STORIES***


E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



THE OLD STONE HOUSE AND OTHER STORIES

by

ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

Short Story Index Reprint Series







Books for Libraries Press
Freeport, New York
First Published 1891




CONTENTS.

   THE OLD STONE HOUSE

   A MEMORABLE NIGHT

   THE BLACK CROSS

   A MYSTERIOUS CASE

   SHALL HE WED HER?






THE OLD STONE HOUSE.


I was riding along one autumn day through a certain wooded portion of
New York State, when I came suddenly upon an old stone house in which
the marks of age were in such startling contrast to its unfinished
condition that I involuntarily stopped my horse and took a long survey
of the lonesome structure. Embowered in a forest which had so grown in
thickness and height since the erection of this building that the
boughs of some of the tallest trees almost met across its decayed
roof, it presented even at first view an appearance of picturesque
solitude almost approaching to desolation. But when my eye had time to
note that the moss was clinging to eaves from under which the
scaffolding had never been taken, and that of the ten large windows in
the blackened front of the house only two had ever been furnished
with frames, the awe of some tragic mystery began to creep over me,
and I sat and wondered at the sight till my increasing interest
compelled me to alight and take a nearer view of the place.

The great front door which had been finished so many years ago, but
which had never been hung, leaned against the side of the house, of
which it had almost become a part, so long had they clung together
amid the drippings of innumerable rains. Close beside it yawned the
entrance, a large black gap through which nearly a century of storms
had rushed with their winds and wet till the lintels were green with
moisture and slippery with rot. Standing on this untrod threshold, I
instinctively glanced up at the scaffolding above me, and started as I
noticed that it had partially fallen away, as if time were weakening
its supports and making the precipitation of the whole a threatening
possibility. Alarmed lest it might fall while I stood there, I did not
linger long beneath it, but, with a shudder which I afterwards
remembered, stepped into the house and proceeded to inspect its
rotting, naked, and unfinished walls. I found them all in the one
condition. A fine house had once been planned and nearly completed,
but it had been abandoned before the hearths had been tiled, or the
wainscoting nailed to its place. The staircase which ran up through
the centre of the house was without banisters but otherwise finished
and in a state of fair preservation. Seeing this and not being able to
resist the temptation which it offered me of inspecting the rest of
the house, I ascended to the second story.

Here the doors were hung and the fireplaces bricked, and as I wandered
from room to room I wondered more than ever what had caused the
desertion of so promising a dwelling. If, as appeared, the first owner
had died suddenly, why could not an heir have been found, and what
could be the story of a place so abandoned and left to destruction
that its walls gave no token of ever having offered shelter to a human
being? As I could not answer this question I allowed my imagination
full play, and was just forming some weird explanation of the facts
before me when I felt my arm suddenly seized from behind, and paused
aghast. Was I then not alone in the deserted building? Was there some
solitary being who laid claim to its desolation and betrayed jealousy
at any intrusion within its mysterious precincts? Or was the dismal
place haunted by some uneasy spirit, who with long, uncanny fingers
stood ready to clutch the man who presumed to bring living hopes and
fears into a spot dedicated entirely to memories? I had scarcely the
courage to ask, but when I turned and saw what it was that had alarmed
me, I did not know whether to laugh at my fears or feel increased awe
of my surroundings. For it was the twigs of a tree which had seized
me, and for a long limb such as this to have grown into a place
intended for the abode of man, necessitated a lapse of time and a
depth of solitude oppressive to think of.

Anxious to be rid of suggestions wellnigh bordering upon the
superstitious, I took one peep from the front windows, and then
descended to the first floor. The sight of my horse quietly dozing in
the summer sunlight had reassured me, and by the time I had recrossed
the dismal threshold, and regained the cheerful highway, I was
conscious of no emotions deeper than the intense interest of a curious
mind to solve the mystery and understand the secret of this remarkable
house.

Rousing my horse from his comfortable nap, I rode on through the
forest; but scarcely had I gone a dozen rods before the road took a
turn, the trees suddenly parted, and I found myself face to face with
wide rolling meadows and a busy village. So, then, this ancient and
deserted house was not in the heart of the woods, as I had imagined,
but in the outskirts of a town, and face to face with life and
activity. This discovery was a shock to my romance, but as it gave my
curiosity an immediate hope of satisfaction, I soon became reconciled
to the situation, and taking the road which led to the village, drew
up before the inn and went in, ostensibly for refreshment. This being
speedily provided, I sat down in the cosy dining-room, and as soon as
opportunity offered, asked the attentive landlady why the old house in
the woods had remained so long deserted.

She gave me an odd look, and then glanced aside at an old man who sat
doubled up in the opposite corner. "It is a long story," said she,
"and I am busy now; but later, if you wish to hear it, I will tell you
all we know on the subject. After father is gone out," she whispered.
"It always excites him to hear any talk about that old place."

I saw that it did. I had no sooner mentioned the house than his white
head lifted itself with something like spirit, and his form, which had
seemed a moment before so bent and aged, straightened with an interest
that made him look almost hale again.

"I will tell you," he broke in; "I am not busy. I was ninety last
birthday, and I forget sometimes my grandchildren's names, but I never
forget what took place in that old house one night fifty years
ago--never, never."

"I know, I know," hastily interposed his daughter, "you remember
beautifully; but this gentleman wishes to eat his dinner now, and must
not have his appetite interfered with. You will wait, will you not,
sir, till I have a little more leisure?"

What could I answer but Yes, and what could the poor old man do but
shrink back into his corner, disappointed and abashed. Yet I was not
satisfied, nor was he, as I could see by the appealing glances he gave
me now and then from under the fallen masses of his long white hair.
But the landlady was complaisant and moved about the table and in and
out of the room with a bustling air that left us but little
opportunity for conversation. At length she was absent somewhat longer
than usual, whereupon the old man, suddenly lifting his head, cried
out:

"_She_ cannot tell the story. She has no feeling for it; she wasn't
_there_."

"And you were," I ventured.

"Yes, yes, I was there, always there; and I see it all now," he
murmured. "Fifty years ago, and I see it all as if it were happening
at this moment before my eyes. But she will not let me talk about it,"
he complained, as the sound of her footsteps was heard again on the
kitchen boards. "Though it makes me young again, she always stops me
just as if I were a child. But she cannot help my showing you--"

Here her steps became audible in the hall, and his words died away on
his lips. By the time she had entered, he was seated with his head
half turned aside, and his form bent over as if he were in spirit a
thousand miles from the spot.

Amused at his cunning, and interested in spite of myself at the
childish eagerness he displayed to tell his tale, I waited with a
secret impatience almost as great as his own perhaps, for her to leave
the room again, and thus give him the opportunity of finishing his
sentence. At last there came an imperative call for her presence
without, and she hurried away. She was no sooner gone than the old man
exclaimed:

"I have it all written down. I wrote it years and years ago, at the
very time it happened. She cannot keep me from showing you that; no,
no, she cannot keep me from showing you that." And rising to his feet
with a difficulty that for the first time revealed to me the full
extent of his infirmity, he hobbled slowly across the floor to the
open door, through which he passed with many cunning winks and nods.

"It grows quite exciting," thought I, and half feared his daughter
would not allow him to return. But either she was too much engrossed
to heed him, or had been too much deceived by his seeming indifference
when she last entered the room, to suspect the errand which had taken
him out of it. For sooner than I had expected, and quite some few
minutes before she came back herself, he shuffled in again, carrying
under his coat a roll of yellow paper, which he thrust into my hand
with a gratified leer, saying:

"There it is. I was a gay young lad in those days, and could go and
come with the best. Read it, sir, read it; and if Maria says anything
against it, tell her it was written long before she was born and when
I was as pert as she is now, and a good deal more observing."

Chuckling with satisfaction, he turned away, and had barely
disappeared in the hall when she came in and saw me with the roll in
my hand.

"Well! I declare!" she exclaimed; "and has he been bringing you that?
What ever shall I do with him and his everlasting manuscript? You will
pardon him, sir; he is ninety and upwards, and thinks everybody is as
interested in the story of that old house as he is himself."

"And I, for one, am," was my hasty reply. "If the writing is at all
legible, I am anxious to read it. You won't object, will you?"

"Oh, no," was her good-humored rejoinder. "I won't object; I only hate
to have father's mind roused on this subject, because he is sure to be
sick after it. But now that you have the story, read it; whether you
will think as he did, on a certain point, is another question. I
don't; but then father always said I would never believe ill of
anybody."

Her smile certainly bore out her words, it was so good-tempered and
confiding; and pleased with her manner in spite of myself, I accepted
her invitation to make use of her own little parlor, and sat down in
the glow of a brilliant autumn afternoon to read this old-time
history.

       *       *       *       *       *

Will Juliet be at home to-day? She must know that I am coming. When I
met her this morning, tripping back from the farm, I gave her a look
which, if she cares anything about me, must have told her that I would
be among the lads who would be sure to pay her their respects at early
candle-light. For I cannot resist her saucy pout and dancing dimples
any longer. Though I am barely twenty, I am a man, and one who is
quite forehanded and able to take unto himself a wife. Ralph
Urphistone has both wife and babe, and he was only twenty-one last
August. Why, then, should I not go courting, when the prettiest maid
that has graced the town for many a year holds out the guerdon of her
smiles to all who will vie for them?

To be sure, the fact that she has more than one wooer already may be
considered detrimental to my success. But love is fed by rivalry, and
if Colonel Schuyler does not pay her his addresses, I think my chances
may be considered as good as any one's. For am I not the tallest and
most straightly built man in town, and have I not a little cottage all
my own, with the neatest of gardens behind it, and an apple-tree in
front whose blossoms hang ready to shower themselves like rain upon
the head of her who will enter there as a bride? It is not yet dark,
but I will forestall the sunset by a half hour and begin my visit now.
If I am first at her gate, Lemuel Phillips may look less arrogant
when he comes to ask her company to the next singing school.

       *       *       *       *       *

I was not first at her gate; two others were there before me. Ah, she
is prettier than ever I supposed, and chirper than the sparrow which
builds every year a nest in my old apple-tree. When she saw me come up
the walk, her cheeks turned pink, but I do not know if it was from
pleasure or annoyance, for she gave nothing but vexing replies to
every compliment I paid her. But then Lemuel Phillips fared no better;
and she was so bitter-sweet to Orrin Day that he left in a huff and
vowed he would never step across her threshold again. I thought she
was a trifle more serious after he had gone, but when a woman's eyes
are as bright as hers, and the frowns and smiles with which she
disports herself chase each other so rapidly over a face both
mischievous and charming, a man's judgment goes astray, and he
scarcely knows reality from seeming. But true or false, she is pretty
as a harebell and bright as glinting sunshine; and I mean to marry
her, if only Colonel Schuyler will hold himself aloof.

Colonel Schuyler may hold himself aloof, but he is a man like the rest
of us for all that. Yesterday as I was sauntering in the churchyard
waiting for the appearance of a certain white-robed figure crowned by
the demurest of little hats, I caught a glimpse of his face as he
leaned on one of the tombstones near Patience Goodyear's grave, and I
saw that he was waiting also for the same white figure and the same
demure hat. This gave me a shock; for though I had never really dared
to hope he would remain unmoved by a loveliness so rare in our
village, and indeed, as I take it, in any village, I did not think he
would show so much impatience, or await her appearance with such
burning and uncontrollable ardor.

Indeed I was so affected by his look that I forgot to watch any longer
for her coming, but kept my gaze fixed on his countenance, till I saw
by the change which rapidly took place in it that she had stepped out
of the great church door and was now standing before us, making the
sunshine more brilliant by her smiles, and the spring the sweeter for
her presence.

Then I came to myself and rushed forward with the rest of the lads.
Did he follow behind us? I do not think so, for the rosy lips which
had smiled upon us with so airy a welcome soon showed a discontented
curve not to be belied by the merry words that issued from them, and
when we would have escorted her across the fields to her father's
house, she made a mocking curtsy, and wandered away with the ugliest
old crone who mouths and mumbles in the meeting-house. Did she do this
to mock us or him? If to mock him he had best take care, for beauty
scorned is apt to grow dangerous. But perhaps it was to mock us? Well,
well, there would be nothing new in that; she is ever mocking us.

       *       *       *       *       *

They say the Colonel passes her gate a dozen times a day, but never
goes in and never looks up. Is he indifferent then? I cannot think so.
Perhaps he fears her caprices and disapproves of her coquetry. If that
is so, she shall be my wife before he wakens to the knowledge that her
coquetry hides a passionate and loving heart.

Colonel Schuyler is a dark man. He has eyes which pierce you, and a
smile which, if it could be understood, might perhaps be less
fascinating than it is. If she has noticed his watching her, the
little heart that flutters in her breast must have beaten faster by
many a throb. For he is the one great man within twenty miles, and so
handsome and above us all that I do not know of a woman but Juliet
whose voice does not sink a tone lower whenever she speaks of him. But
he is a proud man, and seems to take no notice of any one. Indeed he
scarcely appears to live in our world. Will he come down from his high
estate at the beck of this village beauty? Many say not, but I say
yes; with those eyes of his he cannot help it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Juliet is more capricious than ever. Lemuel Phillips for one is tired
of it, and imitating Orrin Day, bade her a good-even to-night which I
am sure he does not intend to follow with a blithe good-morrow.

I might do the same if her pleading eyes would let me. But she seems
to cling to me even when she is most provokingly saucy; and though I
cannot see any love in her manner, there is something in it very
different from hate; and this it is which holds me. Can a woman be too
pretty for her own happiness, and are many lovers a weariness to the
heart?

       *       *       *       *       *

Juliet is positively unhappy. To-day when she laughed the gayest it
was to hide her tears, and no one, not even a thoroughly spoiled
beauty, could be as wayward as she if there were not some bitter arrow
rankling in her heart. She was riding down the street on a pillion
behind her father, and Colonel Schuyler, who had been leaning on the
gate in front of his house, turned his back upon her and went inside
when he saw her coming. Was this what made her so white and reckless
when she came up to where I was standing with Orrin Day, and was it
her chagrin at the great man's apparent indifference which gave that
sharp edge to the good-morning with which she rode haughtily away? If
it was I can forgive you, my lady-bird, for there is reason for your
folly if I am any judge of my fellow-men. Colonel Schuyler is not
indifferent but circumspect, and circumspection in a lover is an
insult to his lady's charms.

       *       *       *       *       *

She knows now what I knew a week ago. Colonel Schuyler is in love with
her and will marry her if she does not play the coquette with him. He
has been to her house and her father already holds his head higher as
he paces up and down the street. I am left in the lurch, and if I had
not foreseen this end to my hopes, might have been a very miserable
man to-night. For I was near obtaining the object of my heart, as I
know from her own lips, though the words were not intended for my
ears. You see I was the one who surprised him talking with her in the
garden. I had been walking around the place on the outer side of the
wall as I often did from pure love for her, and not knowing she was on
the other side was very much startled when I heard her voice speaking
my name; so much startled that I stood still in my astonishment and
thus heard her say:

"Philo Adams has a little cottage all his own and I can be mistress of
it any day,--or so he tells me. I had rather go into that little
cottage where every board I trod on would be my own, than live in the
grandest room you could give me in a house of which I would not be the
mistress."

"But if I make a home for you," he pleaded, "grand as my father's, but
built entirely for you--"

"Ah!" was her soft reply, "that might make me listen to you, for I
should then think you loved me."

The wall was between us, but I could see her face as she said this as
plainly as if I had been the fortunate man at her side. And I could
see his face too, though it was only in fancy I had ever beheld it
soften as I knew it must be softening now. Silence such as followed
her words is eloquent, and I feared my own passions too much to linger
till it should be again broken by vows I had not the courage to hear.
So I crept away conscious of but one thing, which was that my dream
was ended, and that my brave apple-tree would never shower its bridal
blossoms upon the head I love, for whatever threshold she crosses as
mistress it will not now be that of the little cottage every board of
which might have been her own.

       *       *       *       *       *

If I had doubted the result of the Colonel's offer to Juliet, the news
which came to me this morning would have convinced me that all was
well with them and that their marriage was simply a matter of time.
Ground has been broken in the pleasant opening on the verge of the
forest, and carts and men hired to bring stone for the fine new
dwelling Colonel Schuyler proposes to rear for himself. The whole town
is agog, but I keep the secret I surprised, and only Juliet knows that
I am no longer deceived as to her feelings, for I did not go to see
her to-night for the first time since I made up mind that I would have
her for my wife. I am glad I restrained myself, for Orrin Day, who had
kept his word valiantly up to this very day, came riding by my house
furiously a half hour ago, and seeing me, called out:

"Why didn't you tell me she had a new adorer? I went there to-night
and Colonel Schuyler sat at her side as you and I never sat yet,
and--and--" he stammered frantically, "_I did not kill him._"

"You--Come back!" I shouted, for he was flying by like the wind. But
he did not heed me nor stop, but vanished in the thick darkness, while
the lessening sound of his horse's hoofs rang dismally back from the
growing distance.

So this man has loved her passionately too, and the house which is
destined to rise in the woods will throw a shadow over more than one
hearthstone in this quiet village. I declare I am sorry that Orrin has
taken it so much to heart, for he has a proud and determined spirit,
and will not forget his wrongs as soon as it would be wise for him to
do. Poor, poor Juliet, are you making enemies against your bridal day?
If so, it behooves me at least to remain your friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

I saw Orrin again to-day, and he looks like one haunted. He was riding
as usual, and his cloak flew out behind him as he sped down the street
and away into the woods. I wonder if she too saw him, from behind her
lattice. I thought I detected the curtain move as he thundered by her
gate, but I am so filled with thoughts of her just now that I cannot
always trust my judgment. I am, however, sure of one thing, and that
is that if Colonel Schuyler and Orrin meet, there will be trouble.

       *       *       *       *       *

I never thought Orrin handsome till to-day. He is fair, and I like
dark men; and he is small, and I admire men of stature. But when I
came upon him this morning, talking and laughing among a group of lads
like ourselves, I could not but see that his blue eye shone with a
fire that made it as brilliant as any dark one could be, and that in
his manner, verging as it did upon the reckless, there was a spirit
and force which made him look both dangerous and fascinating. He was
haranguing them on a question of the day, but when he saw me he
stepped out of the crowd, and, beckoning me to follow him, led the way
to a retired spot, where, the instant we were free from watching eyes,
he turned and said: "You liked her too, Philo Adams. I should have
been willing if you--" Here he choked and paused. I had never seen a
face so full of fiery emotions. "No, no, no," he went on, after a
moment of silent struggle; "I could not have borne it to see any man
take away what was so precious to me. I--I--I did not know I cared for
her so much," he now explained, observing my look of surprise. "She
teased me and put me off, and coquetted with you and Lemuel and
whoever else happened to be at her side till I grew beside myself and
left her, as I thought, forever. But there are women you can leave and
women you cannot, and when I found she teased and fretted me more at a
distance than when she was under my very eye, I went back only to
find--Philo, do you think he will marry her?"

I choked down my own emotions and solemnly answered: "Yes, he is
building her a home. You must have seen the stones that are being
piled up yonder on the verge of the forest."

He turned, glared at me, made a peculiar sound with his lips, and then
stood silent, opening and closing his hands in a way that made my
blood run chill in spite of myself.

"A house!" he murmured, at last; "I wish I had the building of that
house!"

The tone, the look he gave, alarmed me still further.

"You would build it well!" I cried. It was his trade, the building of
houses.

"I would build it slowly," was his ominous answer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Juliet certainly likes me, and trusts me, I think, more than any other
of the young men who used to go a-courting her. I have seen it for
some time in the looks she has now and then given me across the
meeting-house during the long sermon on Sunday mornings, but to-day I
am sure of it. For she has spoken to me, and asked me--But let me
tell you how it was: We were all standing under Ralph Urphistone's big
tree, looking at his little one toddling over the grass after a ball
one of the lads had thrown after her, when I felt the slightest touch
on my arm, and, glancing round, saw Juliet.

She was standing beside her father, and if ever she looked pretty it
was just then, for the day was warm and she had taken off her great
hat so that the curls flew freely around her face that was dimpled and
flushed with some feeling which did not allow her to lift her eyes.
Had she touched me? I thought so, and yet I did not dare to take it
for granted, for Colonel Schuyler was standing on the edge of the
crowd, frowning in some displeasure at the bare head of his provoking
little betrothed, and when Colonel Schuyler frowns there is no man of
us but Orrin who would dare approach the object of his preference,
much less address her, except in the coldest courtesy.

But I was sure she had something to say to me, so I lingered under the
tree till the crowd had all dispersed and Colonel Schuyler, drawn away
by her father, had left us for a moment face to face. Then I saw I was
right.

"Philo," she murmured, and oh, how her face changed! "you are my
friend, I know you are my friend, because you alone out of them all
have never given me sharp words; will you, will you do something for
me which will make me less miserable, something which may prevent
wrong and trouble, and keep Orrin--"

Orrin? did she call him Orrin?

"Oh," she cried, "you have no sympathy. You--"

"Hush!" I entreated. "You have not treated me well, but I am always
your friend. What do you want me to do?"

She trembled, glanced around her in the pleasant sunshine, and then up
into my face.

"I want you," she murmured, "to keep Orrin and Colonel Schuyler apart.
You are Orrin's friend; stay with him, keep by him, do not let him run
alone upon his enemy, for--for there is danger in their
meeting--and--and--"

She could not say more, for just then her father and the Colonel came
back, and she had barely time to call up her dimples and toss her head
in merry banter before they were at her side.

As for myself, I stood dazed and confused, feeling that my six feet
made me too conspicuous, and longing in a vague and futile way to let
her know without words that I would do what she asked.

And I think I did accomplish it, though I said nothing to her and but
little to her companions. For when we parted I took the street which
leads directly to Orrin's house; and when Colonel Schuyler queried in
his soft and gentlemanlike way why I left them so soon, I managed to
reply:

"My road lies here"; and so left them.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have not told Orrin what she said, but I am rarely away from his
vicinity now, during those hours when he is free to come and go about
the village. I think he wonders at my persistent friendship,
sometimes, but he says nothing, and is not even disagreeable to--_me_.
So I share his pleasures, if they are pleasures, expecting every day
to see him run across the Colonel in the tavern or on the green; but
he never does, perhaps because the Colonel is always with her now, and
we are not nor are ever likely to be again.

Do I understand her, or do I understand Orrin, or do I even understand
myself? No, but I understand my duty, and that is enough, though it is
sometimes hard to do it, and I would rather be where I could forget,
instead of being where I am forced continually to remember.

       *       *       *       *       *

Am I always with Orrin when he is not at work or asleep? I begin to
doubt it. There are times when there is such a change in him that I
feel sure he has been near her, or at least seen her, but where or
how, I do not know and cannot even suspect. He never speaks of her,
not now, but he watches the house slowly rising in the forest, as if
he would lay a spell upon it. Not that he visits it by daylight, or
mingles with the men who are busy laying stone upon stone; no, no, he
goes to it at night, goes when the moon and stars alone shed light
upon its growing proportions; and standing before it, seems to count
each stone which has been added through the day, as if he were
reckoning up the months yet remaining to him of life and happiness.

I never speak to him during these expeditions. I go with him because
he does not forbid me to do so, but we never exchange a word till we
have left the forest behind us and stand again within the village
streets. If I did speak I might learn something of what is going on in
his bitter and burning heart, but I never have the courage to do so,
perhaps because I had rather not know what he plans or purposes.

She is not as daintily rounded as she was once. Her cheek is thinner,
and there is a tremulous move to her lip I never saw in it in the old
coquettish days. Is she not happy in her betrothal, or are her fears
of Orrin greater than her confidence in me? It must be the latter, for
Colonel Schuyler is a lover in a thousand, and scarcely a day passes
without some new evidence of his passionate devotion. She ought to be
happy, if she is not, and I am sure there is not another woman in town
but would feel herself the most favored of her sex if she had the half
of Juliet's prospects before her. But Juliet was ever wayward; and
simply because she ought to increase in beauty and joy, she pales and
pines and gets delicate, and makes the hearts of her lovers grow mad
with fear and longing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where have I been? What have I seen, and what do the events of this
night portend? As Orrin and myself were returning from our usual visit
to the house in the woods--it is well up now, and its huge empty
square looms weirdly enough in the moonlighted forest,--we came out
upon the churchyard in front of the meeting-house, and Orrin said:

"You may come with me or not, I do not care; but I am going in amongst
these graves. I feel like holding companionship with dead people
to-night."

"Then so do I," said I, for I was not deceived by his words. It was
not to hold companionship with the dead, but with the living, that he
chose to linger there. The churchyard is in a direct line with her
house, and, sitting on the meeting-house steps one can get a very good
view of the windows of her room.

"Very well," he sighed, and disdained to say more.

As for myself, I felt too keenly the weirdness of the whole situation
to do more than lean my back against a tree and wait till his fancy
wearied of the moonlight and silence. The stones about us, glooming
darkly through the night, were not the most cheerful of companions,
and when you add to this the soughing of the willows and the
flickering shadows which rose and fell over the face of the
meeting-house as the branches moved in the wind, you can understand
why I rather regretted the hitherto gloomy enough hour we were
accustomed to spend in the forest.

But Orrin seemed to regret nothing. He had seated himself where I knew
he would, on the steps of the meeting-house, and was gazing, with chin
sunk in his two hands, down the street where Juliet dwelt. I do not
think he expected anything to happen; I think he was only reckless and
sick with a longing he had not the power to repress, and I watched him
as long as I could for my own inner sickness and longing, and when I
could watch no longer I turned to the gnomish gravestones that were no
more motionless or silent than he.

Suddenly I felt myself shiver and start, and, turning, beheld him
standing erect, a black shadow against the moonlighted wall behind
him. He was still gazing down the street but no longer in apathetic
despair, but with quivering emotion visible in every line of his
trembling form. Reaching his side, I looked where he looked, and saw
Juliet--it must have been Juliet to arouse him so,--standing with some
companion at the gate in the wall that opens upon the street. The
next moment she and the person with her stepped into the street, and,
almost before we realized it, they began to move towards us, as if
drawn by some power in Orrin or myself, straight, straight to this
abode of death and cold moonbeams.

It was not late, but the streets were otherwise deserted, and we four
seemed to be alone in the whole world. Breathing with Orrin and almost
clasping his hand in my oneness with him, I watched and watched the
gliding approach of the two lovers, and knew not whether to be
startled or satisfied when I saw them cross to the churchyard and
enter where we had entered ourselves so short a time before. For us
all to meet, and meet here, seemed suddenly strangely natural, and I
hardly knew what Orrin meant when he grasped me forcibly by the arm
and drew me aside into the darkest of the dark shadows which lay in
the churchyard's farthest corner.

Not till I perceived Juliet and the Colonel halt in the moonlight did
I realize that we were nothing to them, and that it was not our
influence but some purpose or passion of their own which had led them
to this gruesome spot.

The place where they had chosen to pause was at the grave of old
Patience Goodyear, and from the corner where we stood we could see
their faces plainly as they turned and looked at each other with the
moonbeams pouring over them. Was it fancy that made her look like a
wraith, and he like some handsome demon given to haunting churchyards?
Or was it only the sternness of his air, and the shrinking timidity of
hers, which made him look so dark and she so pallid.

Orrin, who stood so close to me that I could hear his heart beat as
loudly as my own, had evidently asked himself the same question, for
his hand closed spasmodically on mine, as the Colonel opened his lips,
and neither of us dared so much as to breathe lest we should lose what
the lovers had to say.

But the Colonel spoke clearly, if low, and neither of us could fail to
hear him as he said:

"I have brought you here, Juliet mine, because I want to hear you
swear amongst the graves that you will be no man's wife but mine."

"But have I not already promised?" she protested, with a gentle uplift
of her head inexpressibly touching in one who had once queened it over
hearts so merrily.

"Yes, you have promised, but I am not satisfied. I want you to swear.
I want to feel that you are as much mine as if we had stood at the
altar together. Otherwise how can I go away? How can I leave you,
knowing there are three men at least in this town who would marry you
at a day's notice, if you gave them full leave. I love you, and I
would marry you to-night, but you want a home of your own. Swear that
you will be my wife when that home is ready, and I will go away happy.
Otherwise I shall have to stay with you, Juliet, for you are more to
me than renown, or advancement, or anything else in all God's world."

"I do not like the graves; I do not want to stay here, it is so late,
so dark," she moaned.

"Then swear! Lay your hand on Mother Patience's tombstone, and say, 'I
will be your wife, Richard Schuyler, when the house is finished which
you are building in the woods'; and I will carry you back in my arms
as I carry you always in my heart."

But though Orrin clinched my arm in apprehension of her answer, and we
stood like two listening statues, no words issued from her lips, and
the silence grew appalling.

"Swear!" seemed to come from the tombs; but whether it was my emotion
that made it seem so, or whether it was Orrin who threw his voice
there, I did not know then and I do not know now. But that the word
did not come from the Colonel was evident from the startled look he
cast about him and from the thrill which all at once passed over her
form from her shrouded head to her hidden feet.

"Do the heavens bid me?" she murmured, and laid her hand without
hesitation on the stone before her, saying, "I swear by the dead that
surround us to be your wife, Richard Schuyler, when the house you are
building for me in the woods is completed." And so pleased was he at
the readiness with which she spoke that he seemed to forget what had
caused it, and caught her in his arms as if she had been a child, and
so bore her away from before our eyes, while the man at my side
fought and struggled with himself to keep down the wrath and jealousy
which such a sight as this might well provoke in one even less
passionate and intemperate than himself.

When the one shadow which they now made had dissolved again into two,
and only Orrin and myself were left in that ghostly churchyard, I
declared with a courage I had never before shown:

"So that is settled, Orrin. She will marry the Colonel, and you and I
are wasting time in these gloomy walks."

To which, to my astonishment, he made this simple reply, "Yes, we are
wasting time"; and straightway turned and left the churchyard with a
quick step that seemed to tell of some new and fixed resolve.

       *       *       *       *       *

Colonel Schuyler has been gone a week, and to-night I summoned up
courage to call on Juliet's father. I had no longer any right to call
upon _her_; but who shall say I may not call on him if he chooses to
welcome me and lose his time on my account. The reason for my going
is not far to seek. Orrin has been there, and Orrin cannot be trusted
in her presence alone. Though he seems to have accepted his fate, he
is restless, and keeps his eye on the ground in a brooding way I do
not comprehend and do not altogether like. Why should he think so
much, and why should he go to her house when he knows the sight of her
is inflaming to his heart and death to his self-control?

Juliet's father is a simple, proud old man who makes no attempt to
hide his satisfaction at his daughter's brilliant prospects. He talked
mainly of _the house_, and if he honored Orrin with half as much of
his confidence on that subject as he did me, then Orrin must know many
particulars about its structure of which the public are generally
ignorant. Juliet was not to be seen--that is, during the first part of
the evening, but towards its close she came into the room and showed
me that same confiding courtesy which I have noticed in her ever since
I ceased to be an aspirant for her hand. She was not so pale as on
that weird night when I saw her in the churchyard, and I thought her
step had a light spring in it which spoke of hope. She wore a gown
which was coquettishly simple, and the fresh flower clinging to her
bosom breathed a fragrance that might have intoxicated a man less
determined to be her friend. Her father saw us meet without any
evident anxiety; and if he was as complacent to Orrin when he was
here, then Orrin had a chance to touch her hand.

But was he as complacent to Orrin? That I could not find out. I am
only sure that I will be made welcome there again _if_ I confine my
visits to the father and do not seek anything more from Juliet than
that simple touch of her hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

Orrin has not repeated his visit, but I have repeated mine. Why?
Because I am uneasy. Colonel Schuyler's house does not progress, and
whether there is any connection between this fact and that of Orrin's
sudden interest in the sawmills and quarries about here, I cannot
tell, but doubts of his loyalty will rise through all my friendship
for him, and I cannot keep away from Juliet any longer.

Does Juliet care for Colonel Schuyler? I have sometimes thought no,
and I have oftener thought yes. At all events she trembles when she
speaks of him, and shows emotion of no slight order when a letter of
his is suddenly put in her hand. I wish I could read her pretty,
changeful face more readily. It would be a comfort for me to know that
she saw her own way clearly, and was not disturbed by Orrin's comings
and goings. For Orrin is not a safe man, I fear, and a faith once
pledged to Colonel Schuyler should be kept.

I do not think Juliet understands just how great a man Colonel
Schuyler promises to be. When her father told me to-night that his
daughter's betrothed had been charged with some very important
business for the Government, her pretty lip pouted like a child's. Yet
she flushed, and for a minute looked pleased when I said, "That is a
road which leads to Washington. We shall hear of you yet as being
presented at the White House."

I think her father anticipates the same. For he told me a few minutes
later that he had sent for tutors to teach his daughter music and the
languages. And I noticed that at this she pouted again, and indeed
bore herself in a way which promised less for her future learning than
for that influence which breathes from gleaming eyes and witching
smiles. Ah, I fear she is a frivolous fairy, but how pretty she is,
and how dangerously captivating to a man who has once allowed himself
to study her changes of feeling and countenance. When I came away I
felt that I had gained nothing, and lost--what? Some of the
complacency of spirit which I had acquired after much struggle and
stern determination.

       *       *       *       *       *

Colonel Schuyler has not yet returned, and now Orrin has gone away.
Indeed, no one knows where to find him nowadays, for he is here and
there on his great white horse, riding off one day and coming back the
next, ever busy, and, strange to say, always cheerful. He is making
money, I hear, buying up timber and then selling it to builders, but
he does not sell to one builder, whose house seems to suffer in
consequence. Where is the Colonel, and why does he not come home and
look after his own?

I have learned her secret at last, and in a strange enough way. I was
waiting for her father in his own little room, and as he did not come
as soon as I anticipated, I let my secret despondency have its way for
a moment, and sat leaning forward, with my head buried in my hands. My
face was to the fire and my back to the door, and for some reason I
did not hear it open, and was only aware of the presence of another
person in the room by the sound of a little gasp behind me, which was
choked back as soon as it was uttered. Feeling that this could come
from no one but Juliet, I for some reason hard to fathom sat still,
and the next moment became conscious of a touch soft as a rose-leaf
settle on my hair, and springing up, caught the hand which had given
it, and holding it firmly in mine, gave her one look which made her
chin fall slowly on her breast and her eyes seek the ground in the
wildest distress and confusion.

"Juliet--" I began.

But she broke in with a passion too impetuous to be restrained:

"Do not--do not think I knew or realized what I was doing. It was
because your head looked so much like his as you sat leaning forward
in the firelight that I--I allowed myself one little touch just for
the heart's ease it must bring. I--I am so lonesome, Philo,
and--and--"

I dropped her hand. I understood the whole secret now. My hair is
blonde like Orrin's, and her feelings stood confessed, never more to
be mistaken by me.

"You love Orrin!" I gasped; "you who are pledged to Colonel Schuyler!"

"I love Orrin," she whispered, "and I am pledged to Colonel Schuyler.
But you will never betray me," she said.

"I betray you?" I cried, and if some of the bitterness of my own
disappointed hopes crept into my tones, she did not seem to note it,
for she came quite close to my side and looked up into my face in a
way that almost made me forget her perfidy and her folly. "Juliet," I
went on, for I felt never more strongly than at this moment that I
should act a brother's part towards her, "I could never find it in my
heart to betray you, but are you sure that you are doing wisely to
betray the Colonel for a man no better than Orrin. I--I know you do
not want to hear me say this, for if you care for him you must think
him good and noble, but Juliet, I know him and I know the Colonel, and
he is no more to be compared with the man you are betrothed to
than--"

"Hush!" she cried, almost commandingly, and the airy, dainty, dimpled
creature whom I knew seemed to grow in stature and become a woman, in
her indignation; "you do not know Orrin and you do not know the
Colonel. You shall not draw comparisons between them. I will have you
think of Orrin only, as I do, day and night, ever and always."

"But," I exclaimed, aghast, "if you love him so and despise the
Colonel, why do you not break your troth with the latter?"

"Because," she murmured, with white cheeks and a wandering gaze, "I
have sworn to marry the Colonel, and I dare not break my oath. Sworn
to be his wife when the house he is building is complete; and the oath
was on the graves of the dead; _on the graves of the dead!_" she
repeated.

"But," I said, without any intimation of having heard that oath, "you
are breaking that oath in private with every thought you give to
Orrin. Either complete your perjury by disowning the Colonel
altogether, or else give up Orrin. You cannot cling to both without
dishonor; does not your father tell you so?"

"My father--oh, he does not know; no one knows but you. My father
likes the Colonel; I would never think of telling him."

"Juliet," I declared solemnly, "you are on dangerous ground. Think
what you are doing before it is too late. The Colonel is not a man to
be trifled with."

"I know it," she murmured, "I know it," and would not say another word
or let me.

And so the burden of this new apprehension is laid upon me; for
happiness cannot come out of this complication.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where is Orrin, and what is he doing that he stays so much from home?
If it were not for the intent and preoccupied look which he wears when
I do see him, I should think that he was absenting himself for the
purpose of wearing out his unhappy passion. But the short glimpses I
have had of him as he has ridden busily through the town have left me
with no such hope, and I wait with feverish impatience for some fierce
action on his part, or what would be better, the Colonel's return. And
the Colonel must come back soon, for nothing goes well in a long
absence, and his house is almost at a standstill.

       *       *       *       *       *

Colonel Schuyler has come and, I hear, is storming angrily over the
mishaps that have delayed the progress of his new dwelling. He says he
will not go away again till it is completed, and has been riding all
the morning in every direction, engaging new men to aid the dilatory
workmen already employed. Does Orrin know this? I will go down to his
house and see.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now I know _Orrin's_ secret. He was not at home, of course, and
being determined to get at the truth of his mysterious absences, I
mounted a horse of my own and rode off to find him.

Why I took this upon myself, or whether I had the right to do it, I
have not stopped to ask. I went in the direction he had last gone, and
after I had ridden through two villages I heard of him as having
passed still farther east some two hours before.

Not in the least deterred, I hurried on, and having threaded a thicket
and forded a stream, I came upon a beautiful open country wholly new
to me, where, on the verge of a pleasant glade and in full view of a
most picturesque line of hills, I saw shining the fresh boards of a
new cottage. Instantly the thought struck me, "It is Orrin's, and he
is building it for Juliet," and filled with a confusion of emotions, I
spurred on my horse, and soon drew up before it.

Orrin was standing, pale and defiant, in the doorway, and as I met his
eye, I noticed, with a sick feeling of contempt, that he swung the
whip he was holding smartly against his leg in what looked like a very
threatening manner.

"Good-evening, Orrin," I cried. "You have a very pleasant site
here--preferable to the Colonel's, I should say."

"What has the Colonel to do with me?" was his fierce reply, and he
turned as if about to go into the house.

"Only this," I calmly answered; "I think he will get his house done
first."

He wheeled and faced me, and his eye which had looked simply sullen
shot a fierce and dangerous gleam.

"What makes you think that?" he cried.

"He has come back, and to-day engaged twenty extra men to push on the
work."

"Indeed!" and there was contempt in his tone. "Well, I wish him joy
and a sound roof!"

And this time he did go into the house.

As he had not asked me to follow, I of course had no alternative but
to ride on. As I did so, I took another look at the house and saw with
a strange pang at the heart that the plastering was on the walls and
the windows ready for glazing. "I was wrong," said I to myself; "it is
Orrin's house which will be finished first."

       *       *       *       *       *

And what if it is? Will she turn her back upon the Colonel's lofty
structure and take refuge in this cottage remote from the world? I
cannot believe it, knowing how she loves show and the smiles and
gallantries of men. And yet--and yet, she is so capricious and Orrin
so determined that I do not know what to think or what to fear, and I
ride back with a heavy heart, wishing she had never come up from the
farm to worry and inflame the souls of honest men.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now the Colonel's work goes on apace, and the whole town is filled
with the noise and bustle of lumbering carts and eager workmen. The
roof which Orrin so bitterly wished might be a sound one has been
shingled; and under the Colonel's eye and the Colonel's constant
encouragement, part after part of the new building is being fitted to
its place with a precision and despatch that to many minds promise the
near dawning of Juliet's wedding-day. But I know that afar in the east
another home is nearer completion than this, and whether she knows it
too or does not know it (which is just as probable), her wilful,
sportive, and butterfly nature seems to be preparing itself for a
struggle which may rend if not destroy its airy and delicate wings.

I have prepared myself too, and being still and always her friend, I
stand ready to mediate or assist, as opportunity offers or
circumstances demand. She realizes this, and leans on me in her secret
hours of fear, or why does her face brighten when she sees me, and her
little hand thrust itself confidingly forth from under its shrouding
mantle and grasp mine with such a lingering and entreating pressure?
And the Colonel? Does he realize, too, that I am any more to her than
her other cast-off lovers and would-be friends? Sometimes I think he
does, and eyes me with suspicion. But he is ever so courteous that I
cannot be sure, and so do not trouble myself in regard to a jealousy
so illy founded and so easily dispelled.

He is always at Juliet's side and seems to surround her with a
devotion which will make it very difficult for any other man, even
Orrin, to get her ear.

       *       *       *       *       *

The crisis is approaching. Orrin is again in town, and may be seen
riding up and down the streets in his holiday clothes. Have some
whispers of his secret love and evident intentions reached the ear of
the Colonel? Or is Juliet's father alone concerned? For I see that the
blinds of her lattice are tightly shut, and watch as I may, I cannot
catch a glimpse of her eager head peering between them at the
flaunting horseman as he goes careering by.

       *       *       *       *       *

The hour has come and how different is the outcome from any I had
imagined. I was sitting last night in my own lonely little room, which
opens directly on the street, struggling as best I might against the
distraction of my thoughts which would lead me from the book I was
studying, when a knock on the panels of my door aroused me, and almost
before I could look up, that same door swung open and a dark form
entered and stood before me.

For a moment I was too dazed to see who it was, and rising
ceremoniously, I made my bow of welcome, starting a little as I met
the Colonel's dark eyes looking at me from the folds of the huge
mantle in which he had wrapped himself. "Your worship?" I began, and
stumbling awkwardly, offered him a chair which he refused with a
gesture of his smooth white hand.

"Thank you, no," said he, "I do not sit down in your house till I know
if it is you who have stolen the heart of my bride away from me and if
it is you with whom she is prepared to flee."

"Ah," was my involuntary exclamation, "then it has come. You know her
folly, and will forgive it because she is such a child."

"Her folly? Are you not then the man?" he cried; but in a subdued tone
which showed what a restraint he was putting upon himself even in the
moment of such accumulated emotions.

"No," said I; "if your bride meditates flight, it is not with me she
means to go. I am her friend, and the man who would take her from you
is not. I can say no more, Colonel Schuyler."

He eyed me for a moment with a deep and searching gaze which showed me
that his intellect was not asleep though his heart was on fire.

"I believe you," said he; and threw aside his cloak and sat down. "And
now," he asked, "who is the man?"

Taken by surprise, I stammered and uttered some faint disclaimer; but
seeing by his steady look and firm-set jaw that he meant to know, and
detecting as I also thought in his general manner and subdued tones
the promise of an unexpected forbearance, I added impulsively:

"Let the wayward girl tell you herself; perhaps in the telling she
will grow ashamed of her caprice."

"I have asked her," was the stern reply, "and she is dumb." Then in
softer tones he added: "How can I do anything for her if she will not
confide in me. She has treated me most ungratefully, but I mean to be
kind to her. Only I must first know if she has chosen worthily."

"Who is there of worth in town?" I asked, softened and fascinated by
his manner. "There is no man equal to yourself."

"You say so," he cried, and waved his hand impatiently. Then with a
deep and thrilling intensity which I feel yet, he repeated, "His name,
his name? Tell me his name."

The Colonel is a man of power, accustomed to control men. I could not
withstand his look or be unmoved by his tones. If he meant well to
Orrin and to her, what was I that I should withhold Orrin's name.
Falteringly I was about to speak it when a sudden sound struck my
ears, and rising impetuously I drew him to the window, blowing out the
candles as I passed them.

"Hark!" I cried, as the rush of pounding hoofs was heard on the road,
and "Look!" I added, as a sudden figure swept by on the panting white
horse so well known by all in that town.

"Is it he?" whispered the dark figure at my side as we both strained
our eyes after Orrin's fast vanishing form.

"You have seen him," I returned; and drawing him back from the window,
I closed the shutters with care, lest Orrin should be seized with a
freak to return and detect me in conference with his heart's dearest
enemy.

Silence and darkness were now about us, and the Colonel, as if anxious
to avail himself of the surrounding gloom, caught my arm as I moved to
relight the candles.

"Wait," said he; and I understood and stopped still.

And so we stood for a moment, he quiet as a carven statue and I
restless but obedient to his wishes. When he stirred I carefully lit
the candles, but I did not look at him till he had donned his cloak
and pulled his hat well over his eyes. Then I turned, and eying him
earnestly, said:

"If I have made a mistake--"

But he quickly interrupted me, averring:

"You have made no mistake. You are a good lad, Philo, and if it had
been you--" He did not say what he would have done, but left the
sentence incomplete and went on: "I know nothing of this Orrin Day,
but what a woman wills she must have. Will you bring this fellow--he
is your friend is he not?--to Juliet's house in the morning? Her
father is set on her being the mistress of the new stone house and we
three will have to reason with him, do you see?"

Astonished, I bowed with something like awe. Was he so great-hearted
as this? Did he intend to give up his betrothed to the man whom she
loved, and even to plead her cause with the father she feared? My
admiration would have its vent, and I uttered some foolish words of
sympathy, which he took with the stately, rather condescending grace
which they perhaps merited; after which, he added again: "You will
come, will you not?" and bowed kindly and retreated towards the door,
while I, abashed and worshipful, followed with protestations that
nothing should hinder me from doing his will, till he had passed
through the doorway and vanished from my sight.

And yet I do not want to do his will or take Orrin to that house. I
might have borne with sad equanimity to see her married to the
Colonel, for he is far above me, but to Orrin--ah, that is a bitter
outlook, and I must have been a fool to have promised aught that will
help to bring it about. Still, am I not her sworn friend, and if she
thinks she can be happy with him, ought I not to do my share towards
making her so?

I wonder if the Colonel knows that Orrin too has been building himself
a house?

I did not sleep last night, and I have not eaten this morning.
Thoughts robbed me of sleep, and a visit from Orrin effectually took
away from me whatever appetite I might have had. He came in almost at
daybreak. He looked dishevelled and wild, and spoke like a man who had
stopped more than once at the tavern.

"Philo," said he, "you have annoyed me by your curiosity for more than
a year; now you can do me a favor. Will you call at Juliet's house and
see if she is free to go and come as she was a week ago?"

"Why?" I asked, thinking I perceived a reason for his bloodshot eye,
and yet being for the moment too wary, perhaps too ungenerous, to
relieve him from the tension of his uncertainty.

"Why?" he repeated. "Must you know all that goes on in my mind, and
cannot I keep one secret to myself?"

"You ask me to do you a favor," I quietly returned. "In order to do it
intelligently, I must know why it is asked."

"I do not see that," objected Orrin, "and if you were not such a boy
I'd leave you on the spot and do the errand myself. But you mean no
harm, and so I will tell you that Juliet and I had planned to run away
together last night, but though I was at the place of meeting, she did
not come, nor has she made any sign to show me why she failed me."

"Orrin," I began, but he stopped me with an oath.

"No sermons," he protested. "I know what you would have done if
instead of smiling on me she had chanced to give all her poor little
heart to you."

"I should not have tempted her to betray the Colonel," I exclaimed
hotly, perhaps because the sudden picture he presented to my
imagination awoke within me such a torrent of unsuspected emotions.
"Nor should I have urged her to fly with me by night and in stealth."

"You do not know what you would do," was his rude and impatient
rejoinder. "Had she looked at you, with tears in her arch yet pathetic
blue eyes, and listened while you poured out your soul, as if heaven
were opening before her and she had no other thought in life but you,
then--"

"Hush!" I cried, "do you want me to go to her house for you, or do you
want me to stay away?"

"You know I want you to go."

"Then be still, and listen to what I have to say. I will go, but you
must go too. If you want to take Juliet away from the Colonel you must
do it openly. I will not abet you, nor will I encourage any
underhanded proceedings."

"You are a courageous lad," he said, "in other men's affairs. Will you
raise me a tomb if the Colonel runs me through with his sword?"

"I at least should not feel the contempt for you which I should if you
eloped with her behind his back."

"Now you are courageous on your own behalf," laughed he, "and that is
better and more to the point." Yet he looked as if he could easily
spit me on his own sword, which I noticed was dangling at his heels.

"Will you come?" I urged, determined not to conciliate or enlighten
him even if my forbearance cost me my life.

He hesitated, and then broke into a hoarse laugh. "I have drunk just
enough to be reckless," said he; "yes, I will go; and the devil must
answer for the result."

I had never seen him look so little the gentleman, and perhaps it was
on this very account I became suddenly quite eager to take him at his
word before time and thought should give him an opportunity to become
more like himself; for I could not but think that if she saw him in
this condition she must make comparisons between him and the Colonel
which could not but be favorable to the latter. But it was still quite
early, and I dared not run the risk of displeasing the Colonel by
anticipating his presence, so I urged Orrin into that little back
parlor of mine, where I had once hoped to see a very different person
installed, and putting wine and biscuits before him, bade him refresh
himself while I prepared myself for appearing before the ladies.

When the hour came for us to go I went to him. He was pacing the floor
and trying to school himself into patience, but he made but a sorry
figure, and I felt a twinge of conscience as he thrust on his hat
without any attempt to smooth his dishevelled locks, or rearrange his
disordered ruffles. Should I permit him to go thus disordered, or
should I detain him long enough to fit him for the eye of the dainty
Juliet? He answered the question himself. "Come," said he, "I have
chewed my sleeve long enough in suspense. Let us go and have an end of
it. If she is to be my wife she must leave the house with me to-day,
if not, I have an hour's work before me down yonder," and he pointed
in the direction of his new house. "When you see the sky red at
noonday, you will know what that is."

"Orrin!" I cried, and for the first time I seized his arm with
something like a fellow-feeling.

But he shook me off.

"Don't interfere with me," he said, and strode on, sullen and fierce,
towards the place where such a different greeting awaited him from any
that he feared.

Ought I to tell him this? Ought I to say: "Your sullenness is uncalled
for and your fierceness misplaced; Juliet is constant, and the Colonel
means you nothing but good"? Perhaps; and perhaps, too, I should be a
saint and know nothing of earthly passions and jealousies. But I am
not. I hate this Orrin, hate him more and more as every step brings
us nearer to Juliet's house and the fate awaiting him from her
weakness and the Colonel's generosity. So I hold my peace and we come
to her gate, and the recklessness that has brought him thus far
abandons him on the instant and he falls back and lets me go in
several steps before him, so that I seem to be alone when I enter the
house, and Juliet, who is standing in the parlor between the Colonel
and her father, starts when she sees me, and breaking into sobs,
cries:

"Oh, Philo, Philo, tell my father there is nothing between us but what
is friendly and honorable; that I--I--"

"Hush!" commanded that father, while I stared at the Colonel, whose
quiet, imperturbable face was for the first time such a riddle to me
that I hardly heeded what the elder man said. "You have talked enough,
Juliet, and denied enough. I will now speak to Mr. Adams and see what
he has to say. Last night my daughter, who, as all the town knows, is
betrothed to this gentleman"--and he waved his hand deferentially
towards the Colonel--"was detected by me stealing out of the garden
gate with a little packet on her arm. As my daughter never goes out
alone, I was naturally startled, and presuming upon my rights as her
father, naturally asked her where she was going. This question, simple
as it was, seemed to both terrify and unnerve her. Stumbling back, she
looked me wildly in the eye and answered, with an effrontery she had
never shown me before, that she was flying to escape a hated marriage.
That Colonel Schuyler had returned, and as she could not be his wife,
she was going to her aunt's house, where she could live in peace
without being forced upon a man she could not love. Amazed, for I had
always supposed her duly sensible of the honor which had been shown
her by this gentleman's attentions, I drew her into my study and
there, pulling off the cloak which she held tightly drawn about her, I
discovered that she was tricked out like a bride, and had a whole
bunch of garden roses fastened in her breast. 'A pretty figure,' cried
I, 'for travelling. You are going away with some man, and it is a
runaway match I have interrupted.' She could not deny it, and just
then the Colonel came in and--but we will not talk about that. It
remained for us to find out the man who had led her to forget her
duty, and I could think of no man but you. So I ask you now before my
trembling daughter and this outraged gentleman if you are the
villain."

But here Colonel Schuyler spoke up quietly and without visible anger:
"I was about to say when this gentleman's entrance interrupted my
words that I had been convinced overnight that our first suspicions
were false, and that Mr. Adams was, as your daughter persists in
declaring, simply a somewhat zealous friend."

"But," hastily vociferated the old man, "there has been no one else
about my daughter for months. If Mr. Adams is not to blame for this
attempted escapade, who is? I should like to see the man, and see him
standing just there."

"Then look and tell me what you think of him," came with an insolent
fierceness from the doorway, and Orrin, booted and spurred, with mud
on his holiday hose, and his hat still on his head, strode into our
midst and confronted us all with an air of such haughty defiance that
it half robbed him of his ruffianly appearance.

Juliet shrieked and stepped back, fascinated and terrified. The
Colonel frowned darkly, and the old man, who had seemed by his words
to summon him before us, quailed at the effect of his words and stood
looking from the well-known but unexpected figure thus introduced
amongst us, to the Colonel who persistently avoided his gaze, till the
situation became unbearable, and I turned about as if to go.

Instantly the Colonel took advantage of the break and spoke to Orrin:
"And so it is to you, sir, that I have to address the few words I have
to say?"

"Yes, to him and to me!" cried little Juliet, and gliding from between
the two natural protectors of her girlhood she crossed the floor and
stood by Orrin's side.

This action, so unexpected and yet so natural, took away whatever
restraint we had hitherto placed upon ourselves, and the Colonel
looked for a moment as if his self-control would abandon him entirely
and leave him a prey to man's fiercest and most terrible passions. But
he has a strong soul, and before I could take a step to interpose
myself between him and Juliet, his face had recovered its steady
aspect and his hands ceased from their ominous trembling. Her father,
on the contrary, seemed to grow more ireful with every instant that he
saw her thus defiant of his authority, while Orrin, pleased with her
courage and touched, I have no doubt, by the loving confidence of her
pleading eyes, threw his arm about her with a gesture of pride which
made one forget still more his disordered and dishevelled condition.

I said nothing, but I did not leave the room.

"Juliet!"--the words came huskily from the angry father's lips, "come
from that man's embrace, and do not make me shudder that I ever
welcomed the Colonel to my dishonored house."

But the Colonel, putting out his hand, said calmly:

"Let her stay; since she has chosen this very honorable gentleman to
be her husband, where better could she stand than by his side?"

Then forcing himself still more to seem impassive, he bowed to Orrin,
and with great suavity remarked: "If she had chosen me to that honor,
as I had every reason to believe she had, it would not have been many
more weeks before I should have welcomed her into a home befitting
her beauty and her ambition. May I ask if you can do as much for her?
Have you a home for your bride in which I may look forward to paying
her the respects which my humble duty to her demands?"

Ah then, Orrin towered proudly, and the pretty Juliet smiled with
something of her old archness.

"Saddle your horse," cried the young lover, "and ride to the east. If
you do not find a wee, fresh nest there, I am no prophet. What! steal
a wife and not have a home to put her in!"

And he laughed till the huge brown rafters above his head seemed to
tremble, so blithe did he feel, and so full of pride at thus daring
the one great man in the town.

But the Colonel did not laugh, nor did he immediately answer. He had
evidently not heard of the little cottage beyond both thicket and
stream, and was consequently greatly disconcerted. But just when we
were all wondering what held him so restrained, and what the words
were which should break the now oppressive silence, he spoke and
said:

"A wee nest is no place for the lady who was to have been my wife. If
you will have patience and wait a month she shall have the home that
has been reared for her. The great stone house would not know any
other mistress, and therefore it shall be hers."

"No, no," Orrin began, aghast at such generosity. But the thoughtless
Juliet, delighted at a prospect which promised her both splendor and
love, uttered such a cry of joy that he stopped abashed and half
angry, and turning upon her, said: "Are you not satisfied with what I
can give you, and must you take presents even from the man you have
affected to despise?"

"But, but, he is so good," babbled out the inconsiderate little thing,
"and--and I do like the great stone house, and we could be so happy in
it, just like a king and queen, if--if--"

She had the grace to stop, perhaps because she saw nothing but rebuke
in the faces around her. But the Colonel, through whose voice ran in
spite of himself an icy vein of sarcasm, observed, with another of his
low bows:

"You shall indeed be like king and queen there. If you do not believe
me, come there with me a month hence, and I will show you what a
disappointed man can do for the woman he has loved." And taking by the
arm the old man who with futile rage had tried more than once to break
into this ominous conversation, he drew him persuasively to his side,
and so by degrees from the room.

"Oh," cried Juliet, as the door closed behind them, "can he mean it?
Can he mean it?"

And Orrin, a little awed, did not reply, but I saw by his face and
bearing that whether the Colonel meant it or not was little to him;
that the cottage beyond the woods was the destined home of his bride,
and that we must be prepared to lose her from our midst, perhaps
before the month was over which the Colonel had bidden them to wait.

I do not know through whom Dame Gossip became acquainted with
yesterday's events, but everywhere in town people are laying their
heads together in wonder over the jilting of Colonel Schuyler and the
unprecedented magnanimity which he has shown in giving his new house
to the rebellious lovers. If I have been asked one question to-day, I
have been asked fifty, and Orrin, who flies into a rage at the least
intimation that he will accept the gift which has been made him,
spends most of his time in asserting his independence, and the firm
resolution which he has made to owe nothing to the generosity of the
man he has treated with such unquestionable baseness. Juliet keeps
very quiet, but from the glimpse I caught of her this afternoon at her
casement, I judge that the turn of affairs has had a very enlivening
effect upon her beauty. Her eyes fairly sparkled as she saw me; and
with something like her old joyous abandonment of manner, she tore off
a branch of the flowering almond at her window and tossed it with
delicious laughter at my feet. Yet though I picked it up and carried
it for a few steps beyond her gate, I soon dropped it over the wall,
for her sparkle and her laughter hurt me, and I would rather have seen
her less joyous and a little more sensible of the ruin she had
wrought.

For she has wrought ruin, as any one can see who looks at the Colonel
long enough to note his eye. For though he holds himself erect and
walks proudly through the town, there is that in his look which makes
me tremble and hold my own weak complainings in check. He has been up
to his house to-day, and when he came back there was not a blind from
one end of the street to the other but quivered when he went by, so
curious are the women to see him who they cannot but feel has merited
all the sympathy if not the homage of their sex. Ralph Urphistone
tells me to-night that the workmen at the new house have been offered
extra wages if they put the house into habitable condition by the end
of the month.

       *       *       *       *       *

For all his secret satisfaction Orrin is very restless. He has tried
to induce Juliet to marry him at once, and go with him to the little
cottage he has raised for her comfort. But she puts him off with
excuses, which, however, are so mingled with sweet coquetries and
caresses, that he cannot reproach her without seeming insensible to
her affection, and it is not until he is away from the fascination of
her presence, and amongst those who do not hesitate to say that he
will yet see the advantage of putting his brilliant bird in a cage
suitable to her plumage, that he remembers his manhood and chafes at
his inability to assert it. I am sorry for him in a way, but not so
deeply as I might be if _he_ were more humble and more truly sensible
of the mischief he has wrought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Orrin will yet make himself debtor to the Colonel. Something has
happened which proves that fate--or man--is working against him to
this end, and that he must from the very force of circumstances
finally succumb. I say _man_, but do I not mean _woman_? Ah, no, no,
no! my pen ran away with me, my thoughts played me false. It could
have been no woman, for if it was, then is Juliet a--Let me keep to
facts. I have not self-control enough for speculation.

To-day the sun set red. As we had been having gray skies, and more or
less rain for a fortnight, the brightness and vivid crimson in the
west drew many people to their doors. I was amongst them, and as I
stood looking intently at the sky that was now one blaze of glory
from horizon to zenith, Orrin stepped up behind me and said:

"Do you want to take a ride to-night?"

Seeing him look more restless and moody than ever, I answered "Yes,"
and accordingly about eight that night he rode up to my door and we
started forth.

I thought he would turn in the direction of the stone house, for one
night when I had allowed myself to go there in my curiosity at its
progress, I had detected him crouching in one of the thickest shadows
cast by the surrounding trees. But if any such idea had been in his
mind, it soon vanished, for almost the instant I was in the saddle, he
wheeled himself about and led the way eastward, whipping and spurring
his horse as if it were a devil's ride he contemplated, and not that
easy, restful canter under the rising moon demanded by our excited
spirits and the calm, exquisite beauty of the summer night.

"Are you not coming?" was shouted back to me, as the distance
increased between us.

My answer was to spur my own horse, and as we rode once more side by
side, I could not but note what a wild sort of beauty there was in
him as he thus gave himself up to the force of his feelings and the
restless energy of this harum-scarum ride. "Very different," thought
I, "would the Colonel look on a horse at this hour of night"; and
wondered if Juliet could see him thus she would any longer wound him
by her hesitations, after having driven him by her coquetries to
expect full and absolute surrender on her part.

Did he guess my thoughts, or was his mind busy with the same, that he
suddenly cried in harsh but thrilling tones:

"If I had her where she ought to be, here behind me on this horse, I
would ride to destruction before I would take her back again to the
town and the temptations which beset her while she can hear the sound
of hammer upon stone."

"And you would be right," I was about to say in some bitterness, I
own, when the full realization of the road we were upon stopped me and
I observed instead:

"You would take her yonder where you hope to see her happy, though no
other woman lives within a half-mile of the place."

"No man you should say," quoth Orrin bitterly, lashing his horse till
it shot far ahead of me, so that some few minutes passed before we
were near enough together for him to speak again. Then he said: "She
loads me with promises and swears that she loves me more than all the
world. If half of this is true she ought to be happy with me in a
hovel, while I have a dainty cottage for her dwelling, where the vines
will soon grow and the birds sing. You have not seen it since it has
been finished. You shall see it to-night."

I choked as I tried to answer, and wondered if he had any idea of what
I had to contend with in these rides I seemed forced to take without
any benefit to myself. If he had, he was merciless, for once launched
into talk he kept on till I was almost wild with hateful sympathy and
jealous chagrin. Suddenly he paused.

The forest we had been threading had for the last few minutes been
growing thinner, and as the quick cessation in his speech caused me to
look up, I saw, or thought I saw, a faint glow shining through the
branches before me, which could not have come from the reflection
made by the setting sun, as that had long ago sunk into darkness.

Orrin who, as he had ceased speaking, had suddenly reined in his
panting horse, now gave a shout and shot forward, and I, hardly
knowing what to fear or expect, followed him as fast as my evidently
weary animal would carry me, and thus bounding along with but a few
paces between us, we cleared the woods and came out into the open
fields beyond. As we did so a cry went up from Orrin, faintly echoed
by my own lips. It was a fire that we saw, and the flames, which had
now got furious headway, rose up like pillars to the sky, illuminating
all the country round, and showing me, both by their position and the
glare of the stream beneath them, that it was Orrin's house which was
burning, and Orrin's hopes which were being destroyed before our eyes.
The cry he gave as he fully realized this I shall never forget, nor
the gesture with which he drove his spurs into his horse and flashed
down that long valley into the ever-increasing glare that lighted
first his flowing hair and the wet flanks of the animal he bestrode,
and finally seemed to envelop him altogether, till he looked like some
avenging demon rushing through his own element of fury and fire.

I was far behind him, but I made what time I could, feeling to the
core, as I passed, the weirdness of the solitude before me, with just
this element of horror flaming up in its midst. Not a sound save that
of our pounding hoofs interrupted that crackling sound of burning
wood, and when the roof fell in, as it did before I could reach his
side, I could hear distinctly the echo which followed it. Orrin may
have heard it too, for he gave a groan and drew in his horse, and when
I reached him I saw him sitting there before the smouldering ashes of
his home, silent and inert, without a word to say or an ear to hear
the instinctive words of sympathy I could not now keep back.

Who had done it? Who had started the blaze which had in one half-hour
undone the work and hope of months? That was the question which first
roused me and caused me to search the silence and darkness of the
night for some trace of a human presence, if only so much as the mark
of a human foot. And I found it. There, in the wet margin of the
stream, I came upon a token which may mean nothing and which may
mean--But I cannot write even here of the doubts it brought me; I
will only tell how on our slow and wearisome passage home through the
sombre woods, Orrin suddenly let his bridle fall, and, flinging up his
arms above his head, cried bitterly:

"O that I did not love her so well! O that I had never seen her who
would make of me a slave when I would be a man!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The gossips at the corners nod knowingly this morning, and Orrin,
whose brow is moodier than the Colonel's, walks fiercely amongst them
without word and without look. He is on his way to Juliet's house, and
if there is enchantment left in smiles, I bid her to use it, for her
fate is trembling in the balance, and may tip in a direction of which
she little recks.

       *       *       *       *       *

Orrin has come back. Striding impetuously into the room where I sat at
work, he drew himself up till his figure showed itself in all its
full and graceful proportions.

"Am I a man?" he asked, "or," with a fall in his voice brimmed with
feeling, "am I a fool? She met me with such an unsuspicious look,
Philo, and bore herself with such an innocent air, that I not only
could not say what I meant to say, but have promised to do what I have
sworn never to do--accept the Colonel's unwelcome gift, and make her
mistress of the new stone house."

"You are--a man," I answered. For what are men but fools where women
of such enchantment are concerned!

He groaned, perhaps at the secret sarcasm hidden in my tone, and sat
down unbidden at the table where I was writing.

"You did not see her," he cried. "You do not know with what charms she
works, when she wishes to comfort and allure." Ah! did I not. "And
Philo," he went on, almost humbly for him, "you are mistaken if you
think she had any hand in the ruin which has come upon me. She had not.
How I know it I cannot say, but I am ready to swear it, and you must
forget any foolish fears I may have shown or any foolish words I may
have uttered in the first confusion of my loss and disappointment."

"I will forget," said I.

"The fact is I do not understand her," he eagerly explained. "There
was innocence in her air, but there was mockery too, and she laughed
as I talked of my grief and rage, as though she thought I was playing
a part. It was merry laughter, and there was no ring of falsehood in
it, but why should she laugh at all?"

This was a question I could not answer; who could? Juliet is beyond
the comprehension of us all.

"But what is the use of plaguing myself with riddles?" he now asked,
starting up as suddenly as he had sat down. "We are to be married in a
month, and the Colonel--I have seen the Colonel--has promised to dance
at our wedding. Will it be in the new stone house? It would be a
fitting end to this comedy if he were to dance in _that_?"

I thought as Orrin did about this, but with more seriousness perhaps;
and it was not till after he had left me that I remembered I had not
asked whom he suspected of firing his house, now that he was assured
of the innocence of her who was most likely to profit by its burning.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now I understand Juliet!" was the cry with which Orrin burst into my
presence late this afternoon. "Men are saying and women whispering
that I destroyed my own house, in order to save myself the shame of
accepting the Colonel's offer while I had a roof of my own." And,
burning with rage, he stamped his foot upon the ground, and shook his
hand so threateningly in the direction of his fancied enemies that I
felt some reflection of his anger in my own breast, and said or tried
to say that they could not know him as I did or they would never
accuse him of so mean a deed, whatever else they might bring against
him.

"It makes me wild, it makes me mad, it makes me feel like leaving the
town forever!" was his hoarse complaint as I finished my feeble
attempt at consolation. "If Juliet were half the woman she ought to be
she would come and live with me in a log-cabin in the woods before
she would accept the Colonel's house now. And to think that she, _she_
should be affected by the opinions of the rest, and think me so
destitute of pride that I would stoop to sacrifice my own home for the
sake of stepping into that of a rival's. O woman, woman, what are you
made of? Not of the same stuff as we men, surely."

I strove to calm him, for he was striding fiercely and impatiently
about the room. But at my first word he burst forth with:

"And her father, who should control her, aids and encourages her
follies. He is a slave to the Colonel, who is the slave of his own
will."

"In this case," I quietly observed, "his will seems to be most
kindly."

"That is the worst of it," chafed Orrin. "If only he offered me
opposition I could struggle with him. But it is his generosity I hate,
and the humiliating position into which it thrusts me. And that is not
all," he angrily added, while still striding feverishly about the
room. "The Colonel seems to think us his property ever since we
decided to accept his, and as a miser watches over his gold so does
he watch over us, till I scarcely have the opportunity now of speaking
to Juliet alone. If I go to her house, there he is sitting like a
black statue at the fireplace, and when I would protest, and lead her
into another room or into the garden, he rises and overwhelms me with
such courtesies and subtle disquisitions that I am tripped up in my
endeavors, and do not know how to leave or how to stay. I wish he
would fall sick, or his house tumble about his head!"

"Orrin, Orrin!" I cried. But he interrupted my remonstrance with the
words:

"It is not decent. I am her affianced husband now, and he should leave
us alone. Does he think I can ever forget that he used to court her
once himself, and that the favors she now shows me were once given as
freely, if not as honestly, to him? He knows I cannot forget, and he
delights--"

"There, Orrin," I broke in, "you do him wrong. The Colonel is above
your comprehension as he is above mine; but there is nothing
malevolent in him."

"I don't know about that," rejoined his angry rival. "If he wanted to
steal back my bride he could take no surer course for doing it.
Juliet, who is fickle as the wind, already looks from his face to mine
as if she were contrasting us. And he is so damned handsome and suave
and self-forgetting!"

"And you," I could not help but say, "are so fierce and sullen even in
your love."

"I know it," was his half-muttered retort, "but what can you expect?
Do you think I will see him steal her heart away from before my eyes?"

"It would be but a natural return on his part for your former
courtesies," I could not forbear saying, in my own secret chagrin and
soreness of heart.

"But he shall not do it," exclaimed Orrin, with a backward toss of his
head, and a sudden thump of his strong hand on the table before me. "I
won her once against all odds, and I will keep her if I have to don
the devil's smiles myself. He shall never again see her eyes rest
longer on his face than mine. I will hold her by the power of my love
till he finds himself forgotten, and for very shame steals away,
leaving me with the bride he has himself bestowed upon me. He shall
never have Juliet back."

"I doubt if he wishes to," I quietly remarked, as Orrin, weary with
passion, ran from my presence.

I do not know whether Orrin succeeded or not in his attempts to shame
the Colonel from intruding upon his interviews with Juliet. I am only
sure that Orrin's countenance smoothed itself after this day, and that
I heard no more complaints of Juliet's wavering fidelity. I myself do
not believe she has ever wavered. Simply because she ought from every
stand-point of good judgment and taste to have preferred the Colonel
and clung to him, she will continue to cleave to Orrin and make him
the idol of her wayward heart. But it is all a mystery to me and one
that does not make me very happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

I went up by myself to the new stone house to-day, and found that it
only needs the finishing touches. Twenty workmen or more were there,
and the great front door had just been brought and was leaning against
the walls preparatory to being hung. Being curious to see how they
were progressing within, I climbed up to one of the windows and looked
in, and not satisfied with what I could thus see, made my way into the
house and up the main staircase, which I was surprised to see was
nearly completed.

The sound of the hammer and saw was all about me, and the calling of
orders from above and below interfered much with any sentimental
feelings I might have had. But I was not there to indulge in
sentiment, and so I roamed on from room to room till I suddenly came
upon a sight that drove every consideration of time and place from my
mind, and made me for a moment forgetful of every other sentiment than
admiration. This was nothing less than the glimpse which I obtained in
passing one of the windows, of the Colonel himself down on his knees
on the scaffolding aiding the workmen. So, so, he is not content with
hurrying the work forward by his means and influence, but is lending
the force of his example, and actually handling the plane and saw in
his anxiety not to disappoint Juliet in regard to the day she has
fixed for her marriage.

A week ago I should have told Orrin what I had seen, but I had no
desire to behold the old frowns come back to his face, so I determined
to hold my silence with him. But Juliet ought to know with what manner
of heart she has been so recklessly playing, so after stealing down
the stairs I felt I should never have mounted, I crept from the house
and made my way as best I could through the huge forest-trees that so
thickly clustered at its back, till I came upon the high-road which
leads to the village. Walking straight to Juliet's house I asked to
see her, and shall never forget the blooming beauty of her presence as
she stepped into the room and gave me her soft white hand to kiss.

As she is no longer the object of my worship and hardly the friend of
my heart, I think I can speak of her loveliness now without being
misunderstood. So I will let my pen trace for once a record of her
charms, which in that hour were surely great enough to excuse the
rivalry of which they had been the subject, and perhaps to account for
the disinterestedness of the man who had once given her his heart.

She is of medium height, this Juliet, and her form has that sway in it
which you see in a lily nodding on its stem. But she is no lily in her
most enchanting movements, but rather an ardent passion-flower burning
and palpitating in the sun. Her skin, which is milk-white, has strange
flushes in it, and her eyes, which never look at you twice with the
same meaning, are blue, or gray, or black, as her feeling varies and
the soul informing them is in a state of joy, or trouble. Her most
bewitching feature is her mouth, which has two dangerous dimples near
it that go and come, sometimes without her volition and sometimes, I
fear, with her full accord and desire. Her hair is brown and falls in
such a mass of ringlets that no cap has ever yet been found which can
confine it and keep it from weaving a golden net in which to entangle
the hearts of men. When she smiles you feel like rushing forward; when
she frowns you question yourself humbly what you have done to merit a
look so out of keeping with the playful cast of her countenance and
the arch bearing of her spirited young form. She was dressed, as she
always is, simply, but there was infinite coquetry in the tie of the
blue ribbon on her shoulder, and if a close cap of dainty lace could
make a face look more entrancing, I should like the privilege of
seeing it. She was in an amiable mood and smiled upon my homage like a
fairy queen.

"I have come to pay my final respects to Juliet Playfair," I
announced; "for by the tokens up yonder she will soon be classed among
our matrons."

My tone was formal and she looked surprised at it, but my news was
welcome and so she made me a demure little courtesy before saying
joyously:

"Yes, the house is nearly done, and to-morrow Orrin and I are going up
there together to see it. The Colonel has asked us to do this that we
might say whether all is to our liking and convenience."

"The Colonel is a man in a thousand," I began, but, seeing her frown
in her old pettish way, I perceived that she partook enough of Orrin's
spirit to dislike any allusion to one whose generosity threw her own
selfishness into startling relief.

So I said no more on this topic, but let my courtesy expend itself in
good wishes, and came away at last with a bewildering remembrance of
her beauty, which I am doing my best to blot out by faithfully
recounting to myself the story of those infinite caprices of hers
which have come so near wrecking more than one honorable heart.

I do not expect to visit her again until I pay my respects to her as
Orrin's wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the day when Orrin and Juliet are to visit the new house. If I
had not known this from her own lips, I should have known it from the
fact that the workmen all left at noon, in order, as one of them said,
to leave the little lady more at her ease. I saw them coming down the
road, and had the curiosity to watch for the appearance of Orrin and
the Colonel at Juliet's gate but they did not come, and assured by
this that they meditated a later visit than I had anticipated, I went
about my work. This took me up the road, and as it chanced, led me
within a few rods of the wood within which lies the new stone house. I
had not meant to go there, for I have haunted the place enough, but
this time there was reason for it, and satisfied with the fact, I
endeavored to fix my mind on other matters and forget who was likely
at any moment to enter the forest behind me.

But when one makes an effort to forget he is sure to remember all the
more keenly, and I was just picturing to my mind Juliet's face and
Juliet's pretty air of mingled pride and disdain as the first sight of
the broad stone front burst upon her, when I heard through the
stillness of the woods the faint sound of a saw, which coming from the
direction of the house seemed to say that some one was still at work
there. As I had understood that all the men had been given a
half-holiday, I felt somewhat surprised at this, and unconsciously to
myself moved a few steps nearer the opening where the house stood,
when suddenly all was still and I could not for the moment determine
whether I had really heard the sound of a saw or not. Annoyed at
myself, and ashamed of an interest that made every trivial incident
connected with this affair of such moment to me, I turned back to my
work, and in a few moments had finished it and left the wood, when
what was my astonishment to see Orrin coming from the same place,
with his face turned toward the village, and a hardy, determined
expression upon it which made me first wonder and then ask myself if I
really comprehended this man or knew what he cherished in his heart of
hearts.

Going straight up to him, I said:

"Well, Orrin, what's this? Coming away from the house instead of going
to it? I understood that you and Juliet were expecting to visit it
together this afternoon."

He paused, startled, and his eyes fell as I looked him straight in the
face.

"We are going to visit it," he admitted, "but I thought it would be
wiser for me to inspect the place first and see if all was right. An
unfinished building has so many traps in it, you know." And he laughed
loudly and long, but his mirth was forced, and I turned and looked
after him, as he strode away, with a vague but uneasy feeling I did
not myself understand.

"Will the Colonel go with you?" I called out.

He wheeled about as if stung. "Yes," he shouted, "the Colonel will go
with us. Did you suppose he would allow us the satisfaction of going
alone? I tell you, Philo," and he strode back to my side, "the Colonel
considers us his property. Is not that pleasant? His _property_! And
so we are," he fiercely added, "while we are his debtors. But we shall
not be his debtors long. When we are married--if we _are_ married--I
will take Juliet from this place if I have to carry her away by force.
She shall never be the mistress of this house."

"Orrin! Orrin!" I protested.

"I have said it," was his fierce rejoinder, and he left me for the
second time and passed hurriedly down the street.

I was therefore somewhat taken aback when a little while later he
reappeared with Juliet and the Colonel, in such a mood of forced
gayety that more than one turned to look after them as they passed
merrily laughing down the road. Will Juliet never be the mistress of
that house? I think she will, my Orrin. That dimpled smile of hers has
more force in it than that dominating will of yours. If she chooses to
hold her own she will hold it, and neither you nor the Colonel can
ever say her nay.

What did Orrin tell me? That she would never be mistress of that
house? Orrin was right, she never will; but who could have thought of
a tragedy like this? Not I, not I; and if Orrin did and planned it--
But let me tell the whole just as it happened, keeping down my horror
till the last word is written and I have plainly before me the awful
occurrences of this fearful day.

They went, the three, to that fatal house together, and no man, saving
myself perhaps, thought much more about the matter till we began to
see Juliet's father peering anxiously from over his gate in the
direction of the wood. Then we realized that the afternoon had long
passed and that it was getting dark; and going up to the old man, I
asked whom he was looking for. The answer was as we expected.

"I am looking for Juliet. The Colonel took her and Orrin up to their
new house, but they do not come back. I had a dreadful dream last
night, and it frightens me. Why don't they come? It must be dark
enough in the wood."

"They will come soon," I assured him, and moved off, for I do not like
Juliet's father.

But when I passed by there again a half-hour later and found the old
man still standing bare-headed and with craning neck at his post, I
became very uneasy myself, and proposed to two or three neighbors,
whom I found standing about, that we should go toward the woods and
see if all were well. They agreed, being affected, doubtless, like
myself, by the old man's fears, and as we proceeded down the street,
others joined us till we amounted in number to a half-dozen or more.
Yet, though the occasion seemed a strange one, we were not really
alarmed till we found ourselves at the woods and realized how dark
they were and how still. Then I began to feel an oppression at my
heart, and trod with careful and hesitating steps till we came into
the open space in which the house stands. Here it was lighter, but oh!
how still. I shall never forget how still; when suddenly a shrill cry
broke from one amongst us, and I saw Ralph Urphistone pointing with
finger frozen in horror at something which lay in ghastly outline upon
the broad stone which leads up to the gap of the great front door.

What was it? We dared not approach to see, yet we dared not linger
quiescent. One by one we started forward till finally we all stood in
a horrified circle about the thing that looked like a shadow, and yet
was not a shadow, but some horrible nightmare that made us gasp and
shudder till the moon came suddenly out, and we saw that what we
feared and shrank from were the bodies of Juliet and Orrin, he lying
with face upturned and arms thrown out, and she with her head pillowed
on his breast as if cast there in her last faint moment of
consciousness. They were both dead, having fallen through the planks
of the scaffolding, as was shown by the fatal gap open to the
moonlight above our heads. Dead! dead! and though no man there knew
how, the terror of their doom and the retribution it seemed to bespeak
went home to our hearts, and we bowed our heads with a simultaneous
cry of terror, which in that first moment was too overwhelming even
for grief.

The Colonel was nowhere to be seen, and after the first few minutes of
benumbing horror, we tried to call aloud his name. But the cries died
in our throat, and presently one amongst us withdrew into the house to
search, and then another and another, till I was left alone in awful
attendance upon the dead. Then I began to realize my own anguish, and
with some last fragment of secret jealousy--or was it from some other
less definite but equally imperative feeling?--was about to stoop
forward and lift her head from a pillow that I somehow felt defiled
it, when a quick hand drew me aside, and looking up, I saw Ralph
standing at my back. He did not speak, and his figure looked ghostly
in the moonlight, but his hand was pointing toward the house, and when
I moved to follow him, he led the way into the hollow entrance and up
the stairway till we came to the upper story where he stopped, and
motioned me toward a door opening into one of the rooms.

There were several of our number already standing there, so I did not
hesitate to approach, and as I went the darkness in which I had
hitherto moved disappeared before the broad band of moonlight shining
into the room before us, and I saw, darkly silhouetted against a
shining background, the crouching figure of the Colonel, staring with
hollow eyes and maddened mien out of the unfinished window through
which in all probability the devoted couple had stepped to their
destruction.

"Can you make him speak?" asked one. "He does not seem to heed us,
though we have shouted to him and even shook his arm."

"I shall not try," said I. "Horror like this should be respected." And
going softly in I took up my station by his side in silent awe.

But they would have me talk, and finally in some desperation I turned
to him and said, quietly:

"The scaffolding broke beneath them, did it not?" At which he first
stared and then flung up his arms with a wild but suppressed cry. But
he said nothing, and next moment had settled again into his old
attitude of silent horror and amazement.

"He might better be lying with them," I whispered after a moment,
coming from his side. And one by one they echoed my words, and as he
failed to move or even show any symptoms of active life, we gradually
drifted from the spot till we were all huddled again below in the
hollow blackness of that doorway guarded over by the dead.

Who should tell her father? They all looked at me, but I shook my
head, and it fell to another to perform this piteous errand, for
fearful thoughts were filling my brain, and Orrin did not look
altogether guiltless to me as he lay there dead beside the maiden he
had declared so fiercely should never be mistress of this house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Was ever such a night of horror known in this town!

They have brought the two bruised bodies down into the village and
they now lie side by side in the parlor where I last saw Juliet in the
bloom and glow of life. The Colonel is still crouching where I left
him. No one can make him speak and no one can make him move, and the
terror which his terror has produced affects the whole community, not
even the darkness of the night serving to lessen the wild excitement
which drives men and women about the streets as if it were broad
daylight, and makes of every house an open thorough-fare through
which anybody who wishes can pass.

I, who have followed every change and turn in this whole calamitous
affair, am like one benumbed at this awful crisis. I too go and come
through the streets, hear people say in shouts, in cries, with bitter
tears and wild lamentations, "Juliet is dead!" "Orrin is dead!" and
get no sense from the words. I have even been more than once to that
spot where they lie in immovable beauty, and though I gaze and gaze
upon them, I feel nothing--not even wonder. Only the remembrance of
that rigid figure frozen into its place above the gulf where so much
youth and so many high hopes fell, has power to move me. When amid the
shadows which surround me I see _that_, I shudder and the groan rises
slowly to my lips as if I too were looking down into a gulf from which
hope and love would never again rise.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Colonel is now in his father's house. He was induced to leave the
place by Ralph Urphistone's little child. When the great man first
felt the touch of those baby fingers upon his, he shuddered and half
recoiled, but as the little one pulled him gently but persistently
towards the stair, he gradually yielded to her persuasion, and
followed till he had descended to the ground-floor and left the fatal
house. I do not think any other power could have induced him to pass
that blood-stained threshold. For he seems thoroughly broken down, and
will, I fear, never be the same man that he was before this fearful
tragedy took place before his eyes.

All day I have paced the floor of my room asking myself if I should
allow Juliet to be laid away in the same tomb as Orrin. He was her
murderer, without doubt, and though he has shared her doom, was it
right for me to allow one stone to be raised above their united
graves. Feeling said no, but reason bade me halt before I disturbed
the whole community with whispers of a crime. I therefore remained
undecided, and it was in this same condition of doubt that I finally
went to the funeral and stood with the rest of the lads beside the
open grave which had been dug for the unhappy lovers in that sunny
spot beside the great church door. At sight of this grave and the twin
coffins about to be lowered into it, I felt my struggle renewed, and
yet I held my peace and listened as best I could to the minister's
words and the broken sobs of such as had envied these two in their
days of joyance, but had only pity for pleasure so soon over and hopes
doomed to such early destruction.

We were all there; Ralph and Lemuel and the other neighbors, old and
young, all except that chief of mourners, the Colonel; for he was
still under the influence of that horror which kept him enchained in
silence, and had not even been sensible enough of the day and its
mournful occasion to rise and go to the window as the long funeral
cortege passed his house. We were all there and the minister had said
the words, and Orrin's body had been lowered to its final rest, when
suddenly, as they were about to move Juliet, a tumult was observed in
the outskirts of the crowd, and the Colonel towering in his rage and
appalling in his just indignation, fought his way through the
recoiling masses till he stood in our very midst.

"Stop!" he cried, "this burial must not go on." And he advanced his
arm above Juliet's body as if he would intervene his very heart
between it and the place of darkness into which it was about to
descend. "She was the victim, he the murderer; they shall not lie
together if I have to fling myself between them in the grave which you
have dug."

"But--but," interposed the minister, calm and composed even in the
face of this portentous figure and the appalling words which it had
uttered, "by what right do you call this one a murderer and the other
a victim? Did you see him murder her? Was there a crime enacted before
your eyes?"

"The boards were sawn," was the startling answer. "They must have been
sawn or they would never have given way beneath so light a weight. And
then he urged her--I saw him--pleaded with her, drew her by force of
eye and hand to step upon the scaffold without, though there was no
need for it, and she recoiled. And when her light foot was on it and
her half-smiling, half-timid face looked back upon us, he leaped out
beside her, when instantly came the sound of a great crack, and I
heard his laugh and her cry go up together, and--and--everything has
been midnight in my soul ever since, till suddenly through the blank
and horror surrounding me I caught the words, 'They will lie together
in one tomb!' Then--then I awoke and my voice came back to me and my
memory, and hither I hastened to stop this unhallowed work; for to lay
the victim beside her murderer is a sacrilege which I for one would
come back even from the grave to prevent."

"But why," moaned the father feebly amid the cries and confusion which
had been aroused by so gruesome an interference on the brink of the
grave, "but why should Orrin wish my Juliet's death? They were to have
been married soon--"

But piteous as were his tones no one listened, for just then a lad who
had been hiding behind the throng stepped out before us, showing a
face so white and a manner so perturbed that we all saw that he had
something to say of importance in this matter.

"The boards _have_ been sawn," he said. "I wanted to know and I
climbed up to see." At which words the whole crowd moved and swayed,
and a dozen hands stooped to lift the body of Juliet and carry it away
from that accursed spot.

But the minister is a just man and cautious, and he lifted up his arms
in such protest that they paused.

"Who knows," he suggested, "that it was Orrin's hand which handled the
saw?"

And then I perceived that it was time for me to speak. So I raised my
voice and told my story, and as I told it the wonder grew on every
face and the head of each man slowly drooped till we all stood with
downcast eyes. For crime had never before been amongst us or soiled
the honor of our goodly town. Only the Colonel still stood erect; and
as the vision of his outstretched arm and flaming eyes burned deeper
and deeper into my consciousness, I stammered in my speech and then
sobbed, and was the first to lift the silent form of the beauteous
dead and bear it away from the spot denounced by one who had done so
much for her happiness and had met with such a bitter and
heart-breaking reward.

And where did we finally lay her? In that spot--ah! why does my blood
run chill while I write it--where she stood when she took that oath to
the Colonel, whose breaking caused her death.

A few words more and this record must be closed forever. That night,
when all was again quiet in the village and the mourners no longer
went about the streets, Lemuel, Ralph, and I went for a final visit to
the new stone house. It showed no change, that house, and save for the
broken scaffolding above gave no token of its having been the scene of
such a woful tragedy. But as we looked upon it from across its
gruesome threshold Lemuel said:

"It is a goodly structure and nigh completed, but the hand that began
it will never finish it, nor will man or woman ever sleep within its
walls. The place is accursed, and will stand accursed till it is
consumed by God's lightning or falls piecemeal to the ground from
natural decay. Though its stones are fresh, I see ruin already written
upon its walls."

It was a strong statement, and we did not believe it, but when we got
back to the village we were met by one who said:

"The Colonel has stopped the building of the new house. 'It is to be
an everlasting monument,' he says, 'to a rude man's pride and a sweet
woman's folly.'"

Will it be a monument that he will love to gaze upon? I wot not, or
any other man who remembers Juliet's loveliness and the charm it gave
to our village life for one short year.

       *       *       *       *       *

What was it that I said about this record being at an end? Some
records do not come to an end, and though twenty years have passed
since I wrote the above, I have cause this day to take these faded
leaves from their place and add a few lines to the story of the
Colonel's new house.

It is an old house now, old and desolate. As Lemuel said--he is one of
our first men--it is accursed and no one has ever felt brave enough or
reckless enough to care to cross again its ghostly threshold. Though I
never heard any one say it is haunted, there are haunting memories
enough surrounding it for one to feel a ghastly recoil from invading
precincts defiled by such a crime. So the kindly forest has taken it
into its protection, and Nature, who ever acts the generous part, has
tried to throw the mantle of her foliage over the decaying roof, and
about the lonesome walls, accepting what man forsakes and so
fulfilling her motherhood.

I am still a resident in the town, and I have a family now that has
outgrown the little cottage which the apple-tree once guarded. But it
is not to tell of them or of myself that I have taken these pages from
their safe retreat to-day, but to speak of the sight which I saw this
morning when I passed through the churchyard, as I often do, to pluck
a rose from the bush which we lads planted on Juliet's grave twenty
years ago. They always seem sweeter to me than other roses, and I take
a superstitious delight in them, in which my wife, strange to say,
does not participate. But that is neither here nor there.

The sight which I thought worth recording was this: I had come slowly
through the yard, for the sunshine was brilliant and the month June,
and sad as the spot is, it is strangely beautiful to one who loves
nature, when as I approached the corner where Juliet lies, and which
you will remember was in the very spot where I once heard her take her
reluctant oath, I saw crouched against her tomb a figure which seemed
both strange and vaguely familiar to me. Not being able to guess who
it was, as there is now nobody in town who remembers her with any more
devotion than myself, I advanced with sudden briskness, when the
person I was gazing upon rose, and turning towards me, looked with
deeply searching and most certainly very wretched eyes into mine. I
felt a shock, first of surprise, and then of wildest recollection. The
man before me was the Colonel, and the grief apparent in his face and
disordered mien showed that years of absence had not done their work,
and that he had never forgotten the arch and brilliant Juliet.

Bowing humbly and with a most reverent obeisance, for he was still the
great man of the county, though he had not been in our town for years,
I asked his pardon for my intrusion, and then drew back to let him
pass. But he stopped and gave me a keen look, and speaking my name,
said: "You are married, are you not?" And when I bowed the meek
acquiescence which the subject seemed to demand, he sighed as I
thought somewhat bitterly, and shrugging his shoulders, went
thoughtfully by and left me standing on the green sward alone. But
when he had reached the gate he turned again, and without raising his
voice, though the distance between us was considerable, remarked: "I
have come back to spend my remaining days in the village of my birth.
If you care to talk of old times, come to the house at sunset. You
will find me sitting on the porch."

Gratified more than I ever expected to be by a word from him, I bowed
my thanks and promised most heartily to come. And that was the end of
our first interview.

It has left me with very lively sensations. Will they be increased or
diminished by the talk he has promised me?

       *       *       *       *       *

I had a pleasant hour with the Colonel, but we did not talk of _her_.
Had I expected to? I judge so by the faint but positive disappointment
which I feel.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have been again to the Colonel's, but this time I did not find him
in. "He is much out evenings," explained the woman who keeps house
for him, "and you will have to come early to see him at his own
hearth."

       *       *       *       *       *

What is there about the Colonel that daunts me? He seems friendly,
welcomes my company, and often hands me the hospitable glass. But I am
never easy in his presence, though the distance between us is not so
great as it was in our young days, now that I have advanced in worldly
prosperity and he has stood still. Is it that his intellect cows me,
or do I feel too much the secret melancholy which breathes through all
his actions, and frequently cuts short his words? I cannot answer; I
am daunted by him and I am fascinated, and after leaving him think
only of the time when I shall see him again.

       *       *       *       *       *

The children, who have grown up since the Colonel has been gone, seem
very shy of him. I have noted them more than once shrink away from his
path, huddling and whispering in a corner, and quite forgetting to
play as long as his shadow fell across the green or the sound of his
feet could be heard on the turf. I think they fear his melancholy, not
understanding it. Or perhaps some hint of his sorrows has been given
them, and it is awe they feel rather than fear. However that may be,
no child ever takes his hand or prattles to him of its little joys or
griefs; and this in itself makes him look solitary, for we are much
given in this town to merry-making with our little ones, and it is a
common sight to see old and young together on the green, making sport
with ball or battledore.

And it is not the children only who hold him in high but distant
respect. The best men here are contented with a courteous bow from
him, while the women--matrons now, who once were blushing
maidens--think they have shown him enough honor if they make him a
deep curtsey and utter a mild "Good-morrow."

The truth is, he invites nothing more. He talks to me because he must
talk to some one, but our conversation is always of things outside of
our village life, and never by any chance of the place or any one in
it. He lives at his father's house, now his, and has for his sole
companion an old servant of the family, who was once his nurse, and
who is, I believe, the only person in the world who is devotedly
attached to him.

Unless it is myself. Sometimes I think I love him; sometimes I think I
do not. He fascinates me, and could make me do most anything he
pleased, but have I a real affection for him? Almost; and this is
something which I consider strange.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where does the Colonel go evenings? His old nurse has asked me, and I
find I cannot answer. Not to the tavern, for I am often there; not to
the houses of the neighbors, for none of them profess to know him.
Where then? Is the curiosity of my youth coming back to me? It looks
very much like it, Philo, very much like it.

       *       *       *       *       *

My daughter said to me to-day: "Father, do not go any more to the
Colonel's." And when I asked her why, she answered that her lover--she
has a _lover_, the minx--had told her that the Colonel held secret
talks with the witches, and though I laughed at this, it has set me
thinking. He goes to the forest at night, and roams for hours among
its shadows. Is this a healthy occupation for a man, especially a man
with a history? I shall go early to the Schuyler homestead to-night
and stay late, for these midnight communings with nature may be the
source of the hideous gloom which I have observed of late is growing
upon his spirits. No other duty seems to me now greater than this, to
win him back to a healthy realization of life, and the need there is
of looking cheerfully upon such blessings as are left to our lot.

       *       *       *       *       *

I went to the Colonel's at early candle-light, and I stayed till ten,
a late hour for me, and, as I hoped, for him. When I left I caught a
sight of old Hannah, standing in a distant hallway, and I thought she
looked grateful; at all events, she came forward very quickly after my
departure, for I heard the key turn in the lock of the great front
door before I had passed out of the gate.

Why did I not go home? I had meant to, and there was every reason why
I should. But I had no sooner felt the turf under my feet and seen the
stars over my head, than I began to wander in the very opposite
direction, and that without any very definite plan or purpose. I think
I was troubled, and if not troubled, restless, and yet movement did
not seem to help me, for I grew more uneasy with every step I took,
and began to look towards the woods to which I was half unconsciously
tending as if there I should find relief just as the Colonel, perhaps,
was in the habit of doing. Was it a mere foolish freak which had
assailed me, or was I under some uncanny influence, caught from the
place where I had been visiting?

I was yet asking myself this, when I heard distinctly through the
silence of the night the sound of a footstep behind me, and astonished
that any one else should have been beguiled at this hour into a walk
so dreary, I slipped into the shadow of a tree that stood at the
wayside and waited till the slowly advancing figure should pass and
leave me free to pursue my way or to go back unnoticed and
undisturbed.

I had not long to wait. In a moment a weirdly muffled form appeared
abreast of me, and it was with difficulty I suppressed a cry, for it
was the Colonel I saw, escaped, doubtless, from his old nurse's
surveillance, and as he passed he groaned, and the sad sound coming
through the night at a time when my own spirits were in no comfortable
mood affected me with almost a superstitious power, so that I trembled
where I stood and knew not whether to follow him or go back and seek
the cheer of my own hearth. But I decided in another moment to follow
him, and when he had withdrawn far enough up the road not to hear the
sound of my footfalls, I stepped out from my retreat and went with him
into the woods.

I have been as you know a midnight wanderer in that same place many a
time in my life; but never did I leave the fields and meadows with
such a foreboding dread, or step into the clustering shadows of the
forest with such a shrinking and awe-struck heart. Yet I went on
without a pause or an instant of hesitation, for I knew now where he
was going, and if he were going to the old stone house I was
determined to be his companion, or at least his watcher. For I knew
now that I loved him and could never see him come to ill.

There was no moon at this time, but the sound of his steps guided me
and when I had come into the open place where the stars shone I saw by
the movement which took place in the shadows lying around the open
door of the old house, that he was near the fatal threshold and would
in another moment be across it and within those mouldy halls. That I
was right, another instant proved, for suddenly through the great
hollow of the open portal a mild gleam broke and I saw he had lighted
a lantern and was moving about within the empty rooms.

Softly as man could go, I followed him. Crouching in the doorway, with
ear turned to the emptiness within, I listened. And as I did so, I
felt the chill run through my blood and stiffen the hair on my head,
for he was talking as he walked, and his tones were affable and
persuasive, as if two ghosts roamed noiselessly at his side and he
were showing them as in the days of yore, the beauties of his nearly
completed home.

"An ample parlor, you see," came in distinct, suave monotone to my
ear. "Room enough for many a couple on gala nights, as even sweet
Mistress Juliet will say. Do you like this fireplace, and will there
be space enough here for the portrait which Lawrence has promised to
make of young Madam Day? I do not like too much light myself, so I
have ordered curtains to be hung here. But if Mistress Juliet prefers
the sunshine, we will tell the men nay, for all is to be according to
your will, fair lady, as you must know, being here. Pardon me, that
was an evil step; you should have a quick eye for such mishaps, friend
Orrin, and not leave it to my courtesy to hold out a helping hand. Ah!
you like this dusky nook. It was made for a sweet young bride to hide
in when her heart's fulness demands quiet and rest. Do the trees come
too near the lattice? If so they shall be trimmed away. And this
dining-parlor--Can you judge of it with the floor half laid and its
wainscoting unnailed? I trow not, but you can trust me, pretty Juliet,
you can trust me; and Orrin, too, need not speak, for me to know just
how to finish this study for him. Up-stairs? You do not wish to go
up-stairs? Ah, then, you miss the very cream of the house. I have
worked with my own hand upon the rooms up-stairs, and there is a
little Cupid wrought into the woodwork of a certain door which I
greatly wish you to pass an opinion upon. I think the wings lack
airiness, but the workmen swear it is as if he would fly from the door
at a whisper. Come, Mistress Juliet; come, friend Orrin, if I lead the
way you need not hesitate. Come! come!"

Was he alone? Were those eager steps of his unaccompanied, and should
I not behold, if I looked within, the blooming face of Juliet and the
frowning brows of Orrin, crowding close behind him as he moved? The
fancy invoked by his words was so vivid, that for a moment I thought I
should, and I never shall forget the thrill which seized me as I
leaned forward and peered for one minute into the hall and saw there
his solitary figure pausing on the lower step of the stairs, with that
bend of the body which bespeaks an obeisance which is half homage and
half an invitation. He was still talking, and as he went up, he looked
back smiling and gossiping over his shoulder in a smooth and courtly
way which made it impossible for me to withdraw my fascinated eyes.

"No banisters, sweet Juliet? Not yet--not yet; but Orrin will protect
you from falling. No harm can come to you while he is at your side. Do
you admire this sweep to the stairs? I saw a vision when I planned it,
of a pretty woman coming down at the sound of her husband's step. The
step has changed in sound to my imagination, but the pretty woman is
prettier than ever, and will look her best as she comes down these
stairs. Oh, that is a window-ledge for flowers. A honeymoon is nothing
without flowers, and you must have forget-me-nots and <DW29>s here
till one cannot see from the window. You do not like such humble
flowers? Fie! Mistress Juliet, it is hard to believe that,--even Orrin
doubts it, as I see by his chiding air."

Here the gentle and bantering tones ceased, for he had reached the top
of the stair. But in another moment I heard them again as he passed
from room to room, pausing here and pausing there, till suddenly he
gave a cheerful laugh, spoke her name in most inviting accents, and
stepped into _that_ room.

Then as if roused into galvanic action, I rose and followed, going up
those midnight stairs and gaining the door where he had passed as if
the impulse moving me had lent to my steps a certainty which preserved
me from slipping even upon that dank and dangerous ascent. When in
view of him again, I saw, as I had expected, that he was drawn up by
the window and was bowing and beckoning with even more grace and
suavity than he had shown below. "Will you not step out, Mistress
Juliet?" he was saying; "I have a plan which I am anxious to submit to
your judgment and which can only be decided upon from without. A high
step true, but Orrin has lifted you over worse places and--and you
will do me a great favor if only--" Here he gave a malignant shriek,
and his countenance, from the most smiling and benignant expression,
altered into that of a fiend from hell. "Ha, ha, ha!" he yelled. "She
goes, and he is so fearful for her that he leaps after. That is a
goodly stroke! Both--both--Crack! Ah, she looks at me, she looks--"

Silence and then a frozen figure crouching before my eyes, just the
silence and just the figure I remembered seeing there twenty years
before, only the face is older and the horror, if anything, greater.
What did it mean? I tried to think, then as the full import of the
scene burst upon me, and I realized that it was a murderer I was
looking upon, and that Orrin, poor Orrin, had been innocent, I sank
back and fell upon the floor, lost in the darkness of an utter
unconsciousness.

I did not come to myself for hours; when I did I found myself alone in
the old house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nothing was ever done to the Colonel, for when I came to tell my story
the doctors said that the facts I related did not prove him to have
been guilty of crime, as his condition was such that his own words
could not be relied upon in a matter on which he had brooded more or
less morbidly for years. So now when I see him pass through the
churchyard or up and down the village street and note that he is
affable as ever when he sees me, but growing more and more preoccupied
with his own thoughts I do not know whether to look upon him with
execration or profoundest pity, nor can any man guide me or satisfy my
mind as to whether I should blame his jealousy or Orrin's pride for
the pitiful tragedy which once darkened my life, and turned our
pleasant village into a desert.

Of one thing only have I been made sure; that it was the Colonel who
lit the brand which fired Orrin's cottage.




A MEMORABLE NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.


I am a young physician of limited practice and great ambition. At the
time of the incidents I am about to relate, my office was in a
respectable house in Twenty-fourth Street, New York City, and was
shared, greatly to my own pleasure and convenience, by a clever young
German whose acquaintance I had made in the hospital, and to whom I
had become, in the one short year in which we had practised together,
most unreasonably attached. I say unreasonably, because it was a
liking for which I could not account even to myself, as he was neither
especially prepossessing in appearance nor gifted with any too great
amiability of character. He was, however, a brilliant theorist and an
unquestionably trustworthy practitioner, and for these reasons
probably I entertained for him a profound respect, and as I have
already said a hearty and spontaneous affection.

As our specialties were the same, and as, moreover, they were of a
nature which did not call for night-work, we usually spent the evening
together. But once I failed to join him at the office, and it is of
this night I have to tell.

I had been over to Orange, for my heart was sore over the quarrel I
had had with Dora, and I was resolved to make one final effort towards
reconciliation. But alas for my hopes, she was not at home; and, what
was worse, I soon learned that she was going to sail the next morning
for Europe. This news, coming as it did without warning, affected me
seriously, for I knew if she escaped from my influence at this time, I
should certainly lose her forever; for the gentleman concerning whom
we had quarrelled, was a much better match for her than I, and almost
equally in love. However, her father, who had always been my friend,
did not look upon this same gentleman's advantages with as favorable
an eye as she did, and when he heard I was in the house, he came
hurrying into my presence, with excitement written in every line of
his fine face.

"Ah, Dick, my boy," he exclaimed joyfully, "how opportune this is! I
was wishing you would come, for, do you know, Appleby has taken
passage on board the same steamer as Dora, and if he and she cross
together, they will certainly come to an understanding, and that will
not be fair to you, or pleasing to me; and I do not care who knows
it!"

I gave him one look and sank, quite overwhelmed, into the seat nearest
me. Appleby was the name of my rival, and I quite agreed with her
father that the _tete-a-tetes_ afforded by an ocean voyage would
surely put an end to the hopes which I had so long and secretly
cherished.

"Does she know he is going? Did she encourage him?" I stammered.

But the old man answered genially: "Oh, she knows, but I cannot say
anything positive about her having encouraged him. The fact is, Dick,
she still holds a soft place in her heart for you, and if you were
going to be of the party--"

"Well?"

"I think you would come off conqueror yet."

"Then I will be of the party," I cried. "It is only six now, and I can
be in New York by seven. That gives me five hours before midnight,
time enough in which to arrange my plans, see Richter, and make
everything ready for sailing in the morning."

"Dick, you are a trump!" exclaimed the gratified father. "You have a
spirit I like, and if Dora does not like it too, then I am mistaken in
her good sense. But can you leave your patients?"

"Just now I have but one patient who is in anything like a critical
condition," I replied, "and her case Richter understands almost as
well as I do myself. I will have to see her this evening of course and
explain, but there is time for that if I go now. The steamer sails at
nine?"

"Precisely."

"Do not tell Dora that I expect to be there; let her be surprised.
Dear girl, she is quite well, I hope?"

"Yes, very well; only going over with her aunt to do some shopping. A
poor outlook for a struggling physician, you think. Well, I don't know
about that; she is just the kind of a girl to go from one extreme to
another. If she once loves you she will not care any longer about
Paris fashions."

"She shall love me," I cried, and left him in a great hurry, to catch
the first train for Hoboken.

It seemed wild, this scheme, but I determined to pursue it. I loved
Dora too much to lose her, and if three weeks' absence would procure
me the happiness of my life, why should I hesitate to avail myself of
the proffered opportunity. I rode on air as the express I had taken
shot from station to station, and by the time I had arrived at
Christopher Street Ferry my plans were all laid and my time disposed
of till midnight.

It was therefore with no laggard step I hurried to my office, nor was
it with any ordinary feelings of impatience that I found Richter out;
for this was not his usual hour for absenting himself and I had much
to tell him and many advices to give. It was the first balk I had
received and I was fuming over it, when I saw what looked like a
package of books lying on the table before me, and though it was
addressed to my partner, I was about to take it up, when I heard my
name uttered in a tremulous tone, and turning, saw a man standing in
the doorway, who, the moment I met his eye, advanced into the room and
said:

"O doctor, I have been waiting for you an hour. Mrs. Warner has been
taken very bad, sir, and she prays that you will not delay a moment
before coming to her. It is something serious I fear, and she may have
died already, for she would have no one else but you, and it is now an
hour since I left her."

"And who are you?" I asked, for though I knew Mrs. Warner well--she is
the patient to whom I have already referred--I did not know her
messenger.

"I am a servant in the house where she was taken ill."

"Then she is not at home?"

"No, sir, she is in Second Avenue."

"I am very sorry," I began, "but I have not the time--"

But he interrupted eagerly: "There is a carriage at the door; we
thought you might not have your phaeton ready."

I had noticed the carriage.

"Very well," said I. "I will go, but first let me write a line--"

"O sir," the man broke in pleadingly, "do not wait for anything. She
is really very bad, and I heard her calling for you as I ran out of
the house."

"She had her voice then?" I ventured, somewhat distrustful of the
whole thing and yet not knowing how to refuse the man, especially as
it was absolutely necessary for me to see Mrs. Warner that night and
get her consent to my departure before I could think of making further
plans.

So, leaving word for Richter to be sure and wait for me if he came
home before I did, I signified to Mrs. Warner's messenger that I was
ready to go with him, and immediately took a seat in the carriage
which had been provided for me. The man at once jumped up on the box
beside the driver, and before I could close the carriage door we were
off, riding rapidly down Seventh Avenue.

As we went the thought came, "What if Mrs. Warner will not let me
off!" But I dismissed the fear at once, for this patient of mine is an
extremely unselfish woman, and if she were not too ill to grasp the
situation, would certainly sympathize with the strait I was in and
consent to accept Richter's services in place of my own, especially as
she knows and trusts him.

When the carriage stopped it was already dark and I could distinguish
little of the house I entered, save that it was large and old and did
not look like an establishment where a man servant would be likely to
be kept.

"Is Mrs. Warner here?" I asked of the man who was slowly getting down
from the box.

"Yes, sir," he answered quickly; and I was about to ring the bell
before me, when the door opened and a young German girl, courtesying
slightly, welcomed me in, saying:

"Mrs. Warner is up-stairs, sir; in the front room, if you please."

Not doubting her, but greatly astonished at the barren aspect of the
place I was in, I stumbled up the faintly lighted stairs before me and
entered the great front room. It was empty, but through an open door
at the other end I heard a voice saying: "He has come, madam"; and
anxious to see my patient, whose presence in this desolate house I
found it harder and harder to understand, I stepped into the room
where she presumably lay.

Alas! for my temerity in doing so; for no sooner had I crossed the
threshold than the door by which I had entered closed with a click
unlike any I had ever heard before, and when I turned to see what it
meant, another click came from the opposite side of the room, and I
perceived, with a benumbed sense of wonder, that the one person whose
somewhat shadowy figure I had encountered on entering had vanished
from the place, and that I was shut up alone in a room without visible
means of egress.

This was startling, and hard to believe at first, but after I had
tried the door by which I had entered and found it securely locked,
and then bounding to the other side of the room, tried the opposite
one with the same result, I could not but acknowledge I was caught.
What did it mean? Caught, and I was in haste, mad haste. Filling the
room with my cries, I shouted for help and a quick release, but my
efforts were naturally fruitless, and after exhausting myself in vain
I stood still and surveyed, with what equanimity was left me, the
appearance of the dreary place in which I had thus suddenly become
entrapped.


CHAPTER II.

It was a small square room, and I shall not soon forget with what a
foreboding shudder I observed that its four blank walls were literally
unbroken by a single window, for this told me that I was in no
communication with the street, and that it would be impossible for me
to summon help from the outside world. The single gas jet burning in a
fixture hanging from the ceiling was the only relief given to the eye
in the blank expanse of white wall that surrounded me; while as to
furniture, the room could boast of nothing more than an old-fashioned
black-walnut table and two chairs, the latter cushioned, but stiff in
the back and generally dilapidated in appearance. The only sign of
comfort about me was a tray that stood on the table, containing a
couple of bottles of wine and two glasses. The bottles were full and
the glasses clean, and to add to this appearance of hospitality a box
of cigars rested invitingly near, which I could not fail to perceive,
even at the first glance, were of the very best brand.

Astonished at these tokens of consideration for my welfare, and
confounded by the prospect which they offered of a lengthy stay in
this place, I gave another great shout; but to no better purpose than
before. Not a voice answered, and not a stir was heard in the house.
But there came from without the faint sound of suddenly moving wheels,
as if the carriage which I had left standing before the door had
slowly rolled away. If this were so, then was I indeed a prisoner,
while the moments so necessary to my plans, and perhaps to the
securing of my whole future happiness, were flying by like the wind.
As I realized this, and my own utter helplessness, I fell into one of
the chairs before me in a state of perfect despair. Not that any fears
for my life were disturbing me, though one in my situation might well
question if he would ever again breathe the open air from which he had
been so ingeniously lured. I did not in that first moment of utter
downheartedness so much as inquire the reason for the trick which had
been played upon me. No, my heart was full of Dora, and I was asking
myself if I were destined to lose her after all, and that through no
lack of effort on my part, but just because a party of thieves or
blackmailers had thought fit to play a game with my liberty.

It could not be; there must be some mistake about it; it was some
great joke, or I was the victim of a dream, or suffering from some
hideous nightmare. Why, only a half hour before I was in my own
office, among my own familiar belongings, and now--But, alas, it was
no delusion. Only four blank, whitewashed walls met my inquiring eyes,
and though I knocked and knocked again upon the two doors which
guarded me on either side, hollow echoes continued to be the only
answer I received.

Had the carriage then taken away the two persons I had seen in this
house, and was I indeed alone in its great emptiness? The thought made
me desperate, but notwithstanding this I was resolved to continue my
efforts, for I might be mistaken; there might yet be some being left
who would yield to my entreaties if they were backed by something
substantial.

Taking out my watch, I laid it on the table; it was just a quarter to
eight. Then I emptied my trousers pockets of whatever money they held,
and when all was heaped up before me, I could count but twelve
dollars, which, together with my studs and a seal ring which I wore,
seemed a paltry pittance with which to barter for the liberty of which
I had been robbed. But it was all I had with me, and I was willing to
part with it at once if only some one would unlock the door and let me
go. But how to make known my wishes even if there was any one to
listen to them? I had already called in vain, and there was no
bell--yes, there was; why had I not seen it before? There was a bell
and I sprang to ring it. But just as my hand fell on the cord, I heard
a gentle voice behind my back saying in good English, but with a
strong foreign accent:

"Put up your money, Mr. Atwater; we do not want your money, only your
society. Allow me to beg you to replace both watch and money."

Wheeling about in my double surprise at the presence of this intruder
and his unexpected acquaintance with my name, I encountered the
smiling glance of a middle-aged man of genteel appearance and
courteous manners. He was bowing almost to the ground, and was, as I
instantly detected, of German birth and education, a gentleman, and
not the blackleg I had every reason to expect to see.

"You have made a slight mistake," he was saying; "it is your society,
only your society, that we want."

Astonished at his appearance, and exceedingly irritated by his words,
I stepped back as he offered me my watch, and bluntly cried:

"If it is my society only that you want, you have certainly taken very
strange means to procure it. A thief could have set no neater trap,
and if it is money you want, state your sum and let me go, for my time
is valuable and my society likely to be unpleasant."

He gave a shrug with his shoulders that in no wise interfered with his
set smile.

"You choose to be facetious," he observed. "I have already remarked
that we have no use for your money. Will you sit down? Here is some
excellent wine, and if this brand of cigars does not suit you, I will
send for another."

"Send for the devil!" I cried, greatly exasperated. "What do you mean
by keeping me in this place against my will? Open that door and let me
out, or--"

I was ready to spring and he saw it. Smiling more atrociously than
ever, he slipped behind the table, and before I could reach him, had
quietly drawn a pistol, which he cocked before my eyes.

"You are excited," he remarked, with a suavity that nearly drove me
mad. "Now excitement is no aid to good company, and I am determined
that none but good company shall be in this room to-night. So if you
will be kind enough to calm yourself, Mr. Atwater, you and I may yet
enjoy ourselves, but if not--" the action he made was significant, and
I felt the cold sweat break out on my forehead through all the heat of
my indignation.

But I did not mean to show him that he had intimidated me.

"Excuse me," said I, "and put down your pistol. Though you are making
me lose irredeemable time, I will try and control myself enough to
give you an opportunity for explaining yourself. Why have you
entrapped me into this place?"

"I have already told you," said he, gently laying the pistol before
him, but within easy reach of his hand.

"But that is preposterous," I began, fast losing my self-control
again. "You do not know me, and if you did--"

"Pardon me, you see I know your name."

Yes, that was true, and the fact set me thinking. How did he know my
name? I did not know him, nor did I know this house, or any reason for
which I could have been beguiled into it. Was I the victim of a
conspiracy, or was the man mad? Looking at him very earnestly, I
declared:

"My name is Atwater, and so far you are right, but in learning that
much about me you must also have learned that I am neither rich nor
influential, nor of any special value to a blackmailer. Why choose me
out then for--your society? Why not choose some one who can--talk?"

"I find your conversation very interesting."

Baffled, exasperated almost beyond the power to restrain myself, I
shook my fist in his face, notwithstanding I saw his hand fly to his
pistol.

"Let me go!" I shrieked. "Let me go out of this place. I have
business, I tell you, important business which means everything to me,
and which, if I do not attend to it to-night, will be lost to me for
ever. Let me go, and I will so far reward you that I will speak to no
one of what has taken place here to-night, but go my ways, forgetful
of you, forgetful of this house, forgetful of all connected with it."

"You are very good," was his quiet reply, "but this wine has to be
drunk." And he calmly poured out a glass, while I drew back in
despair. "You do not drink wine?" he queried, holding up the glass he
had filled between himself and the light. "It is a pity, for it is of
most rare vintage. But perhaps you smoke?"

Sick and disgusted, I found a chair, and sat down in it. If the man
were crazy, there was certainly method in his madness. Besides, he
had not a crazy eye; there was calm calculation in it and not a little
good-nature. Did he simply want to detain me, and if so, did he have a
motive it would pay me to fathom before I exerted myself further to
insure my release? Answering the wave he made me with his hand by
reaching out for the bottle and filling myself a glass, I forced
myself to speak more affably as I remarked:

"If the wine must be drunk, we had better be about it, as you cannot
mean to detain me more than an hour, whatever reason you may have for
wishing my society."

He looked at me inquiringly before answering, then tossing off his
glass, he remarked:

"I am sorry, but in an hour a man can scarcely make the acquaintance
of another man's exterior."

"Then you mean--"

"To know you thoroughly, if you will be so good; I may never have the
opportunity again."

He must be mad; nothing else but mania could account for such words
and such actions; and yet, if mad, why was he allowed to enter my
presence? The man who brought me here, the woman who received me at
the door, had not been mad.

"And I must stay here--" I began.

"Till I am quite satisfied. I am afraid that will take till morning."

I gave a cry of despair, and then in my utter desperation spoke up to
him as I would to a man of feeling:

"You don't know what you are doing; you don't know what I shall suffer
by any such cruel detention. This night is not like other nights to
me. This is a special night in my life, and I need it, I need it, I
tell you, to spend as I will. The woman I love"--it seemed horrible to
speak of her in this place, but I was wild at my helplessness, and
madly hoped I might awake some answering chord in a breast which could
not be void of all feeling or he would not have that benevolent look
in his eye--"the woman I love," I repeated, "sails for Europe
to-morrow. We have quarrelled, but she still cares for me, and if I
can sail on the same steamer, we will yet make up and be happy."

"At what time does this steamer start?"

"At nine in the morning."

"Well, you shall leave this house at eight. If you go directly to the
steamer you will be in time."

"But--but," I panted, "I have made no arrangements. I shall have to go
to my lodgings, write letters, get money. I ought to be there at this
moment. Have you no mercy on a man who never did you wrong, and only
asks to quit you and forget the precious hour you have made him lose?"

"I am sorry," he said, "it is certainly quite unfortunate, but the
door will not be opened before eight. There is really no one in the
house to unlock it."

"And do you mean to say," I cried aghast, "that you could not open
that door if you would, that you are locked in here as well as I, and
that I must remain here till morning, no matter how I feel or you
feel?"

"Will you not take a cigar?" he asked.

Then I began to see how useless it was to struggle, and visions of
Dora leaning on the steamer rail with that serpent whispering soft
entreaties in her ear came rushing before me, till I could have wept
in my jealous chagrin.

"It is cruel, base, devilish," I began. "If you had the excuse of
wanting money, and took this method of wringing my all from me, I
could have patience, but to entrap and keep me here for nothing, when
my whole future happiness is trembling in the balance, is the work of
a fiend and--" I made a sudden pause, for a strange idea had struck
me.


CHAPTER III.

What if this man, these men and this woman, were in league with him
whose rivalry I feared, and whom I had intended to supplant on the
morrow. It was a wild surmise, but was it any wilder than to believe I
was held here for a mere whim, a freak, a joke, as this bowing,
smiling man before me would have me believe?

Rising in fresh excitement, I struck my hand on the table. "You want
to keep me from going on the steamer," I cried. "That other wretch who
loves her has paid you--"

But that other wretch could not know that I was meditating any such
unusual scheme, as following him without a full day's warning. I
thought of this even before I had finished my sentence, and did not
need the blank astonishment in the face of the man before me to
convince me that I had given utterance to a foolish accusation. "It
would have been some sort of a motive for your actions," I humbly
added, as I sank back from my hostile attitude; "now you have none."

I thought he bestowed upon me a look of quiet pity, but if so he soon
hid it with his uplifted glass.

"Forget the girl," said he; "I know of a dozen just as pretty."

I was too indignant to answer.

"Women are the bane of life," he now sententiously exclaimed. "They
are ever intruding themselves between a man and his comfort, as for
instance just now between yourself and this good wine."

I caught up the bottle in sheer desperation.

"Don't talk of them," I cried, "and I will try and drink. I almost
wish there was poison in the glass. My death here might bring
punishment upon you."

He shook his head, totally unmoved by my passion.

"We deal punishment, not receive it. It would not worry me in the
least to leave you lying here upon the floor."

I did not believe this, but I did not stop to weigh the question
then; I was too much struck by a word he had used.

"Deal punishment?" I repeated. "Are you punishing me? Is that why I am
here?"

He laughed and held out his glass to mine.

"You enjoy being sarcastic," he observed. "Well, it gives a spice to
conversation, I own. Talk is apt to be dull without it."

For reply I struck the glass from his hand; it fell and shivered, and
he looked for the moment really distressed.

"I had rather you had struck me," he remarked, "for I have an answer
for an injury like that; but for a broken glass--" He sighed and
looked dolefully at the pieces on the floor.

Mortified and somewhat ashamed, I put down my own glass.

"You should not have exasperated me," I cried, and walked away beyond
temptation, to the other side of the room.

His spirits had received a dampener, but in a few minutes he seized
upon a cigar and began smoking; as the wreaths curled over his head he
began to talk, and this time it was on subjects totally foreign to
myself and even to himself. It was good talk; that I recognized,
though I hardly listened to what he said. I was asking myself what
time it had now got to be, and what was the meaning of my
incarceration, till my brain became weary and I could scarcely
distinguish the topic he discussed. But he kept on for all my seeming,
and indeed real, indifference, kept on hour after hour in a monologue
he endeavored to make interesting, and which probably would have been
so if the time and occasion had been fit for my enjoying it. As it
was, I had no ear for his choicest phrases, his subtlest criticisms,
or his most philosophic disquisitions. I was wrapped up in self and my
cruel disappointment, and when in a certain access of frenzy I leaped
to my feet and took a look at the watch still lying on the table, and
saw it was four o'clock in the morning, I gave a bound of final
despair, and throwing myself on the floor, gave myself up to the heavy
sleep that mercifully came to relieve me.

I was roused by feeling a touch on my breast. Clapping my hand to the
spot where I had felt the intruding hand, I discovered that my watch
had been returned to my pocket. Drawing it out I first looked at it
and then cast my eyes quickly about the room. There was no one with
me, and the doors stood open between me and the hall. It was eight
o'clock, as my watch had just told me.

That I rushed from the house and took the shortest road to the
steamer, goes without saying. I could not cross the ocean with Dora,
but I might yet see her and tell her how near I came to giving her my
company on that long voyage which now would only serve to further the
ends of my rival. But when, after torturing delays on cars and
ferry-boats, and incredible efforts to pierce a throng that was
equally determined not to be pierced, I at last reached the wharf, it
was to behold her, just as I had fancied in my wildest moments,
leaning on a rail of the ship and listening, while she abstractedly
waved her hand to some friends below, to the words of the man who had
never looked so handsome to me or so odious as at this moment of his
unconscious triumph. Her father was near her, and from his eager
attitude and rapidly wandering gaze I saw that he was watching for me.
At last he spied me struggling aboard, and immediately his face
lighted up in a way which made me wish he had not thought it necessary
to wait for my anticipated meeting with his daughter.

"Ah, Dick, you are late," he began, effusively, as I put foot on deck.

But I waved him back and went at once to Dora.

"Forgive me, pardon me," I incoherently said, as her sweet eyes rose
in startled pleasure to mine. "I would have brought you flowers, but I
meant to sail with you, Dora, I tried to--but wretches, villains,
prevented it and--and--"

"Oh, it does not matter," she said, and then blushed, probably because
the words sounded unkind, "I mean--"

But she could not say what she meant, for just then the bell rang for
all visitors to leave, and her father came forward, evidently thinking
all was right between us, smiled benignantly in her face, gave her a
kiss and me a wink and disappeared in the crowd that was now rapidly
going ashore.

I felt that I must follow, but I gave her one look and one squeeze of
the hand, and then as I saw her glances wander to his face, I groaned
in spirit, stammered some words of choking sorrow and was gone, before
her embarrassment would let her speak words, which I knew would only
add to my grief and make this hasty parting unendurable.

The look of amazement and chagrin with which her father met my
reappearance on the dock can easily be imagined.

"Why, Dick," he exclaimed, "aren't you going after all? I thought I
could rely on you. Where's your pluck, lad? Scared off by a frown? I
wouldn't have believed it, Dick. What if she does frown to-day; she
will smile to-morrow."

I shook my head; I could not tell him just then that it was not
through any lack of pluck on my part that I had failed him.

When I left the dock I went straight to a restaurant, for I was faint
as well as miserable. But my cup of coffee choked me and the rolls and
eggs were more than I could face. Rising impatiently, I went out. Was
any one more wretched than I that morning and could any one nourish a
more bitter grievance? As I strode towards my lodgings I chewed the
cud of my disappointment till my wrongs loomed up like mountains and
I was seized by a spirit of revenge. Should I let such an interference
as I had received go unpunished? No, if the wretch who had detained me
was not used to punishment he should receive a specimen of it now and
from a man who was no longer a prisoner, and who once aroused did not
easily forego his purposes. Turning aside from my former destination,
I went immediately to a police-station and when I had entered my
complaint was astonished to see that all the officials had grouped
about me and were listening to my words with the most startled
interest.

"Was the man who came for you a German?" one asked.

I said "Yes."

"And the man who stood guardian over you and entertained you with wine
and cigars, was not he a German too?"

I nodded acquiescence and they at once began to whisper together; then
one of them advanced to me and said:

"You have not been home, I understand; you had better come."

Astonished by his manner I endeavored to inquire what he meant, but he
drew me away, and not till we were within a stone's throw of my office
did he say, "You must prepare yourself for a shock. The impertinences
you suffered from last night were unpleasant no doubt, but if you had
been allowed to return home, you might not now be deploring them in
comparative peace and safety."

"What do you mean?"

"That your partner was not as fortunate as yourself. Look up at the
house; what do you see there?"

A crowd was what I saw first, but he made me look higher, and then I
perceived that the windows of my room, of our room, were shattered and
blackened and that part of the casement of one had been blown out.

"A fire!" I shrieked. "Poor Richter was smoking--"

"No, he was not smoking. He had no time for a smoke. An infernal
machine burst in that room last night and your friend was its wretched
victim."

I never knew why my friend's life was made a sacrifice to the revenge
of his fellow-countrymen. Though we had been intimate in the year we
had been together, he had never talked to me of his country and I had
never seen him in company with one of his own nation. But that he was
the victim of some political revenge was apparent, for though it
proved impossible to find the man who had detained me, the house was
found and ransacked, and amongst other secret things was discovered
the model of the machine which had been introduced into our room, and
which had proved so fatal to the man it was addressed to. Why men who
were so relentless in their purposes towards him should have taken
such pains to keep me from sharing his fate, is one of those anomalies
in human nature which now and then awake our astonishment. If I had
not lost Dora through my detention at their hands I should look back
upon that evening with sensations of thankfulness. As it is, I
sometimes question if it would not have been better if they had let me
take my chances.

       *       *       *       *       *

Have I lost Dora? From a letter I received to-day I begin to think
not.




THE BLACK CROSS.


A black cross had been set against Judge Hawkins' name; why, it is not
for me to say. We were not accustomed to explain our motives or to
give reasons for our deeds. The deeds were enough, and this black
cross meant death; and when it had been shown us, all that we needed
to know further was at what hour we should meet for the contemplated
raid.

A word from the captain settled that; and when the next Friday came, a
dozen men met at the place of rendezvous, ready for the ride which
should bring them to the Judge's solitary mansion across the
mountains.

I was amongst them, and in as satisfactory a mood as I had ever been
in my life; for the night was favorable, and the men hearty and in
first-rate condition.

But after we had started, and were threading a certain wood, I began
to have doubts. Feelings I had never before experienced assailed me
with a force that first perplexed and then astounded me. I was afraid,
and what rather heightened than diminished the unwonted sensation, was
the fact that I was not afraid of anything tangible, either in the
present or future, but of something unexplainable and peculiar, which,
if it lay in the skies, certainly made them look dark indeed; and if
it hid in the forest, caused its faintest murmur to seem like the
utterance of a great dread, as awful as it was inexplicable.

I nevertheless proceeded, and should have done so if the great streaks
of lightning which now and then shot zigzag through the sky had taken
the shape of words and bid us all beware. I was not one to be daunted,
and knew no other course than that of advance when once a stroke of
justice had been planned, and the direction for its fulfilment marked
out. I went on, but I began to think, and that to me was an
experience; for I had never been taught to reflect, only to fight and
obey.

The house towards which we were riding was built on a hillside, and
the first thing we saw on emerging from the forest, was a light
burning in one of its distant windows. This was a surprise; for the
hour was late, and in that part of the country people were accustomed
to retire early, even such busy men as the Judge. He must have a
visitor, and a visitor meant a possible complication of affairs; so a
halt was called and I was singled out to reconnoitre the premises, and
bring back word of what we had a right to expect.

I started off in a strange state of mind. The fear I had spoken of had
left me, but a vague shadow remained, through which, as through a
mist, I saw the light in that far away window beckoning me on to what
I felt was in some way to make an end of my present life. As I drew
nearer to it, the feeling increased; then it, too, left me, and I
found myself once more the daring avenger. This was when I came to the
foot of the hill and discovered I had but a few steps more to take.

The house, which had now become plainly visible, was a solid one of
stone, built as I have said, on the hillside. It faced the road, as
was shown by the large portico, dimly to be discerned in that
direction; but its rooms were mainly on the side, and it was from one
of these that the light shone. As I came yet nearer, I perceived that
these rooms were guarded by a piazza, which, communicating with the
portico in front, afforded an open road to that window and a clear
sight of what lay behind it.

I was instantly off my horse and upon the piazza, and before I had had
time to realize that my fears had returned to me with double force, I
had crept with stealthy steps towards that uncurtained window and
looked in.

What did I see? At first nothing but a calm, studious figure, bending
above a batch of closely written papers, upon which the light shone
too brightly for me to perceive much of what lay beyond them. But
gradually an influence, of whose workings I was scarcely conscious,
drew my eyes away, and I began to discover on every side strange and
beautiful objects which greatly interested me, until suddenly my eyes
fell upon a vision of loveliness so enchanting that I forgot to look
elsewhere, and became for the moment nothing but sight and feeling.

It was a picture, or so I thought in that first instant of awe and
delight. But presently I saw that it was a woman, living and full of
the thoughts that had never been mine; and at the discovery a sudden
trembling seized me; for I had never seen anything in heaven or earth
like her beauty, while she saw nothing but the man who was bending
over his papers.

There was a door or something dark behind her, and against it her tall
strong figure, clad in a close white gown, stood out with a
distinctness that was not altogether earthly. But it was her face that
held me, and made of me from moment to moment a new man.

For in it I discerned what I had never believed in till now, devotion
that had no limit, and love which asked nothing in return. She seemed
to be faltering on the threshold of that room, like one who would like
to enter but does not dare, and in another moment, with a smile that
pierced me through and through, she turned as if to go. Instantly I
forgot everything but my despair, and leaned forward with an
impetuosity that betrayed my presence, for she glanced quickly towards
the window, and seeing me, turned pale, even while she rose in height
till I felt myself shrink and grow small before her.

Thrusting out her hand, she caught from the table before her what
looked like a small dagger, and holding it up, advanced upon me with
blazing eyes and parted lips, not seeing that the Judge had risen to
his feet, not seeing anything but my face glued against the pane, and
staring with an expression that must have struck her to the heart as
surely as her look pierced mine. When she was almost upon me I turned
and fled. Hell could not have frightened me, but Heaven did; and for
me that woman was Heaven whether she smiled or frowned, gazed upon
another with love, or raised a dagger to strike me to the ground.

How soon I met my mates I cannot say. In a few minutes, doubtless, for
they had stolen after me and had detected me running away from the
window. I was forced to tell my tale, and I told it unhesitatingly,
for I knew I could not save him--if I wanted to--and I knew I should
save her or die in the attempt.

"He is alone there with a girl," I announced. "Whether she is his wife
or not I cannot say, but there is no cross against her name, and I
ask that she be spared not only from sharing his fate, but from the
sight of his death, for she loves him."

This from me! No wonder the captain stared, then laughed. But I did
not laugh in return, and being the strongest man in the band and the
surest with my rifle, he did not trifle long, but listened to my plans
and in part consented to them, so that I retreated to my post at the
gateway with something like confidence, while he, approaching the
door, lifted the knocker and let it fall with a resounding clang that
must have rung like a knell of death to the hearts within.

For the Judge knew our errand. I saw it in his face when he rose to
his feet, and he had no hope, for we had never failed in our attempts,
and the house, though strongly built, was easily assailable.

       *       *       *       *       *

While the captain knocked, three men had scaled the portico and were
ready to enter the open windows, if the Judge refused to appear or
offered any resistance to what was known as the captain's will.

"Death to the Judge!" was the cry; and it was echoed not only at the
door, but around the house, where the rest of the men had drawn a
cordon ready to waylay any one who sought to escape. Death to the
Judge! And the Judge was loved by that woman and would be mourned by
her till--But a voice is speaking, a voice from out that great house,
and it asks what is wanted and what the meaning is of these threats of
death.

And the captain answers short and sharp:

"The Ku-Klux commands but never explains. What it commands now is for
Judge Hawkins to come forth. If he shrinks or delays his house will be
entered and burnt; but if he will come out and meet like a man what
awaits him, his house shall go free and his family remain unmolested."

"And what is it that awaits him?" pursued the voice.

"Four bullets from four unerring rifles," returned the captain.

"It is well; he will come forth," cried the voice, and then in a
huskier tone: "Let me kiss the woman I love. I will not keep you
long."

And the captain answered nothing, only counted out clearly and
steadily, "One--two--three," up to a hundred, then he paused, turned,
and lifted his hand; when instantly our four rifles rose, and at the
same moment the door, with a faint grating sound I shall never forget,
slowly opened and the firm, unshrinking figure of the Judge appeared.

We did not delay. One simultaneous burst of fire, one loud quick
crack, and his figure fell before our eyes. A sound, a cry from
within, then all was still, and the captain, mounting his horse, gave
one quick whistle and galloped away. We followed him, but I was the
last to mount, and did not follow long; for at the flash of those guns
I had seen a smile cross our victim's lip, and my heart was on fire,
and I could not rest till I had found my way back to that open doorway
and the figure lying within it.

There it was, and behind it a house empty as my heart has been since
that day. A man's dress covering a woman's form--and over the
motionless, perfect features, that same smile which I had seen in the
room beyond and again in the quick glare of the rifles.

I had harbored no evil thought concerning her, but when I beheld that
smile now sealed and fixed upon her lips, I found the soul I had never
known I possessed until that day.




A MYSTERIOUS CASE.


It was a mystery to me, but not to the other doctors. They took, as
was natural, the worst possible view of the matter, and accepted the
only solution which the facts seem to warrant. But they are men, and I
am a woman; besides, I knew the nurse well, and I could not believe
her capable of wilful deceit, much less of the heinous crime which
deceit in this case involved. So to me the affair was a mystery.

The facts were these:

My patient, a young typewriter, seemingly without friends or enemies,
lay in a small room of a boarding-house, afflicted with a painful but
not dangerous malady. Though she was comparatively helpless, her vital
organs were strong, and we never had a moment's uneasiness concerning
her, till one morning when we found her in an almost dying condition
from having taken, as we quickly discovered, a dose of poison,
instead of the soothing mixture which had been left for her with the
nurse. Poison! and no one, not even herself or the nurse, could
explain how the same got into the room, much less into her medicine.
And when I came to study the situation, I found myself as much at loss
as they; indeed, more so; for I knew I had made no mistake in
preparing the mixture, and that, even if I had, this especial poison
could not have found its way into it, owing to the fact that there
neither was nor ever had been a drop of it in my possession.

The mixture, then, was pure when it left my hand, and, according to
the nurse, whom, as I have said, I implicitly believe, it went into
the glass pure. And yet when, two hours later, without her having left
the room or anybody coming into it, she found occasion to administer
the draught, poison was in the cup, and the patient was only saved
from death by the most immediate and energetic measures, not only on
her part, but on that of Dr. Holmes, whom in her haste and
perturbation she had called in from the adjacent house.

The patient, young, innocent, unfortunate, but of a strangely
courageous disposition, betrayed nothing but the utmost surprise at
the peril she had so narrowly escaped. When Dr. Holmes intimated that
perhaps she had been tired of suffering, and had herself found means
of putting the deadly drug into her medicine, she opened her great
gray eyes, with such a look of child-like surprise and reproach, that
he blushed, and murmured some sort of apology.

"Poison myself?" she cried, "when you promise me that I shall get
well? You do not know what a horror I have of dying in debt, or you
would never say that."

This was some time after the critical moment had passed, and there
were in the room Mrs. Dayton, the landlady, Dr. Holmes, the nurse, and
myself. At the utterance of these words we all felt ashamed and cast
looks of increased interest at the poor girl.

She was very lovely. Though without means, and to all appearance
without friends, she possessed in great degree the charm of
winsomeness, and not even her many sufferings, nor the indignation
under which she was then laboring, could quite rob her countenance of
that tender and confiding expression which so often redeems the
plainest face and makes beauty doubly attractive.

"Dr. Holmes does not know you," I hastened to say; "I do, and utterly
repel for you any such insinuation. In return, will you tell me if
there is any one in the world whom you can call your enemy? Though the
chief mystery is how so deadly and unusual a poison could have gotten
into a clean glass, without the knowledge of yourself or the nurse,
still it might not be amiss to know if there is any one, here or
elsewhere, who for any reason might desire your death."

The surprise in the child-like eyes increased rather than diminished.

"I don't know what to say," she murmured. "I am so insignificant and
feeble a person that it seems absurd for me to talk of having an
enemy. Besides, I have none. On the contrary, every one seems to love
me more than I deserve. Haven't you noticed it, Mrs. Dayton?"

The landlady smiled and stroked the sick girl's hand.

"Indeed," she replied, "I have noticed that people love you, but I
have never thought that it was more than you deserved. You are a dear
little thing, Addie."

And though she knew and I knew that the "every one" mentioned by the
poor girl meant ourselves, and possibly her unknown employer, we were
none the less touched by her words. The more we studied the mystery,
the deeper and less explainable did it become.

And indeed I doubt if we should have ever got to the bottom of it, if
there had not presently occurred in my patient a repetition of the
same dangerous symptoms, followed by the same discovery, of poison in
the glass, and the same failure on the part of herself and nurse to
account for it. I was aroused from my bed at midnight to attend her,
and as I entered her room and met her beseeching eyes looking upon me
from the very shadow of death, I made a vow that I would never cease
my efforts till I had penetrated the secret of what certainly looked
like a persistent attempt upon this poor girl's life.

I went about the matter deliberately. As soon as I could leave her
side, I drew the nurse into a corner and again questioned her. The
answers were the same as before. Addie had shown distress as soon as
she had swallowed her usual quantity of medicine, and in a few minutes
more was in a perilous condition.

"Did you hand the glass yourself to Addie?"

"I did."

"Where did you take it from?"

"From the place where you left it--the little stand on the farther
side of the bed."

"And do you mean to say that you had not touched it since I prepared
it?"

"I do, ma'am."

"And that no one else has been in the room?"

"No one, ma'am."

I looked at her intently. I trusted her, but the best of us are but
mortal.

"Can you assure me that you have not been asleep during this time?"

"Look at this letter I have been writing," she returned. "It is eight
pages long, and it was not begun when you left us at 10 o'clock."

I shook my head and fell into a deep revery. How was that matter to be
elucidated, and how was my patient to be saved? Another draught of
this deadly poison, and no power on earth could resuscitate her. What
should I do, and with what weapons should I combat a danger at once so
subtle and so deadly? Reflection brought no decision, and I left the
room at last, determined upon but one point, and that was the
immediate removal of my patient. But before I had left the house I
changed my mind even on this point. Removal of the patient meant
safety to her, perhaps, but not the explanation of her mysterious
poisoning. I would change the position of her bed, and I would even
set a watch over her and the nurse, but I would not take her out of
the house--not yet.

And what had produced this change in my plans? The look of a woman
whom I met on the stairs. I did not know her, but when I encountered
her glance I felt that there was some connection between us, and I was
not at all surprised to hear her ask:

"And how is Miss Wilcox to-day?"

"Miss Wilcox is very low," I returned. "The least neglect, the least
shock to her nerves, would be sufficient to make all my efforts
useless. Otherwise--"

"She will get well?"

I nodded. I had exaggerated the condition of the sufferer, but some
secret instinct compelled me to do so. The look which passed over the
woman's face satisfied me that I had done well; and, though I left the
house, it was with the intention of speedily returning and making
inquiries into the woman's character and position in the household.

I learned little or nothing. That she occupied a good room and paid
for it regularly seemed to be sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Dayton. Her
name, which proved to be Leroux, showed her to be French, and her
promptly paid $10 a week showed her to be respectable--what more could
any hard-working landlady require? But I was distrustful. Her face,
though handsome, possessed an eager, ferocious look which I could not
forget, and the slight gesture with which she had passed me at the
close of the short conversation I have given above had a suggestion of
triumph in it which seemed to contain whole volumes of secret and
mysterious hate. I went into Miss Wilcox's room very thoughtful.

"I am going--"

But here the nurse held up her hand. "Hark," she whispered; she had
just set the clock, and was listening to its striking.

I did hark, but not to the clock.

"Whose step is that?" I asked, after she had left the clock, and sat
down.

"Oh, some one in the next room. The walls here are very thin--only
boards in places."

I did not complete what I had begun to say. If I could hear steps
through the partition, then could our neighbors hear us talk, and what
I had determined upon must be kept secret from all outsiders. I drew a
sheet of paper toward me and wrote:

"I shall stay here to-night. Something tells me that in doing this I
shall solve this mystery. But I must appear to go. Take my
instructions as usual, and bid me good-night. Lock the door after me,
but with a turn of the key instantly unlock it again. I shall go down
stairs, see that my carriage drives away, and quietly return. On my
re-entrance I shall expect to find Miss Wilcox on the couch with the
screen drawn up around it, you in your big chair, and the light
lowered. What I do thereafter need not concern you. Pretend to go to
sleep."

The nurse nodded, and immediately entered upon the programme I had
planned. I prepared the medicine as usual, placed it in its usual
glass, and laid that glass where it had always been set, on a small
table at the farther side of the bed. Then I said "Good-night," and
passed hurriedly out.

I was fortunate enough to meet no one, going or coming. I regained the
room, pushed open the door, and finding everything in order, proceeded
at once to the bed, upon which, after taking off my hat and cloak and
carefully concealing them, I lay down and deftly covered myself up.

My idea was this--that by some mesmeric influence of which she was
ignorant, the nurse had been forced to either poison the glass herself
or open the door for another to do it. If this were so, she or the
other person would be obliged to pass around the foot of the bed in
order to reach the glass, and I should be sure to see it, for I did
not pretend to sleep. By the low light enough could be discerned for
safe movement about the room, and not enough to make apparent the
change which had been made in the occupant of the bed. I waited with
indescribable anxiety, and more than once fancied I heard steps, if
not a feverish breathing close to my bed-head; but no one appeared,
and the nurse in her big chair did not move.

At last I grew weary, and fearful of losing control over my eyelids, I
fixed my gaze upon the glass, as if in so doing I should find a
talisman to keep me awake, when, great God! what was it I saw! A hand,
a creeping hand coming from nowhere and joined to nothing, closing
about that glass and drawing it slowly away till it disappeared
entirely from before my eyes!

I gasped--I could not help it--but I did not stir. For now I knew I
was asleep and dreaming. But no, I pinch myself under the clothes, and
find that I am very wide awake indeed; and then--look! look! the glass
is returning; the hand--a woman's hand--is slowly setting it back in
its place, and--

With a bound I have that hand in my grasp. It is a living hand, and it
is very warm and strong and fierce, and the glass has fallen and lies
shattered between us, and a double cry is heard, one from behind the
partition, through an opening in which this hand had been thrust, and
one from the nurse, who has jumped to her feet and is even now
assisting me in holding the struggling member, upon which I have
managed to scratch a tell-tale mark with a piece of the fallen glass.
At sight of the iron-like grip which this latter lays upon the
intruding member, I at once release my own grasp.

"Hold on," I cried, and leaping from the bed, I hastened first to my
patient, whom I carefully reassured, and then into the hall, where I
found the landlady running to see what was the matter. "I have found
the wretch," I cried, and drawing her after me, hurried about to the
other side of the partition, where I found a closet, and in it the
woman I had met on the stairs, but glaring now like a tiger in her
rage, menace, and fear.

That woman was my humble little patient's bitter but unknown enemy.
Enamoured of a man who--unwisely, perhaps--had expressed in her
hearing his admiration for the pretty typewriter, she had conceived
the idea that he intended to marry the latter, and, vowing vengeance,
had taken up her abode in the same house with the innocent girl,
where, had it not been for the fortunate circumstance of my meeting
her on the stairs, she would certainly have carried out her scheme of
vile and secret murder. The poison she had bought in another city, and
the hole in the partition she had herself cut. This had been done at
first for the purpose of observation, she having detected in passing
by Miss Wilcox's open door that a banner of painted silk hung over
that portion of the wall in such a way as to hide any aperture which
might be made there.

Afterward, when Miss Wilcox fell sick, and she discovered by short
glimpses through her loop-hole that the glass of medicine was placed
on a table just under this banner, she could not resist the temptation
to enlarge the hole to a size sufficient to admit the pushing aside of
the banner and the reaching through of her murderous hand. Why she did
not put poison enough in the glass to kill Miss Wilcox at once I have
never discovered. Probably she feared detection. That by doing as she
did she brought about the very event she had endeavored to avert, is
the most pleasing part of the tale. When the gentleman of whom I have
spoken learned of the wicked attempt which had been made upon Miss
Wilcox's life, his heart took pity upon her, and a marriage ensued,
which I have every reason to believe is a happy one.




SHALL HE WED HER?


When I met Taylor at the Club the other night, he looked so cheerful I
scarcely knew him.

"What is it?" cried I, advancing with outstretched hand.

"I am going to be married," was his gay reply. "This is my last night
at the Club."

I was glad, and showed it. Taylor is a man for whom domestic life is a
necessity. He has never been at home with us, though we all liked him,
and he in his way liked us.

"And who is the fortunate lady?" I inquired; for I had been out of
town for some time, and had not as yet been made acquainted with the
latest society news.

"My intended bride is Mrs. Walworth, the young widow--"

He must have seen a change take place in my expression, for he
stopped.

"You know her, of course?" he added, after a careful study of my face.

I had by this time regained my self-possession.

"Of course," I repeated, "and I have always thought her one of the
most attractive women in the city. Another shake upon it, old man."

But my heart was heavy and my mind perplexed notwithstanding the
forced cordiality of my tones, and I took an early opportunity to
withdraw by myself and think over the situation.

Mrs. Walworth? She is a pretty woman, and what is more, she is to all
appearance a woman whose winning manners bespeak a kindly heart. "Just
the person," I contemplated, "whom I would pick out for the helpmate
of my somewhat exacting friend, if--" I paused on that if. It was a
formidable one and grew none the smaller or less important under my
broodings. Indeed, it seemed to dilate until it assumed gigantic
proportions, worrying me and weighing so heavily upon my conscience
that I at last rose from the newspaper at which I had been hopelessly
staring, and looking up Taylor again asked him how soon he expected to
become a benedict.

His answer startled me. "In a week," he replied, "and if I have not
asked you to the ceremony it is because Helen is not in a position
to--"

I suppose he finished the sentence, but I did not hear him. If the
marriage was so near, of course it would be folly on my part to
attempt to hinder it. I drew off for the second time.

But I could not remain easy. Taylor is a good fellow, and it would be
a shame to allow him to marry a woman with whom he could never be
happy. He would feel any such disappointment so keenly, so much more
keenly than most men. A lack of principle or even of sensibility on
her part would make him miserable. Anticipating heaven, he would not
need a hell to make him wretched; a purgatory would do it. Was I right
then in letting him proceed in his intentions regarding Mrs. Walworth,
when she possibly was the woman who--I paused and tried to call up
her countenance before me. It was a sweet one and possibly a true
one. I might have trusted her for myself, but I do not look for
perfection, and Taylor does, and will certainly go to the bad if he is
deceived in his expectations. But in a week! It is too late for
interference--only it is never too late till the knot is tied. As I
thought of this, I decided impulsively, and perhaps you may say
unwisely, to give him a hint of his danger, and I did it in this wise:

"Taylor," said I, when I had him safely in my own rooms, "I am going
to tell you a bit of personal history, curious enough, I think, to
interest you even upon the eve of your marriage. I do not know when I
shall see you again, and I should like you to know how a lawyer and
man of the world can sometimes be taken in."

He nodded, accepting the situation good-humoredly, though I saw by the
abstraction with which he gazed into the fire that I should have to be
very interesting to lure him from the thoughts that engrossed him. As
I meant to be very interesting, this did not greatly concern me.

"One morning last spring," I began, "I received in my morning mail a
letter, the delicate penmanship of which at once attracted my
attention and awakened my curiosity. Turning to the signature, I read
the name of a young lady friend of mine, and somewhat startled at the
thought that this was the first time I had ever seen the handwriting
of one I knew so well, I perused the letter with an interest that
presently became painful as I realized the tenor of its contents. I
will not quote the letter, though I could, but confine myself to
saying that after a modest recognition of my friendship for her--quite
a fatherly friendship, I assure you, as she is only eighteen, and I,
as you know, am well on towards fifty--she proceeded to ask in a
humble and confiding spirit for the loan--do not start--of fifty
dollars. Such a request coming from a young girl well connected and
with every visible sign of being generously provided for by her
father, was certainly startling to an old bachelor of settled ways and
strict notions, but remembering her youth and the childish innocence
of her manner, I turned over the page and read as her reason for
proffering such a request, that her heart was set upon aiding a
certain poor family that stood in immediate need of food, clothes, and
medicines, but that she could not do what she wished, because she had
already spent all the money allowed her by her father for such
purposes and dared not go to him for more, as she had once before
offended him by doing this, and feared if she repeated her fault he
would carry out the threat he had then made of stopping her allowance
altogether. But the family was a deserving one and she could not see
any member of it starve, so she came to me, of whose goodness she was
assured, convinced I would understand her perplexity and excuse her,
and so forth and so forth, in language quite child-like and
entreating, which, if it did not satisfy my ideas of propriety, at
least touched my heart and made any action which I could take in the
matter extremely difficult.

"To refuse her request would be at once to mortify and aggrieve her;
to accede to it and give her the fifty dollars she asked--a sum by the
way I could not well spare--would be to encourage an action easily
pardoned once, but which if repeated would lead to unpleasant
complications, to say the least. The third course, of informing her
father of what she needed, I did not even consider, for I knew him
well enough to be sure that nothing but pain to her would be the
result. I therefore compromised the affair by inclosing the money in a
letter, in which I told her that I comprehended her difficulty and
sent with pleasure the amount she needed, but that as a friend I must
add that while in the present instance she had run no risk of being
misunderstood or unkindly censured, that such a request made to
another man and under other circumstances might provoke a surprise
capable of leading to the most unpleasant consequences, and advised
her if she ever again found herself in such a strait to appeal
directly to her father, or else to deny herself a charity which she
was in no position to bestow.

"This letter I undertook to deliver myself, for one of the curious
points of her communication had been the entreaty that I would not
delay the help she needed by trusting the money to any hand but my
own, but would bring it to a certain hotel down-town and place it at
the beginning of the book of Isaiah in the large Bible I would find
lying on a side table in the small parlor off the main one. She would
seek it there before the morning was over, and so, without the
intervention of a third party, acquire the means she desired for
helping a poor and deserving family.

"I knew the hotel she mentioned, and I remembered the room, but I did
not remember the Bible. However, it was sure to be in the place she
indicated; and though I was not in much sympathy with my errand, I
respected her whim and carried the letter down-town. I had reached
Main Street and was in sight of the hotel designated, when suddenly on
the opposite corner of the street I saw the young girl herself. She
looked as fresh as the morning, and smiled so gayly I felt somewhat
repaid for the annoyance she had caused me, and gratified that I could
cut matters short by putting the letter directly in her hand, I
crossed the street to her side. As soon as we were face to face, I
said:

"'How fortunate I am to meet you. Here is the amount you need sealed
up in this letter. You see I had it all ready.'

"The face she lifted to mine wore so blank a look that I paused,
astonished.

"'What do you mean?' she asked, her eyes looking straight into mine
with such innocence in their clear blue depths, I was at once
convinced she knew nothing of the matter with which my thoughts were
busy. 'I am very glad to see you, but I do not in the least understand
what you mean by the amount I need.' And she glanced at the letter I
held out, with an air of distrust mingled with curiosity.

"'You cut me short in my efforts to do a charitable action. I heard,
no matter how, that you were interested just now in a destitute
family, and took this way of assisting you in their behalf.'

"Her blue eyes opened wider. 'The poor are always with us,' she
replied, 'but I know of no especial family just now that requires any
such help as you intimate. If I did, papa would give me what
assistance I needed.'

"I was greatly pleased to hear her say this, for I am very fond of my
young friend, but I was deeply indignant also against the unknown
person who had taken advantage of my regard for this young girl to
force money from me. I therefore did not linger at her side, but after
due apologies hastened immediately here where there is a man employed
who to my knowledge had once been a trusted member of the police.

"Telling him no more of the story than was necessary to ensure his
co-operation in the plan I had formed to discover the author of this
fraud, I extracted the bank-notes from the letter I had written, and
put in their place stiff pieces of manila paper. Taking the envelope
so filled to the hotel already referred to, I placed it at the opening
chapters of Isaiah in the Bible, as described. There was no one in any
of the rooms when I went in, and I encountered only a bell-boy as I
came out, but at the door I ran against a young man whom I strictly
forbore to recognize, but whom I knew to be my improvised detective
coming to take his stand in some place where he could watch the parlor
and note who went into it.

"At noon I returned to the hotel, passed immediately to the small
parlor and looked into the Bible. The letter was gone. Coming out of
the room, I was at once joined by my detective.

"'Has the letter been taken?' he eagerly inquired.

"I nodded.

"His brows wrinkled and he looked both troubled and perplexed.

"'I don't understand it,' he remarked. 'I've seen every one who has
gone into that room since you left it, but I do not know any more than
before who took the letter. You see,' he continued, as I looked at him
sharply, 'I had to remain out here. If I had gone even into the large
room, the Bible would not have been disturbed, nor the letter either.
So, in the hope of knowing the rogue at sight, I strolled about this
hall, and kept my eye constantly on that door, but--'

"He looked embarrassed, and stopped. 'You say the letter is gone,' he
suggested, after a moment.

"'Yes,' I returned.

"He shook his head. 'Nobody went into that room or came out of it,' he
went on, 'whom you would have wished me to follow. I should have
thought myself losing time if I had taken one step after any one of
them.'

"'But who did go into that room?' I urged, impatient at his
perplexity.

"'Only three persons this morning,' he returned. 'You know them all.'
And he mentioned first Mrs. Couldock."

Taylor, who was lending me the superficial attention of a preoccupied
man, smiled frankly at the utterance of this name. "Of course, she had
nothing to do with such a debasing piece of business," he observed.

"Of course not," I repeated. "Nor does it seem likely that Miss Dawes
could have been concerned in it. Yet my detective told me that she was
the next person who went into the parlor."

"I do not know Miss Dawes so well," remarked Taylor, carelessly.

"But I do," said I; "and I would as soon suspect my sister of a
dishonorable act as this noble, self-sacrificing woman."

"The third person?" suggested Taylor.

I got up and crossed the floor. When my back was to him, I said,
quietly--"was Mrs. Walworth."

The silence that followed was very painful. I did not care to break
it, and he, doubtless, found himself unable to do so. It must have
been five minutes before either of us spoke; then he suddenly cried:

"Where is that detective, as you call him? I want to see him."

"Let me see him for you," said I. "I should hardly wish Sudley,
discreet as I consider him, to know you had any interest in this
affair."

Taylor rose and came to where I stood.

"You believe," said he, "that she, the woman I am about to marry, is
the one who wrote you that infamous letter?"

I faced him quite frankly. "I do not feel ready to acknowledge that,"
I replied. "One of those three women took my letter out from the
Bible, where I placed it; which of them wrote the lines that provoked
it I do not dare conjecture. You say it was not Mrs. Couldock, I say
it was not Miss Dawes, but--"

He broke in upon me impetuously.

"Have you the letter?" he asked.

I had, and showed it to him.

"It is not Helen's handwriting," he said.

"Nor is it that of Mrs. Couldock or Miss Dawes."

He looked at me for a moment in a wild sort of way.

"You think she got some one to write it for her?" he cried. "Helen! my
Helen! But it is not so; it cannot be so. Why, Huntley, to have sent
such a letter as that over the name of an innocent young girl, who,
but for the happy chance of meeting you as she did might never have
had the opportunity of righting herself in your estimation, argues a
cold and calculating selfishness closely allied to depravity. And my
Helen is an angel--or so I have always thought her."

The depth to which his voice sank in the last sentence showed that for
all his seeming confidence he was not without his doubts.

I began to feel very uncomfortable, and not knowing what consolation
to offer, I ventured upon the suggestion that he should see Mrs.
Walworth and frankly ask her whether she had been to the hotel on Main
Street on such a day, and if so, if she had seen a letter addressed
to Miss N---- lying on the table of the small parlor. His answer
showed how much his confidence in her had been shaken.

"A woman who, for the sake of paying some unworthy debt or of
gratifying some whim of feminine vanity, could make use of a young
girl's signature to obtain money, would not hesitate at any denial.
She would not even blench at my questions."

He was right.

"I must be convinced in some other way," he went on. "Mrs. Couldock or
Miss Dawes do not either of them possess any more truthful or
ingenuous countenance than she does, and though it seems madness to
suspect such women--"

"Wait," I broke in. "Let us be sure of all the facts before we go on.
You lie down here and close your eyes; now pull the rug up so. I will
have Sudley in and question him. If you do not turn towards the light
he will not know who you are."

Taylor followed my suggestion, and in a few moments Sudley stood
before me. I opened upon him quite carelessly.

"Sudley," said I, throwing down the newspaper I had been ostensibly
reading, "you remember that little business you did for me in Main
Street last month? Something I've been reading made me think of it
again."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you never had a conviction yourself as to which of the three
ladies you saw go into the parlor took the letter I left hid in the
Bible?"

"No, sir. You see I could not. All of them are well known in society
here and all of them belong to the most respectable families. I
wouldn't dare to choose between them, sir."

"Certainly not," I rejoined, "unless you have some good reason for
doing so, such as having been able to account for the visits of two of
the ladies to the hotel, and not of the third."

"They all had a good pretext for being there. Mrs. Couldock gave her
card to the boy before going into the parlor, and left as soon as he
returned with word that the lady she called to see was not in. Miss
Dawes gave no card, but asked for a Miss Terhune, I think, and did
not remain a moment after she was informed that that lady had left the
hotel."

"And Mrs. Walworth?"

"She came in from the street adjusting her veil, and upon looking
around for a mirror was directed to the parlor, into which she at once
stepped. She remained there but a moment, and when she came out passed
directly into the street."

These words disconcerted me; the mirror was just over the table in the
small room, but I managed to remark nonchalantly:

"Could you not tell whether any of these three ladies opened the
Bible?"

"Not without seeming intrusive."

I sighed and dismissed the man. When he was gone I approached Taylor.

"He can give us no assistance," I cried.

My friend was already on his feet, looking very miserable.

"I know of only one thing to do," he remarked. "To-morrow I shall call
upon Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes, and entreat them to tell me if, for
any reason, they undertook to deliver a letter mysteriously left in
the Bible of the ---- Hotel one day last month. They may have been
deputed to do so, and be quite willing to acknowledge it."

"And Mrs. Walworth? Will you not ask her the same question?"

He shook his head and turned away.

"Very well," said I to myself, "then I will."

Accordingly the next day I called upon Mrs. Walworth.

Taking her by the hand, I gently forced her to stand for a moment
where the light from the one window fell full upon her face. I said:

"You must pardon my intrusion upon you at a time when you are
naturally so busy, but there is something you can do for me that will
rid me of a great anxiety. You remember being in ---- Hotel one
morning last month?"

She was looking quietly up at me, her lips parted, her eyes smiling
and expectant, but at the mention of that hotel I thought--and yet I
may have been mistaken--that a slight change took place in her
expression, if it was only that the glance grew more gentle and the
smile more marked.

But her voice when she answered was the same as that with which she
had uttered her greeting.

"I do not remember," she replied, "yet I may have been there; I go to
so many places. Why do you ask?" she inquired.

"Because if you were there on that morning--and I have been told you
were--you may be able to solve a question that is greatly perplexing
me."

Still the same gentle, inquiring look on her face; only now there was
a little furrow of wonder or interest between the eyes.

"I had business in that hotel on that morning," I continued. "I had
left a letter for a young friend of mine in the Bible that lies on the
small table of the inner parlor, and as she never received it I have
been driven into making all kinds of inquiries in the hope of finding
some explanation of the fact. As you were there at the time you may
have seen something that would aid me. Is it not possible, Mrs.
Walworth?"

Her smile, which had faded, reappeared. On the lips which Taylor so
much admired a little pout became visible, and she looked quite
enchanting.

"I do not even remember being at that hotel at all," she protested.
"Did Mr. Taylor say I was there?" she inquired, with just that added
look of exquisite naeivete which the utterance of a lover's name should
call up on the face of a prospective bride.

"No," I answered gravely; "Mr. Taylor, unhappily, was not with you
that morning." She looked startled.

"Unhappily," she repeated. "What do you mean by that word?" And she
drew back looking very much displeased.

I had expected this, and so was not thrown off my guard.

"I mean," I proceeded calmly, "that if you had had such a companion
with you on that morning I should now be able to put my questions to
him, instead of taking your time and interrupting your affairs by my
importunities."

"You will tell me just what you mean," said she, earnestly.

I was equally emphatic in my reply. "That is only just. You ought to
know why I trouble you with this matter. It is because this letter of
which I speak was taken from its hiding-place by some one who went
into the hotel parlor between the hours of 10:30 and 12 o'clock, and
as to my certain knowledge only three persons crossed its threshold on
that especial morning at that especial time, I naturally appeal to
each of them in turn for an answer to the problem that is troubling
me. You know Miss N----. Seeing by accident a letter addressed to her
lying in a Bible in a strange hotel, you might have thought it your
duty to take it out and carry it to her. If you did and if you lost
it--"

"But I didn't," she interrupted, warmly. "I know nothing about any
such letter, and if you had not declared so positively that I was in
that hotel on that especial day I should be tempted to deny that too,
for I have no recollection of going there last month."

"Not for the purpose of rearranging a veil that had been blown off?"

"Oh!" she said, but as one who recalls a forgotten fact, not as one
who is tripped up in an evasion.

I began to think her innocent, and lost some of the gloom which had
been oppressing me.

"You remember now?" said I.

"Oh, yes, I remember that."

Her manner so completely declared that her acknowledgments stopped
there, I saw it would be useless to venture further. If she were
innocent she could not tell more, if she were guilty she would not;
so, feeling that the inclination of my belief was in favor of the
former hypothesis, I again took her hand, and said:

"I see that you can give me no help. I am sorry, for the whole
happiness of a man, and perhaps that of a woman also, depends upon the
discovery as to who took the letter from out the Bible where I had
hidden it on that unfortunate morning." And, making her another low
bow, I was about to take my departure, when she grasped me impulsively
by the arm.

"What man?" she whispered; and in a lower tone still, "What woman?"

I turned and looked at her. "Great heaven!" thought I, "can such a
face hide a selfish and intriguing heart?" and in a flash I summoned
up in comparison before me the plain, honest, and reliable countenance
of Mrs. Couldock and that of the comely and unpretending Miss Dawes,
and knew not what to think.

"You do not mean yourself?" she continued, as she met my look of
distress.

"No," I returned; "happily for me my welfare is not bound up in the
honor of any woman." And leaving that shaft to work its way into her
heart, if that heart were vulnerable, I took my leave, more troubled
and less decided than when I entered.

For her manner had been absolutely that of a woman surprised by
insinuations she was too innocent to rate at their real importance.
And yet, if she did not take away that letter, who did? Mrs. Couldock?
Impossible. Miss Dawes? The thought was untenable, even for an
instant. I waited in great depression of spirits for the call I knew
Taylor would not fail to make that evening.

When he came I saw what the result of my revelations was likely to be
as plainly as I see it now. He had conversed frankly with Mrs.
Couldock and with Miss Dawes, and was perfectly convinced as to the
utter ignorance of them both in regard to the whole affair. In
consequence, Mrs. Walworth was guilty in his estimation, and being
held guilty could be no wife for him, much as he had loved her, and
urgent as may have been the cause for her act.

"But," said I, in some horror of the consequences of an interference
for which I was almost ready to blame myself now, "Mrs. Couldock and
Miss Dawes could have done no more than deny all knowledge of this
letter. Now Mrs. Walworth does that, and--"

"You have seen her? You have asked her--"

"Yes, I have seen her, and I have asked her, and not an eyelash
drooped as she affirmed a complete ignorance of the whole affair."

Taylor's head fell.

"I told you how that would be," he murmured at last. "I cannot feel
that it is any proof of her innocence. Or rather," he added, "I should
always have my doubts."

"And Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes?"

"Ah!" he cried, rising and turning away; "there is no question of
marriage between either of them and myself."

I was therefore not astonished when the week went by and no
announcement of his wedding appeared. But I was troubled and am
troubled still, for if mistakes are made in criminal courts, and the
innocent sometimes, through the sheer force of circumstantial
evidence, are made to suffer for the guilty, might it not be that in
this little question of morals Mrs. Walworth has been wronged, and
that when I played the part of arbitrator in her fate, I only
succeeded in separating two hearts whose right it was to be made
happy?

It is impossible to tell, nor is time likely to solve the riddle. Must
I then forever blame myself, or did I only do in this matter what any
honest man would have done in my place? Answer me, some one, for I do
not find my lonely bachelor life in any wise brightened by the doubt,
and would be grateful to any one who would relieve me of it.



***