CHAPTER LXX.

END OR BEGINNING?

When the fit was over and he found Mr. Graham was gone, he asked

Malcolm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would take Lady

Florimel to come from Edinburgh.

"Mr. Crathie left wi' fower horses frae the Lossie Airms last nicht,

my lord," said Malcolm; "but the ro'ds are ill, an' she winna be here

afore some time the morn."

The marquis stared aghast: they had sent for her without his orders.

"What _shall_ I do?" he murmured. "If once I look in her eyes, I shall

be damned.--Malcolm!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Is there a lawyer in Portlossie?"

"Yes, my lord: there's auld Maister Carmichael."

"He won't do: he was my brother's rascal. Is there no one besides?"

"No in Portlossie, my lord. There can be nane nearer than Duff Harbor,

I doobt."

"Take the chariot and bring him here directly. Tell them to put four

horses to: Stokes can ride one."

"I'll ride the ither, my lord."

"You'll do nothing of the kind: you're not used to the pole."

"I can tak the leader, my lord."

"I tell you you're to do nothing of the kind," cried the marquis

angrily. "You're to ride inside, and bring Mr.--what's his name?--back

with you."

"Soutar, my lord, gien ye please."

"Be off, then. Don't wait to feed. The brutes have been eating all

day, and they can eat all night. You must have him here in an hour."

In an hour and a quarter Miss Horn's friend stood by the marquis's

bedside, Malcolm was dismissed, but was presently summoned again to

receive more orders.

Fresh horses were put to the chariot, and he had to set out once

more--this time to fetch a justice of the peace, a neighbor laird. The

distance was greater than to Duff Harbor; the roads were worse; the

north wind, rising as they went, blew against them as they returned,

increasing to a violent gale; and it was late before they reached

Lossie House.

When Malcolm entered he found the marquis alone.

"Is Morrison here at last?" he cried, in a feeble, irritated voice.

"Yes, my lord."

"What the devil kept you so long? The bay mare would have carried me

there and back in an hour and a half."

"The roads war verra heavy, my lord. An' jist hear till the win'."

The marquis listened a moment, and a frightened expression grew over

his thin, pale, anxious face. "You don't know what depends on it," he

said, "or you would have driven better. Where is Mr. Soutar?"

"I dinna ken, my lord. I'm only jist come, an' I've seen naebody."

"Go and tell Mrs. Courthope I want Soutar. You'll find her crying

somewhere--the old chicken!--because I swore at her. What harm could

that do the old goose?"

"It'll be mair for love o' yer lordship than fricht at the sweirin',

my lord."

"You think so? Why should _she_ care? Go and tell her I'm sorry.

But really she ought to be used to me by this time. Tell her to send

Soutar directly."

Mr. Soutar was not to be found, the fact being that he had gone to see

Miss Horn. The marquis flew into an awful rage, and began to curse and

swear frightfully.

"My lord! my lord!" said Malcolm, "for God's sake, dinna gang on that

gait. He canna like to hear that kin' o' speech; an' frae ane o' his

ain' tu!"

The marquis stopped, aghast at his presumption and choking with rage,

but Malcolm's eyes filled with tears, and, instead of breaking out

again, his master turned his head away and was silent.

Mr. Soutar came.

"Fetch Morrison," said the marquis, "and go to bed."

The wind howled terribly as Malcolm ascended the stairs and half felt

his way, for he had no candle, through the long passages leading to

his room. As he entered the last a huge vague form came down upon

him like a deeper darkness through the dark. Instinctively he stepped

aside. It passed noiselessly, with a long stride, and not even a

rustle of its garments--at least Malcolm heard nothing but the roar

of the wind. He turned and followed it. On and on it went, down the

stair, through a corridor, down the great stone turnpike stair, and

through passage after passage. When it came into the more frequented

and half-lighted thoroughfares of the house it showed as a large

figure in a long cloak, indistinct in outline.

It turned a corner close by the marquis's room. But when Malcolm,

close at its heels, turned also, he saw nothing but a vacant lobby,

the doors around which were all shut. One after another he quickly

opened them, all except the marquis's, but nothing was to be seen.

The conclusion was that it had entered the marquis's room. He must

not disturb the conclave in the sick chamber with what might be but "a

false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain," and turned

back to his own room, where he threw himself on his bed and fell

asleep.

About twelve Mrs. Courthope called him: his master was worse, and

wanted to see him.

The midnight was dark and still, for the wind had ceased. But a hush

and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and darkness, and with

them came the sense of a solemn celebration, as if the gloom were

canopy as well as pall--black, but bordered and hearted with purple

and gold; and the terrible stillness seemed to tremble as with the

inaudible tones of a great organ at the close or commencement of some

mighty symphony.

With beating heart he walked softly toward the room where, as on an

altar, lay the vanishing form of his master, like the fuel in whose

dying flame was offered the late and ill-nurtured sacrifice of his

spirit.

As he went through the last corridor leading thither, Mrs. Catanach,

type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death,

came walking toward him like one at home, her great round body lighty

upborne on her soft foot. It was no time to challenge her presence,

and yielding her the half of the narrow way he passed without a

greeting. She dropped him a courtesy with an up-look and again a

veiling of her wicked eyes.

The marquis would not have the doctors come near him, and when Malcolm

entered there was no one in the room but Mrs. Courthope. The shadow

had crept far along the dial. His face had grown ghastly, the skin had

sunk to the bones, and his eyes stood out as if from much staring into

the dark. They rested very mournfully on Malcolm for a few moments,

and then closed softly.

"Is she come yet?" he murmured, opening them wide with sudden stare.

"No, my lord."

The lids fell again, softly, slowly.

"Be good to her, Malcolm," he murmured.

"I wull, my lord," said Malcolm solemnly.

Then the eyes opened and looked at him: something grew in them, a

light as of love, and drew up after it a tear; but the lips said

nothing. The eyelids fell again, and in a minute more Malcolm knew by

his breathing that he slept.

The slow night waned. He woke sometimes, but soon dozed off again.

The two watched by him till the dawn. It brought a still gray morning,

without a breath of wind and warm for the season. The marquis appeared

a little revived, but was hardly able to speak. Mostly by signs he

made Malcolm understand that he wanted Mr. Graham, but that some one

else must go for him. Mrs. Courthope went.

As soon as she was out of the room he lifted his hand with effort,

laid feeble hold on Malcolm's jacket, and, drawing him down, kissed

him on the forehead. Malcolm burst into tears and sank weeping by the

bedside.

Mr. Graham, entering a little after, and seeing Malcolm on his knees,

knelt also and broke into a prayer.

"O blessed Father!" he said, "who knowest this thing, so strange to

us, which we call death, breathe more life into the heart of Thy dying

son, that in the power of life he may front death. O Lord Christ! who

diedst Thyself, and in Thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his

sore need--heal him with strength to die."

A faint _Amen_ came from the marquis.

"Thou didst send him into the world: help him out of it. O God!

we belong to Thee utterly. We dying men are Thy children, O living

Father! Thou art such a father that Thou takest our sins from us and

throwest them behind Thy back. Thou cleansest our souls as Thy Son did

wash our feet. We hold our hearts up to Thee: make them what they must

be, O Love! O Life of men! O Heart of hearts! Give Thy dying child

courage and hope and peace--the peace of Him who overcame all the

terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore,

sitting at Thy right hand, our God-brother, blessed to all ages.

Amen."

"Amen!" murmured the marquis, and, slowly lifting his hand from the

coverlid, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did not know it was

the hand of his father blessing him ere he died.

"Be good to her," said the marquis once more.

But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis was not

satisfied. Gathering all his force, he said again, "Be good to her."

"I wull, I wull," burst from Malcolm in sobs; and he wailed aloud.

The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel had not

arrived, and still the marquis lingered.

As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of

the winter night he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening.

Malcolm could hear nothing, but the light in his master's face grew

and the strain of his listening diminished. At length Malcolm became

aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last

the carriage swung up to the hall-door. A moment, and Lady Florimel

was flitting across the room.

"Papa! papa!" she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, laid her

cheek to his.

The marquis could not return her embrace: he could only receive her

into the depths of his shining, tearful eyes.

"Flory!" he murmured, "I'm going away. I'm going--I've got--to make

an--apology. Malcolm, be good--"

The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his

countenance: he had to carry it with him. He was dead.

Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs. Courthope ran to her assistance.

"My lady's in a dead faint," she whispered, and left the room to get

help.

Malcolm lifted Lady Florimel in his great arms and bore her tenderly

to her own apartment. There he left her to the care of her women and

returned to the chamber of death.

Meantime, Mr. Graham and Mr. Soutar had come. When Malcolm re-entered

the schoolmaster took him kindly by the arm and said, "Malcolm, there

can be neither place nor moment fitter for the solemn communication

I am commissioned to make to you: I have, as in the presence of your

dead father, to inform you that you are now marquis of Lossie; and

God forbid you should be less worthy as marquis than you have been as

fisherman!"

Malcolm stood stupefied. For a while he seemed to himself to be

turning over in his mind something he had heard read from a book, with

a nebulous notion of being somehow concerned in it. The thought of his

father cleared his brain. He ran to the dead body, kissed its lips as

he had once kissed the forehead of another, and falling on his knees

wept, he knew not for what. Presently, however, he recovered himself,

rose, and, rejoining the two men, said, "Gentlemen, hoo mony kens this

turn o' things?"

"None but Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Catanach and ourselves--so far as I

know," answered Mr. Soutar.

"And Miss Horn," added Mr. Graham, "She first brought out the truth

of it, and ought to be the first to know of your recognition by your

father."

"I s' tell her mysel'," returned Malcolm. "But, gentlemen, I beg o'

ye, till I ken what I'm aboot an' gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo' to

leevin' cratur' aboot this. There's time eneuch for the warl' to ken

't."

"Your lordship commands me," said Mr. Soutar.

"Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave," said Mr. Graham.

"Whaur's Mr. Morrison?" asked Malcolm.

"He is still in the house," said Mr. Soutar.

"Gang till him, sir, an' gar him promise, on the word o' a gentleman,

to haud his tongue. I canna bide to hae't blaret a' gait an' a' at

ance. For Mistress Catanach, I s' deal wi' her mysel'."

The door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred by the

immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanach walked into

the room.

"A word wi' ye, Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm.

"Certainly, my lord," answered the howdy with mingled presumption and

respect, and followed him to the dining-room. "Weel, my lord--" she

began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, in the

tone and with the air--or rather _airs_--of having conferred a great

benefit, and expecting its recognition.

"Mistress Catanach," interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her,

"gien I be un'er ony obligation to you, it's frae anither tongue I

maun hear't. But I hae an offer to mak ye: Sae lang as it disna coom

oot 'at I'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae yer twinty

poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. But the moment fowk says wha

I am ye touch na a poun'-not' mair, an' I coont mysel' free to pursue

onything I can pruv agane ye."

Mrs. Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as

putty and its muscles declined response.

"_Ay_ or _no_?" said Malcolm. "I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad lippen

to yer aith no a hair."

"Ay, my lord," said the howdy, reassuming at least outward composure,

and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she held out her open

palm.

"Na, na," said Malcolm, "nae forhan' payments. Three months o'

tongue-haudin', an' there's yer five poun'; an' Maister Soutar o' Duff

Harbor 'ill pay 't intill yer ain han'. But brack troth wi' me, an' ye

s' hear o' 't; for gien ye war hangt the warl' wad be a' the cleaner.

Noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me see ye aboot the place again.

But afore ye gang I gie ye fair warnin' 'at I mean to win at a' yer

byganes."

The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs. Catanach's face: she drew

herself up and stood flaming before him, on the verge of explosion.

"Gang frae the hoose," said Malcolm, "or I'll set the muckle hun' to

shaw ye the gait."

Her face turned the color of ashes, and with hanging cheeks and

scared but not the less wicked eyes she hurried from the room. Malcolm

watched her out of the house, then, following her into the town,

brought Miss Horn back with him to aid in the last earthly services,

and hastened to Duncan's cottage.

But, to his amazement and distress, it was forsaken and the hearth

cold. In his attendance on his father he had not seen the piper--he

could not remember for how many days; and on inquiry he found that,

although he had not been missed, no one could recall having seen him

later than three or four days agone. The last he could hear of him was

that about a week before a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the

Baillies' Barn with his pipes in his lap. Searching the cottage, he

found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, were

gone.

That same night Mrs. Catanach also disappeared.

A week after, what was left of Lord Lossie was buried. Malcolm

followed the hearse with the household. Miss Horn walked immediately

behind him, on the arm of the schoolmaster. It was a great funeral,

with a short road, for the body was laid in the church--close to the

wall, just under the crusader with the Norman canopy.

Lady Florimel wept incessantly for three days; on the fourth she

looked out on the sea and thought it very dreary; on the fifth

she found a certain gratification in hearing herself called the

marchioness; on the sixth she tried on her mourning and was pleased;

on the seventh she went with the funeral and wept again; on the eighth

came Lady Bellair, who on the ninth carried her away.

To Malcolm she had not spoken once.

Mr. Graham left Portlossie.

Miss Horn took to her bed for a week.

Mr. Crathie removed his office to the House itself, took upon him the

function of steward as well as factor, had the state-rooms dismantled,

and was master of the place.

Malcolm helped Stoat with the horses and did odd jobs for Mr. Crathie.

From his likeness to the old marquis, as he was still called, the

factor had a favor for him, firmly believing the said marquis to be

his father and Mrs. Stewart his mother; and hence it came that he

allowed him a key to the library.

The story of Malcom's plans and what came of them requires another

book.

THE STAGE IN ITALY.

The Italians are undoubtedly the most theatre-loving people in the

world. With them the play-house takes the place to a great extent of

drawing-room and evening lounge. Almost every Italian family of any

social position possesses a box at one of the principal theatres,

where visits are received and many a scene from the _School for

Scandal_ is enacted whilst the fair gossip-mongers flirt and sip

ices. In winter the opera is the standard amusement of the fashionable

world, while the favorite resort in summer is the _diurno_ or open air

theatre, which is in the form of an amphitheatre, the stage with its

accessories facing an unroofed enclosure, with the seats arranged in

tiers one above another, and fenced off by an iron balustrade from a

terrace which serves the purpose of a gallery. A vast covered corridor

is nearly always to be found adjacent to the _diurno_, beneath which

the audience can take refuge in case of a shower, walk between the

acts and indulge in _bebite_--cooling drinks, such as sherbets and

beer. The _abbonamento_ (or subscription) to a diurno costs from three

to ten dollars for the season of thirty or forty representations. When

a dramatic company is about to visit a city the manager first secures

his _abbonati_, for according to their number he is able to regulate

his expenses, as he counts little on chance spectators, and is sure to

have almost always to play before the same audience.

The lyric stage in Italy takes precedence of the dramatic, and in the

large cities, Milan, Venice, Genoa, Florence, Rome and Naples, the

production of a new opera is considered a national event, forming for

many days previous to its production the chief topic of conversation

in salons and _caffès_. No such enthusiasm is manifested in regard to

the first representation of a new play; and although the house may be

crowded and the author called before the curtain, he may deem himself

happy if his drama is played four times during the season; whereas

a popular opera will be given night after night for two months. An

opera, if it has any merit, may be the means of carrying the fame of

Italian genius to the farthest limits of the earth, but it is a chance

if the comedy which pleases at Venice will be appreciated in the

least degree at Rome or Naples, such are the variations in manners

and customs, especially amongst the lower orders, between one Italian

province and another. Hence, opera is greatly fostered and protected.

There are a dozen musical _conservatori_, public and private, in each

of the principal cities, for the training of singers, and prizes are

accorded to them out of funds especially set apart for the purpose

by the government, which also grants large annual subsidies to the

leading lyric theatres, such as the Scala at Milan, the San Carlo

at Naples, the Fenice at Venice, the Pergola at Florence, the Carlo

Felice at Genoa, the Communale at Bologna, and the Apollo at Rome. The

dramatic stage has none of these aids, the various companies have to

pay their own expenses, and, whatever may be the merits of the artists

who compose them, they scarcely ever obtain any special recognition

from the government. Although the smallest Italian city possesses its

theatre, and some of the capitals--Milan and Naples, for instance--at

least a dozen, there is no training-school for the stage in any

part of the country. Nor is there such an institution as the English

Dramatic College, where decayed artists can retire when their day of

glory is past and they have become poor and lonely. Each city has one

theatre, the largest and most magnificent, reserved exclusively for

operatic performances, and where the unmusical drama is scarcely ever

tolerated. I once saw Ristori act in Metastasio's _Dido_ at the

Scala for the benefit of the wounded during the war for Italian

independence; but this was the only occasion in fifty years on which

an actress had declaimed in that enormous edifice, and nothing

but patriotic charity would have excused such an infringement of

time-honored etiquette. When, therefore, the Italian opera-houses

close for the season, they are never reopened for the accommodation

of wandering "stars." The consequence of this is, that the drama is

banished to the inferior theatres, and whilst thousands of francs are

spent on the scenery of a new opera or ballet, the poor player has to

content himself with an indifferent stage and wretched decorations. In

short, to quote an observation made to me recently by Signor Salvini,

"Theatrical affairs are just the opposite in Italy to what they are

in America. In Italy the opera-bill is never changed more than three

times in as many months: in America it varies almost every evening. In

Italy the play-bill is renewed nightly, while in this country and

in England a drama, if good, may have a run of over a hundred

representations." Nothing surprised Salvini more during his stay in

the United States than the splendor of the _mise en scène_ of some

of the New York plays, but he accounted for it easily enough. The

managers of most of the New York, Paris and London theatres do not

hesitate to lavish large sums of money upon their decorations and

scenery, because should the piece fail for which they were painted

they can be used in some other. The Italian theatres are nearly always

the property either of some nobleman or of a company of speculators,

whose principal object is to make as much money out of them, and spend

as little upon them, as possible. They are rented out for a month or

so to one or other of the many troupes of actors which are constantly

wandering about the country, and which bring their own scenery

and dresses with them, generally of the cheapest and most tawdry

description.

A Tuscan proverb says, "_Figlio d'attore, attore_" ("The son of an

actor is always an actor"); and this in Italy is pretty sure to be the

case. The three greatest living actors, Salvini, Rossi and Majeroni,

belong to families which have long been popular on the stage, and so

do the actresses Ristori and Sedowsky. Signora Ristori made her début

as an infant in the cradle, and was for years a member of a troupe the

leading lady of which was her late mother, Signora Maddalena Ristori,

a woman of great talent and merit, whose death at an advanced age

has recently occasioned her celebrated daughter poignant grief. There

still exists in Italy a Venetian troupe of comedians whose ancestors

were the first interpreters of the comedies of Goldoni, and several of

them claim descent from players who enacted the tragedies and comedies

of serious classical literature before the courts of Lucrezia Borgia

and Leonora d'Este. In glancing over an Italian play-bill one is

invariably struck by the fact that many of the artists bear the same

name, and are evidently connected by ties of consanguinity or of

marriage. In the Ristori troupe, for instance, there are several

actors calling themselves by the same name as that great artist, and

who are doubtless of her family. The Salvini company embraces, besides

the two brothers Tommaso and Alessandro, several Piamontis, two or

three Piccininis and two Colonellos. I once knew in Italy a manager

named Spada who directed a little troupe of buffo actors consisting

of his grandfather and grandmother, father and mother, three or four

uncles and aunts, two brothers, and one or two sisters, in addition to

himself, his wife and children. Such facts are in part accounted for

by the social status--or rather want of status--of the profession.

Down to within a very recent period ecclesiastical censures weighed

heavily upon all actors, and Christian burial was denied them unless

during their final illness they had formally declared their intention

to abandon the stage in case of recovery. So severe a condemnation on

the part of the clergy naturally produced a strong prejudice against

those who connected themselves in any way with the stage; and it is

only recently that in Italy, a land where social changes are slow, the

doors of her somewhat formal society have been opened to admit even

persons so distinguished in every sense of the word as are Ristori,

Piamonti, Salvini and Rossi. The social unfriendliness of the

audiences--who can applaud so enthusiastically that a stranger

witnessing for the first time their noisy demonstrations would easily

believe every man and woman in the theatre ready to die for the sake

of the admired artist--is doubtless the cause of the patriarchal

system observable in the formation of Italian dramatic companies. The

members thereof prefer adopting their fathers' profession rather

than enter another where they would be constantly mortified by being

pointed at as the children of actors.

A little research into the history of the stage in Italy will

enlighten the reader as to the true cause both of the harsh

condemnation of the Church and of the prejudice of society against

this great profession. The plays of the old Romans were proverbially

loose both in their plots and dialogues, and Juvenal has spoken of the

actors of his time with the bitterest contempt. During the Middle Ages

the members of the various religious confraternities monopolized the

stage with their sacred dramas and mysteries, and the "profane stage,"

as an Italian writer calls it, was so degraded that more than once

both the Church and State had to use their influence to put down

performances which were too infamous to be here described. When the

Renaissance came the drama was reinstated in the position it occupied

during the days of Roman civilization, but the plays of this period

were merely imitations of the Latin comedies; and if we may judge by

the most celebrated of them which still exists--the _Mandragora_ of

Macchiavelli, for example--far exceeded their models in obscenity.

When Benedict XIV. ascended the pontifical throne he established a

severe censorship, and inaugurated the harsh system to which I have

already alluded, with the effect of banishing immoral productions

from the stage, though without improving its intellectual tone. In the

eighteenth century Goldoni appeared and gave to the world his graceful

comedies, which were followed by the lyric dramas of Metastasio and

the lofty tragedies of Alfieri. Since then there has been a succession

of able dramatists--Monti, Gozzi, Manzoni, Pellico, Ippolito d'Asti,

etc.; and as the class of plays acted was elevated, so the character

of the performers was also improved. From being dissolute they became

generally respectable; and at present it may be safely asserted that

a better-conducted, more frugal or industrious class of men and woman

can scarcely be found than are the Italian players. That class of

actresses with whom their profession is only a means of displaying

their beauty and splendid but often ill-gotten robes and jewelry, is

little known in Italy, Such persons would be scarcely tolerated either

by their comrades or by the public. Indeed, although within the past

few years, owing to the unsettled state of affairs, a great many plays

of questionable morality have been acted, especially in Rome, still

the tone of the performances usually witnessed in an Italian theatre

is greatly above the average of what even Americans applaud; and a

French play has to go through more careful pruning for the Italian

stage than for ours.

The Italian actors have always been in the habit of forming themselves

into troupes, or, as they call them, _compagnie_, placed under the

direction of one person, who is both manager and principal performer.

They divide these troupes according to the various kinds of acting;

thus, there are companies of tragic, melodramatic and comic actors,

but it is very rare to find a combination of tragedy and comedy in

the same entertainment. There are at present about eighty different

troupes of actors in Italy, including those devoted to the marionnette

and dialect performances. The principal are the "Salvini," "Ristori,"

"Majeroni," "Sedowsky," and "Rossi" for tragedy, the "Bellotti Bon"

for high comedy, and the "De Mestri" for farce and vaudeville. The

"Ristori," "Salvini" and "Rossi" troupes have been the round of the

world. The "Bellotti Bon" has, I believe, never quitted Italy. It is a

remarkable combination of well-trained actors, devoted exclusively

to the representation of modern society plays and dramas, mostly

translated or adapted from the French. Bellotti-Bon, the director,

is not excelled in his own line even on the stage of the Théâtre

Français. His company is rich, and its scenery and dresses are

tasteful. The late Signora Cazzola, formerly the leading lady of this

troupe, was perhaps the best high-comedy and dramatic actress Italy

has produced. Signer Salvini informed me that Alexandre Dumas _fils_

told him he preferred this lady's interpretation of the _rôle_ of

Marguerite Gauthier (Camille) in _La Dame aux Camélias_ to that of

Madame Doche, who created the part. She produced a great effect when

the dying Camille looks at herself in the glass for the first time

after her long illness. Instead of screaming or fainting, as is usual

with most actresses who undertake the character, Signora Cazzola stood

for a long time gazing intently at the havoc disease had wrought upon

her lovely countenance. Then, with a deep sigh and an expression

of intense agony, she turned the mirror with its back toward her,

implying that she could never again endure the pain of seeing herself

reflected upon its truth-telling surface. On the toilette-table was

a vase full of camellias--those beautiful but scentless flowers which

were emblematic of her brilliant but artificial life. Taking one of

these in her hand, she plucked it to pieces leaf by leaf, and when

the last petal fell to the ground went quietly back to her bed, there

hopelessly to await the coming on of death. Her parting with Armand

was very pathetic, and her death, although harrowing and true to

Nature, was not revolting, its horrors being moderated by artistic

good sense and delicacy. This great artiste died young, worn out by

the strong emotions she not only represented, but actually felt.

Signora Cazzola, together with Virginia Marini and Isolina Piamonti,

was a pupil of Signor Salvini. Virginia Marini is well considered in

Italy, and used to be the leading lady in the Salvini troupe. She now

directs a company of her own, and has been succeeded in her former

position by the estimable Signora Piamonti, whom Salvini declares to

be one of the most versatile artistes he has ever known, equally good

in the highest tragedy or the liveliest farce. Her Dalilla in _Samson_

was much admired in America, but her rendering of the _rôle_ of

Francesca di Rimini in the tragedy of that name is perhaps her

greatest performance.

Signora Sedowsky is undoubtedly the greatest tragic actress of Italy.

She is perhaps less stately and grand than Ristori, but in fire and

depth of feeling she greatly surpasses this eminent tragédienne. Her

Phèdre is pronounced by excellent judges equal to that of Rachel.

Signora Sedowsky was born at Naples, and is the proprietress of three

large theatres in that city. She is the wife of a wealthy nobleman.

Notwithstanding her rank, she still keeps on the stage, but is

received with honor in the first society. She has never acted out of

Italy, and very rarely beyond the walls of Naples.

The superlative merits of Signora Ristori are so well known in America

that the mere mention of her name is sure to recall some of the most

delightful evenings ever spent by many of my readers. Her genius and

beauty, her majesty and glorious method of declamation, have won her

a foremost rank in her profession, and her virtues and nobility of

conduct the esteem of all who have ever known her. There are indeed

few women more estimable than Adelaide Ristori, Marchioness Capranica

del Grillo. It may be a matter of surprise to some who are not aware

of the fact when I tell them that in Italy Ristori is more famous in

comedy than in tragedy. She is inimitable in such parts as the hostess

in Goldoni's clever comedy of _La Locandiera_.

Of all Italian actors, Gustavo Modena was the most renowned. He is to

the stage of his native land what Garrick was to that of England, and

his conception of the various parts in classic drama, his "points,"

and even his dress, have become traditional, and are almost invariably

retained by his followers. I never saw him act, but I once heard him

recite in a private _salon_ his famous _rôle_ of Saul in Alfieri's

tragedy of that name. In person he was tall and largely built, His

countenance was not prepossessing, and, like Michael Angelo, he had a

broken nose. His eye could assume a terrific aspect, and his voice

was rich, powerful and varied in its tone. At times it rolled like

thunder, while at other moments it was as soft and tender as the

sweetest notes of a flute. Signor Modena died some years ago. He was

the master of Salvini, and to him that illustrious actor does not

hesitate to attribute much of his fame.

Rossi, the only living rival of Salvini, is still a young man, and

doubtless has great talents. I think him even more impetuous and

ardent than Salvini, but he is less intellectual, and his elocution is

decidedly inferior.

Majeroni is an actor of the same school, but he is becoming old, and

has a tendency to rant.

Tommaso Salvini, our late visitor, is of Milanese parentage, and was

born in the Lombard capital on January 1, 1830. His father, as I have

already said, was an able actor, and his mother a popular actress

named Guglielmina Zocchi. When quite a boy he showed a rare talent

for acting, and performed in certain plays given during the Easter

holidays in the school where he was educated, with such rare ability

that his father determined to devote him to the stage. For this

purpose he placed him under the tuition of the great Modena, who

conceived much affection for him. The training received thus early

from such able hands soon bore fruits, and before he was thirteen

Salvini had already won a kind of renown in juvenile characters. At

fifteen he lost both his parents, and the bereavement so preyed upon

his spirits that he was obliged to abandon his career for two years,

and returned once more under the tuition of Modena. When he again

emerged from retirement he joined the Ristori troupe, and shared with

that great actress many a triumph. In 1849, Salvini entered the army

of Italian independence, and fought valiantly for the defence of his

country, receiving in recognition of his services several medals of

honor. Peace being proclaimed, he again appeared upon the stage in a

company directed by Signer Cesare Dondini. He played in the _Edipo_

of Nicolini--a tragedy written expressly for him--and achieved a great

success. Next he appeared in Alfieri's _Saul_, and then all Italy

declared that Modena's mantle had fallen on worthy shoulders. His

fame was now prodigious, and wherever he went he was received with

boundless enthusiasm. He visited Paris, where he played Orasmane,

Orestes, Saul and Othello. On his return to Florence he was hospitably

entertained by the marquis of Normanby, then English ambassador to the

court of Tuscany, and this enlightened nobleman strongly encouraged

him to extend his repertory of Shakespearian characters. In 1865

occurred the sixth centenary of Dante's birthday, and the four

greatest Italian actors were invited to perform in Silvio Pellico's

tragedy of _Francesca di Rimini_, which is founded on an episode in

the _Divina Commedia_. The cast originally stood on the play-bills

thus: Francesca, Signora Ristori; Lancelotto, Signor Rossi; Paulo,

Signor Salvini; and Guido, Signor Majeroni. It happened, however, that

Rossi, who was unaccustomed to play the part of Lancelotto, felt timid

at appearing in a character so little suited to him. Hearing this,

Signor Salvini, with exquisite politeness and good-nature, volunteered

to take the insignificant part, relinquishing the grand _rôle_ of

Paulo to his junior in the profession. He created by the force of his

genius an impression in the minor part which is still vivid in

the minds of all who witnessed the performance. The government of

Florence, grateful for his urbanity, presented him with a statuette of

Dante, and King Victor Emmanuel rewarded him with the title of knight

of the Order of the Saints Maurice and Lazarus. Later he received from

the same monarch a diamond ring, with the rank of officer in the Order

of the Crown of Italy. In 1868, Signer Salvini visited Madrid, where

his acting of the death of Conrad in _La Morte Civile_ produced such

an impression that the easily-excited Madrilese rushed upon the stage

to ascertain whether the death was actual or fictitious. The queen,

Isabella II., conferred upon the great actor many marks of favor,

and so shortly afterward did King Louis of Portugal, who frequently

entertained him at the royal palace of Lisbon.

Signor Salvini's recent visit to America I need scarcely mention: its

triumphs are still fresh in the memory of the public, and the only

drawback to its complete success was the unhappy fact that the eminent

artist did not appeal to his audiences in their own language.

I know of nothing more remarkable than the difference which exists

between the Salvini of the stage and the Salvini of private life, the

one so imposing, impetuous and fiery, the other so gentle, urbane, and

even retiring. He is a gentleman possessing the manners of the good

old school--courtly and somewhat ceremonious, reminding one of those

Italian nobles of the sixteenth century of whom we lead in the novels

of Giraldo Cinthio and Fiorentino--_uomini illustri, e di civil

costumi_. His greeting is cordial and his conversation delightful,

full of anecdote and marked with enthusiasm for his art. When I first

became acquainted with him I was of opinion that his interpretation of

Hamlet was based only upon the translated text, but in the course of

a very long conversation on the subject I discovered that he was well

acquainted (through literal translations) not only with the text, but

also with the notes and comments of our leading critics. In speaking

of the part in which he is altogether unrivaled he said, "I am of

opinion that Shakespeare intended Othello to be a Moor of Barbary or

some other part of Northern Africa, of whom there were many in Italy

during the sixteenth century. I have met several, and think I imitate

their ways and manners pretty well. You are aware, however, that the

historical Othello was not a black at all. He was a white man, and

a Venetian general named Mora. His history resembles that of

Shakespeare's hero in many particulars. Giraldo Cinthio, probably for

better effect, made out of the name Mora, _moro_, a blackamoor; and

Shakespeare, unacquainted with the true story, followed this old

novelist's lead; and it was well he did so, for have we not in

consequence the most perfect delineation of the peculiarities of

Moorish temperament ever conceived?" The costumes worn by Salvini in

this play are copied from those depicted in certain Venetian pictures

of the fifteenth century in which several Moorish officers appear. It

took him many years to master this _rôle_, and he assured me he could

not play it more than three times in succession without experiencing

terrible fatigue. "It is a matter of wonder to me," he observed, "that

English actors can play a great character like this so many nights in

succession; and, above all, that they retain self-possession whilst

the fidgety noise of scene-shifting is going on behind them. To avoid

this, I have been obliged to cut _Othello_ into six acts, and to make

many changes in _Hamlet_." The intensity of feeling with which he

throws himself into the part he is representing was especially evident

on the occasion of his playing Saul. After the performance I was

invited to go behind the scenes to speak with him, and was surprised

as well as pained to find him utterly exhausted. I could not help

saying, "How can you exert yourself thus to please so few people?"

There were scarcely four hundred persons assembled to see this sublime

performance. He answered with honest simplicity, "They have paid their

money, and are entitled to the best I can do for them; besides that,

when I am on the stage I forget the world and all that is in it, and

live the character I represent." "You will," said I, "make a grand

Lear." "Yes," he replied, "I think I shall be able to make something

out of the old king. I have been reading the tragedy for some time,

but it will still take me two years to study it thoroughly."

Salvini related to me several anecdotes which show how quick he is to

master any difficulties accident throws in his way. "Once I bought,"

he said, "a play of a poor young writer which I thought I could make

something of; but when we came to rehearse it for the last time before

representation, it seemed to me utterly flat and unprofitable. The

piece was called _La Suonatrice d'Arpa_ ('The Harp-Girl'). The actors

all said the last act was so stupid that we should make a _fiasco_. I

at last hit upon an idea. We had, however, only a few hours to execute

it in. I changed the story: instead of the play ending happily, I made

the father kill his daughter accidentally, and then die of grief. All

the dialogue had to be improvised by the leading actress and myself.

I played the father, and Signora Piamonti the daughter. Such was the

success of our invention that the piece was played eight nights in

succession, and a rival actor, hearing of the triumph achieved by _The

Harp-Girl_, bought from the author for a handsome sum the privilege of

acting it in certain districts which were not included in my purchase

of the drama. Not being aware of the alterations we had made, and

performing it according to the letter of the text, he made _un fiasco

solenne_--a dead failure."

After the first performance of _Zaïre_ I took the liberty of observing

to Salvini that a superb piece of "business" which marks his acting

in the last act was not to be found in the text. "Oh," he replied,

"I will tell you the origin of it. I was playing at Naples, and one

night, when I threw the body of my murdered wife upon the ottoman in

the last act, my burnouse fell off and fixed itself to my waist like

a tail. I saw at once that if I was not careful I should provoke

laughter, and instantly imagined that I would pretend to believe the

clinging drapery was the wounded Zaïre grasping me behind. I appeared

to dread even to look round, lest I should encounter her pallid face.

I hesitated, I trembled, and when with a supreme effort I at last

grasped the burnouse and cast it from me, I still lacked the courage

to ascertain what it really was, and stood shivering before the

white heap it made upon the floor. Finally, just as I thought public

curiosity to know what I was going to do began to grow weary, I

stooped down and seizing the white mantle dashed it from me with

contempt, showing by the gesture that I had discovered what it was,

and felt anger that such a trifle should thus alarm a bold man who had

committed murder." This pantomime obtained for Salvini at the New York

Academy of Music one of his greatest ovations.

When asked why he did not learn English, "Ah!" he replied, "I am too

old; and even if I mastered it, I could not control my knowledge of

it. When excited I should be lapsing into Italian, which would be very

absurd. You asked me the other day why I do not play Orestes. I should

make a queer young Greek with an Apollo-like figure now-a-days! The

time was when I looked the part and acted it well, and then I liked

to play it. I must leave it, with many other good things, to younger

men." Speaking about dramatic elocution, he said, "The best method is

obtained by close observation of Nature, and above all by earnestness.

If you can impress people with the conviction that you feel what you

say, they will pardon many shortcomings. And, above all, study, study,

study! All the genius in the world will not help you along with any

art unless you become a hard student. It has taken me years to master

a single part."

Salvini's visit to America has been fruitful of a double good. He has

shown forth the splendor of Italian genius, even revealing to us new

marvels in that mine of wealth, the works of the greatest Bard of

the English-speaking race; and he has gone back to Italy to tell

her people of things he has seen in the New World which his great

compatriot discovered--as wonderful in their way as any related by

Othello to Desdemona's willing ear.

R. DAVEY.

THREE FEATHERS.

BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE."

CHAPTER XX.

TINTAGEL'S WALLS.

What was the matter with Harry Trelyon? His mother could not make out;

and there never had been much confidence between them, so that she

did not care to ask. But she watched, and she saw that he had, for

the time at least, forsaken his accustomed haunts and ways and become

gloomy, silent and self-possessed. Dick was left neglected in the

stables: you no longer heard his rapid clatter along the highway, with

the not over-melodious voice of his master singing "The Men of

Merry, Merry England" or "The Young Chevalier." The long and slender

fishing-rod remained on the pegs in the hall, although you could hear

the flop of the small burn-trout of an evening when the flies were

thick over the stream. The dogs were deprived of their accustomed

runs; the horses had to be taken out for exercise by the groom; and

the various and innumerable animals about the place missed their doses

of alternate petting and teasing, all because Master Harry had chosen

to shut himself up in his study.

The mother of the young man very soon discovered that her son was

not devoting his hours of seclusion in that extraordinary museum of

natural history to making trout-flies, stuffing birds and arranging

pinned butterflies in cases, as was his custom. These were not the

occupations which now kept Master Harry up half the night. When she

went in of a morning, before he was up, she found that he had been

covering whole sheets of paper with careful copying out of passages

taken at random from the volumes beside him. A Latin grammar was

ordinarily on the table--a book which the young gentleman had brought

back from school free from thumb-marks. Occasionally a fencing-foil

lay among these evidences of study, while the small aquaria, the cases

of stuffed animals with fancy backgrounds and the numerous bird-cages

had been thrust aside to give fair elbow-room.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Trelyon to herself with much

satisfaction--"perhaps, after all, that good little girl has given him

a hint about Parliament, and he is preparing himself."

A few days of this seclusion, however, began to make the mother

anxious; and so one morning she went into his room. He hastily turned

over the sheet of paper on which he had been writing: then he looked

up, not too well pleased.

"Harry, why do you stay in-doors on such a beautiful morning? It is

quite like summer."

"Yes, I know," he said. "I suppose we shall soon have a batch of

parsons here: summer always brings them. They come out with the hot

weather--like butterflies."

Mrs. Trelyon was shocked and disappointed: she thought Wenna Rosewarne

had cured him of his insane dislike to clergymen--indeed, for many a

day gone by he had kept respectfully silent on the subject.

"But we shall not ask them to come if you'd rather not," she said,

wishing to do all she could to encourage the reformation of his ways.

"I think Mr. Barnes promised to visit us early in May, but he is only

one."

"And one is worse than a dozen. When there's a lot you can leave 'em

to fight it out among themselves. But one!--to have one stalking about

an empty house, like a ghost dipped in ink! Why can't you ask anybody

but clergymen, mother? There are whole lots of people would like to

run down from London for a fortnight before getting into the thick of

the season: there's the Pomeroy girls as good as offered to come."

"But they can't come by themselves," Mrs. Trelyon said with a feeble

protest.

"Oh yes, they can: they're ugly enough to be safe anywhere. And why

don't you get Juliott up? She'll be glad to get away from that old

curmudgeon for a week. And you ought to ask the Trewhellas, father and

daughter, to dinner: that old fellow is not half a bad sort of fellow,

although he's a clergyman."

"Harry," said his mother, interrupting him, "I'll fill the house if

that will please you; and you shall ask just whomsoever you please."

"All right," said he: "the place wants waking up."

"And then," said the mother, wishing to be still more gracious, "you

might ask Miss Rosewarne to dine with us: she might come well enough,

although Mr. Roscorla is not here."

A sort of gloom fell over the young man's face again: "I can't ask

her--you may if you like."

Mrs. Trelyon stared: "What is the matter, Harry? Have you and she

quarreled? Why, I was going to ask you, if you were down in the

village to-day, to say that I should like to see her."

"And how could I take such a message?" the young man said, rather

warmly, "I don't see why the girl should be ordered up to see you as

if you were conferring a favor on her by joining in this scheme. She's

very hard-worked; you have got plenty of time; you ought to call on

her and study her convenience, instead of making her trot all the way

up here whenever you want to talk to her."

The pale and gentle woman flushed a little, but she was anxious not to

give way to petulance just then: "Well, you are quite right, Harry:

it was thoughtless of me. I should like to go down and see her this

morning; but I have sent Jakes over to the blacksmith's, and I am

afraid of that new lad."

"Oh, I will drive you down to the inn. I suppose among them they

can put the horses to the wagonette," the young man said, not very

graciously: and then Mrs. Trelyon went off to get ready.

It was a beautiful, fresh morning, the far-off line of the sea still

and blue, the sunlight lighting up the wonderful masses of primroses

along the tall banks, the air sweet with the resinous odor of the

gorse. Mrs. Trelyon looked with a gentle and childlike pleasure on

all these things, and was fairly inclined to be very friendly with the

young gentleman beside her. But he was more than ordinarily silent

and morose. Mrs. Trelyon knew she had done nothing to offend him, and

thought it hard she should be punished for the sins of anybody else.

He spoke scarcely a word to her as the carriage rolled along the

silent highways. He drove rapidly and carelessly down the steep

thoroughfare of Eglosilyan, although there were plenty of loose stones

about. Then he pulled sharply up in front of the inn, and George

Rosewarne appeared.

"Mr. Rosewarne, let me introduce you to my mother. She wants to see

Miss Wenna for a few moments, if she is not engaged."

Mr. Rosewarne took off his cap, assisted Mrs. Trelyon to alight, and

then showed her the way into the house.

"Won't you come in, Harry?" his mother said.

"No."

A man had come out to the horses' heads.

"You leave 'em alone," said the young gentleman: "I sha'n't get down."

Mabyn came out, her bright young face full of pleasure.

"How do you do, Mabyn?" he said coldly, and without offering to shake

hands.

"Won't you come in for a minute?" she said, rather surprised.

"No, thank you. Don't you stay out in the cold: you've got nothing

round your neck."

Mabyn went away without saying a word, but thinking that the coolness

of the air was much less apparent than that of his manner and speech.

Being at length left to himself, he turned his attention to the

horses before him, and eventually, to pass the time, took out his

pocket-handkerchief and began to polish the silver on the handle of

the whip. He was disturbed in this peaceful occupation by a very

timid voice, which said, "Mr. Trelyon." He turned round and found that

Wenna's wistful face was looking up to him, with a look in it

partly of friendly gladness and partly of anxiety and entreaty. "Mr.

Trelyon," she said, with her eyes cast down, "I think you are offended

with me. I am very sorry: I beg your forgiveness."

The reins were fastened up in a minute, and he was down in the road

beside her. "Now look here, Wenna," he said. "What could you mean by

treating me so unfairly? I don't mean in being vexed with me, but in

shunting me off, as it were, instead of having it out at once. I don't

think it was fair."

"I am very sorry," she said. "I think I was very wrong, but you don't

know what a girl feels about such things. Will you come into the inn?"

"And leave my horses? No," he said, good-naturedly. "But as soon as I

get that fellow out, I will; so you go in at once, and I'll follow you

directly. And mind, Wenna, don't you be so silly again, or you and I

may have a real quarrel; and I know that would break your heart."

The old pleased smile lit up her face again as she turned and went

in-doors: he meanwhile proceeded to summon a hostler by shouting his

name at the pitch of his voice.

The small party of women assembled in the parlor were a trifle

embarrassed: it was the first time that the great lady of the

neighborhood had honored the inn with a visit. She herself was merely

quiet, gentle and pleased, but Mrs. Rosewarne, with her fine eyes and

her sensitive face all lit up and quickened by, the novel excitement,

was all anxiety to amuse and interest and propitiate her distinguished

guest. Mabyn, too, was rather shy and embarrassed: she said things

hastily, and then seemed afraid of her interference. Wenna was

scarcely at her ease, because she saw that her mother and sister were

not; and she was very anxious, moreover, that these two should think

well of Mrs. Trelyon and be disposed to like her.

The sudden appearance of a man with a man's rough ways and loud voice

seemed to shake these feminine elements better together, and to clear

the air of timid apprehensions and cautions. Harry Trelyon came into

the room with quite a marked freshness and good-nature on his face.

His mother was surprised: what had completely changed his manner in a

couple of minutes?

"How are you, Mrs. Rosewarne?" he cried in his off-hand fashion. "You

oughtn't to be in-doors on such a morning, or we shall never get you

well, you know; and the doctor will be sending you to Penzance or

Devonport for a change. Well, Mabyn, have you convinced anybody yet

that your farm-laborers with their twelve shillings a week are better

off than the slate-workers with their eighteen? You'd better take your

sister's opinion on that point, and don't squabble with me. Mother,

what's the use of sitting here? You bring Miss Wenna with you into the

wagonette, and talk to her there about all your business-affairs, and

I'll take you for a drive. Come along. And of course I want

somebody with me: will you come, Mrs. Rosewarne, or will Mabyn? You

can't?--then Mabyn must. Go along, Mabyn, and put your best hat on,

and make yourself uncommonly smart, and you shall be allowed to sit

next the driver--that's me."

And indeed he bundled the whole of them about until they were seated

in the wagonette just as he had indicated; and away they went from the

inn-door.

"And you think you are coming back in half an hour?" he said to his

companion, who was much pleased and very proud to occupy such a place.

"Oh no, you're not. You're a young and simple thing, Mabyn. These two

behind us will go on talking now for any time about yards of calico

and crochet-needles and twopenny subscriptions, while you and I, don't

you see, are quietly driving them over to Tintagel--"

"Oh, Mr. Trelyon!" said Mabyn.

"You keep quiet. That isn't the half of what's going to befall you. I

shall put up the horses at the inn, and I shall take you all down to

the beach for a scramble to improve your appetite; and at the said inn

you shall have luncheon with me, if you're all very good and behave

yourselves. Then we shall drive back just when we particularly please.

Do you like the picture?"

"It is delightful: oh, I am sure Wenna will enjoy it," Mabyn said.

"But don't you think, Mr. Trelyon, that you might ask her to sit here?

One sees better here than sitting sideways in a wagonette."

"They have their business-affairs to settle."

"Yes," said Mabyn petulantly, "that is what every one says: nobody

expects Wenna ever to have a moment's enjoyment to herself. Oh, here

is old Uncle Cornish--he's a great friend of Wenna's: he will be

dreadfully hurt if she passes him without saying a word."

"Then we shall pull up and address Uncle Cornish. I believe he used to

be the most thieving old ruffian of a poacher in this county."

There was a hale old man of seventy or so seated on a low wall in

front of one of the gardens, his face shaded from the sunlight by a

broad hat, his lean gray hands employed in buckling up the leathern

leggings that encased his spare calves. He got up when the horses

stopped, and looked in rather a dazed fashion at the carriage.

"How do you do this morning, Mr. Cornish?" Wenna said.

"Why, now, to be sure!" the old man said, as if reproaching his own

imperfect vision. "'Tis a fine marnin', Miss Wenna, and yü be agwoin'

for a drive."

"And how is your daughter-in-law, Mr. Cornish? Has she sold the pig

yet?"

"Naw, she hasn't sold the peg. If yü be agwoin' thrü Trevalga, Miss

Wenna, just yü stop and have a look at that peg: yü'll be 'mazed to

see en. 'Tis many a year agone sence there has been such a peg by me.

And perhaps yü'd take the laste bit o' refrashment, Miss Wenna, as yü

go by: Jane would get yü a coop o' tay to once."

"Thank you, Mr. Cornish, I'll look in and see the pig some other time:

to-day we sha'n't be going as far as Trevalga."

"Oh, won't you?" said Master Harry in a low voice as he drove on.

"You'll be in Trevalga before you know where you are."

Which was literally the case. Wenna was so much engaged in her talk

with Mrs. Trelyon that she did not notice how far away they were

getting from Eglosilyan; but Mabyn and her companion knew. They were

now on the high uplands by the coast, driving between the beautiful

banks, which were starred with primroses and stitchwort and red

dead-nettle and a dozen other bright and tender-hued firstlings of the

year. The sun was warm on the hedges and the fields, but a cool breeze

blew about these lofty heights, and stirred Mabyn's splendid masses of

hair as they drove rapidly along. Far over on their right, beyond the

majestic wall of cliff, lay the great blue plain of the sea; and there

stood the bold brown masses of the Sisters Rocks, with a circle of

white foam round their base. As they looked down into the south the

white light was so fierce that they could but faintly discern objects

through it; but here and there they caught a glimpse of a square

church-tower or of a few rude cottages clustered on the high plain,

and these seemed to be of a transparent gray in the blinding glare of

the sun.

Then suddenly in front of them they found a deep chasm, with the white

road leading down through its cool shadows. There was the channel of

a stream, with the rocks looking purple amid the gray bushes; and

here were rich meadows, with cattle standing deep in the grass and the

daisies; and over there, on the other side, a strip of forest, with

the sunlight shining along one side of the tall and dark-green pines.

As they drove down into this place, which is called the Rocky Valley,

a magpie rose from one of the fields and flew up into the firs.

"That is sorrow," said Mabyn.

Another one rose and flew up to the same spot.

"And that is joy," she said, with her face brightening.

"Oh, but I saw another as we came to the brow of the hill, and that

means a marriage," her companion remarked to her.

"Oh no," she said quite eagerly, "I am sure there was no third one: I

am certain there were only two. I am quite positive we only saw two."

"But why should you be so anxious?" Trelyon said, "You know you ought

to be looking forward to a marriage, and that is always a happy thing.

Are you envious, Mabyn?"

The girl was silent for a moment or two. Then she said, with a sudden

bitterness in her tone, "Isn't it a fearful thing to have to be civil

to people whom you hate? Isn't it, when they come and establish a

claim on you through some one you care for? You look at them--yes, you

can look at them--and you've got to see them kiss some one that you

love; and you wonder she doesn't rush away for a bit of caustic and

cauterize the place, as you do when a mad dog bites you."

"Mabyn," said the young man beside her, "you are a most unchristian

sort of person this morning. Who is it you hate in such a fashion?

Will you take the reins while I walk up the hill?"

Mabyn's little burst of passion still burned in her cheeks and gave

a proud and angry look to her mouth, but she took the reins all the

same, and her companion leapt to the ground. The banks on each side of

the road going up this hill were tall and steep: here and there great

masses of wild flowers were scattered among the grass and the gorse.

From time to time he stopped to pick up a handful, until, when

they had got up to the high and level country again, he had brought

together a very pretty bouquet of wild blossoms. When he got into his

seat and took the reins again he carelessly gave the bouquet to Mabyn.

"Oh, how pretty!" she said; and then she turned round: "Wenna, are you

very much engaged? Look at the pretty bouquet Mr. Trelyon has gathered

for you."

Wenna's quiet face flushed with pleasure when she took the flowers,

and Mrs. Trelyon looked pleased and said they were very pretty. She

evidently thought that her son was greatly improved in his manners

when he condescended to gather flowers to present to a girl. Nay, was

he not at this moment devoting a whole forenoon of his precious time

to the unaccustomed task of taking ladies for a drive? Mrs. Trelyon

regarded Wenna with a friendly look, and began to take a greater

liking than ever to that sensitive and expressive face and to the

quiet and earnest eyes.

"But, Mr. Trelyon," said Wenna, looking round, "hadn't we better turn?

We shall be at Trevenna directly."

"Yes, you are quite right," said Master Harry: "you will be at

Trevenna directly, and you are likely to be there for some time. For

Mabyn and I have resolved to have luncheon there, and we are going

down to Tintagel, and we shall most likely climb to King Arthur's

Castle. Have you any objections?"

Wenna had none. The drive through the cool and bright day had braced

up her spirits. She was glad to know that everything looked promising

about this scheme of hers. So she willingly surrendered herself to

the holiday, and in due time they drove into the odd and remote little

village and pulled up in front of the inn.

So soon as the hostler had come to the horses' heads the young

gentleman who had been driving jumped down and assisted his three

companions to alight: then he led the way into the inn. In the doorway

stood a stranger, probably a commercial traveler, who, with his hands

in his pockets, his legs apart and a cigar in his mouth, had been

visiting those three ladies with a very hearty stare as they got out

of the carriage. Moreover, when they came to the doorway he did not

budge an inch nor did he take his cigar from his mouth; and so, as it

had never been Mr. Trelyon's fashion to sidle past any one, that young

gentleman made straight for the middle of the passage, keeping

his shoulders very square. The consequence was a collision. The

imperturbable person with his hands in his pockets was sent staggering

against the wall, while his cigar dropped on the stone. "What the

devil--!" he was beginning to say, when Trelyon got the three women

past him and into the small parlor. Then he went back: "Did you wish

to speak to me, sir? No, you didn't: I perceive you are a prudent

person. Next time ladies pass you, you'd better take your cigar out of

your mouth or somebody'll destroy that two-pennyworth of tobacco for

you. Good-morning."

Then he returned to the little parlor, to which a waitress had been

summoned: "Now, Jinny, pull yourself together and let's have something

nice for luncheon--in an hour's time, sharp. You will, won't you? And

how about that Sillery with the blue star--not the stuff with the gold

head that some abandoned ruffian in Plymouth brews in his back garden.

Well, can't you speak?"

"Yes, sir," said the bewildered maid.

"That's a good thing--a very good thing," said he, putting the shawls

together on a sofa. "Don't you forget how to speak until you get

married. And don't let anybody come into this room. And you can let my

man have his dinner and a pint of beer. Oh, I forgot: I'm my own man

this morning, so you needn't go asking for him. Now, will you remember

all these things?"

"Yes, sir; but what would you like for luncheon?"

"My good girl, we should like a thousand things such as Tintagel never

saw, but what you've got to do is to give us the nicest things you've

got: do you see? I leave it entirely in your hands. Come along, young

people."

And so he bundled his charges out again into the main street of the

village; and somehow it happened that Mabyn addressed a timid remark

to Mrs. Trelyon, and that Mrs. Trelyon, in answering it, stopped for

a moment; so that Master Harry was sent to Wenna's side, and these two

led the way down the wide thoroughfare. There were few people visible

in the old-fashioned place: here and there an aged crone came out to

the door of one of the rude stone cottages to look at the strangers.

Overhead the sky was veiled over with a thin fleece of white cloud,

but the light was intense for all that, and indeed the colors of the

objects around seemed all the more clear and marked.

"Well, Miss Wenna," said the young man gayly, "how long are we to

remain good friends? What is the next fault you will have to find with

me? Or have you discovered something wrong already?"

"Oh no," she said with a quiet smile, "I am very good friends with you

this morning. You have pleased your mother very much by bringing her

for this drive."

"Oh, nonsense!" he said. "She might have as many drives as she chose;

but presently you'll find a lot of those parsons back at the house,

and she'll take to her white gowns again, and the playing of the organ

all the day long, and all that sham stuff. I tell you what it is: she

never seems alive, she never seems to take any interest in anything,

unless you're with her. Now, you will see how the novelty of this

luncheon-party in an inn will amuse her; but do you think she would

care for it if she and I were here alone?"

"Perhaps you never tried?" Miss Wenna said gently.

"Perhaps I knew she wouldn't come. However, don't let's have a fight,

Wenna: I mean to be very civil to you to-day--I do, really."

"I am so much obliged to you," she said meekly. "But pray don't give

yourself unnecessary trouble."

"Oh," said he, "I'd always be civil to you if you would treat me

decently. But you say far more rude things than I do--in that soft

way, you know, that looks as if it were all silk and honey. I do think

you've awfully little consideration for human failings. If one goes

wrong in the least thing, even in one's spelling, you say something

that sounds as pleasant as possible, and all the same it transfixes

one just as you stick a pin through a beetle. You are very hard, you

are--mean with those who would like to be friends with you. When it's

mere strangers and cottagers and people of that sort, who don't care

a brass farthing about you, then I believe you're all gentleness

and kindness; but to your real friends the edge of a saw is smooth

compared to you."

"Am I so very harsh to my friends?" the young lady said in a resigned

way.

"Oh, well," he said, with some compunction, "I don't quite say that,

but you could be much more pleasant if you liked, and a little more

charitable to their faults. You know there are some who would give a

great deal to win your approval; and perhaps when you find fault they

are so disappointed that they think your words are sharper than you

mean; and sometimes they think you might give them credit for trying

to please you, at least."

"And who are these persons?" Wenna said, with another smile stealing

over her face.

"Oh," said he rather shamefacedly, "there's no need to explain

anything to you: you always see it before one need put it in words."

Well, perhaps it was in his manner or in the tone of his voice that

there was something which seemed at this moment to touch her deeply,

for she half turned and looked up at his face with her honest and

earnest eyes, and said to him kindly, "Yes, I do know without you

telling me; and it makes me happy to hear you talk so; and if I am

unjust to you, you must not think it intentional. And I shall try not

to be so in the future."

Mrs. Trelyon was regarding with a kindly look the two young people

walking on in front of her. Whatever pleased her son pleased her, and

she was glad to see him enjoy himself in so light-hearted a fashion.

These two were chatting to each other in the friendliest manner:

sometimes they stopped to pick up wild flowers: they were as two

children together under the fair and light summer skies.

They went down and along a narrow valley, until they suddenly stood

in front of the sea, the green waters of which were breaking in upon a

small and lonely creek. What strange light was this that fell from

the white skies above, rendering all the objects around them sharp its

outline and intense in color? The beach before them seemed of a pale

lilac, where the green waves broke in a semicircle of white. On their

right some masses of ruddy rock jutted out into the cold sea, and

there were huge black caverns into which the waves dashed and roared.

On their left and far above them towered a great and isolated rock,

its precipitous sides scored here and there with twisted lines of red

and yellow quartz; and on the summit of this bold headland, amid

the dark green of the sea-grass, they could see the dusky ruins--the

crumbling walls and doorways and battlements--of the castle that is

named in all the stories of King Arthur and his knights. The bridge

across to the mainland has, in the course of centuries, fallen away,

but there, on the other side of the wide chasm, were the ruins of the

other portions of the castle, scarcely to be distinguished in parts

from the grass-grown rocks. How long ago was it since Sir Tristram

rode out here to the end of the world, to find the beautiful Isoulde

awaiting him--she whom he had brought from Ireland as an unwilling

bride to the old king Mark? And what of the joyous company of knights

and ladies who once held high sport in the courtyard there? Trelyon,

looking shyly at his companion, could see that her eyes seemed

centuries away from him. She was quite unconscious of his covertly

staring at her, for she was absently looking at the high and bare

precipices, the deserted slopes of dark sea-grass and the lonely

and crumbling ruins. She was wondering whether the ghosts of those

vanished people ever came back to this lonely headland, where they

would find the world scarcely altered since they had left it. Did they

come at night, when the land was dark, and when there was a light

over the sea only coming from the stars? If one were to come at night

alone, and to sit down here by the shore, might not one see strange

things far overhead or hear some sound other than the falling of the

waves?

"Miss Wenna," he said--and she started suddenly--"are you bold enough

to climb with me up to the castle? I know my mother would rather stay

here."

She went with him mechanically. She followed him up the rude steps

cut in the steep slopes of slate, holding his hand where that was

possible, but her head was so full of dreams that she answered him

when he spoke only with a vague yes or no. When they descended again

they found that Mabyn had taken Mrs. Trelyon down to the beach, and

had inveigled her into entering a huge cavern, or rather a natural

tunnel, that went right through underneath the promontory on which the

castle is built. They were in a sort of green-hued twilight, a scent

of seaweed filling the damp air, and their voices raising an echo in

the great hall of rock.

"I hope the climbing has not made you giddy," Mrs. Trelyon said in her

kind way to Wenna, noticing that she was very silent and distrait.

"Oh no," Mabyn said promptly. "She has been seeing ghosts. We always

know when Wenna has been seeing ghosts: she remains so for hours."

And, indeed, at this time she was rather more reserved than usual all

during their walk back to luncheon and while they were in the inn;

and yet she was obviously very happy, and sometimes even amused by

the childlike pleasure which Mrs. Trelyon seemed to obtain from these

unwonted experiences.

"Come, now, mother," Master Harry said, "what are you going to do for

me when I come of age next month? Fill the house with guests--yes, you

promised that--with not more than one parson to the dozen? And when

they're all feasting and gabbling, and missing the targets with their

arrows, you'll slip quietly away, and I'll drive you and Miss Wenna

over here, and you'll go and get your feet wet again in that cavern,

and you'll come up here again and have an elegant luncheon, just like

this. Won't that do?"

"I don't quite know about the elegance of the luncheon, but I'm sure

our little excursion has been very pleasant. Don't you think so, Miss

Rosewarne?" Mrs. Trelyon said.

"Indeed I do," said Wenna, with her big, earnest eyes coming back from

their trance.

"And here is another thing," remarked young Trelyon. "There's

a picture I've seen of the heir coming of age--he's a horrid,

self-sufficient young cad, but never mind--and it seems to be a day of

general jollification. Can't I give a present to somebody? Well, I'm

going to give it to a young lady who never cares for anything but what

she can give away again to somebody else; and it is--well, it is--Why

don't you guess, Mabyn?"

"I don't know what you mean to give Wenna," said Mabyn naturally.

"Why, you silly! I mean to give her a dozen sewing-machines--a baker's

dozen--thirteen. There! Oh, I heard you as you came along. It was all,

'Three sewing-machines will cost so much, and four sewing-machines

will cost so much, and five sewing-machines will cost so much. And a

penny a week from so many subscribers will be so much, and twopence a

week from so many will be so much;' and all this as if my mother could

tell you how much twice two was. My arithmetic ain't very brilliant,

but as for hers--And these you shall have, Miss Wenna--one baker's

dozen of sewing-machines, as per order, duly delivered, carriage

free--empty casks and bottles to be returned."

"That is very kind of you, Mr. Trelyon," Wenna said--and all

the dreams had gone straight out of her head so soon as this was

mentioned--"but we can't possibly accept them. You know our scheme is

to make the sewing club quite self-supporting--no charity."

"Oh, what stuff!" the young gentleman cried. "You know you will give

all your labor and supervision for nothing: isn't that charity? And

you know you will let off all sorts of people owing you subscriptions

the moment some blessed baby falls ill. And you know you won't charge

interest on all the outlay. But if you insist on paying me back for

my sewing-machines out of the overwhelming profits at the end of next

year, then I'll take the money. I'm not proud."

"Then we will take six sewing-machines from you, if you please,

Mr. Trelyon, on those conditions," said Wenna gravely. And Master

Harry--with a look toward Mabyn which was just about as good as a

wink--consented.

As they drove quietly back again to Eglosilyan, Mabyn had taken her

former place by the driver, and found him uncommonly thoughtful. He

answered her questions, but that was all; and it was so unusual to

find Harry Trelyon in this mood that she said to him, "Mr. Trelyon,

have you been seeing ghosts, too?"

He turned to her and said, "I was thinking about something. Look here,

Mabyn: did you ever know any one, or do you know any one, whose face

is a sort of barometer to you? Suppose that you see her look pale and

tired or sad in any way, then down go your spirits, and you almost

wish you had never been born. When you see her face brighten up and

get full of healthy color, you feel glad enough to burst out singing

or go mad: anyhow, you know that everything's all right. What the

weather is, what people may say about you, whatever else may happen

to you, that's nothing: all you want to see is just that one person's

face look perfectly bright and perfectly happy, and nothing can

touch you then. Did you ever know anybody like that?" he added rather

abruptly.

"Oh yes," said Mabyn, in a low voice: "that is when you are in love

with some one. And there is only one face in all the world that I look

to for all these things, there is only one person I know who tells you

openly and simply in her face all that affects her, and that is our

Wenna. I suppose you have noticed that, Mr. Trelyon?"

But he did not make any answer.

CHAPTER XXI.

CONFESSION.

The lad lay dreaming in the warm meadows by the side of a small and

rapid brook, the clear waters of which plashed and bubbled in the

sunlight as they hurried past the brown stones. His fishing-rod lay

beside him, hidden in the long grass and the daisies. The sun was hot

in the valley--shining on a wall of gray rock behind him, and throwing

purple shadows over the clefts; shining on the dark bushes beside

the stream and on the lush green of the meadows; shining on the trees

beyond, in the shadow of which some dark red cattle were standing.

Then away on the other side of the valley rose gently-sloping woods,

gray and green in the haze of the heat, and over these again was the

pale blue sky with scarcely a cloud in it. It was a hot day to be

found in spring-time, but the waters of the brook seemed cool and

pleasant as they gurgled by, and occasionally a breath of wind blew

over from the woods. For the rest, he lay so still on this fine,

indolent, dreamy morning that the birds around seemed to take no note

of his presence, and one of the large woodpeckers, with his scarlet

head and green body brilliant in the sun, flew close by him and

disappeared into the bushes opposite like a sudden gleam of color shot

by a diamond.

"Next month," he was thinking to himself as he lay with his hands

behind his head, not caring to shade his handsome and well-tanned face

from the warm sun--"next month I shall be twenty-one, and most folks

will consider me a man. Anyhow, I don't know the man whom I wouldn't

fight or run or ride or shoot against for any wager he liked. But of

all the people who know anything about me, just that one whose opinion

I care for will not consider me a man at all, but only a boy. And that

without saying anything. You can tell, somehow, by a mere look, what

her feelings are; and you know that what she thinks is true. Of course

it's true--I am only a boy. What's the good of me to anybody? I could

look after a farm--that is, I could look after other people doing

their work--but I couldn't do any work myself. And that seems to me

what she is always looking at: 'What's the good of you, what are you

doing, what are you busy about?' It's all very well for her to be

busy, for she can do a hundred thousand things, and she is always at

them. What can I do?"

Then his wandering day-dreamings took another turn: "It was an odd

thing for Mabyn to say--'_That is when you are in love with some

one_.' But those girls take everything for love. They don't know how

you can admire, almost to worshiping, the goodness of a woman, and how

you are anxious that she should be well and happy, and how you would

do anything in the world to please her, without fancying straight away

that you are in love with her, and want to marry her and drive about

in the same carriage with her. I shall be quite as fond of Wenna

Rosewarne when she is married, although I shall hate that little brute

with his rum and his treacle. The cheek of him, in asking her to marry

him, is astonishing. He is the most hideous little beast that could

have been picked out to marry any woman, but I suppose he has appealed

to her compassion, and then she'll do anything. But if there was

anybody else in love with her, if she cared the least bit about

anybody else, wouldn't I go straight to her and insist on her shunting

that fellow aside? What claim has he on any other feeling of hers but

her compassion? Why, if that fellow were to come and try to frighten

her, and if I were in the affair, and if she appealed to me even by a

look, then there would be short work with something or somebody."

He got up hastily, with something of a gloomy and angry look on his

face. He did not notice that he had startled all the birds around from

out of the bushes. He picked up his rod and line in a morose

fashion, not seeming to care about adding to the half dozen small and

red-speckled trout he had in his basket.

While he was thus irresolutely standing he caught sight of a girl's

figure coming rapidly along the valley under the shadow of some ash

trees growing by the stream. It was Wenna Rosewarne herself, and she

seemed to be hurrying toward him. She was carrying some black object

in her arms.

"Oh, Mr. Trelyon," she said, "what am I to do with this little dog? I

saw him kicking in the road and foaming at the mouth; and then he got

up and ran, and I caught him--"

Before she had time to say anything more the young man made a sudden

dive at the dog, caught hold of him and turned and heaved him into the

stream. He fell into a little pool of clear brown water: he spluttered

and paddled there for a second, then he got his footing and scrambled

across the stones up to the opposite bank, where he began shaking the

water from his coat among the long grass.

"Oh, how could you be so disgracefully cruel?" she said, with her face

full of indignation.

"And how could you be so imprudent?"' he said quite as vehemently.

"Why, whose is the dog?"

"I don't know."

"And you catch up some mongrel little cur in the middle of the

highway--He might have been mad."

"I knew he wasn't mad," she said: "it was only a fit; and how could

you be so cruel as to throw him into the river?"

"Oh," said the young man, coolly, "a clash of cold water is the best

thing for a dog that has a fit. Besides, I don't care what he had or

what I did with him, so long as you are safe. Your little finger is of

more consequence than the necks of all the curs in the country."

"Oh, it is mean of you to say that," she retorted warmly. "You have no

pity for those wretched little things that are at every one's mercy.

If it were a handsome and beautiful dog, now, you would care for that,

or if it were a dog that was skilled in getting game for you, you

would care for that."

"Yes, certainly," he said: "these are dogs that have something to

recommend them."

"Yes, and every one is good to them: they are not in need of your

favor. But you don't think of the wretched little brutes that have

nothing to recommend them, that only live on sufferance, that every

one kicks and despises and starves."

"Well," said he with some compunction, "look there! That new friend of

yours--he's no great beauty, you must confess--is all right now. The

bath has cured him. As soon as he's done licking his paws he'll be off

home, wherever that may be. But I've always noticed that about you,

Wenna: you're always on the side of things that are ugly and helpless

and useless in the world; and you're not very just to those who don't

agree with you. For after all, you know, one wants time to acquire

that notion of yours--that it is only weak and ill-favored creatures

that are worthy of the least consideration."

"Yes," she said rather sadly, "you want time to learn that."

He looked at her. Did she mean that her sympathy with those who were

weak and ill-favored arose from some strange consciousness that she

herself was both? His cheeks began to burn red. He had often heard her

hint something like that, and yet he had never dared to reason with

her or show her what he thought of her. Should he do so now?

"Wenna," he said, blushing hotly, "I can't make you out sometimes. You

speak as if no one cared for you. Now, if I were to tell you--"

"Oh, I am not so ungrateful," she said hastily. "I know that two or

three do; and--and, Mr. Trelyon, do you think you could coax that

little dog over the stream again? You see he has come back again--he

can't find his way home."

Mr. Trelyon called to the dog: it came down to the river's side, and

whined and shivered on the brink.

"Do you care a brass farthing about the little beast?" he said to

Wenna.

"I must put him on his way home," she answered.

Thereupon the young man went straight through the stream to the other

side, jumping the deeper portions of the channel: he caught up the dog

and brought it back to her; and when she was very angry with him for

this mad performance, he merely kicked some of the water out of his

trousers and laughed.

Then a smile broke over her face also. "Is that an example of what

people would do for me?" she said shyly. "Mr. Trelyon, you must keep

walking through the warm grass till your feet are dry; or will you

come along to the inn, and I shall get you some shoes and stockings?

Pray do, and at once. I am rather in a hurry."

"I'll go along with you, anyway," he said, "and put this little brute

into the highway. But why are you in a hurry?"

"Because," said Wenna, as they set out to walk down the

valley--"because my mother and I are going to Penzance the day after

to-morrow, and I have a lot of things to get ready."

"To Penzance?" said he with a sudden falling of the face.

"Yes. She has been dreadfully out of sorts lately, and she has sunk

into a kind of despondent state. The doctor says she must have a

change--a holiday, really--to take her away from the cares of the

house--"

"Why, Wenna, it's you who want the holiday--it's you who have the

cares of the house," Trelyon said warmly.

"And so I have persuaded her to go to Penzance for a week or two, and

I go with her to look after her. Mr. Trelyon, would you be kind enough

to keep Rock for me until we come back? I am afraid of the servants

neglecting him."

"You needn't be afraid of that: he's not one of the ill-favored--every

one will attend to him," said Trelyon; and then he added, after a

minute or two of silence, "The fact is, I think I shall be at Penzance

also while you are there. My cousin Juliott is coming here in about a

fortnight to celebrate the important event of my coming of age, and I

promised to go for her. I might as well go now."

She said nothing.

"I might as well go any time," he said rather impatiently. "I haven't

got anything to do. Do you know, before you came along just now, I was

thinking what a very useful person you were in the world, and what

a very useless person I was--about as useless as this little cur. I

think somebody should take me up and heave me into a river. And I was

wondering, too"--here he became a little more embarrassed and slow of

speech--"I was wondering what you would say if I spoke to you, and

gave you a hint that sometimes--that sometimes one might wish to cut

this lazy life if one only knew how, and whether so very busy a person

as yourself mightn't--don't you see?--give one some notion--some sort

of hint, in fact--"

"Oh, but then, Mr. Trelyon," she said quite cheerfully, "you would

think it very strange if I asked you to take any interest in the

things that keep me busy. That is not a man's work. I wouldn't accept

you as a pupil."

He burst out laughing. "Why," said he, "do you think I offered to mend

stockings and set sums on slates and coddle babies?"

"As for setting sums on slates," she remarked with a quiet

impertinence, "the working of them out might be of use to you."

"Yes, and a serious trouble too," he said candidly. "No, no--that

cottage business ain't in my line. I like to have a joke with the

old folks or a romp with the kids, but I can't go in for cutting out

pinafores. I shall leave my mother to do my share of that for me; and

hasn't she come out strong lately, eh? It's quite a new amusement for

her, and it's driven a deal of that organ-grinding and stuff out of

her head; and I've a notion some o' those parsons--"

He stopped short, remembering who his companion was; and at this

moment they came to a gate which opened out on the highway, through

which the small cur was passed to find his way home.

"Now, Miss Wenna," said the young man--"By the way, you see how I

remember to address you respectfully ever since you got sulky with me

about it the other day?"

"I am sure I did not get sulky with you, and especially about that,"

she remarked with much composure. "I suppose you are not aware that

you have dropped the 'Miss' several times this morning already?"

"Did I, really? Well, then, I'm awfully sorry; but then you are so

good-natured you tempt one to forget; and my mother she always calls

you Wenna Rosewarne now in speaking to me, as if you were a little

school-girl, instead of being the chief support and pillar of all the

public affairs of Eglosilyan. And now, Miss Wenna, I sha'n't go down

the road with you, because my damp boots and garments would gather the

dust; but perhaps you wouldn't mind stopping two seconds here, and I'm

going to go a cracker and ask you a question: What should a fellow in

my position try to do? You see, I haven't had the least training for

any one of the professions, even if I had any sort of capacity--"

"But why should you wish to have a profession?" she said simply. "You

have more money than is good for you already."

"Then you don't think it ignominious," he said, with his face lighting

up considerably, "to fish in summer and shoot in autumn and hunt in

winter, and make that the only business of one's life?"

"I should if it were the only business, but it needn't be, and you

don't make it so. My father speaks very highly of the way you look

after your property; and he knows what attending to an estate is. And

then you have so many opportunities of being kind and useful to the

people about you that you might do more good that way than by working

night and day at a profession. Then you owe much to yourself, because

if every one began with himself, and educated himself, and became

satisfied and happy with doing his best, there would be no bad conduct

and wretchedness to call for interference. I don't see why you should

be ashamed of shooting and hunting and all that, and doing them as

well as anybody else, or far better, as I hear people say. I don't

think a man is bound to have ambition and try to become famous: you

might be of much greater use in the world, even in such a little

place as Eglosilyan, than if you were in Parliament. I did say to Mrs.

Trelyon that I should like to see you in Parliament, because one has

a natural pride in any person one admires and likes very much, and one

wishes--"

He saw the quick look of fear that sprang to her eyes--not a sudden

appearance of shy embarrassment, but of absolute fear--and he was

almost as startled by her blunder as she herself was. He hastily came

to her rescue. He thanked her in a few rapid and formal words for her

patience and advice; and, as he saw she was trying to turn away and

hide the mortification visible on her face, he shook hands with her

and let her go.

Then he turned. He had been startled, it is true, and grieved to see

the pain her chance words had caused her. But now a great glow of

delight rose up within him, and he could have called aloud to the blue

skies and the silent woods because of the joy that filled his heart.

They were but chance words, of course. They were uttered with no

deliberate intention: on the contrary, her quick look of pain showed

how bitterly she regretted the blunder. Moreover, he congratulated

himself on his rapid piece of acting, and assured himself that she

would believe that he had not noticed that admission of hers. They

were idle words: she would forget them. The incident, so far as she

was concerned, was gone.

But not so far as he was concerned. For now he knew that the person

whom, above all other persons in the world, he was most desirous to

please, whose respect and esteem he was most anxious to obtain, had

not only condoned much of his idleness out of the abundant charity of

her heart, but had further, and by chance, revealed to him that she

gave him some little share of that affection which she seemed to shed

generously and indiscriminately on so many folks and things around

her. He, too, was now in the charmed circle. He walked with a new

pride through the warm, green meadows, his rod over his shoulder: he

whistled as he went, or he sang snatches of "The Rose of Allandale."

He met two small boys out bird's-nesting: he gave them a shilling

apiece, and then inconsistently informed them that if he caught them

then or at any other time with a bird's nest in their hands he would

cuff their ears. Then he walked hastily home, put by his fishing-rod,

and shut himself up in his study with half a dozen of those learned

volumes which he had brought back unsoiled from school.

CHAPTER XXII.

ON WINGS OF HOPE.

When Trelyon arrived late one evening at Penzance he was surprised

to find his uncle's coachman awaiting him at the station: "What's the

matter, Tobias? Is the old gentleman going to die? You don't mean to

say you are here for me?"

"Yaäs, zor, I be," said the little old man with no great courtesy.

"Then he is going to die if he sends out his horse at this time o'

night. Look here, Tobias: I'll put my portmanteau inside and come on

the box to have a talk with you--you're such a jolly old card, you

know--and you'll tell me all that's happened since I last enjoyed my

uncle's bountiful hospitality."

This the young man did: and then the brown-faced, wiry and surly

little person, having started his horse, proceeded to tell his story

in a series of grumbling and disconnected sentences. He was not nearly

so taciturn as he looked: "The maäster he went sün to bed to-night:

'twere Miss Juliott sent me to the station, without tellin' en. He's

gettin' worse and worse, that's sure: if yü be for giving me half a

crown, like, or any one that comes to the house, he finds it out and

stops it out o' my wages: yes, he does, zor, the old fule!"

"Tobias, be a little more respectful to my uncle, if you please."

"Why, zor, yü knaw en well enough," said the man in the same surly

fashion. "And I'll tell yü this, Maäster Harry, if yü be after

dinner with en, and he has a bottle o' poort wine that he puts on

the mantelpiece, and he says to yü to let that aloän, vor 'tis a

medicine-zart o' wine, don't yü heed en, but have that wine. 'Tis the

real old poort wine, zor, that yür vather gied en--the dahmned old

pagan!"

The young man burst out laughing, instead of reprimanding Tobias, who

maintained his sulky impassiveness of face.

"Why, zor, I be gardener now, too: yaäs I be, to save the wages.

And he's gone clean mazed about that garden--yaäs, I think. Would yü

believe this, Maäster Harry, that he killed every one o' the blessed

strawberries last year with a lot o' wrack from the bache, because he

said it wüd be as good for them as for the 'sparagus?"

"Well, but the old chap finds amusement in pottering about the

garden--" said Master Harry.

"The old fule!" repeated Tobias, in an under tone.

"And the theory is sound about the seaweed and the strawberries;

just as his old notion of getting a green rose by pouring sulphate of

copper in at the roots."

"Yaäs, that were another pretty thing, Maäster Harry, and he had the

tin labels all printed out in French, and he waited and waited, and

there bain't a fairly güde rose left in the garden. And his violet

glass for the cucumbers: he burned en up to once, although 'twere fine

to hear'n talk about the sunlight and the rays and such nonsenses. He

be a strange mahn, zor, and a dahmned close'n with his penny-pieces,

Christian and all as he calls his-sen. There's Miss Juliott, zor,

she's go-in' to get married, I suppose; and when she goes no one 'll

dare spake to 'n. Be yü going to stop long this time, Maäster Harry?"

"Not at the Hollies, Tobias. I shall go down to the Queen's to-morrow:

I've got rooms there."

"So much the better--so much the better," said the frank but

inhospitable retainer; and presently the jogtrot old animal between

the shafts was pulled up in front of a certain square old-fashioned

building of gray stone which was prettily surrounded with trees. They

had arrived at the Rev. Mr. Penaluna's house, and there was a young

lady standing in the light of the hall, she having opened the door

very softly as she heard the carriage drive up.