CHAPTER VII.

AN INTERMEDDLER.

But in the morning all these idle fancies fled with the life and color

and freshness of a new day. Loch Barvas was ruffled into a dark blue by

the westerly wind, and doubtless the sea out there was rushing in,

green and cold, to the shore. The sunlight was warm about the house. The

trout were leaping in the shallow brown streams, and here and there a

white butterfly fluttered across the damp meadows. Was not that Duncan

down by the river, accompanied by Ingram? There was a glimmer of a rod

in the sunshine: the two poachers were after trout for Sheila's

breakfast.

Lavender dressed, went outside and looked about for the nearest way down

to the stream. He wished to have a chance of saying a word to his friend

before Sheila or her father should appear. And at last he thought he

could do no better than go across to the bridge, and so make his way

down the banks of the river.

What a fresh morning it was, with all sorts of sweet scents in the air!

And here, sure enough, was a pretty picture in the early light--a young

girl coming over the bridge carrying a load of green grass on her back.

What would she say if he asked her to stop for a moment that he might

sketch her pretty costume? Her head-dress was a scarlet handkerchief,

tied behind: she wore a tight-fitting bodice of cream-white flannel and

petticoats of gray flannel, while she had a waistbelt and pouch of

brilliant blue. Did she know of these harmonies of color or of the

picturesqueness of her appearance as she came across the bridge in the

sunlight? As she drew near she stared at the stranger with the big, dumb

eyes of a wild animal. There was no fear, only a sort of surprised

observation in them. And as she passed she uttered, without a smile,

some brief and laconic salutation in Gaelic, which of course the young

man could not understand. He raised his cap, however, and said

"Good-morning!" and went on, with a fixed resolve to learn all the

Gaelic that Duncan could teach him.

Surely the tall keeper was in excellent spirits this morning. Long

before he drew near, Lavender could hear, in the stillness of the

morning, that he was telling stories about John the Piper, and of his

adventures in such distant parts as Portree and Oban, and even in

Glasgow.

"And it wass Allan M'Gillivray of Styornoway," Duncan was saying as he

industriously whipped the shallow runs of the stream, "will go to

Glasgow with John; and they went through ta Crinan Canal. Wass you

through ta Crinan Canal, sir?"

"Many a time."

"Ay, jist that. And I hef been told it iss like a river with ta sides o'

a house to it; and what would Allan care for a thing like that, when he

hass been to America more than twice or four times? And it wass when he

fell into the canal, he was ferry nearly trooned for all that; and when

they pulled him to ta shore he wass a ferry angry man. And this iss what

John says that Allan will say when he wass on the side of the canal:

'Kott,' says he, 'if I wass trooned here, I would show my face in

Styornoway no more!' But perhaps it iss not true, for he will tell many

lies, does John the Piper, to hef a laugh at a man."

"The Crinan Canal is not to be despised, Duncan," said Ingram, who was

sitting on the red sand of the bank, "when you are in it."

"And do you know what John says that Allan will say to him the first

time they went ashore at Glasgow?"

"I am sure I don't."

"It wass many years ago, before that Allan will be going many times to

America, and he will neffer hef seen such fine shops and ta big houses

and hundreds and hundreds of people, every one with shoes on their feet.

And he will say to John, 'John, ef I had known in time I should hef been

born here.' But no one will believe it iss true, he is such a teffle of

a liar, that John; and he will hef some stories about Mr. Mackenzie

himself, as I hef been told, that he will tell when he goes to

Styornoway. But John is a ferry cunning fellow, and will not tell any

such stories in Borva."

"I suppose if he did, Duncan, you would dip him in Loch Roag?"

"Oh, there iss more than one," said Duncan with a grim twinkle in his

eye--"there iss more than one that would hef a joke with him if he was

to tell stories about Mr. Mackenzie."

Lavender had been standing listening, unknown to both. He now went

forward and bade them good-morning, and then, having had a look at the

trout that Duncan had caught, pulled Ingram up from the bank, put his

arm in his and walked away with him.

"Ingram," he said suddenly, with a laugh and a shrug, "you know I always

come to you when I'm in a fix."

"I suppose you do," said the other, "and you are always welcome to

whatever help I can give you. But sometimes it seems to me you rush into

fixes, with the sort of notion that I am responsible for getting you

out."

"I can assure you nothing of the kind is the case. I could not be so

ungrateful. However, in the mean time--that is--the fact is, I asked

Sheila last night if she would marry me."

"The devil you did!"

Ingram dropped his companion's arm and stood looking at him.

"Well, I knew you would be angry," said the younger man in a tone of

apology. "And I know I have been too precipitate, but I thought of the

short time we should be remaining here, and of the difficulty of getting

an explanation made at another time; and it was really only to give her

a hint as to my own feelings that I spoke. I could not bear to wait any

longer."

"Never mind about yourself," said Ingram somewhat curtly: "what did

Sheila say?"

"Well, nothing definite. What could you expect a girl to say after so

short an acquaintance? But this I can tell you, that the proposal is not

altogether distasteful to her, and that I have her permission to speak

of it at some future time, when we have known each other longer."

"You have?"

"Yes."

"You are quite sure?"

"Certain."

"There is no mistake about her silence, for example, that might have led

you into misinterpreting her wishes altogether?"

"Nothing of the kind is possible. Of course I could not ask the girl for

any promise, or anything of that sort. All I asked was, whether she

would allow me at some future time to ask her more definitely; and I am

so well satisfied with the reply that I am convinced I shall marry her."

"And is this the fix you wish me to help you out of?" said Ingram rather

coldly.

"Now, Ingram," said the younger man in penitential tones, "don't cut up

rough about it. You know what I mean. Perhaps I have been hasty and

inconsiderate about it; but of one thing you may be sure, that Sheila

will never have to complain of me if she marries me. You say I don't

know her yet, but there will be plenty of time before we are married. I

don't propose to carry her off to-morrow morning. Now, Ingram, you know

what I mean about helping me in the fix--helping me with her father, you

know, and with herself, for the matter of that. You can do anything with

her, she has such a belief in you. You should hear how she talks of

you--you never heard anything like it."

It was an innocent bit of flattery, and Ingram smiled good-naturedly at

the boy's ingenuousness. After all, was he not more lovable and more

sincere in this little bit of simple craft, used in the piteousness of

his appeal, then when he was giving himself the airs of a

man-about-town, and talking of women in a fashion which, to do him

justice, expressed nothing of his real sentiments?

Ingram walked on, and said in his slow and deliberate way, "You know I

opposed this project of yours from the first. I don't think you have

acted fairly by Sheila or her father, or myself who brought you here.

But if Sheila has been drawn into it, why, then, the whole affair is

altered, and we've got to make the best of a bad business."

"I was sure you would say that," exclaimed the younger man with a

brighter light appearing on his face. "You may call me all the hard

names you like: I deserve them all, and more. But then, as you say,

since Sheila is in it, you'll do your best, won't you?"

Frank Lavender could not make out why the taciturn and sallow-faced man

walking beside him seemed to be greatly amused by this speech, but he

was in no humor to take offence. He knew that once Ingram had promised

him his help he would not lack all the advocacy, the advice, and even

the money--should that become necessary--that a warm-hearted and

disinterested friend could offer. Many and many a time Ingram had helped

him, and now he was to come to his assistance in the most serious crisis

of his life. Ingram would remove Sheila's doubts. Ingram would persuade

old Mackenzie that girls had to get married some time or other, and that

Sheila ought to live in London. Ingram would be commissioned to break

the news to Mrs. Lavender--But here, when the young man thought of the

interview with his aunt which he would have to encounter, a cold shiver

passed through his frame. He would not think of it. He would enjoy the

present hour. Difficulties only grew the bigger the more they were

looked at: when they were left to themselves they frequently

disappeared. It was another proof of Ingram's kindliness that he had not

even mentioned the old lady down in Kensington who was likely to have

something to say about this marriage.

"There are a great many difficulties in the way," said Ingram

thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Lavender with much eagerness, "but then, look! You may be

sure that if we get over these, Sheila will know well who managed it,

and she will not be ungrateful to you, I think. If we ever should be

married, I am certain she will always look on you as her greatest

friend."

"It is a big bribe," said the elder man, perhaps a trifle sadly; and

Lavender looked at him with some vague return of a suspicion that some

time or other Ingram must himself have been in love with Sheila.

They returned to the inn, where they found Mackenzie busy with a heap of

letters and newspapers that had been sent across to him from Stornoway.

The whole of the breakfast-table was littered with wrappers and big blue

envelopes: where was Sheila, who usually waited on her father at such

times to keep his affairs in order?

Sheila was outside, and Lavender saw her through the open window. Was

she not waiting for him, that she should pace up and down by herself,

with her face turned away from the house? He immediately went out and

went over to her, and she turned to him as he approached. He fancied she

looked a trifle pale, and far less bright and joyous than the ordinary

Sheila.

"Mr. Lavender," she said, walking away from the house, "I wish very much

to speak to you for a moment. Last night it was all a misfortune that I

did not understand; and I wish you to forget that a word was ever spoken

about that."

Her head was bent down, and her speech was low and broken: what she

failed to explain in words her manner explained for her. But her

companion said to her, with alarm and surprise in his tone, "Why,

Sheila! You cannot be so cruel! Surely you need not fear any

embarrassment through so slight a promise. It pledges you to nothing--it

leaves you quite free; and some day, if I come and ask you then a

question I have not asked you yet, that will be time enough to give me

an answer."

"Oh no, no!" said the girl, obviously in great distress, "I cannot do

that. It is unjust to you to let you think of it and hope about it. It

was last night everything was strange to me--I did not understand

then--but I have thought about it all the night through, and now I

know."

"Sheila!" called her father from the inside of the inn, and she turned

to go.

"But you do not ask that, do you?" he said. "You are only frightened a

little bit just now, but that will go away. There is nothing to be

frightened about. You have been thinking over it, and imagining

impossible things: you have been thinking of leaving Borva altogether--"

"Oh, that I can never do!" she said with a pathetic earnestness.

"But why think of such a thing?" he said. "You need not look at all the

possible troubles of life when you take such a simple step as this.

Sheila, don't be hasty in any such resolve: you may be sure all the

gloomy things you have been thinking of will disappear when we get close

to them. And this is such a simple thing. I don't ask you to say you

will be my wife--I have no right to ask you yet--but I have only asked

permission of you to let me think of it; and even Mr. Ingram sees no

great harm in that."

"Does _he_ know?" she said with a start of surprise and fear.

"Yes," said Lavender, wishing he had bitten his tongue in two before he

had uttered the word. "You know we have no secrets from each other; and

to whom could I go for advice but to your oldest friend?"

"And what did he say?" she asked with a strange look in her eyes.

"Well, he sees a great many difficulties, but he thinks they will easily

be got over."

"Then," she said, with her eyes again cast down and a certain sadness in

her tone, "I must explain to him too, and tell him I had no

understanding of what I said last night."

"Sheila, you won't do that!" urged the young man. "It means nothing--it

pledges you to nothing."

"Sheila! Sheila!" cried her father cheerily from the window, "come in

and let us hef our breakfast."

"Yes, papa," said the girl, and she went into the house, followed by her

companion.

But how could she find an opportunity of making this explanation?

Shortly after breakfast the wagonette was at the door of the little

Barvas inn, and Sheila came out of the house and took her place in it

with an unusual quietness of manner and hopelessness of look. Ingram,

sitting opposite to her, and knowing nothing of what had taken place,

fancied that this was but an expression of girlish timidity, and that it

was his business to interest her and amuse her until she should forget

the strangeness and newness of her position. Nay, as he had resolved to

make the best of matters as they stood, and as he believed that Sheila

had half confessed to a special liking for his friend from the South,

what more fitting thing could he do than endeavor to place Lavender in

the most favorable light in her eyes? He began to talk of all the

brilliant and successful things the young man had done as fully as he

could before himself. He contrived to introduce pretty anecdotes of

Lavender's generosity; and there were plenty of these, for the young

fellow had never a thought of consequences if he was touched by a tale

of distress, and if he could help the sufferer either with his own or

any one else's money. Ingram talked of all their excursions together, in

Devonshire, in Brittany and elsewhere, to impress on Sheila how well he

knew his friend and how long their intimacy had lasted. At first the

girl was singularly reserved and silent, but somehow, as pleasant

recollections were multiplied, and as Lavender seemed to have been

always the associate and companion of this old friend of hers, some

brighter expression came into her face and she grew more interested.

Lavender, not knowing whether or not to take her decision of that

morning as final, and not wholly perceiving the aim of this kindly chat

on the part of his friend, began to see at least that Sheila was pleased

to hear the two men help out each other's stories about their pedestrian

excursions, and that she at last grew bold enough to look up and meet

his eyes in a timid fashion when she asked him a question.

So they drove along by the side of the sea, the level and well-made road

leading them through miles and miles of rough moorland, with here and

there a few huts or a sheepfold to break the monotony of the undulating

sky-line. Here and there, too, there were great cuttings of the

peat-moss, with a thin line of water in the foot of the deep black

trenches. Sometimes, again, they would escape altogether from any traces

of human habitation, and Duncan would grow excited in pointing out to

Miss Sheila the young grouse that had run off the road into the heather,

where they stood and eyed the passing carriage with anything but a

frightened air. And while Mackenzie hummed something resembling, but

very vaguely resembling, "Love in thine eyes sits beaming," and while

Ingram, in his quiet, desultory, and often sardonic fashion, amused the

young girl with stories of her lover's bravery and kindness and

dare-devil escapades, the merry trot of the horses beat time to the

bells on their necks, the fresh west wind blew a cloud of white dust

away over the moorland behind them, there was a blue sky shining all

around them, and the blue Atlantic basking in the light.

They stopped for a few minutes at both the hamlets of Suainabost and

Tabost to allow Sheila to pay a hurried visit to one or two of the huts,

while Mackenzie, laying hold of some of the fishermen he knew, got them

to show Lavender the curing-houses, in which the young gentleman

professed himself profoundly interested. They also visited the

school-house, and Lavender found himself beginning to look upon a

two-storied building with windows as something imposing and a decided

triumph of human skill and enterprise. But what was the school-house of

Tabost to the grand building at the Butt? They had driven away from the

high-road by a path leading through long and sweet-smelling pastures of

Dutch clover; they had got up from these sandy swathes to a table-land

of rock; and here and there they caught glimpses of fearful precipices

leading sheer down to the boiling and dashing sea. The curious

contortions of the rocks, the sharp needles of them springing in

isolated pillars from out of the water, the roar of the eddying currents

that swept through the chasms and dashed against the iron-bound shore,

the wild sea-birds that flew about and screamed over the rushing waves

and the surge, naturally enough drew the attention of the strangers

altogether away from the land; and it was with a start of surprise they

found themselves before an immense mass of yellow stone-work--walls,

house and tower--that shone in the sunlight. And here were the

light-house-keeper and his wife, delighted to see strange faces and most

hospitably inclined; insomuch that Lavender, who cared little for

luncheon at any time, was constrained to take as much bread and cheese

and butter and whisky as would have made a ploughman's dinner. It was a

strange sort of meal this, away out at the end of the world, as it were.

The snug little room might have been in the Marylebone road: there were

photographs about, a gay label on the whisky-bottle, and other signs of

an advanced civilization; but outside nothing but the wild precipices of

the coast, a surging sea that seemed almost to surround the place, the

wild screaming of the sea-birds, and a single ship appearing like a mere

speck on the northern horizon.

They had not noticed the wind much as they drove along; but now, when

they went out on to the high table-land of rock, it seemed to be blowing

half a gale across the sea. The sunlight sparkled on the glass of the

lighthouse, and the great yellow shaft of stone stretched away upward

into a perfect blue. As clear a blue lay far beneath them when the sea

came rushing in among the lofty crags and sharp pinnacles of rock,

bursting into foam at their feet, and sending long jets of white spray

up into the air. In front of the great wall of rock the sea-birds

wheeled and screamed, and on the points of some of the islands stood

several scarts, motionless figures of jet black on the soft brown and

green of the rock. And what was this island they looked down upon from

over one of the bays? Surely a mighty reproduction by Nature herself of

the Sphynx of the Egyptian plains. Could anything have been more

striking and unexpected and impressive than the sudden discovery of this

great mass of rock resting in the wild sea, its hooded head turned away

toward the north and hidden from the spectator on land, its gigantic

bulk surrounded by a foam of breakers? Lavender, with his teeth set hard

against the wind, must needs take down the outlines of this strange

scene upon paper, while Sheila crouched at her father's side for

shelter, and Ingram was chiefly engaged in holding on to his cap.

"It blows here a bit," said Lavender amid the roar of the waves. "I

suppose in the winter-time the sea will sometimes break across this

place?"

"Ay, and over the top of the lighthouse too," said Mackenzie with a

laugh, as though he was rather proud of the way his native seas behaved.

"Sheila," said Ingram, "I never saw _you_ take refuge from the wind

before."

"It is because we will be standing still," said the girl with a smile

which was scarcely visible, because she had half hidden her face in her

father's great gray beard. "But when Mr. Lavender is finished we will go

down to the great hole in the rocks that you will have seen before, and

perhaps he will make a picture of that too."

"You don't mean to say you would go down there, Sheila?" said Ingram,

"and in this wind?"

"I have been down many times before."

"Indeed, you will do nothing of the kind, Sheila," said her father: "you

will go back to the lighthouse if you like--yes, you may do that--and I

will go down the rocks with Mr. Lavender; but it iss not for a young

lady to go about among the rocks, like a fisherman's lad that wants the

birds' eggs, or such nonsense."

It was quite evident that Mackenzie had very little fear of his daughter

not being able to accomplish the descent of the rocks safely enough: it

was a matter of dignity. And so Sheila was at length persuaded to go

across the plain to a sheltered place, to wait there until the others

should clamber down to the great and naturally-formed tunnel through the

rocks that the artist was to sketch.

Lavender was ill at ease. He followed his guide mechanically as they

made their way, in zigzag fashion, down the precipitous slopes and over

slippery plateaus; and when at last he came in sight of the mighty arch,

the long cavern, and the glimmer of sea and shore that could be seen

through it, he began to put down the outlines of the picture as rapidly

as possible, but with little interest in the matter. Ingram was sitting

on the bare rocks beside him, Mackenzie was some distance off: should he

tell his friend of what Sheila had said in the morning? Strict honesty,

perhaps, demanded as much, but the temptation to say nothing was great.

For it was evident that Ingram was now well inclined to the project, and

would do his best to help it on; whereas, if once he knew that Sheila

had resolved against it, he too might take some sudden step--such as

insisting on their immediate return to the mainland--which would settle

the matter for ever. Sheila had said she would herself make the

necessary explanation to Ingram, but she had not done so: perhaps she

might lack the courage or an opportunity to do so, and in the mean time

was not the interval altogether favorable to his chances? Doubtless she

was a little frightened at first. She would soon get less timid, and

would relent and revoke her decision of the morning. He would not, at

present at any rate, say anything to Ingram.

But when they had got up again to the summit of the rocks, an incident

occurred that considerably startled him out of these vague and anxious

speculations. He walked straight over to the sheltered spot in which

Sheila was waiting. The rushing of the wind doubtless drowned the sound

of his footsteps, so that he came on her unawares; and on seeing him she

rose suddenly from the rock on which she had been sitting, with some

effort to hide her face away from him. But he had caught a glimpse of

something in her eyes that filled him with remorse.

"Sheila," he said, going forward to her, "what is the matter? What are

you unhappy about?"

She could not answer; she held her face turned from him and cast down;

and then, seeing her father and Ingram in the distance, she set out to

follow them to the lighthouse, Lavender walking by her side, and

wondering how he could deal with the distress that was only too clearly

written on her face.

"I know it is I who have grieved you," he said in a low voice, "and I

am very sorry. But if you will tell me what I can do to remove this

unhappiness, I will do it now. Shall I consider our talking together of

last night as if it had not taken place at all?"

"Yes," she said in as low a voice, but clear and sad and determined in

its tone.

"And I shall speak no more to you about this affair until I go away

altogether?"

And again she signified her assent, gravely and firmly.

"And then," he said, "you will soon forget all about it; for of course I

shall never come back to Lewis again."

"Never?"

The word had escaped her unwillingly, and it was accompanied by a quick

upturning of the face and a frightened look in the beautiful eyes.

"Do you wish me to come back?" he said.

"I should not wish you to go away from the Lewis through any fault of

mine, and say that we should never see you again," said the girl in

measured tones, as if she were nerving herself to make the admission,

and yet fearful of saying too much.

By this time Mackenzie and Ingram had gone round the big wall of the

lighthouse: there were no human beings on this lonely bit of heath but

themselves. Lavender stopped her and took her hand, and said, "Don't you

see, Sheila, how I must never come back to Lewis if all this is to be

forgotten? And all I want you to say is, that I may come some day to see

if you can make up your mind to be my wife. I don't ask that yet: it is

out of the question, seeing how short a time you have known anything

about me, and I cannot wish you to trust me as I can trust you. It is a

very little thing I ask--only to give me a chance at some future time,

and then, if you don't care for me sufficiently to marry me, or if

anything stands in the way, all you need do is to send me a single word,

and that will suffice. This is no terrible thing that I beg from you,

Sheila. You needn't be afraid of it."

But she was afraid: there was nothing but fear and doubt and grief in

her eyes as she gazed into the unknown world laid open before her.

"Can't you ask some one to tell you that it is nothing dreadful--Mr.

Ingram, for example?"

"I could not."

"Your papa, then," he said, driven to this desperate resource by his

anxiety to save her from pain.

"Not yet--not just yet," she said almost wildly, "for how could I

explain to him? He would ask me what my wishes were: what could I say? I

do not know. I cannot tell myself; and--and--I have no mother to ask."

And here all the strain of self-control gave way, and the girl burst

into tears.

"Sheila, dear Sheila," he said, "why won't you trust your own heart, and

let that be your guide? Won't you say this one word _Yes_, and tell me

that I am to come back to Lewis some day, and ask to see you, and get a

message from one look of your eyes? Sheila, may not I come back?"

If there was a reply it was so low that he scarcely heard it; but

somehow--whether from the small hand that lay in his, or from the eyes

that sent one brief message of trust and hope through their tears--his

question was answered; and from that moment he felt no more misgivings,

but let his love for Sheila spread out and blossom in whatever light of

fancy and imagination he could bring to bear on it, careless of any

future.

How the young fellow laughed and joked as the party drove away again

from the Butt, down the long coast-road to Barvas! He was tenderly

respectful and a little moderate in tone when he addressed Sheila, but

with the others he gave way to a wild exuberance of spirits that

delighted Mackenzie beyond measure. He told stories of the odd old

gentlemen of his club, of their opinions, their ways, their dress. He

sang the song of the Arethusa, and the wilds of Lewis echoed with a

chorus which was not just as harmonious as it might have been. He sang

the "Jug of Punch," and Mackenzie said that was a teffle of a good

song. He gave imitations of some of Ingram's companions at the Board of

Trade, and showed Sheila what the inside of a government office was

like. He paid Mackenzie the compliment of asking him for a drop of

something out of his flask, and in return he insisted on the King

smoking a cigar which, in point of age and sweetness and fragrance, was

really the sort of cigar you would naturally give to the man whose only

daughter you wanted to marry.

Ingram understood all this, and, was pleased to see the happy look that

Sheila wore. He talked to her with even a greater assumption than usual

of fatherly fondness; and if she was a little shy, was it not because

she was conscious of so great a secret? He was even unusually

complaisant to Lavender, and lost no opportunity of paying him indirect

compliments that Sheila could overhear.

"You poor young things!" he seemed to be saying to himself, "you've got

all your troubles before you; but in the mean time you may make

yourselves as happy as you can."

Was the weather at last about to break? As the afternoon wore on the

heavens became overcast, for the wind had gone back from the course of

the sun, and had brought up great masses of cloud from the rainy

south-west.

"Are we going to have a storm?" said Lavender, looking along the

southern sky, where the Barvas hills were momentarily growing blacker

under the gathering darkness overhead.

"A storm?" said Mackenzie, whose notions on what constituted a storm

were probably different from those of his guest. "No, there will be no

storm. But it is no bad thing if we get back to Barvas very soon."

Duncan sent the horses on, and Ingram looked out Sheila's waterproof and

the rugs. The southern sky certainly looked ominous. There was a strange

intensity of color in the dark landscape, from the deep purple of the

Barvas hills, coming forward to the deep green of the pasture-land

around them, and the rich reds and browns of the heath and the

peat-cuttings. At one point of the clouded and hurrying sky, however,

there was a soft and vaporous line of yellow in the gray; and under

that, miles away in the west, a great dash of silver light struck upon

the sea, and glowed there so that the eye could scarcely bear it. Was it

the damp that brought the perfumes of the moorland so distinctly toward

them--the bog-myrtle, the water-mint and wild thyme? There were no birds

to be heard. The crimson masses of heather on the gray rocks seemed to

have grown richer and deeper in color, and the Barvas hills had become

large and weird in the gloom.

"Are you afraid of thunder?" said Lavender to Sheila.

"No," said the girl, looking frankly toward him with her glad eyes, as

though he had pleased her by asking that not very striking question. And

then she looked round at the sea and the sky in the south, and said

quietly, "But there will be no thunder: it is too much wind."

Ingram, with a smile which he could scarcely conceal, hereupon remarked,

"You're sorry, Lavender, I know. Wouldn't you like to shelter somebody

in danger or attempt a rescue, or do something heroic?"

"And Mr. Lavender would do that if there was any need," said the girl

bravely, "and then it would be nothing to laugh at."

"Sheila, you bad girl! how dare you talk like that to me?" said Ingram;

and he put his arm within hers and said he would tell her a story.

But this race to escape the storm was needless, for they were just

getting within sight of Barvas when a surprising change came over the

dark and thunderous afternoon. The hurrying masses of cloud in the west

parted for a little space, and there was a sudden and fitful glimmer of

a stormy blue sky. Then a strange soft yellow and vaporous light shot

across to the Barvas hills, and touched up palely the great slopes,

rendering them distant, ethereal and cloud-like. Then a shaft or two of

wild light flashed down upon the landscape beside them. The cattle shone

red in the brilliant green pastures. The gray rocks glowed in their

setting of moss. The stream going by Barvas Inn was a streak of gold in

its sandy bed. And then the sky above them broke into great billows of

cloud--tempestuous and rounded masses of golden vapor that burned with

the wild glare of the sunset. The clear spaces in the sky widened, and

from time to time the wind sent ragged bits of yellow cloud across the

shining blue. All the world seemed to be on fire, and the very smoke of

it, the majestic masses of vapor that rolled by overhead, burned with a

bewildering glare. Then, as the wind still blew hard, and kept veering

round again to the north-west, the fiercely-lit clouds were driven over

one by one, leaving a pale and serene sky to look down on the sinking

sun and the sea. The Atlantic caught the yellow glow on its tumbling

waves, and a deeper color stole across the slopes and peaks of the

Barvas hills. Whither had gone the storm? There were still some banks of

clouds away up in the north-east, and in the clear green of the evening

sky they had their distant grays and purples faintly tinged with rose.

"And so you are anxious and frightened, and a little pleased?" said

Ingram to Sheila that evening, after he had frankly told her what he

knew, and invited her further confidence. "That is all I can gather from

you, but it is enough. Now you can leave the rest to me."

"To you?" said the girl with a blush of pleasure and surprise.

"Yes. I like new experiences. I am going to become an intermeddler now.

I am going to arrange this affair, and become the negotiator between all

the parties; and then, when I have secured the happiness of the whole of

you, you will all set upon me and beat me with sticks, and thrust me out

of your houses."

"I do not think," said Sheila, looking down, "that you have much fear of

that, Mr. Ingram."

"Is the world going to alter because of me?"

"I would rather not have you try to do anything that is likely to get

you into unhappiness," she said.

"Oh, but that is absurd. You timid young folks can't act for yourselves.

You want agents and instruments that have got hardened by use. Fancy the

condition of our ancestors, you know, before they had the sense to

invent steel claws to tear their food in pieces--what could they do with

their fingers? I am going to be your knife and fork, Sheila, and you'll

see what I shall carve out for you. All you've got to do is to keep your

spirits up, and believe that nothing dreadful is going to take place

merely because some day you will be asked to marry. You let things take

their ordinary course. Keep your spirits up--don't neglect your music or

your dinner or your poor people down in Borvabost--and you'll see it

will all come right enough. In a year or two, or less than that, you

will marry contentedly and happily, and your papa will drink a good

glass of whisky at the wedding and make jokes about it, and everything

will be as right as the mail. That's my advice: see you attend to it."

"You are very kind to me," said the girl in a low voice.

"But if you begin to cry, Sheila, then I throw up my duties. Do you

hear? Now look: there goes Mr. Lavender down to the boat with a bundle

of rugs, and I suppose you mean me to imperil my precious life by

sailing about these rocky channels in the moonlight? Come along down to

the shore; and mind you please your papa by singing 'Love in thine eyes'

with Mr. Lavender. And if you would add to that 'The Minute Gun at Sea,'

why, you know, I may as well have my little rewards for intermeddling

now, as I shall have to suffer afterward."

"Not through me," said Sheila in rather an uncertain voice; and then

they went down to the Maighdean-mhara.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

AT ODDS.

The snow had lain upon the ground

From gray November into March,

And lingering April hardly saw

The tardy tassels of the larch,

When sudden, like sweet eyes apart,

Looked down the soft skies of the spring,

And, guided by alluring signs,

Came late birds on impatient wing.

And when I found a shy white flower--

The first love of the amorous sun,

That from the cold clasp of the earth

The passion of his looks had won--

I said unto my brooding heart,

Which I had humored in its way,

"Give sorrow to the winds that blow:

Let's out and have a holiday!"

My heart made answer unto me:

"Where are the faint white chestnut-blooms?

Where are the thickets of wild rose--

Dim paths that lead to odorous glooms?"

"They are not yet. But listen, Heart!

I hear a red-breast robin call:

I see a golden glint of light

Where lately-loosened waters fall."

I waited long, but no reply

Came from my strangely silent heart:

I left the open, sunlit mead,

And walked a little way apart,

Where gloomy pines their shadows cast,

And brown pine-needles made below

A sober covering for the place,

Where scarce another thing could grow.

And then I said unto my heart,

"Now, we are in the dark, I pray

What is it I must do for thee

That thou mayst make a holiday?

Was ever fresher blue above?

Was ever blither calm around?

The purple promise of the spring

Is writ in violets on the ground.

"Comes, blown across my face, the breath

Of apple-blossoms far away:

Hast thou no memories, my heart,

As sweet and beautiful as they?"

And while I spoke I stood beside

A low mound fashioned like a grave,

And covered thick with last year's leaves,

Set in the forest's spacious nave.

And there I heard a little sound,

The flutter of a feeble wing,

And saw upon the grave-like mound

A bird that never more would sing.

I took it up, and first I laid

The quivering plumage to my cheek,

Then tenderly upon my breast,

And sorrowed, seeing it so weak.

Up spoke my sore reproachful heart:

"And now how happens it, I pray,

Thou dost not press the wounded bird

To sing and make a holiday?"

I made no answer then, but went

Into the dark wood's darkest deep,

And on my breast the bird lay dead,

And all around was still as sleep.

"There be that walk among the graves,"

At length, "repining heart," I said--

"Who carry slain loves in their breasts,

Yet smile like angels o'er their dead.

And thou! Why wilt thou shame me thus,

Saying, for ever, Nay and Nay?"

Then said my heart, "To conquer pain

Is not to make a holiday.

"And they who walk upon the heights,

Not hurtled by the passing storm,

Have carried long in lower lands

The grievous burdens that deform

The small of faith, the weak of heart,

The narrow-minded and untrue,

Who doubt if any heaven is left

When clouds are blown across its blue.

"And they are not of those who seek

To put unsolved things away,

Too early saying to their hearts,

'Come out, for it is holiday!'

And often 'tis the shallowest soul

That makes unseemly laughter ring,

That dares not bide amid its ghosts,

And, lest it weep, must try to sing.

"Wait till the tooth of pain is dulled;

Wait till the wound is overgrown:

Not in a day the moss hath made

So fair this once unsightly stone."

Then was I silent, but less wroth,

Content my heart should have its way.

Believing that in God's fit time

We yet should keep our holiday.

HOWARD GLYNDON.

PHILADELPHIA ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

Zoological gardens for Philadelphia have been a dream for many years,

and spasmodic efforts have been made from time to time to produce the

reality, but as yet nothing tangible has resulted. The idea has been too

inchoate to develop much enthusiasm, and year after year our citizens

have returned from enjoying the delights of foreign gardens, and mildly

wondered, in the true Philadelphia style, why we should not have them.

Nor is this marvelous when we consider the present condition of the

proposed Centennial Exhibition, which, it is mortifying to confess,

languishes for want of proper support. It cannot be denied that in this

undertaking an opportunity is presented that would be eagerly seized,

with all its attendant labor and expense, by any one of the States, and

that it was with great difficulty, and only because of the self-evident

incongruity of holding it elsewhere, that we were permitted by the

national authorities to celebrate the anniversary in Philadelphia. It is

in connection with this, and as a part thereof, that the Zoological

Gardens deserve immediate attention, as an additional, and next to the

grand exhibition itself the principal, attraction to the hundreds of

thousands who will visit the City of Brotherly Love on the Fourth of

July, 1876. The plan on the next page shows the ground which has been

granted by the Commissioners of the Fairmount Park to the Philadelphia

Zoological Society. The gentlemen who have taken the matter in hand are

well known for their energy and breadth of view, and if sustained in

their endeavors will carry out the scheme in a manner worthy of this

great and growing city.

In undertaking this work the managers have the advantage of the

experience and counsel of similar societies in the Old World, and

particularly of the magnificent London Zoological Gardens, the officers

of which are extremely interested in the success of the enterprise here,

and are prepared to aid, by advice and contributions, the Philadelphia

Garden. A description of the English society may be useful in forming an

opinion of the feasibility and advantages of the proposed scheme. The

London Zoological Society was organized in 1826, under the auspices of

Sir Humphry Davy, Sir Stamford Raffles and other eminent men, for the

advancement of zoology and animal physiology, and for the introduction

and acclimatization of subjects of the animal kingdom. By the charter,

granted March 27, 1829, Henry, marquis of Lansdowne, George, Lord

Auckland, Charles Baring Wall, Joseph Sabine and Nicholas Aylward

Vigors, Esqs., were created the first fellows. These gentlemen were

empowered to admit such other persons to be fellows, honorary members,

foreign members and corresponding members as they might think fit, and

to appoint twenty-one of the fellows to be the council, which should

manage the entire affairs of the society and elect members thereof until

the 29th of May following; at which time and annually thereafter the

society should hold a meeting, and by ballot remove five of this

council, and elect five others in their place, being fellows of the

society, who, with those remaining, should constitute the council for

the ensuing year. It will thus be seen that every year five of the

council are voted out, and five others elected in their stead, thus

retaining a large proportion of managers acquainted with the workings of

the organization.

[Illustration: PLAN OF THE PROPOSED ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.]

By the by-laws fellows are required to pay twenty-five dollars

initiation fee and fifteen dollars per annum, or one hundred and fifty

dollars at once in lieu of such dues. Annual subscribers pay the same

amount yearly, but no initiation fee, and they are not permitted to vote

at elections. Ladies are admitted as fellows upon the same terms and

with the same privileges; with the addition, however, that they are

allowed to vote by proxy.

Fellows have personal admission to the Gardens, with two companions,

daily, and receive orders, to be signed by them, admitting two persons

on each Saturday and Sunday in the year. They are also entitled to

twenty free tickets of admission. Sundays are set apart specially for

fellows and their friends, the general public not being admitted.

The society has business and scientific meetings--the latter

monthly--and these are very largely attended and of the most interesting

character. New and remarkable subjects of zoology are exhibited, papers

and communications on animal physiology and zoology are read, and

animated discussions carried on. An abstract of the proceedings is

regularly forwarded to the scientific journals and newspapers. The

society also publishes a large variety of zoological matter, which is

furnished to fellows at one-fourth less than the price to strangers.

Every addition to the collection of the society has its picture taken

upon its entrance, and very handsome colored plates of those which are

rare or curious are inserted in these publications. The sales from this

source realized last year over thirty-seven hundred dollars.

In 1871 the income of the society was $123,101, of which $69,000 were

from admissions to the Gardens, $9507 from Garden sales and rent of

refreshment-rooms, $3750 from the society's publications, and $39,415

from dues of fellows and annual subscribers. The expenses for the same

year were $106,840, the principal items being--salaries, wages and

pensions, $21,790; cost and carriage of animals, $10,560; provisions,

$20,430; menagerie expenses, $10,480; Garden expenses, $3465. The annual

income has so much exceeded the expenses during the last ten years that

the society has been able to devote over two hundred and thirty thousand

dollars of such surplus to the permanent embellishment of its Gardens,

and still retain some fifty thousand dollars as a reserve fund.

In the collection of the society are 590 quadrupeds, 1227 birds and 255

reptiles--altogether 2072. The quantity and various kinds of food--the

knowledge of the tastes and necessities of the animals--the temperature,

ventilation, habitations and so on of such a large assortment of

different species--necessitate the employment of trained and skillful

servants and scientific officers. It has been seen that the provisions

and menagerie expenses alone exceed $30,000, and it must be remembered

that the most difficult part, the brain-work, the knowledge--without

which the whole would be a failure--is furnished the society by its

council entirely free.

The collection of living animals is the finest in existence, and is

daily increasing. Scattered everywhere are its corresponding members,

keeping it advised of every opportunity to augment its stores: its

agents have penetrated and are still exploring the desert and the

jungle, braving the heats of the equator, and the terrible winters of

the ice-bound regions of the globe, to furnish every possible link in

the grand procession of organized life.

A large proportion of the most wonderful and valuable part of the

collection has been presented by crowned heads and governors of

different countries, British consuls, other zoological societies,

British naval and military officers stationed in foreign ports and

posts, Englishmen of wealth and travelers. The donations to the society

for the year 1871 would alone be sufficient to establish a Garden at

Fairmount Park which would be the finest in America. They amounted to

over five hundred in number, and include almost every description of

animal, from a tiger to a monkey, and from an imperial eagle to a

humming-bird. With our present connection by rail and steamer with the

East and West Indies, and other distant regions, let it only be

generally known that such a Garden as is now proposed exists in

Philadelphia, and it will receive contributions from all parts of the

world. The Philadelphia society has already had numerous offers of

animals, birds and reptiles, and the promise of any number for the mere

cost of transportation. The officers of the Smithsonian Institution at

Washington have expressed their willingness and desire to hand over to

any proper association the many curious animals constantly offered it.

The societies of Europe, many of whose managers have been in

communication with the one started here, are extremely anxious that a

collection of American animals, birds, reptiles and fishes shall be

made. It will be wholly unique, and will attract zoologists from every

part of the world, permitting them, for the first time, to study the

habits of many new species. This continent has a wealth of subjects of

the animal kingdom as yet almost unexplored. The birds are absolutely

innumerable, and the immense rivers produce fishes of the most marvelous

character and but little known. In the Berlin Garden, rapidly becoming a

rival to the one in London, one of the greatest attractions, if not the

chief, is the American beaver: an assemblage of a number of these on the

banks of the Schuylkill, giving an opportunity of witnessing their

astonishing sagacity, would of itself be an attractive exhibition.

The Zoological Society of Philadelphia was incorporated by act of the

Legislature of Pennsylvania, approved March 21, 1859. The site selected

at that time, and approved by City Councils, was five acres of the

extreme south-eastern corner of the then Park, consisting of Sedgeley

and Lemon Hill, and containing about two hundred acres. A meeting of

certain prominent and influential citizens interested in the subject was

held, and the matter carefully discussed. At subsequent meetings a

constitution and by-laws were adopted, officers elected and plans

proposed for raising the necessary funds. The officers of the society at

that time were as follows: President, Dr. William Camac;

Vice-Presidents, William R. Lejee and James C. Hand; Recording

Secretary, Fairman Rogers; Corresponding Secretary, Dr. John L. LeConte;

Treasurer, P. Pemberton Morris; Managers, Frederick Graeff, Thomas

Dunlap, Charles E. Smith, John Cassin, William S. Vaux, J. Dickinson

Sergeant, Dr. Wilson C. Swann, W. Parke Foulke, Francis R. Cope and

Samuel Powel; Trustees of the Permanent Fund, Evans Rogers, Charles

Macalester and James Dundas.[A]

Soon after this the rebellion broke out, and in the clash of arms, the

terrible anxieties of the times, and the fevered pursuit of wealth that

followed the inflation of the currency, the subject of zoological

gardens entirely disappeared. Many of those whose names appear as

officially connected with the association, and whose purses and

influence would now be warmly exerted in its favor, have passed away, to

the irreparable loss of the society. Those who remain have revived the

project with sanguine hopes of its accomplishment. The increased wealth

since the inception of the idea in 1859, the enlarged size of the Park,

the growth of the city and the prospect of the Centennial, have widened

the views of the society, and it is confidently anticipated that a

Garden will be established, with a collection and all the necessary

appurtenances, that will equal in a few years the superb one of London.

The strangers that will flock here in 1876 will one and all visit the

Zoological Gardens if in any sort of condition for display at that time.

In 1851, the year of the great Exhibition of London, the number of

visitors to the Zoological Gardens increased from 360,402 in the year

before to 667,243; and in 1862, the time of the second and

International Exhibition, it leaped from 381,337 in 1861 to 682,205. The

number of visitors to the London Garden has been steadily on the

increase since its foundation. In 1863 the largest number up to that

time, except the Exhibition years, was 468,700, and by regular

progression annually it reached in 1871 the large amount of 595,917

persons.

The situation of our proposed Gardens is most admirable in every way.

Stretching along the west bank of the Schuylkill for nearly a third of a

mile; opposite the principal entrance to the Park on one side, and the

West Philadelphia approach by Thirty-fifth street on the other; directly

on the route to the Centennial Exhibition; contiguous to the great

railroad artery of the United States, the Pennsylvania Central, a

sideling from which will enter the receiving-house of the society

(marked D on the plan), and thus enable animals and curiosities from all

parts of the United States to be carried without change of cars directly

to the Gardens, or from the East Indies, China, Japan, South America and

the Pacific islands with but one trans-shipment, while the canal

alongside enables freights of all kinds and from any part of the world

to be deposited at the very entrance-gates; the ground rolling and

fertile, rising in the centre, and sufficiently elevated to be away from

the floods of the river; larger by some acres than the Zoological Garden

of London; interspersed with handsome trees, many of them of noble size,

planted by John Penn, whose family mansion, "Solitude," still stands

(35) within the proposed enclosure, and with slight alterations will

make a handsome museum for the society; the old West Philadelphia

Waterworks (20) only needing an engine to force the water into the lake,

around which will be the abodes of the aquatic animals, and from whence

the natural slope of the land will permit the irrigation of the whole

tract; the great sewer for the use of the western portion of the city,

now in process of construction, passing through the southern end of the

Garden, and running along the bank of the river to empty below the dam;

convenient to all parts of the city by means of the city railways and

the Reading Railroad;--these and many other advantages, which an

examination of the illustration of the grounds will naturally suggest,

produce a combination unsurpassed and unsurpassable anywhere. Is it

exaggeration to say that the Philadelphia Zoological Gardens, once

properly established, would not only be regarded with pride and

affection by the citizens, but very materially benefit the whole city?

Imagine the grounds handsomely laid out in walks and drives, bordered

with grass and flowers, terraced from the river; tables and chairs

scattered about on the green sward under the trees; a band of music; the

cool breezes from the Schuylkill; opposite, the beautiful Lemon Hill

Park, with its broad drive alongside the bank: could anything be more

attractive and wholesome to the hundreds of thousands who through the

hot months of this uncommonly hot city are obliged to remain within its

limits?

Assuming, then, the advantages of a Zoological Garden in Philadelphia,

what is necessary for success and what business inducements (to consider

it in that light) can the society hold out to obtain sufficient money to

procure its collection of living animals, and provide for their suitable

accommodation and increase? The number of members is now two hundred,

who pay five dollars initiation and the same amount annually, which

gives them continual admission to the proposed Garden. Fifty dollars

secures a life-membership free from any further subscription. The sum

now in the treasury is two thousand dollars, and although at the last

meeting twenty-one new names were proposed, and many more persons have

announced their intention of joining, it is apparent that by this means

the society will never accomplish its object. Begging subscriptions,

without offering a pecuniary return therefor, is repugnant to the

officers, and the following plan has been adopted for procuring the

necessary funds. Certificates of stock are to be issued of not less than

fifty dollars each. All receipts derived from the Gardens and

collections of the society are to be applied annually--first, to the

maintenance of the establishment; second, to the payment of six per

cent. on the stock; and third, any balance remaining to go to the

gradual extension of the collections of the society and the improvement

of its grounds.

It will be observed that stockholders can never receive a larger

dividend than six per cent. per annum, and this only in case the

receipts exceed the expenditures. There are therefore two points to be

considered by those willing to invest--first, the character of the

managers, and second, the prospect of the pecuniary success of the

enterprise. The first is a matter of acquaintance and reputation: the

second can be demonstrated in favor of the society, if honestly and

efficiently managed, with almost mathematical accuracy.

The main entrance to our Gardens will be directly opposite the Lansdowne

drive, at the west end of Girard Avenue Bridge. The Park Commissioners'

Report for 1872 gives the recorded number of pleasure carriages and

sleighs entering the Park at this point and at the Green street gate,

during the year, as 363,138, of equestrians 26,255, and of pedestrians

385,832. These, in the words of the report (p. 60), "allowing three

persons for each vehicle, will make a total of one million five hundred

and one thousand four hundred and ten visitors passing these two

entrances; and supposing the number of persons coming by the other ten

entrances to be not more than those recorded at these two, we shall have

three millions as the approximate number of visitors."

It will hardly be asserted that there is any prospect of this number

diminishing, nor will it be denied that it is most probable it will

steadily increase, and during the year of the Centennial be more than

quadrupled. It is reasonable to believe that few would resist the

pleasure of driving, riding or walking through the Zoological Gardens,

so invitingly at hand. Saturdays should be cheap days, say at half

price, and the money that would be received at the admission-gates upon

that one day alone would dissolve any fears of their six per cent, in

the minds of stockholders.

Relieved of the expense of securing the ground, a sum of three or four

hundred thousand dollars would enable the society to secure a solid

basis, and to open the Gardens upon a scale that would make them the

great feature of Philadelphia. In a very few years it could buy up all

its certificates of stock and own its collections free. The handsome

surplus, before alluded to, accruing annually to the London society

shows that this is not chimerical. The city railways are interested in

this movement, and should subscribe liberally. It is proposed in the

Legislature to charter a railroad running north and south in West

Philadelphia, and if this be done it will render the Garden still more

accessible.

The Commissioners of the Park warmly advocate its establishment, and do

not hesitate to say it will be a most magnificent addition and the most

entertaining resort at Fairmount. City Councils have already endorsed

it, and devoted space for its location. There remains nothing but the

assistance of the moneyed and public-spirited men of Philadelphia to

accomplish the undertaking. The stock books of the society are now open

for subscriptions, and to prevent the loss of another year ground must

be broken in the coming spring. It is most desirable that upon June 1st

the society may be in a condition to throw open to the public the

nucleus of a collection. Once actually begun, public interest will be

aroused, and, the people convinced that there is a prospect of success,

it will not be permitted to fail. Certain it is that too much time has

already been wasted in such a needed improvement, and that the

Zoological Gardens of Philadelphia will be permanently established now

or never.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Since this article was written the vacancies in the board of

managers have been filled by the election of Messrs. George W. Childs,

Anthony J. Drexel, Henry C. Gibson, J. Vaughan Merrick, Clarence H.

Clark and Theodore L. Harrison.

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER VI.

Mrs. Guinness up stairs in her closet gave thanks every day to Heaven

for the blessed result: down stairs she nagged and scolded Kitty from

morning until night. Peter supposed it was in order to maintain her

authority, but it appeared there were other reasons.

"The girl disappoints me, now that one looks at her as a woman," she

said to her husband at breakfast one day, while Kitty sat opposite

placidly eating a liberal supply of steak and cakes. She looked up

inquiringly. "Yes," vehemently, "at your age I could not have eaten a

meal a week after I was engaged. Whenever I heard your father's step I

was in a tremor from head to toe. You receive Mr. Muller as though you

had been married for years. Not a blush! As cool as any woman of the

world!"

"But I don't feel any tremor," helping her father to butter.

"It's immodest!"

Kitty blushed now, but whether from anger or shame no one could tell;

for she remained silent. She laid down her knife and fork the next

moment, however, and rose.

"What I fear is this," said her mother, raising her voice--"Mr. Muller's

disappointment. He looks for a womanly, loving wife--"

"And I'm not one?" Poor Kitty stood in the doorway swinging her

sun-bonnet. She was just then certainly not a morbid, despairing woman,

who had made a terrible mistake: nothing but a scared child whom anybody

would have hurried to comfort and humor. "I want to do what's right, I'm

sure;" and her red under lip began to tremble and the water to gather in

her eyes. She sat down to hear the rest of the lecture, but her mother

stopped short. Presently, when the chickens came clucking, she went to

mix their meal as usual, very pale and dolorous.

In an hour she put her head in at the shop-window, her eyes sparkling:

"There's two new chicks in the corn-bin nest, and they're full-blooded

bantams, I'm sure, father."

"She's not fit to be married!" cried Mrs. Guinness excitedly. "She is

both silly and unfeeling. God only knows how I came to be the mother of

such a child! The great work before her she cares nothing about; and as

for Mr. Muller, she doesn't value him as much as a bantam hen. It's her

narrow intellect. Her brain is small, as Bluhm said."

It was his wife's conscience twitting her, Peter knew. "I would not be

uneasy," he said with a cynical smile. "You can't bring love out of her

by that sort of friction." But he was himself uneasy. If Catharine had

been gloomy, or even thoughtful, at the prospect of her marriage, he

would have cared less. But she came in that very day in glee at the

sour, critical looks with which some envious young women of the church

had followed her; and when her mother called her up stairs to look at a

trunkful of embroidered under-clothing which she had kept for this

crisis, he could hear Kitty's delighted chatter and giggle for an hour.

Evidently her cup of pleasure was full for that day. Was his little girl

vulgar, feeble in both heart and mind, as her mother said?

Kitty was on trial that day. Miss Muller called and swept her off to the

Water-cure in the afternoon. She meant to interest her in the

Reformatory school for William's sake. She began by explaining the

books, and the system of keeping them. "It is my brother's wish you

should keep the accounts," she said.

"Accounts! oh yes, of course."

The tone was too emphatic. Miss Muller looked up from the long lines of

figures and found Kitty holding her eyes open by force. Evidently she

had just had a comfortable nap.

Whereupon Maria began to patiently dilate on the individual cases of

the boys to be reformed; and terrible instances they were of guilt and

misery.

"She whimpered a little," she said afterward to her brother. "I'll do

her justice: she did, a little. But they ought to have brought tears

from a log; and the next minute, seeing those wonderful eyes of hers

fixed on me with a peculiar thoughtfulness, I asked her what was she

thinking of, and found she was studying 'how I did that lovely French

twist in my back hair.' No. There's nothing in her--nothing. Not an

idea; but that I did not expect. But not even a feeling or principle to

take hold of. Take my word, William. You are going to marry fine eyes

and pink cheeks. Nothing more."

Mr. Muller cared for nothing more. If there had been an answering hint

of fire in eyes or cheeks to the rush of emotion he felt at the sight of

them, he would have been content. But Catharine's face was very like a

doll's just now--the eyes as bright and unmeaning, the pink as

unchanging. In vain he brought her flowers; in vain, grown wiser by

love, led her out in the moonlight to walk, or, flushed and quaking

himself, read in a shrill, uncertain voice absurd fond little sonnets he

had composed to her. Kitty was always attentive, polite and indifferent.

She never went to her old seat during the whole summer, never opened one

of the old books over which she and Peter used to pore. He showed her a

new edition of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ one day, with illustrations:

"See what Bell and Daldy have done for our old friend, Catharine."

"This allegory all seems much ado about nothing," she said presently,

filliping over the leaves. "Really, I can't see that there is any

wilderness in the world, or devils to fight in or out of pits. At least

for me."

Speculations on life from Kitty! A month ago she would have gone no

farther than the pictures. "There's nothing worse for me than nice

dresses and a wedding, and three hundred children to bring up for the

Lord, with a smell of beef-and-cabbage over it all. Good gracious!

Don't you know I'm joking, father?" seeing his face. She laughed and

hugged him, and hugged him again. "As for the children, I love them of

course, poor little wretches!"

Peter scowled over her back as she hung on him. Was it sheer silliness?

Or had certain doors in her nature never been opened, even enough for

her to know all that lay behind them? He pushed her off, holding her by

both wrists: "Are you quite willing to marry Mr. Muller? Do you love

him? Think what it is to marry without love. For God's sake tell me,

Catharine!"

"Yes, I love him. Certainly. Why," kindling into animation, "I've worn

his ring for a month. Haven't you seen it?" turning her hand about and

looking at the blue turquoise against the white dimples with a delighted

chuckle.

There was a storm that evening: the thunder was deafening; the rain

dashed heavily against the little square windows of the Book-house.

Catharine was alone. As soon as she made sure of that, Peter having gone

to the city and her mother to a meeting, she put on her waterproof cloak

and overshoes, and sallied out. Not by any means as heroines do who rush

out into the tempest to assuage fiercer storms of rage or despair

within. But there was something at this time in Kitty's blood which,

though it would not warm her cheeks at Mr. Muller's approach, was on

fire for adventure. To go out alone in the rain was to the

chicken-hearted little simpleton what a whaling-voyage would be to a

runaway boy. She came in after an hour drenched to the skin, went up

stairs to change her clothes, and ran down presently to cuddle before

the fire. Now was the time to think rationally, she thought, her elbow

on a chair, her chin pillowed in her soft palm. Here was her marriage

just at hand. She had looked forward to marriage all her life. Five

minutes she gave to the long-vexed question of whether her wedding-veil

should cover her face or not, "It would shade my nose, and in frosty

weather my nose always will be red." What queer little hooked noses the

Mullers all had! and that reflection swung her mind round to her lover

and his love-making, where it rested, until suddenly the fire grew a

hazy red blotch and her head began to bob.

"I did not use to be so thick-headed," rousing herself, and staring

sleepily at the rain-washed window and the crackling fire. She sang a

little hymn to herself, that simplest of all old ditties:

I think, when I hear that sweet story of old.

It made her tender and tearful, and brought her feet close to her

Saviour, as those other children upon whose head He laid his hands. "I

ought to be thankful that I have work for Him," she thought. "How I

envied Mary McKean when she sailed to India as a missionary! And here

are the heathen ready-made for me," proceeding very earnestly to think

over the state of the wretched three hundred. But her head began to nod

again, and the fire was suddenly dashed out in blackness. She started up

yawning. It was all so dreary! Life--Then and there our wholesome Kitty

would have made her first step toward becoming the yearning, misplaced

Woman of the Time, but for a knock which came at the door.

There had been an occasional roll of thunder, and the rain beat steadily

upon the roof. The first knock failed to rouse her. At the second a man

burst in, and stopped as suddenly in the dark end of the shop, shading

his eyes from the glare: then he came tiptoeing forward. Even in this

abrupt breaking in out of the storm there was something apologetic and

deprecating about the man. As he came up, still sheltering his eyes, as

though from the surprise of Kitty's loveliness, and not the fire, he had

the bearing of a modest actor called before the curtain for bouquets.

"I had not expected--_this_" with a stage wave of the hand toward

Catharine.

Now Kitty's pink ears, as we know, were always pricked for a compliment,

and her politeness was apt to carry her over the verge of lying; but she

was hardly civil now: she drew coldly back, wishing with all her heart

that her lover, fat, simple, pure-minded little Muller, were here to

protect her. Yet Mrs. Guinness, no doubt, would have said this man was

made of finer clay than the clergyman. Both figure and face were small

and delicate: his dress was finical and dainty, from the fur-topped

overshoes to the antique seal and the trimming of his gray moustache. He

drew off his gloves, holding a white, wrinkled hand to the fire, but

Catharine felt the colorless eyes passing over her again and again.

"Your business," she said, "is probably with my father?"

"Your father is Peter Guinness? No. My business hardly deserves the

name, in fact," leisurely stopping to smooth and fold the yellow gloves

between his palms, in order to prolong his sentences. "It was merely to

leave a message for his son, for Hugh Guinness."

"Hugh Guinness is dead."

"Dead!" For an instant the patting of the gloves ceased, and he looked

at her steadily; then, with a nod of comprehension, he went on: "Oh, it

is not convenient for Hugh to be alive just now? We are old comrades,

you see: I know his ways. I know he was in Delaware a year ago. But I

have no time now to go to Delaware. The message will no doubt reach him

if left with you." He had made the gloves into a square package by this

time, and, flattening it with a neat pat or two, put it in his pocket,

turning to her with a significant smile.

"Hugh Guinness is dead," said Catharine. "He died in Nicaragua five

years ago. Your business with him ended then."

"And yet--" coming a step nearer, "yet if Guinness were in his grave

now, I fancy he would think my business of more importance to him than

life itself would be." He was talking against time, she saw--talking

while he inspected her to see whether she were willfully lying or

believed what she said. He was a man who by rule believed the worst: the

disagreeable, incredulous smile came back. "These are the days when

ghosts walk, as you know." After a moment's pause: "And Hugh may come

to rap and write with the rest. So, even admitting that he is dead, it

would be safer for you to receive the message. It matters much to him."

"What is it?" she said curiously. "There is no use in wasting so many

words about the matter."

"Tell him--" lowering his voice. "No," with a sudden suspicious glance

at her. "No need of wasting words, true enough. Give him this. There's

an address inside. Tell him the person who sent it waits for him there."

He took out of his pocket a small morocco case, apparently containing a

photograph, and laid it down on the table.

"Take it back. Hugh Guinness has been dead for years. I will not take

charge of it."

"No, he's not dead," coolly buttoning his coat again. "I suppose you

believe what you say. But he was in Delaware, I tell you, last October.

If he asks about me, tell him I only acted as a messenger in the matter.

I've no objection to doing him that good turn."

He nodded familiarly, put on his hat, and went out as suddenly as he had

come. When he was gone she heard the rain drenching the walnuts outside,

dripping, dripping; the thunder rolled down the valley; the fire

crackled and flashed. There, on the table, in the dirty morocco case,

lay a Mystery, a tremendous Life-secret, no doubt, of which she, Kitty,

held the clue. It was like Pepita when she found the little gold key

that unlocked the enchanted rooms. Hugh Guinness living? To be restored

to his father? She was in a fever of delight and excitement. When she

opened the case she found a beautiful woman's face--a blonde who seemed

sixteen to Kitty, but who might be sixty. The Mystery enlarged: it quite

filled Kitty's horizon. When she put the case in her pocket, and sat

down, with red cheeks and bright eyes, on the rug again, I am sure she

did not remember there was a Reform school or a Muller in the world.

At last Peter was heard in the porch, stamping and shaking: "Oh, I'm

dry as a toast, Jane, what with the oil-skin and leggings. Yes, take

them. Miss Vogdes wants tea in the shop, eh? All right! Why child,"

turning up her face, "your cheeks burn like a coal. Mr. Muller been

here?"

"Oh dear, no!" pushing him into a chair. "Is there nothing to think of

but Mullers and marrying?"

She poured out the tea, made room for the plates of cold chicken and

toast among the books, and turned the supper into a picnic, as she had

done hundreds of times, gossiping steadily all the while. But Mr.

Guinness saw that there was something coming.

When the tea was gone she sat down on the wooden bench beside him,

leaning forward on his knee: "Father, you promised once to show me

before I went away all that you had belonging to--your other child."

Guinness did not speak at once, but sat smoking his cigar. It went out

in his mouth. He made a motion to rise once or twice, and sat down

again. "To-night, Kitty?"

"Yes, to-night. We are alone."

He got up at last slowly, going to a drawer in the oak cases which she

had never seen opened. Unlocking it, he took out one or two Latin

school-books, a broken fishing-rod, a gun and an old cap, and placed

them before her. It was a hard task she had set him, she saw. He lifted

the cap and pointed to a long red hair which had caught in the button,

but did not touch it: "Do you see that? That is Hugh's. I found it there

long after he was gone. It had caught there some day when the boy jerked

the cap off. He was a careless dog! Always jerking and tearing!"

Catharine was silent until he began putting the things back in the

drawer: "Father, there's no chance, is there? You could not be mistaken

in that report from Nicaragua? You never thought it possible that your

son might yet be alive?"

"Hugh's dead--dead," quietly. But his fingers lingered over the book and

gun, as though he had been smoothing the grave-clothes about his boy.

"The proof was complete, then?" ventured Kitty.

He turned on her: "Why do you talk to me of Hugh, Catharine? I can tell

you nothing of him. He's dead: isn't that enough? Christian folks would

say he was a man for whom his friends ought to think death a safe

ending. They have told me so more than once. But he was not altogether

bad, to my mind." He bent over the drawer now. Kitty saw that he took

hold of the red hair, and drew it slowly through his fingers: his face

had grown in these few minutes aged and haggard.

"'Behold, how he loved him!'" she thought. He had been the old man's

only son. Other men could make mourning for their dead children, talk of

them all their lives; but she knew her mother would not allow Peter to

even utter his boy's name.

"I'm sure," she said vehemently from where she stood by the fire, "he

was not a bad man. _I_ remember Hugh very well, and I remember nothing

that was not lovable and good about him;" the truth of which was that

she had a vague recollection of a freckle-faced boy, who had tormented

her and her kittens day and night, and who had suddenly disappeared out

of her life. But she meant to comfort her father, and she did it.

"You've a good, warm heart, Kitty. I did not know that anybody but me

remembered the lad."

She snuggled down on the floor beside him, drawing his hand over her

hair. Usually there is great comfort in the very touch of a woman like

Kitty. But Peter's hand rested passively on her head: her cooing and

patting could not touch his trouble to-day.

"Your mother will need you, my dear," he said at last, as soon as that

lady's soft steady step was heard in the hall. Kitty understood and left

him alone.

"Mother," she said, coming into the chamber where Mrs. Guinness, her

pink cheeks pinker from the rain, lay back in her easy-chair, her

slippered feet on the fender--"mother, there is a question I wish to ask

you."

"Well, Catharine?"

"When did Hugh die? How do you know that he is dead?"

Mrs. Guinness sat erect and looked at her in absolute silence.

Astonishment and anger Kitty had expected from her at her mention of the

name, but there was a certain terror in her face which was

unaccountable.

"What do you know of Hugh Guinness? I never wished that his name should

cross your lips, Catharine."

"I know very little. But I have a reason for wishing to know when and

how he died. It is for father's sake," she added, startled at the

increasing agitation which her mother could not conceal.

Still, Mrs. Guinness did not reply. She was not a superstitious woman:

she felt no remorse about her treatment of her stepson. There had been

evil tongues, even in the church, to lay his ruined life at her door,

and to say that bigotry and sternness had driven him to debauchery and a

drunkard's death. She knew she had done her duty: she liked best to

think of herself as a mother in Israel. Yet there had always been a

dull, mysterious terror which linked Hugh Guinness and Catharine

together. It was there he would revenge himself. Some day he would put

out his dead hand from the grave to work the child's destruction. She

had reasoned and laughed at her own folly in the matter for years. But

the belief was there. Now it was taking shape.

She would meet it face to face. She stood up as though she had been

going to throttle some visible foe for ever: "I shall tell you the

truth, Catharine. Your father has never known it. He believes his son

died in Nicaragua fighting for a cause which he thought good. I let him

believe it. There was some comfort in that."

"It was not true, then?"

"No." She rearranged the vases on the mantel-shelf, turned over the

illuminated texts hanging on the wall, until she came to the one for the

day. She was trying to convince herself that Hugh Guinness mattered

nothing to her.

"He died," she said at last, "in New York, a reprobate, as he lived."

"But where? how?"

"What can that matter to you?" sharply. "But I will tell you where and

how. Two winters ago a poor, bloated, penniless wretch took up his

lodging in a cheap hotel in New York. He left it only to visit the

gambling-houses near. An old friend of mine recognized Hugh, and warned

me of his whereabouts. I went up to the city at once, but when I reached

it he had disappeared. He had lost his last penny at dice."

"Then he _is_ still alive?"

"God forbid! No," correcting herself. "A week later the body of a

suicide was recovered off Coney Island and placed in the Morgue. It was

horribly mutilated. But I knew Hugh Guinness. I think I see him yet,

lying on that marble slab and his eyes staring up at me. It was no doing

of mine that he lay there."

"No, mother, I am sure that it was not," gently. "If your conscience

reproaches you, I wish he were here that you could try and bring him

into the right path at last."

"My conscience does not trouble me. As for Hugh--Heaven forbid that I

should judge any man!--but if ever there was a son of wrath predestined

to perdition, it was he. I always felt his day of grace must have passed

while he was still a child."

Kitty had no answer to this. She went off to bed speedily, and to sleep.

An hour or two later her mother crept softly to her bedside and stood

looking at her. The woman had been crying.

"Lord, not on her, not on her!" she cried silently. "Let not my sin be

laid up against her!" But her grief was short-lived. Hugh was dead. As

for his harming Kitty, that was all folly. Meanwhile, Mr. Muller and the

wedding-clothes were facts. She stooped over Kitty and kissed

her--turned down the sheet to look at her soft blue-veined shoulder and

moist white foot. Such a little while since she was a baby asleep in

this very bed! Some of the baby lines were in her face still. It was

hard to believe that now she was a woman--to be in a few days a wife.

She covered her gently, and stole away nodding and smiling. The ghost

was laid.

As for Kitty, she had gone to bed not at all convinced that Hugh

Guinness was dead. It was a more absorbing Mystery, that was all. But it

did not keep her awake. She did not spin any romantic fancies about him

or his dark history. If he were alive, he was very likely as

disagreeable and freckle-faced a man as he had been a boy. But the

secret was her own--a discovery; a very different affair from this

marriage, which had been made and fitted on her by outsiders.

CHAPTER VII.

"Gone! You don't mean that your mother and Mr. Guinness have gone to

leave you for a month!" Mr. Muller was quite vehement with annoyance and

surprise.

"At least a month," said Catharine calmly. "Mrs. Guinness always goes

with my father on his summer journey for books, and this year she

has--well, things to buy for me."

It was the wedding-dress she meant, he knew. He leaned eagerly in at the

window, where he stood hoping for a blush. But none came. "Purl two and

knit one," said Kitty to her crochet.

"I certainly do not consider it safe or proper for you to be left

alone," he blustered mildly after a while.

"There is Jane," glancing back at the black figure waddling from the

kitchen to the pump.

"Jane! I shall send Maria up to stay with you, Catharine."

"You are very kind! It is so pleasant to be cared for!" with a little

gush of politeness and enthusiasm. "But dear Maria finds the house damp.

I will not be selfish. You must allow me to be alone."

He looked at her furtively. Was there, after all, an obstinate,

unbendable back-bone under the soft feathers of this his nestling dove?

He was discomfited at every turn this evening. He had hoped that Kitty

would notice that his little imperial had been retrimmed; and he

had bought a set of sleeve-buttons, antique coins, at a ruinous price,

in hopes they would please her. She looked at neither the one nor the

other. Yet she had a keen eye for dress--too keen an eye indeed. Only

last night she had spent an hour anxiously cutting old Peter's hair and

beard, and Mr. Muller could not but remember that he was a handsome

young fellow, and do what she would with Peter, he was old and beaked

like a parrot. "Besides, he is only her stepfather," he reasoned, "and I

am to be her husband: she loves me."

_Did_ she love him? The question always brought a pain under his plump

chest and neat waistcoat which he could not explain; he thrust it

hastily away. But he loitered about the room, thinking how sweet it

would be if this childish creature would praise or find fault with

buttons or whiskers in her childish way. Kitty, however, crocheted on

calmly, and saw neither. The sun was near its setting. The clover-fields

stretched out dry and brown in its warm light, to where the melancholy

shadows gathered about the wooded creeks.

Mr. Muller looked wistfully out of the window, and then at her. "Suppose

you come and walk with me?" he said presently.

Kitty glanced out, and settled herself more comfortably in her

rocking-chair. "It is very pleasant here," smiling.

He thought he would go home: in fact, he did not know what else to do.

The room was very quiet, they were quite alone. The evening light fell

on Catharine; her hands had fallen on her lap; she was thinking so

intently of her Mystery that she had forgotten he was there. How white

her bent neck was, with the rings of brown hair lying on it! There was a

deeper pink than usual on her face, too, as though her thoughts were

pleasant. He came closer, bent over her chair, touched her hair with one

chubby finger, and started back red and breathless.

"Did you speak?" said Kitty, looking up.

"I'm going home. I only wanted to say good bye."

"So soon? Good-bye. I shall see you to-morrow, I suppose?" taking up her

work.

"Yes, Kitty--"

"Well?"

"I have never bidden you good-bye except by shaking hands. Could I kiss

you? I have thought about that every day since you promised to marry

me."

The pleasant rose-tinge was gone now: even the soft lips, which were

dangerously close, were colorless: "You can kiss me if you want to. I

suppose it's right."

The little man drew back gravely. "Never mind; it's no matter. I had

made up my mind never to ask for it until you seemed to be able to give

me real wifely love."