shall I tell you? Idid not tell your lawyer. I only hinted that the truth would be broughtout if my name was dragged into the case against my protest. Shall Itell you what Horace knew?"

With closed eyes she made a sign of acquiescence. 

"He knew of your relations with Quincy Lenox. He saw you together on acertain night, when he arrived home after a few days' absence. He alsoheard your conversation. In this you admitted that out of hatred foryour husband you had destroyed his heir before the child was born. Heknew your plan of retrieving that blunder by adopting the child of EdithCurran, and palming him off as your own. He knew of your plan to securethe good will of his Aunt Lois for the impostor, and found the means toinform his aunt of the fraud. All that he knew will be brought out atany trial in which my name shall be included. Your lawyer will tell youthat it cannot be avoided. Therefore, when your lawyer advises you toget a divorce from your former husband without including me as thathusband, yon had better accept that advice. "

She opened her eyes and stared at him with insane fright. Who but HoraceEndicott could know her crimes? All but the crime which he had named herblunder. Could this passionless stranger, this Irish politician, lookingat her as indifferently as the judge on the bench, be Horace? No, surelyno! Because that fool, dolt though he was, would never have seen thiswretched confession of her crimes, and not slain her the next minute. Into this ambuscade had she been led by the crazy wife of Curran, whosesound advice she herself had thrown aside to follow the instincts ofEdith. Recovering her nerve quickly, she began her retreat as well asone might after so disastrous a field. 

"It was a mistake to have disturbed you, Mr. Dillon, " she said. "You mayrest assured that no further attempt will be made on your good name. Since you pretend to such intimacy with my unfortunate husband I wouldlike to ask you.... "

"That was the extent of my intimacy, Mrs. Endicott, and I would neverhave revealed it except to defend myself, " he interrupted suavely. "Ofcourse the revelation brings consequences. You must arrange to have yourlittle Horace die properly in some remote country, surround his funeralwith all the legal formalities, and so on. That will be easy. Meanwhileyou can return the boy to his mother, who is ready to receive him. Thenyour suit for divorce must continue, and you will win it by default, that is, by the failure of Horace Endicott to defend his side. Whenthese things are done, it would be well for your future happiness to layaside further meddling with the mystery of your husband'sdisappearance. "

"I have learned a lesson, " she said more composedly. "I shall do as youcommand, because I feel sure it is a command. I have some curiosityhowever about the life which Horace led after he disappeared. Since youmust have known him a little, would it be asking too much from you.... "

She lost her courage at sight of his expression. Her voice faded. Oh, shallow as any frog-pond, indecently shallow, to ask such a question ofthe judge who had just ordered her to execution. His contempt silencedher. With a formal apology for having caused her so much pain, he bowedand withdrew. Some emotion had stirred him during the interview, but hehad kept himself well under control. Later he found it was horror, everto have been linked with a monster; and dread too that in a suddenaccess of passion he might have done her to death. It seemed natural andrighteous to strike and destroy the reptile. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A TALE WELL TOLD. 

Of these strange and stirring events no one knew but Arthur himself; norof the swift consequences, the divorce of Sonia from her lost husband, her marriage to Quincy Lenox, the death and burial of her little boy inEngland, and the establishment of La Belle Colette and her son Horace inChicago, where the temptation to annoy her enemies disappeared, and therisk to herself was practically removed forever. Thus faded the old lifeout of Arthur's view, its sin-stained personages frightened off thescene by his well-used knowledge of their crimes. Whatever doubt theyheld about his real character, self-interest accepted him as ArthurDillon. 

He was free. Honora saw the delight of that freedom in his loving andcandid expression. He repressed his feelings no more, no longer bound. 

He was gayer than ever before, with the gaiety of his nature, not of thepart which he had played. Honora knew how deeply she loved him, from hervery dread of inflicting on him that pain which was bound to come. Theconvent would be her rich possession; but he who had given her and herfather all that man could give, he would have only bitter remembrance. How bitter that could be experience with her father informed her. Themystery of his life attracted her. If not Arthur Dillon, who was he?What tragedy had driven him from one life into another? Did it explainthat suffering so clearly marked on his face? To which she must add, aspart of the return to be made for all his goodness!

Her pity for him grew, and prompted deeper tenderness; and how could sheknow, who had been without experience, that pity is often akin to love?

The heavenly days flew by like swift swallows. September came with itssplendid warnings of change. The trees were suddenly bordered in goldyellow and dotted with fire-red. The nights began to be haunted by coolwinds. Louis packed his trunk early in the month. His long vacations hadended, ordination was at hand, and his life-work would begin in themonth of October. 

The household went down to the city for the grand ceremony. Mona and herbaby remained in the city then, while the others returned to the lakefor a final week, Anne with perfect content, Honora in calmness ofspirit, but also in dread for Arthur's sake. He seemed to have nomisgivings. Her determination continued, and the situation thereforeremained as clear as the cold September mornings. Yet some tie boundthem, elusive, beyond description, but so much in evidence that everyincident of the waiting time seemed to strengthen it. Delay did notabate her resolution, but it favored his hope. 

"Were you disturbed by the revelations of Mrs. Curran?" he said as theysat, for the last time indeed, on the terrace so fatal to LordConstantine. Anne read the morning newspaper in the shadow of the grovebehind them, with Judy to comment on the news. The day, perfect, comfortable, without the perfume of August, sparkled with the snap ofSeptember. 

"My curiosity was disturbed, " she admitted frankly, and her heart beat, for the terrible hour had come. "I felt that your life had some sadnessand mystery in it, but it was a surprise to hear that you were not AnneDillon's long-lost son. "

"That was pure guess-work on Colette's part, you know. She's a borndevil, if there are such things among us humans. I'll tell you about hersome time. Then the fact of my wife's existence did not disturb you atall?"

"On the contrary, it soothed me, I think, " she said with a blush. 

"I know why. Well, it will take my story to explain hers. She told thetruth in part, poor Colette. Once I had a wife, before I became AnneDillon's son. Will it be too painful for you to hear the story? It ismournful. To no one have I ever told it complete; in fact I could not, only to you. How I have burned to tell it from beginning to end to thetrue heart. I could not shock Louis, the dear innocent, and it wasnecessary to keep most of it from my mother, for legal reasons. Monsignor has heard the greater part, but not all. And I have been likethe Ancient Mariner. 

 Since then at an uncertain hour That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told, The heart within me burns. 

 * * * * *

 That moment that his face I see I know the man that must hear me; To him my tale I teach. "

"I am the man, " said she, "with a woman's curiosity. How can I help butlisten?"

 He holds him with his glittering eye-- The wedding-guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The mariner hath his will. 

 The wedding-guest sat on a stone, He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, That bright-eyed mariner. 

"Do you remember how we read and re-read it on the _Arrow_ years ago?Somehow it has rung in my ears ever since, Honora. My life had a horrorlike it. Had it not passed I could not speak of it even to you. Long agoI was an innocent fool whom men knew in the neighborhood of Cambridge asHorace Endicott. I was an orphan, without guides, or real friends. Ifelt no need of them, for was I not rich, and happily married? Goodnature and luck had carried me along lazily like that pine-stickfloating down there. What a banging it would get on this rocky shore ifa good south wind sprang up. For a long time I escaped the winds. Whenthey came.... I'll tell you who I was and what she was. Do you rememberon the _Arrow_ Captain Curran's story of Tom Jones?"

He looked up at her interested face, and saw the violet eyes widen withsudden horror. 

"I remember, " she cried with astonishment and pain. "You, Arthur, youthe victim of that shameful story?"

"Do you remember what you said then, Honora, when Curran declared hewould one day find Tom Jones?"

She knew by the softness of his speech that her saying had penetratedthe lad's heart, and had been treasured till this day, would betreasured forever. 

"And you were sitting there, in the cabin, not ten feet off, listeningto him and me?" she said with a gasp of pleasure. 

"'You will never find him, Captain Curran ... That fearful womanshattered his very soul ... I know the sort of man he was ... He willnever go back ... If he can bear to live, it will be because in hisobscurity God gave him new faith and hope in human nature, and in thewoman's part of it. ' Those are your words, Honora. "

She blushed with pleasure and murmured: "I hope they came true!"

"They were true at that moment, " he said reflectively. "Oh, indeed Godguided me, placed me in the hands of Monsignor, of my mother, of suchpeople as Judy and the Senator and Louis, and of you all. "

"Oh, my God, what suffering!" she exclaimed suddenly as her tears beganto fall. "Louis told me, I saw it in your face as every one did, but nowI know. And we never gave you the pity you needed!"

"Then you must give it to me now, " said he with boldness. "But don'twaste any pity on Endicott. He is dead, and I look at him across thesefive years as at a stranger. Suffer? The poor devil went mad withsuffering. He raved for days in the wilderness, after he discovered hisshame, dreaming dreams of murder for the guilty, of suicide forhimself----"

She clasped her hands in anguish and turned toward him as if to protecthim. 

"It was a good woman who saved him, and she was an old mother who hadtasted death. Some day I shall show you the pool where this old womanfound him, after he had overcome the temptation to die. She took him toher home and her heart, nourished him, gave him courage, sent him on anew mission of life. What a life! He had a scheme of vengeance, and toexecute it he had to return to the old scenes, where he was morealone----

 Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. 

 * * * * *

 O wedding-guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea; So lonely 'twas that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be. "

The wonder to Honora, as he described himself, was the indifference ofhis tone. It had no more than the sympathy one might show toward astranger whose suffering had been succeeded by great joy. 

"Oh, God grant, " he broke in with vehemence, "that no soul suffers asdid this Endicott, poor wretch, during the time of his vengeance. Honora, I would not inflict on that terrible woman the suffering of thatman for a year after his discovery of her sin. I doubted long the mercyof God. Rather I knew nothing about His mercy. I had no religion, nounderstanding of it, except in a vague, unpractical way. You know nowthat I am of the Puritan race ... Livingstone is of my family ... Therace which dislikes the Irish and the Catholic as the English dislikethem ... The race that persecuted yours! But you cannot say that I havenot atoned for them as nearly as one man can?"

Trembling with emotion, she simply raised her hands in a gesture thatsaid a thousand things too beautiful for words. 

"My vengeance on the guilty was to disappear. I took with me all myproperty, and I left Messalina with her own small dower to enjoy herfreedom in poverty. She sought for me, hired that detective and othersto hound me to my hiding-place, and so far has failed to make sure ofme. But to have you understand the story clearly, I shall stick to theorder of events. I had known Monsignor a few days before calamityovertook me, and to him I turned for aid. It was he who found a motherfor me, a place among 'the mere Irish, ' a career which has turned outvery well. You know how Anne Dillon lost her son. What no one knows isthis: three months before she was asked to take part in the scheme ofdisappearance she sent a thousand photographs of her dead husband andher lost son to the police of California, and offered a reward for hisdiscovery living or dead. Monsignor helped her to that. I acknowledgedthat advertisement from one of the most obscure and ephemeral of themining-camps, and came home as her son. "

"And the real Arthur Dillon? He was never found?"

"Oh, yes, he answered it too, indirectly. While I was loiteringriotously about, awaiting the proper moment to make myself known, Iheard that one Arthur Dillon was dying in another mining-camp somethirty miles to the north of us. He claimed to be the real thing, but hewas dying of consumption, and was too feeble, and of too littleconsequence, to be taken notice of. I looked after him till he died, andmade sure of his identity. He was Anne Dillon's son and he lies in thefamily lot in Calvary beside his father. No one knows this but hismother, Monsignor, and ourselves. Colette stumbled on the fact in hersearch of California, but the fates have been against that cleverwoman. "

He laughed heartily at the complete overthrow of the escaped nun. Honoralooked at him in astonishment. Arthur Dillon laughed, quite forgetful ofthe tragedy of Horace Endicott. 

"Since my return you know what I have been, Honora. I can appeal to youas did Augustus to his friends on his dying-bed: have I not played wellthe part?"

"I am lost in wonder, " she said. 

"Then give me your applause as I depart, " he answered sadly, and hereyes fell before his eloquent glance. "In those early days rage andhate, and the maddest desire for justice, sustained me. That woman hadonly one wish in life: to find, rob, and murder the man who had befooledher worse than she had tricked him. I made war on that man. I hatedHorace Endicott as a weak fool. He had fallen lowest of all his honest, able, stern race. I beat him first into hiding, then into slavery, andat last into annihilation. I studied to annihilate him, and I did it byraising Arthur Dillon in his place. I am now Arthur Dillon. I think, feel, act, speak, dream like that Arthur Dillon which I first imagined. When you knew me first, Honora, I was playing a part. I am no longeracting. I am the man whom the world knows as Arthur Dillon. "

"I can see that, and it seems more wonderful than any dream of romance. You a Puritan are more Irish than the Irish, more Catholic than theCatholics, more Dillon than the Dillons. Oh, how can this be?"

"Don't let it worry you, " he said grimly. "Just accept the fact and me. I never lived until Horace Endicott disappeared. He was a child offortune and a lover of ease and pleasure. His greatest pain had been atoothache. His view of life had been a boy's. When I stepped on thisgreat stage I found myself for the first time in the very current oflife. Suffering ate my heart out, and I plunged into that current todeaden the agony. I found myself by accident a leader of a poor peoplewho had fled from injustice at home to suffer a mean persecution here. Iwas thrown in with the great men of the hour, and found a splendidopponent in a member of the Endicott family, Livingstone. I saw the veryheart of great things, and the look enchanted me. 

"You know how I worked for my friends, for your father, for the people, for every one and everything that needed help. For the first time I sawinto the heart of a true friend. Monsignor helped me, carried methrough, stood by me, directed me. For the first time I saw into theheart of innocence and sanctity, deep down, the heart of that blessedboy, Louis. For the first time I looked into the heart of a patriot, andlearned of the love which can endure, not merely failure, but absoluteand final disappointment, and still be faithful. I became an orator, anadventurer, an enthusiast. The Endicott who could not speak ten wordsbefore a crowd, the empty-headed stroller who classed patriots withpickles, became what you know me to be. I learned what love is, the loveof one's own; of mother, and friend, and clan. Let me not boast, but Ilearned to know God and perhaps to love Him, at least since I amresigned to His will. But I am talking too much, since it is for thelast time. "

"You have not ended, " said she beseechingly. 

"It would take a lifetime, " and he looked to see if she would give himthat time, but her eyes watched the lake. "The latest events in myhistory took place this summer, and you had a little share in them. Byguess-work Colette arrived at the belief that I am Horace Endicott, andshe set her detective-husband to discover the link between Endicott andDillon. I helped him, because I was curious to see how Arthur Dillonwould stand the test of direct pursuit. They could discover nothing. Asfast as a trace of me showed it vanished into thin air. There wasnothing to do but invent a suit which would bring my mother, Monsignor, and myself into court, and have us declare under oath who is ArthurDillon. I blocked that game perfectly. Messalina has her divorce fromHorace Endicott, and is married to her lover. There will be no furthersearch for the man who disappeared. And I am free, Monsignor declares. No ties bind me to that shameful past. I have had my vengeance withoutpublicity or shame to anyone. I have punished as I had the right topunish. I have a noble place in life, which no one can take from me. "

"And did you meet her since you left her ... That woman?" Honora said ina low voice half ashamed of the question. 

"At Castle Moyna ... " he began and stopped dead at a suddenrecollection. 

"I met her, " cried Honora with a stifled scream, "I met her. "

"I met her again on the steamer returning, " he said after a pause. "Shedid not recognize me, nor has she ever. We met for the last time inJuly. At that meeting Arthur Dillon pronounced sentence on her in thename of Horace Endicott. She will never wish to see me or her losthusband again. "

"Oh, how you must have suffered, Arthur, how you must have suffered!"

She had grown pale alarmingly, but he did not perceive it. The criticalmoment had come for him, and he was praying silently against theexpected blow. Her resolution had left her, and the road had vanished inthe obscurity of night. She no longer saw her way clear. Her nerves hadbeen shaken by this wonderful story, and the surges of feeling that rosebefore it like waves before the wind. 

"And I must suffer still, " he went on half to himself. "I was sure thatGod would give me that which I most desired, because I had given Him allthat belonged to me. I kept back nothing except as Monsignor ordered. Through you, Honora, my faith in woman came back, as you said it wouldwhen you answered the detective in my behalf. When Monsignor told me Iwas free, that I could speak to you as an honorable man, I took it as asign from heaven that the greatest of God's gifts was for me. I love youso, Honora, that your wish is my only happiness. Since you must go, ifit is the will of God, do not mind my suffering, which is also Hiswill.... "

He arose from his place and his knees were shaking. 

"There is consolation for us all somewhere. Mine is not to be here. Theroad to heaven is sometimes long. Not here, Honora?"

The hope in him was not yet dead. She rose too and put her arms abouthim, drawing his head to her bosom with sudden and overpoweringaffection. 

"Here and hereafter, " she whispered, as they sat down on the benchagain. 

 * * * * *

"Judy, " said Anne in the shade of the trees, "is Arthur hugging Honora, or.... "

"Glory be, " whispered Judy with tears streaming down her face, "it'sHonora that's hugging Arthur ... No, it's both o' them at wanst, thanksbe to God. "

And the two old ladies stole away home through the happy woods. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THREE SCENES. 

Anne might have been the bitterest critic of Honora for her descent fromthe higher to the lesser life, but she loved the girl too well even tolook displeasure. Having come to believe that Arthur would be hers aloneforever, she regarded Honora's decision as a mistake. The whole worldrejoiced at the union of these ideal creatures, even Sister Magdalen, from whom Arthur had snatched a prize. Honora was her own severestcritic. How she had let herself go in pity for a sufferer to whom herpeople, her faith, her father, her friends, and herself owed much, sheknew not. His explanation was simple: God gave you to me. 

The process of surrender really began at Louis' ordination. Arthurwatched his boy, the center of the august ceremony, with wet eyes. Thisinnocent heart, with its solemn aspirations, its spiritual beauty, hadalways been for him a wonder and a delight; and it seemed fitting that alife so mysteriously beautiful should end its novitiate and begin itscareer with a ceremony so touching. The September sun streamed throughthe venerable windows of the cathedral, the music soared among thearches, the altar glowed with lights and flowers; the venerablearchbishop and his priests and attendants filled the sanctuary, anadoring crowd breathed with reverence in the nave; but the center of thescene, its heart of beauty, was the pale, sanctified son of MaryEverard. 

For him were all these glories! Happy, happy, youth! Blessed mother!There were no two like them in the whole world, he said in his emotion. Her glorified face often shone on him in the pauses of the ceremony. Herlook repeated the words she had uttered the night before: "Under God myhappiness is owing to you, Arthur Dillon: like the happiness of so manyothers; and that I am not to-day dead of sorrow and grief is also owingto you; now may God grant you the dearest wish of your heart, as He hasgranted mine this day through you; for there is nothing too good for aman with a heart and a hand like yours. "

How his heart had like to burst under that blessing! He thought ofHonora, not yet his own. 

The entire Irishry was present, with their friends of every race. Indeference to his faithful adherent, the great Livingstone sat in thevery front pew, seriously attentive to the rite, and studious of itssignificance. Around him were grouped the well-beloved of Arthur Dillon, the souls knit to his with the strength of heaven; the Senator, high-colored, richly-dressed, resplendent, sincere; the Boss, dark andtaciturn, keen, full of emotion, sighing from the depths of his richnature over the meaning of life, as it leaped into the light of thisscene; Birmingham, impressive and dignified, rejoicing at the splendorso powerful with the world that reckons everything by the outward show;and all the friends of the new life, to whom this ceremony was dear asthe breath of their bodies. For this people the sanctuary signified thehighest honor, the noblest service, the loftiest glory. Beside it thehonors of the secular life, no matter how esteemed, looked like deadflowers. 

At times his emotion seemed to slip from the rein, threatening to unmanhim. This child, whose innocent hands were anointed with the Holy Oil, who was bound and led away, who read the mass with the bishop andreceived the Sacred Elements with him, upon whom the prelate breathedsolemn powers, who lay prostrate on the floor, whose head was blessed bythe hands of the assembled priests: this child God had given him toreplace the innocent so cruelly destroyed long ago!

Honora's eyes hardly left Arthur's transfigured face, which held her, charmed her, frightened her by its ever-changing expression. Light andshadow flew across it as over the depths of the sea. The mask off, thehabit of repression laid aside, his severe features responded to theinner emotions. She saw his great eyes fill with tears, his breast heaveat times. As yet she had not heard his story. The power of that storycame less from the tale than the recollection of scenes like this, whichshe unthinking had witnessed in the years of their companionship. Whatmade this strange man so unlike all other men?

At the close of the ordination the blessing from the new priest began. Flushed, dewy-eyed, calm, and white, Louis stood at the railing to layhis anointed hands on each in turn; first the mother, and the father. Then came a little pause, while Mona made way for him dearest to allhearts that day, Arthur. He held back until he saw that his delayretarded the ceremony, when he accepted the honor. He felt the blessedhands on his head, and a thrill leaped through him as the palms, odorousof the balmy chrism, touched his lips. 

Mona held up her baby with the secret prayer that he too would be foundworthy of the sanctuary; then followed her husband and her sisters. Honora did not see as she knelt how Arthur's heart leaped into his eyes, and shot a burning glance at Louis to remind him of a request utteredlong ago: when you bless Honora, bless her for me! Thus all conspiredagainst her. Was it wonderful that she left the cathedral drawn to herhero as never before?

The next day Arthur told her with pride and tenderness, as they drove tothe church where Father Louis was to sing his first Mass, that everyvestment of the young priest came from him. Sister Magdalen had made theentire set, with her own hands embroidered them, and he had borne theexpense. Honora found her heart melting under these beautiful details ofan affection, without limit. The depth of this man's heart seemedincredible, deeper than her father's, as if more savage sorrow had dugdepths in what was deep enough by nature. Long afterward she recognizedhow deeply the ordination had affected her. It roused the feeling thatsuch a heart should not be lightly rejected. 

 * * * * *

Desolation seized her, as the vision of the convent vanished like somelovely vale which one leaves forever. Very simply he banished thedesolation. 

"I have been computing, " he said, as they sat on the veranda afterbreakfast, "what you might have been worth to the Church as a nun ... Hear me, hear me ... Wait for the end of the story ... It is charming. You are now about twenty-seven, I won't venture any nearer your age. Idon't know my mother's age. "

"And no man will ever know it, " said Anne. "Men have no discretion aboutages. "

"Let me suppose, " Arthur continued, "that fifty years of service wouldbe the limit of your active life. You would then be seventy-seven, andthere is no woman alive as old as that. The oldest is under sixty. "

"Unless the newspapers want to say that she's a hundred, " said Anneslyly. 

"For the sake of notoriety she is willing to have the truth told abouther age. "

"As a school-teacher, a music-teacher, or a nurse, let me say that yourservices might be valued at one thousand a year for the fifty years, Honora. Do you think that a fair average?"

"Very fair, " said she indifferently. 

"Well, I am going to give that sum to the convent for having deprivedthem of your pleasant company, " said he. "Hear me, hear me, ... I'm notdone yet. I must be generous, and I know your conscience will be tendera long time, if something is not done to toughen it. I want to bemarried in the new cathedral, which another year will see dedicated. Buta good round sum would advance the date. We owe much to Monsignor. Inyour name and mine I am going to give him enough to put the great churchin the way to be dedicated by November. "

He knew the suffering which burned her heart that morning, himself pastmaster in the art of sorrow. That she had come down from the heights tothe common level would be her grief forever; thus to console her wouldbe his everlasting joy. 

"What do you think of it? Isn't it a fair release?"

"Only I am not worth it, " she said. "But so much the better, if everyone gains more than I lose by my ... Infatuation. "

"Are you as much in love as that?" said Anne with malice. 

They were married with becoming splendor in January. A quiet ceremonysuggested by Honora had been promptly overruled by Anne Dillon, who sawin this wedding a social opportunity beyond any of her previoustriumphs. Mrs. Dillon was not your mere aristocrat, who keeps exclusiveher ceremonious march through life. At that early date she had perceivedthe usefulness to the aristocracy of the press, of general popularity, and of mixed assemblies; things freely and openly sought for by societyto-day. Therefore the great cathedral of the western continent neverwitnessed a more splendid ceremony than the wedding of Honora andArthur; and no event in the career of Anne Dillon bore strongertestimony to her genius. 

The Chief Justice of the nation headed the _élite_, among whom shonelike a constellation the Countess of Skibbereen; the Senator brought inthe whole political circle of the city and the state; Grahame marshaledthe journalists and the conspirators against the peace of England; theprofession of music came forward to honor the bride; the common peopleof Cherry Hill went to cheer their hero; Monsignor drew to the sanctuarythe clerics of rank to honor the benefactor of the cathedral; and highabove all, enthroned in beauty, the Cardinal of that year presided asthe dispenser of the Sacrament. 

As at the ordination of Louis the admirable Livingstone sat among theattendant princes. For the third time within a few months had he beenwitness to the splendors of Rome now budding on the American landscape. He did not know what share this Arthur Dillon had in the life of Louisand in the building of the beautiful temple. But he knew the strength ofhis leadership among his people; and he felt curious to see with his owneyes, to feel with his own heart, the charm, the enchantment, which hadworked a spell so fatal on the richly endowed Endicott nature. 

For enchantment there must have been. The treachery and unworthiness ofSonia, detestable beyond thought, could not alone work so strange andweird a transformation. Half cynic always, and still more cynical sincehis late misfortunes, he could not withhold his approbation from thecleverness which grouped about this young man and his bride the greatones of the hour. The scene wholly depressed him. Not the grandeur, northe presence of the powers of society, but the sight of this Endicott, of the mould of heroes, of the blood of the English Puritan, acting assponsor of a new order of things in his beloved country, the orderwhich he had hoped, still hoped, to destroy. His heart bled as hewatched him. 

The lovely mother, the high-hearted father, lay in their grave. Herestood their beloved, a prince among men, bowing before the idols ofRome, receiving for himself and his bride the blessing of the archpriestof Romanism, a cardinal in his ferocious scarlet. All his courage andskill would be forever at the service of the new order. Who was toblame? Was it not the rotten reed which he had leaned upon, the womanSonia, rather than these? True it is, true it always will be, that aman's enemies are they of his own household. 

 * * * * *

A grand content filled the heart of Arthur. The bitterness of his fighthad passed. So long had he struggled that fighting had become a part ofhis dreams, as necessary as daily bread. He had not laid aside his armoreven for his marriage. Yet there had been an armistice, quiteunperceived, from the day of the cathedral's dedication. He had lonelypossession of the battle-field. His enemies had fled. All was well withhis people. They had reached and passed the frontier, as it were, onthat day when the great temple opened its sanctuary to God and itsportals to the nation. 

The building he regarded as a witness to the daring of Monsignor; forHonora's sake he had given to it a third of his fortune; the day of thededication crowned Monsignor's triumph. When he had seen the spectacle, he learned how little men have to do with the great things of history. God alone makes history; man is the tide which rushes in and out at Hiscommand, at the great hours set by Him, and knows only the fact, not thereason. In the building that day gathered a multitude representing everyform of human activity and success. They stood for the triumph of awhole race, which, starved out of its native seat, had clung desperatelyto the land of Columbia in spite of persecution. 

Soldiers sat in the assembly, witnesses for the dead of the southernbattle-fields, for all who had given life and love, who had sacrificedtheir dearest, to the new land in its hour of calamity. Men rich in thehonors of commerce, of the professions, of the schools, artists, journalists, leaders, bore witness to the native power of a people, whohad been written down in the books of the hour as idle, inferior, incapable by their very nature. In the sanctuary sat priests andprelate, a brilliant gathering, surrounding the delicate-featuredCardinal, in gleaming red, high on his beautiful throne. 

From the organ rolled the wonderful harmonies born of faith and genius;from the pulpit came in sonorous English the interpretation of the sceneas a gifted mind perceived it; about the altar the ancient ritualenacted the holy drama, whose sublime enchantment holds every age. Around rose the towering arches, the steady columns, the broad walls, lighted from the storied windows, of the first really great temple ofthe western continent!

Whose hands raised it? Arthur discovered in the answer the charm whichhad worked upon dying Ledwith, turned his failure into triumph, and hissadness into joy. What a witness, an eternal witness, to the energy andfaith of a poor, simple, despised people, would be this temple! Lookingupon its majestic beauty, who could doubt their powers, though the booksprinted English slanders in letters of gold? Out of these great doorswould march ideas to strengthen and refresh the poor; ideas oncerejected, once thought destructible by the air of the Americanwilderness. A conspiracy of centuries had been unable to destroy them. Into these great portals for long years would a whole people march fortheir own sanctification and glory!

Thereafter the temple became for him a symbol, as for the faithfulpriest; the symbol of his own life as that of his people. 

He saw it in the early dawn, whiter than the mist which broke againstit, a great angel whose beautiful feet the longing earth had imprisoned!red with the flush of morning, rosy with the tints of sunrise, as ifheaven were smiling upon it from open gates! clear, majestic, commandingin the broad day, like a leader of the people, drawing all eyes toitself, provoking the question, the denial, the prayer from everypasser, as tributes to its power! in the sunset, as dying Ledwith hadseen it, flushed with the fever of life, but paling like the day, tender, beseeching, appealing to the flying crowd for a last turning toGod before the day be done forever! in the twilight, calm, restful, submissive to the darkness, which had no power over it, because of thePresence within! terrible when night falls and sin goes forth in purpleand fine linen, a giant which had heaved the earth and raised itselffrom the dead stone to rebuke and threaten the erring children of God!

He described all this for Honora, and, strangely enough, forLivingstone, who never recovered from the spell cast over him by thisstrange man. The old gentleman loved his race with the fervor of anancient clansman. For this lost sheep of the house of Endicott hedeveloped in time an interest which Arthur foresaw would lead agreeablyone day to a review of the art of disappearing. He was willing tosatisfy his curiosity. Meanwhile, airing his ideas on the providentialmission of the country, and of its missionary races, and combatting hisexclusiveness, they became excellent friends. Livingstone fell deeply inlove with Honora, as it was the fashion in regard to that charmingwoman. For Arthur the circle of life had its beginning in her, and withher would have its end. 

THE END.