PART II.

Richard got through the following week he hardly knew how. He found

occupation, to a much greater extent than he was actually aware of, in a

sordid and yet heroic struggle with himself. For several months now, he

had been leading, under Gertrude's inspiration, a strictly decent and

sober life. So long as he was at comparative peace with Gertrude and

with himself, such a life was more than easy; it was delightful. It

produced a moral buoyancy infinitely more delicate and more constant

than the gross exhilaration of his old habits. There was a kind of

fascination in adding hour to hour, and day to day, in this record of

his new-born austerity. Having abjured excesses, he practised temperance

after the fashion of a novice: he raised it (or reduced it) to

abstinence. He was like an unclean man who, having washed himself clean,

remains in the water for the love of it. He wished to be religiously,

superstitiously pure. This was easy, as we have said, so long as his

goddess smiled, even though it were as a goddess indeed,--as a creature

unattainable. But when she frowned, and the heavens grew dark, Richard's

sole dependence was in his own will,--as flimsy a trust for an upward

scramble, one would have premised, as a tuft of grass on the face of a

perpendicular cliff. Flimsy as it looked, however, it served him. It

started and crumbled, but it held, if only by a single fibre. When

Richard had cantered fifty yards away from Gertrude's gate in a fit of

stupid rage, he suddenly pulled up his horse and gulped down his

passion, and swore an oath, that, suffer what torments of feeling he

might, he would not at least break the continuity of his gross physical

soberness. It was enough to be drunk in mind; he would not be drunk in

body. A singular, almost ridiculous feeling of antagonism to Gertrude

lent force to this resolution. "No, madam," he cried within himself, "I

shall _not_ fall back. Do your best! I shall keep straight." We often

outweather great offences and afflictions through a certain healthy

instinct of egotism. Richard went to bed that night as grim and sober as

a Trappist monk; and his foremost impulse the next day was to plunge

headlong into some physical labor which should not allow him a moment's

interval of idleness. He found no labor to his taste; but he spent the

day so actively, in the mechanical annihilation of the successive hours,

that Gertrude's image found no chance squarely to face him. He was

engaged in the work of self-preservation,--the most serious and

absorbing work possible to man. Compared to the results here at stake,

his passion for Gertrude seemed but a fiction. It is perhaps difficult

to give a more lively impression of the vigor of this passion, of its

maturity and its strength, than by simply stating that it discreetly

held itself in abeyance until Richard had set at rest his doubts of that

which lies nearer than all else to the heart of man,--his doubts of the

strength of his will. He answered these doubts by subjecting his

resolution to a course of such cruel temptations as were likely either

to shiver it to a myriad of pieces, or to season it perfectly to all the

possible requirements of life. He took long rides over the country,

passing within a stone's throw of as many of the scattered wayside

taverns as could be combined in a single circuit. As he drew near them

he sometimes slackened his pace, as if he were about to dismount, pulled

up his horse, gazed a moment, then, thrusting in his spurs, galloped

away again like one pursued. At other times; in the late evening, when

the window-panes were aglow with the ruddy light within, he would walk

slowly by, looking at the stars, and, after maintaining this stoical

pace for a couple of miles, would hurry home to his own lonely and

black-windowed dwelling. Having successfully performed this feat a

certain number of times, he found his love coming back to him, bereft in

the interval of its attendant jealousy. In obedience to it, he one

morning leaped upon his horse and repaired to Gertrude's abode, with no

definite notion of the terms in which he should introduce himself.

He had made himself comparatively sure of his will; but he was yet to

acquire the mastery of his impulses. As he gave up his horse, according

to his wont, to one of the men at the stable, he saw another steed

stalled there which he recognized as Captain Severn's. "Steady, my boy,"

he murmured to himself, as he would have done to a frightened horse. On

his way across the broad court-yard toward the house, he encountered the

Captain, who had just taken his leave. Richard gave him a generous

salute (he could not trust himself to more), and Severn answered with

what was at least a strictly just one. Richard observed, however, that

he was very pale, and that he was pulling a rosebud to pieces as he

walked; whereupon our young man quickened his step. Finding the parlor

empty, he instinctively crossed over to a small room adjoining it, which

Gertrude had converted into a modest conservatory; and as he did so,

hardly knowing it, he lightened his heavy-shod tread. The glass door was

open and Richard looked in. There stood Gertrude with her back to him,

bending apart with her hands a couple of tall flowering plants, and

looking through the glazed partition behind them. Advancing a step, and

glancing over the young girl's shoulder, Richard had just time to see

Severn mounting his horse at the stable door, before Gertrude, startled

by his approach, turned hastily round. Her face was flushed hot, and her

eyes brimming with tears.

"You!" she exclaimed, sharply.

Richard's head swam. That single word was so charged with cordial

impatience that it seemed the death-knell of his hope. He stepped inside

the room and closed the door, keeping his hand on the knob.

"Gertrude," he said, "you love that man!"

"Well, sir?"

"Do you confess it?" cried Richard.

"Confess it? Richard Clare, how dare you use such language? I'm in no

humor for a scene. Let me pass."

Gertrude was angry; but as for Richard, it may almost be said that he

was mad. "One scene a day is enough, I suppose," he cried. "What are

these tears about? Wouldn't he have you? Did he refuse you, as you

refused me? Poor Gertrude!"

Gertrude looked at him a moment with concentrated scorn. "You fool!" she

said, for all answer. She pushed his hand from the latch, flung open the

door, and moved rapidly away.

Left alone, Richard sank down on a sofa and covered his face with his

hands. It burned them, but he sat motionless, repeating to himself,

mechanically, as if to avert thought, "You fool! you fool!" At last he

got up and made his way out.

It seemed to Gertrude, for several hours after this scene, that she had

at this juncture a strong case against Fortune. It is not our purpose to

repeat the words which she had exchanged with Captain Severn. They had

come within a single step of an _éclaircissement_, and when but another

movement would have flooded their souls with light, some malignant

influence had seized them by the throats. Had they too much pride?--too

little imagination? We must content ourselves with this hypothesis.

Severn, then, had walked mechanically across the yard, saying to

himself, "She belongs to another"; and adding, as he saw Richard, "and

such another!" Gertrude had stood at her window, repeating, under her

breath, "He belongs to himself, himself alone." And as if this was not

enough, when misconceived, slighted, wounded, she had faced about to her

old, passionless, dutiful past, there on the path of retreat to this

asylum Richard Clare had arisen to forewarn her that she should find no

peace even at home. There was something in the violent impertinence of

his appearance at this moment which gave her a dreadful feeling that

fate was against her. More than this. There entered into her emotions a

certain minute particle of awe of the man whose passion was so

uncompromising. She felt that it was out of place any longer to pity

him. He was the slave of his passion; but his passion was strong. In her

reaction against the splendid civility of Severn's silence, (the real

antithesis of which would have been simply the perfect courtesy of

explicit devotion,) she found herself touching with pleasure on the fact

of Richard's brutality. He at least had ventured to insult her. He had

loved her enough to forget himself. He had dared to make himself odious

in her eyes, because he had cast away his sanity. What cared he for the

impression he made? He cared only for the impression he received. The

violence of this reaction, however, was the measure of its duration. It

was impossible that she should walk backward so fast without stumbling.

Brought to her senses by this accident, she became aware that her

judgment was missing. She smiled to herself as she reflected that it had

been taking holiday for a whole afternoon. "Richard was right," she said

to herself. "I am no fool. I can't be a fool if I try. I'm too

thoroughly my father's daughter for that. I love that man, but I love

myself better. Of course, then, I don't deserve to have him. If I loved

him in a way to merit his love, I would sit down this moment and write

him a note telling him that if he does not come back to me, I shall die.

But I shall neither write the note nor die. I shall live and grow stout,

and look after my chickens and my flowers and my colts, and thank the

Lord in my old age that I have never done anything unwomanly. Well! I'm

as He made me. Whether I can deceive others, I know not; but I certainly

can't deceive myself. I'm quite as sharp as Gertrude Whittaker; and this

it is that has kept me from making a fool of myself and writing to poor

Richard the note that I wouldn't write to Captain Severn. I needed to

fancy myself wronged. I suffer so little! I needed a sensation! So,

shrewd Yankee that I am, I thought I would get one cheaply by taking up

that unhappy boy! Heaven preserve me from the heroics, especially the

economical heroics! The one heroic course possible, I decline. What,

then, have I to complain of? Must I tear my hair because a man of taste

has resisted my unspeakable charms? To be charming, you must be charmed

yourself, or at least you must be able to be charmed; and that

apparently I'm not. I didn't love him, or he would have known it. Love

gets love, and no-love gets none."

But at this point of her meditations Gertrude almost broke down. She

felt that she was assigning herself but a dreary future. Never to be

loved but by such a one as Richard Clare was a cheerless prospect; for

it was identical with an eternal spinsterhood. "Am I, then," she

exclaimed, quite as passionately as a woman need do,--"am I, then, cut

off from a woman's dearest joys? What blasphemous nonsense! One thing is

plain: I am made to be a mother; the wife may take care of herself. I am

made to be a wife; the mistress may take care of _her_self. I am in the

Lord's hands," added the poor girl, who, whether or no she could forget

herself in an earthly love, had at all events this mark of a spontaneous

nature, that she could forget herself in a heavenly one. But in the

midst of her pious emotion, she was unable to subdue her conscience. It

smote her heavily for her meditated falsity to Richard, for her

miserable readiness to succumb to the strong temptation to seek a

momentary resting-place in his gaping heart. She recoiled from this

thought as from an act cruel and immoral. Was Richard's heart the place

for her now, any more than it had been a month before? Was she to apply

for comfort where she would not apply for counsel? Was she to drown her

decent sorrows and regrets in a base, a dishonest, an extemporized

passion? Having done the young man so bitter a wrong in intention,

nothing would appease her magnanimous remorse (as time went on) but to

repair it in fact. She went so far as keenly to regret the harsh words

she had cast upon him in the conservatory. He had been insolent and

unmannerly; but he had an excuse. Much should be forgiven him, for he

loved much. Even now that Gertrude had imposed upon her feelings a

sterner regimen than ever, she could not defend herself from a sweet and

sentimental thrill--a thrill in which, as we have intimated, there was

something of a tremor--at the recollection of his strident accents and

his angry eyes. It was yet far from her heart to desire a renewal,

however brief, of this exhibition. She wished simply to efface from the

young man's morbid soul the impression of a real contempt; for she

knew--or she thought that she knew--that against such an impression he

was capable of taking the most fatal and inconsiderate comfort.

Before many mornings had passed, accordingly, she had a horse saddled,

and, dispensing with attendance, she rode rapidly over to his farm. The

house door and half the windows stood open; but no answer came to her

repeated summons. She made her way to the rear of the house, to the

barn-yard, thinly tenanted by a few common fowl, and across the yard to

a road which skirted its lower extremity and was accessible by an open

gate. No human figure was in sight; nothing was visible in the hot

stillness but the scattered and ripening crops, over which, in spite of

her nervous solicitude, Miss Whittaker cast the glance of a connoisseur.

A great uneasiness filled her mind as she measured the rich domain

apparently deserted of its young master, and reflected that she perhaps

was the cause of its abandonment. Ah, where was Richard? As she looked

and listened in vain, her heart rose to her throat, and she felt herself

on the point of calling all too wistfully upon his name. But her voice

was stayed by the sound of a heavy rumble, as of cart-wheels, beyond a

turn in the road. She touched up her horse and cantered along until she

reached the turn. A great four-wheeled cart, laden with masses of newly

broken stone, and drawn by four oxen, was slowly advancing towards her.

Beside it, patiently cracking his whip and shouting monotonously, walked

a young man in a slouched hat and a red shirt, with his trousers thrust

into his dusty boots. It was Richard. As he saw Gertrude, he halted a

moment, amazed, and then advanced, flicking the air with his whip.

Gertrude's heart went out towards him in a silent Thank God! Her next

reflection was that he had never looked so well. The truth is, that, in

this rough adjustment, the native barbarian was duly represented. His

face and neck were browned by a week in the fields, his eye was clear,

his step seemed to have learned a certain manly dignity from its

attendance on the heavy bestial tramp. Gertrude, as he reached her side,

pulled up her horse and held out her gloved fingers to his brown dusty

hand. He took them, looked for a moment into her face, and for the

second time raised them to his lips.

"Excuse my glove," she said, with a little smile.

"Excuse mine," he answered, exhibiting his sunburnt, work-stained hand.

"Richard," said Gertrude, "you never had less need of excuse in your

life. You never looked half so well."

He fixed his eyes upon her a moment. "Why, you have forgiven me!" he

exclaimed.

"Yes," said Gertrude, "I have forgiven you,--both you and myself. We

both of us behaved very absurdly, but we both of us had reason. I wish

you had come back."

Richard looked about him, apparently at loss for a rejoinder. "I have

been very busy," he said, at last, with a simplicity of tone slightly

studied. An odd sense of dramatic effect prompted him to say neither

more nor less.

An equally delicate instinct forbade Gertrude to express all the joy

which this assurance gave her. Excessive joy would have implied undue

surprise; and it was a part of her plan frankly to expect the best

things of her companion. "If you have been busy," she said, "I

congratulate you. What have you been doing?"

"O, a hundred things. I have been quarrying, and draining, and clearing,

and I don't know what all. I thought the best thing was just to put my

own hands to it. I am going to make a stone fence along the great lot on

the hill there. Wallace is forever grumbling about his boundaries. I'll

fix them once for all. What are you laughing at?"

"I am laughing at certain foolish apprehensions that I have been

indulging for a week past. You're wiser than I, Richard. I have no

imagination."

"Do you mean that _I_ have? I haven't enough to guess what you _do_

mean."

"Why, do you suppose, have I come over this morning?"

"Because you thought I was sulking on account of your having called me a

fool."

"Sulking, or worse. What do I deserve for the wrong I have done you?"

"You have done me no wrong. You reasoned fairly enough. You are not

obliged to know me better than I know myself. It's just like you to be

ready to take back that bad word, and try to make yourself believe that

it was unjust. But it was perfectly just, and therefore I have managed

to bear it. I _was_ a fool at that moment,--a stupid, impudent fool. I

don't know whether that man had been making love to you or not. But you

had, I think, been feeling love for him,--you looked it; I should have

been less than a man, I should be unworthy of your--your affection, if I

had failed to see it. I did see it,--I saw it as clearly as I see those

oxen now; and yet I bounced in with my own ill-timed claims. To do so

was to be a fool. To have been other than a fool would have been to have

waited, to have backed out, to have bitten my tongue off before I spoke,

to have done anything but what I did. I have no right to claim you,

Gertrude, until I can woo you better than that. It was the most

fortunate thing in the world that you spoke as you did: it was even

kind. It saved me all the misery of groping about for a starting-point.

Not to have spoken as you did would have been to fail of justice; and

then, probably, I should have sulked, or, as you very considerately say,

done worse. I had made a false move in the game, and the only thing to

do was to repair it. But you were not obliged to know that I would so

readily admit my move to have been false. Whenever I have made a fool of

myself before, I have been for sticking it out, and trying to turn all

mankind--that is, _you_--into a a fool too, so that I shouldn't be an

exception. But this time, I think, I had a kind of inspiration. I felt

that my case was desperate. I felt that if I adopted my folly now I

adopted it forever. The other day I met a man who had just come home

from Europe, and who spent last summer in Switzerland. He was telling me

about the mountain-climbing over there,--how they get over the glaciers,

and all that. He said that you sometimes came upon great slippery,

steep, snow-covered slopes that end short off in a precipice, and that

if you stumble or lose your footing as you cross them horizontally, why

you go shooting down, and you're gone; that is, but for one little

dodge. You have a long walking-pole with a sharp end, you know, and as

you feel yourself sliding,--it's as likely as not to be in a sitting

posture,--you just take this and ram it into the snow before you, and

there you are, stopped. The thing is, of course, to drive it in far

enough, so that it won't yield or break; and in any case it hurts

infernally to come whizzing down upon this upright pole. But the

interruption gives you time to pick yourself up. Well, so it was with me

the other day. I stumbled and fell; I slipped, and was whizzing

downward; but I just drove in my pole and pulled up short. It nearly

tore me in two; but it saved my life." Richard made this speech with one

hand leaning on the neck of Gertrude's horse, and the other on his own

side, and with his head slightly thrown back and his eyes on hers. She

had sat quietly in her saddle, returning his gaze. He had spoken slowly

and deliberately; but without hesitation and without heat. "This is not

romance," thought Gertrude, "it's reality." And this feeling it was that

dictated her reply, divesting it of romance so effectually as almost to

make it sound trivial.

"It was fortunate you had a walking-pole," she said.

"I shall never travel without one again."

"Never, at least," smiled Gertrude, "with a companion who has the bad

habit of pushing you off the path."

"O, you may push all you like," said Richard. "I give you leave. But

isn't this enough about myself?"

"That's as you think."

"Well, it's all I have to say for the present, except that I am

prodigiously glad to see you, and that of course you will stay awhile."

"But you have your work to do."

"Dear me, never you mind my work. I've earned my dinner this morning, if

you have no objection; and I propose to share it with you. So we will

go back to the house." He turned her horse's head about, started up his

oxen with his voice, and walked along beside her on the grassy roadside,

with one hand in the horse's mane, and the other swinging his whip.

Before they reached the yard-gate, Gertrude had revolved his speech.

"Enough about himself," she said, silently echoing his words. "Yes,

Heaven be praised, it _is_ about himself. I am but a means in this

matter,--he himself, his own character, his own happiness, is the end."

Under this conviction it seemed to her that her part was appreciably

simplified. Richard was learning wisdom and self-control, and to

exercise his reason. Such was the suit that he was destined to gain. Her

duty was as far as possible to remain passive, and not to interfere with

the working of the gods who had selected her as the instrument of their

prodigy. As they reached the gate, Richard made a trumpet of his hands,

and sent a ringing summons into the fields; whereupon a farm-boy

approached, and, with an undisguised stare of amazement at Gertrude,

took charge of his master's team. Gertrude rode up to the door-step,

where her host assisted her to dismount, and bade her go in and make

herself at home, while he busied himself with the bestowal of her horse.

She found that, in her absence, the old woman who administered her

friend's household had reappeared, and had laid out the preparations for

his mid-day meal. By the time he returned, with his face and head

shining from a fresh ablution, and his shirt-sleeves decently concealed

by a coat, Gertrude had apparently won the complete confidence of the

good wife.

Gertrude doffed her hat, and tucked up her riding-skirt, and sat down to

a _tête-à-tête_ over Richard's crumpled table-cloth. The young man

played the host very soberly and naturally; and Gertrude hardly knew

whether to augur from his perfect self-possession that her star was

already on the wane, or that it had waxed into a steadfast and eternal

sun. The solution of her doubts was not far to seek; Richard was

absolutely at his ease in her presence. He had told her indeed that she

intoxicated him; and truly, in those moments when she was compelled to

oppose her dewy eloquence to his fervid importunities, her whole

presence seemed to him to exhale a singularly potent sweetness. He had

told her that she was an enchantress, and this assertion, too, had its

measure of truth. But her spell was a steady one; it sprang not from her

beauty, her wit, her figure,--it sprang from her character. When she

found herself aroused to appeal or to resistance, Richard's pulses were

quickened to what he had called intoxication, not by her smiles, her

gestures, her glances, or any accession of that material beauty which

she did not possess, but by a generous sense of her virtues in action.

In other words, Gertrude exercised the magnificent power of making her

lover forget her face. Agreeably to this fact, his habitual feeling in

her presence was one of deep repose,--a sensation not unlike that which

in the early afternoon, as he lounged in his orchard with a pipe, he

derived from the sight of the hot and vaporous hills. He was innocent,

then, of that delicious trouble which Gertrude's thoughts had touched

upon as a not unnatural result of her visit, and which another woman's

fancy would perhaps have dwelt upon as an indispensable proof of its

success. "Porphyro grew faint," the poet assures us, as he stood in

Madeline's chamber on Saint Agnes' eve. But Richard did not in the least

grow faint now that his mistress was actually filling his musty old room

with her voice, her touch, her looks; that she was sitting in his

unfrequented chairs, trailing her skirt over his faded carpet, casting

her perverted image upon his mirror, and breaking his daily bread. He

was not fluttered when he sat at her well-served table, and trod her

muffled floors. Why, then, should he be fluttered now? Gertrude was

herself in all places, and (once granted that she was at peace) to be

at her side was to drink peace as fully in one place as in another.

Richard accordingly ate a great working-day dinner in Gertrude's

despite, and she ate a small one for his sake. She asked questions

moreover, and offered counsel with most sisterly freedom. She deplored

the rents in his table-cloth, and the dismemberments of his furniture;

and although by no means absurdly fastidious in the matter of household

elegance, she could not but think that Richard would be a happier and a

better man if he were a little more comfortable. She forbore, however,

to criticise the poverty of his _entourage_, for she felt that the

obvious answer was, that such a state of things was the penalty of his

living alone; and it was desirable, under the circumstances, that this

idea should remain implied.

When at last Gertrude began to bethink herself of going, Richard broke a

long silence by the following question: "Gertrude, _do_ you love that

man?"

"Richard," she answered, "I refused to tell you before, because you

asked the question as a right. Of course you do so no longer. No. I do

not love him. I have been near it,--but I have missed it. And now good

by."

For a week after her visit, Richard worked as bravely and steadily as he

had done before it. But one morning he woke up lifeless, morally

speaking. His strength had suddenly left him. He had been straining his

faith in himself to a prodigious tension, and the chord had suddenly

snapped. In the hope that Gertrude's tender fingers might repair it, he

rode over to her towards evening. On his way through the village, he

found people gathered in knots, reading fresh copies of the Boston

newspapers over each other's shoulders, and learned that tidings had

just come of a great battle in Virginia, which was also a great defeat.

He procured a copy of the paper from a man who had read it out, and made

haste to Gertrude's dwelling.

Gertrude received his story with those passionate imprecations and

regrets which were then in fashion. Before long, Major Luttrel presented

himself, and for half an hour there was no talk but about the battle.

The talk, however, was chiefly between Gertrude and the Major, who found

considerable ground for difference, she being a great radical and he a

decided conservative. Richard sat by, listening apparently, but with the

appearance of one to whom the matter of the discourse was of much less

interest than the manner of those engaged in it. At last, when tea was

announced, Gertrude told her friends, very frankly, that she would not

invite them to remain,--that her heart was too heavy with her country's

woes, and with the thought of so great a butchery, to allow her to play

the hostess,--and that, in short, she was in the humor to be alone. Of

course there was nothing for the gentlemen but to obey; but Richard went

out cursing the law, under which, in the hour of his mistress's sorrow,

his company was a burden and not a relief. He watched in vain, as he

bade her farewell, for some little sign that she would fain have him

stay, but that as she wished to get rid of his companion civility

demanded that she should dismiss them both. No such sign was

forthcoming, for the simple reason that Gertrude was sensible of no

conflict between her desires. The men mounted their horses in silence,

and rode slowly along the lane which led from Miss Whittaker's stables

to the high-road. As they approached the top of the lane, they perceived

in the twilight a mounted figure coming towards them. Richard's heart

began to beat with an angry foreboding, which was confirmed as the rider

drew near and disclosed Captain Severn's features. Major Luttrel and he,

being bound in courtesy to a brief greeting, pulled up their horses; and

as an attempt to pass them in narrow quarters would have been a greater

incivility than even Richard was prepared to commit, he likewise

halted.

"This is ugly news, isn't it?" said Severn. "It has determined me to go

back to-morrow."

"Go back where?" asked Richard.

"To my regiment."

"Are you well enough?" asked Major Luttrel. "How is that wound?"

"It's so much better that I believe it can finish getting well down

there as easily as here. Good by, Major. I hope we shall meet again."

And he shook hands with Major Luttrel. "Good by, Mr. Clare." And,

somewhat to Richard's surprise, he stretched over and held out his hand

to him.

Richard felt that it was tremulous, and, looking hard into his face, he

thought it wore a certain unwonted look of excitement. And then his

fancy coursed back to Gertrude, sitting where he had left her, in the

sentimental twilight, alone with her heavy heart. With a word, he

reflected, a single little word, a look, a motion, this happy man whose

hand I hold can heal her sorrows. "Oh!" cried Richard, "that by this

hand I might hold him fast forever!"

It seemed to the Captain that Richard's grasp was needlessly protracted

and severe. "What a grip the poor fellow has!" he thought. "Good by," he

repeated aloud, disengaging himself.

"Good by," said Richard. And then he added, he hardly knew why, "Are you

going to bid good by to Miss Whittaker?"

"Yes. Isn't she at home?"

Whether Richard really paused or not before he answered, he never knew.

There suddenly arose such a tumult in his bosom that it seemed to him

several moments before he became conscious of his reply. But it is

probable that to Severn it came only too soon.

"No," said Richard; "she's not at home. We have just been calling." As

he spoke, he shot a glance at his companion, armed with defiance of his

impending denial. But the Major just met his glance and then dropped his

eyes. This slight motion was a horrible revelation. He had served the

Major too.

"Ah? I'm sorry," said Severn, slacking his rein,--"I'm sorry." And from

his saddle he looked down toward the house more longingly and

regretfully than he knew.

Richard felt himself turning from pale to consuming crimson. There was a

simple sincerity in Severn's words which was almost irresistible. For a

moment he felt like shouting out a loud denial of his falsehood: "She is

there! she's alone and in tears, awaiting you. Go to her--and be

damned!" But before he could gather his words into his throat, they were

arrested by Major Luttrel's cool, clear voice, which in its calmness

seemed to cast scorn upon his weakness.

"Captain," said the Major, "I shall be very happy to take charge of your

farewell."

"Thank you, Major. Pray do. Say how extremely sorry I was. Good by

again." And Captain Severn hastily turned his horse about, gave him his

spurs, and galloped away, leaving his friends standing alone in the

middle of the road. As the sound of his retreat expired, Richard, in

spite of himself, drew a long breath. He sat motionless in the saddle,

hanging his head.

"Mr. Clare," said the Major, at last, "that was very cleverly done."

Richard looked up. "I never told a lie before," said he.

"Upon my soul, then, you did it uncommonly well. You did it so well I

almost believed you. No wonder that Severn did."

Richard was silent. Then suddenly he broke out, "In God's name, sir, why

don't you call me a blackguard? I've done a beastly act!"

"O, come," said the Major, "you needn't mind that, with me. We'll

consider that said. I feel bound to let you know that I'm very, very

much obliged to you. If you hadn't spoken, how do you know but that I

might?"

"If you had, I would have given you the lie, square in your teeth."

"Would you, indeed? It's very fortunate, then, I held my tongue. If you

will have it so, I won't deny that your little improvisation sounded

very ugly. I'm devilish glad I didn't make it, if you come to that."

Richard felt his wit sharpened by a most unholy scorn,--a scorn far

greater for his companion than for himself. "I am glad to hear that it

did sound ugly," he said. "To me, it seemed beautiful, holy, and just.

For the space of a moment, it seemed absolutely right that I should say

what I did. But you saw the lie in its horrid nakedness, and yet you let

it pass. You have no excuse."

"I beg your pardon. You are immensely ingenious, but you are immensely

wrong. Are you going to make out that I am the guilty party? Upon my

word, you're a cool hand. I _have_ an excuse. I have the excuse of being

interested in Miss Whittaker's remaining unengaged."

"So I suppose. But you don't love her. Otherwise--"

Major Luttrel laid his hand on Richard's bridle. "Mr. Clare," said he,

"I have no wish to talk metaphysics over this matter. You had better say

no more. I know that your feelings are not of an enviable kind, and I am

therefore prepared to be good-natured with you. But you must be civil

yourself. You have done a shabby deed; you are ashamed of it, and you

wish to shift the responsibility upon me, which is more shabby still. My

advice is, that you behave like a man of spirit, and swallow your

apprehensions. I trust that you are not going to make a fool of yourself

by any apology or retraction in any quarter. As for its having seemed

holy and just to do what you did, that is mere bosh. A lie is a lie, and

as such is often excusable. As anything else,--as a thing beautiful,

holy, or just,--it's quite inexcusable. Yours was a lie to you, and a

lie to me. It serves me, and I accept it. I suppose you understand me. I

adopt it. You don't suppose it was because I was frightened by those

big black eyes of yours that I held my tongue. As for my loving or not

loving Miss Whittaker, I have no report to make to you about it. I will

simply say that I intend, if possible, to marry her."

"She'll not have you. She'll never marry a cold-blooded rascal."

"I think she'll prefer him to a hot-blooded one. Do you want to pick a

quarrel with me? Do you want to make me lose my temper? I shall refuse

you that satisfaction. You have been a coward, and you want to frighten

some one before you go to bed to make up for it. Strike me, and I'll

strike you in self-defence, but I'm not going to mind your talk. Have

you anything to say? No? Well, then, good evening." And Major Luttrel

started away.

It was with rage that Richard was dumb. Had he been but a cat's-paw

after all? Heaven forbid! He sat irresolute for an instant, and then

turned suddenly and cantered back to Gertrude's gate. Here he stopped

again; but after a short pause he went in over the gravel with a

fast-beating heart. O, if Luttrel were but there to see him! For a

moment he fancied he heard the sound of the Major's returning steps. If

he would only come and find him at confession! It would be so easy to

confess before him! He went along beside the house to the front, and

stopped beneath the open drawing-room window.

"Gertrude!" he cried softly, from his saddle.

Gertrude immediately appeared. "You, Richard!" she exclaimed.

Her voice was neither harsh nor sweet; but her words and her intonation

recalled vividly to Richard's mind the scene in the conservatory. He

fancied them keenly expressive of disappointment. He was invaded by a

mischievous conviction that she had been expecting Captain Severn, or

that at the least she had mistaken his voice for the Captain's. The

truth is that she had half fancied it might be,--Richard's call having

been little more than a loud whisper. The young man sat looking up at

her, silent.

"What do you want?" she asked. "Can I do anything for you?"

Richard was not destined to do his duty that evening. A certain

infinitesimal dryness of tone on Gertrude's part was the inevitable

result of her finding that that whispered summons came only from

Richard. She was preoccupied. Captain Severn had told her a fortnight

before, that, in case of news of a defeat, he should not await the

expiration of his leave of absence to return. Such news had now come,

and her inference was that her friend would immediately take his

departure. She could not but suppose that he would come and bid her

farewell, and what might not be the incidents, the results, of such a

visit? To tell the whole truth, it was under the pressure of these

reflections that, twenty minutes before, Gertrude had dismissed our two

gentlemen. That this long story should be told in the dozen words with

which she greeted Richard, will seem unnatural to the disinterested

reader. But in those words, poor Richard, with a lover's clairvoyance,

read it at a single glance. The same resentful impulse, the same

sickening of the heart, that he had felt in the conservatory, took

possession of him once more. To be witness of Severn's passion for

Gertrude,--that he could endure. To be witness of Gertrude's passion for

Severn,--against that obligation his reason rebelled.

"What is it you wish, Richard?" Gertrude repeated. "Have you forgotten

anything?"

"Nothing! nothing!" cried the young man. "It's no matter!"

He gave a great pull at his bridle, and almost brought his horse back on

his haunches, and then, wheeling him about on himself, he thrust in his

spurs and galloped out of the gate.

On the highway he came upon Major Luttrel, who stood looking down the

lane.

"I'm going to the Devil, sir!" cried Richard. "Give me your hand on it."

Luttrel held out his hand. "My poor young man," said he, "you're out of

your head. I'm sorry for you. You haven't been making a fool of

yourself?"

"Yes, a damnable fool of myself!"

Luttrel breathed freely. "You'd better go home and go to bed," he said.

"You'll make yourself ill by going on at this rate."

"I--I'm afraid to go home," said Richard, in a broken voice. "For God's

sake, come with me!"--and the wretched fellow burst into tears. "I'm too

bad for any company but yours," he cried, in his sobs.

The Major winced, but he took pity. "Come, come," said he, "we'll pull

through. I'll go home with you."

They rode off together. That night Richard went to bed miserably drunk;

although Major Luttrel had left him at ten o'clock, adjuring him to

drink no more. He awoke the next morning in a violent fever; and before

evening the doctor, whom one of his hired men had brought to his

bedside, had come and looked grave and pronounced him very ill.

DOCTOR MOLKE.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

As my own fancy led me into the Greenland seas, so chance sent me into a

Greenland port. It was a choice little harbor, a good way north of the

Arctic Circle,--fairly within the realm of hyperborean barrenness,--very

near the northernmost border of civilized settlement. But civilization

was exhibited there by unmistakable evidences;--a very dilute

civilization, it is true, yet, such as it was, outwardly recognizable;

for Christian habitations and Christian beings were in sight from the

vessel's deck,--at least some of the human beings who appeared upon the

beach were dressed like Christians, and veritable smoke curled

gracefully upward into the bright air above the roofs of houses from

veritable chimneys.

We had been fighting the Arctic ice and the Arctic storms for so long a

time, that it was truly refreshing to get into this good harbor. The

little craft which had borne us thither seemed positively to enjoy her

repose, as she lay quietly to her anchors on the still waters, in the

calm air and the blazing sunshine of the Arctic noonday. As for myself,

I was simply wondering what I should find ashore. A slender fringe of

European custom bordering native barbarism and dirt was what I

anticipated; for, as I looked upon the naked rocks,--which there, as in

other Greenland ports, afforded room for a few straggling huts of native

fishermen and hunters, with only now and then a more pretentious white

man's lodge,--I could hardly imagine that much would be found seductive

to the fancy or inviting to the eye. A country where there is no soil to

yield any part of man's subsistence seemed to offer such a slender

chance for man in the battle of life, that I could well imagine it to be

repulsive rather than attractive; yet I was eager to see how poor men

might be, and live.

While thus looking forward to a novel experience, I was unconsciously

preparing myself for a great surprise. Whatever there might be of

poverty in the condition of the few dozens of human beings who there

forced a scanty subsistence from the sea, I was to discover one person

in the place who did in no way share it,--who, born as it might seem to

different destinies, yet, voluntarily choosing wild Nature for

companionship, and rising superior to the forbidding climate and the

general desolation, rejoiced here in his own strong manhood, and lived

seemingly contented as well with himself as with the great world of

which he heard from afar but the faint murmurs.

The anchors had been down about an hour, and the bustle and confusion

necessarily attending an entrance into port had subsided. The sails were

stowed, the decks were cleared up, and the ropes were coiled. A port

watch was set. The crew had received their "liberty," and there was much

wondering among them whether Esquimau eyes could speak a tender welcome.

Nor had the Danish flag been forgotten. That swallow-tailed emblem of a

gallant nationality--which, according to song and tradition, has the

enviable distinction of having

"Come from heaven down, my boys,

Ay, come from heaven down"--

was fluttering from a white flag-staff at the front of the

government-house, and we had answered its display by running up our own

Danish colors at the fore, and saluting them with our signal-gun in all

due form and courtesy.

Soon after reaching the anchorage I had despatched an officer to look up

the chief ruler of the place, and to assure him of the great pleasure I

should have in calling upon him, if he would name an hour convenient to

himself; and I was awaiting my messenger's return with some impatience,

when suddenly I heard the thump of his heavy sea boots on the deck

above. In a few moments he entered the cabin, and reported that the

governor was absent, but that his office was temporarily filled by a

gentleman who had been good enough to accompany him on board,--the

surgeon of the settlement, Doctor Molke; and then stepping aside, Doctor

Molke passed through the narrow doorway and stood before me, bowing. I

bowed in return, and bade him welcome, saying, I suppose, just what any

other person would have said under like circumstances, (not, however,

supposing for a moment that I was understood,) and then, turning to the

officer, I signified my wish that he should act as interpreter. But that

was needless. My Greenland visitor answered me, in pure, unbroken

English, with as little hesitation as if he had spoken no other language

all his life; and in conclusion he said: "I come to invite you to my

poor house, and to offer you my service. I can give you but a feeble

welcome in this outlandish place, but such as I have is yours; and if

you will accompany me ashore, I shall be much delighted."

The delight was mutual; and it was not many minutes before, seated in

the stern sheets of a whale-boat, we were pulling towards the land.

My new-found friend interested me at once. The surprise at finding

myself addressed in English was increased when I discovered that this

Greenland official bore every mark of refinement, culture, and high

breeding. His manner was wholly free from restraint; and it struck me as

something odd that all the self-possession and ease of a thorough man of

the world should be exhibited in this desert place. He did not seem to

be at all aware that there was anything incongruous in either his dress

or manner and his present situation; yet this man, who sat with me in

the stern sheets of a battered whale-boat, pulling across a Greenland

harbor to a Greenland settlement, might, with the simple addition of a

pair of suitable gloves, have stepped as he was into a ball-room without

giving rise to any other remark than would be excited by his bearing.

His graceful figure was well set off by a neatly fitting and closely

buttoned blue frock-coat, ornamented with gilt buttons, and embroidered

cuffs, and heavily braided shoulder-knots. A decoration on his breast

told that he was a favorite with his king. His finely shaped head was

covered by a blue cloth cap, having a gilt band and the royal emblems.

Over his shoulders was thrown a cloak of mottled seal-skins, lined with

the warm and beautiful fur of the Arctic fox. His cleanly shaven face

was finely formed and full of force, while a soft blue eye spoke of

gentleness and good-nature, and with fair hair completed the evidences

of Scandinavian birth.

My curiosity became much excited. "How," thought I, "in the name of

everything mysterious, has it happened that such a man should have

turned up in such a place?" From curiosity I passed to amazement, as his

mind unfolded itself, and his tastes were manifested. I was prepared to

be received by a fur-clad hunter, a coppery-faced Esquimau, or a meek

and pious missionary, upon whose face privation and penance had set

their seal; but for this high-spirited, high-bred, graceful, and

evidently accomplished gentleman, I was not prepared.

I could not refrain from one leading observation. "I suppose, Doctor

Molke," said I, "that you have not been here long enough to have yet

wholly exhausted the novelty of these noble hills!"

"Eleven years, one would think," replied he, "ought to pretty well

exhaust anything; and yet I cannot say that these hills, upon which my

eyes rest continually, have grown to be wearisome companions, even if

they may appear something forbidding."

Eleven years among these barren hills! Eleven years in Greenland!!

Surely, thought I, this is something "passing strange."

The scene around us as we crossed the bay was indeed imposing, and,

though desolate enough, was certainly not without its bright and

cheerful side. Behind us rose a majestic line of cliffs, climbing up

into the clouds in giant steps, picturesque yet solid,--a great massive

pedestal, as it were, supporting mountain piled on mountain, with caps

of snow whitening their summits, and great glaciers hanging on their

sides. Before us lay the town,--built upon a gnarled spur of primitive

rock, which seemed to have crept from underneath the lofty cliffs, as a

serpent from its hiding-place, and, after wriggling through the sea, to

have stopped at length, when it had almost completely enclosed a

beautiful sheet of water about a mile long by half a mile broad, leaving

but one narrow, winding entrance to it. Through this entrance the swell

of the sea could never come to disturb the silent bay, which lay there,

nestling among the dark rocks beneath the mountain shadows, as calmly as

a Swiss lake in an Alpine valley.

But the rocky spur which supported on its rough back what there was of

the town wore a most woe-begone and distressed aspect. A few little

patches of grass and moss were visible, but generally there was nothing

to be seen but the cold gray-red naked rocks, broken and twisted into

knots and knobs, and cut across with deep and ugly cracks. I could but

wonder that on such a dreary spot man should ever think of seeking a

dwelling-place; and my companion must have interpreted my thoughts, for

he pointed to the shore, and said playfully, "Ah! it is true, you behold

at last the fruits of wisdom and instruction,--a city founded on a

rock." And then, after a moment's pause, he added: "Let me point out to

you the great features of this new wonder. First, to the right there,

underneath that little, low, black, peaked roof, dwells the royal

cook,--a Dane who came out here a long time ago, married a native of

the country, and rejoices in a brood of half-breeds, among whom are four

girls, rather dusky, but not ill-favored. Next in order is the

government-house,--that pitch-coated structure near the flag-staff. This

is the only building, you observe, that can boast of a double tier of

windows. Next, a little higher up, you see, is my own lodge, bedaubed

with pitch, like the other, to protect it against the assaults of the

weather, and to stop the little cracks. Down by the beach, a little

farther on, that largest building of all is the store-house, &c., where

the Governor keeps all sorts of traps for trade with the natives, and

where the shops are in which the cooper fixes up the oil-barrels, and

where other like industrial pursuits are carried on. A little farther on

you observe a low structure where the oil is stored. On the ledge above

the shop you see another pitchy building. This furnishes quarters for

the half-dozen Danish employees,--fellows who, not having married native

wives, hunt and fish for the glory of Denmark. Near the den of these

worthies you observe another,--a duplicate of that in which lives the

cook. There lives the royal cooper; and not far from it are two others,

not quite so pretentious, where dwell the carpenter and blacksmith,--all

of whom have followed the worthy example of the cook, and have dusky

sons and daughters to console their declining years. You may perhaps be

able to distinguish a few moss-covered hovels dotted about here and

there,--perhaps there may be twenty of them in all, though there are but

few of them in sight. These are the huts of native hunters. At present

they are not occupied, for, being without roofs that will turn water,

the people are compelled to abandon them when the snow begins to melt in

the spring, and betake themselves to seal-skin tents, some of which you

observe scattered here and there among the rocks. And now I've shown you

everything,--just in time, too, for here we are at the landing."

We had drawn in close to the end of a narrow pier, run out into the

water on slender piles, and, quickly ascending some steps, the Doctor

led the way up to his house. The whole settlement had turned out to meet

us, men, women, children, and dogs,--which latter, about two hundred in

number, "little dogs and all," set up an ear-splitting cry, wild and

strangely in keeping with every other part of the scene, and like

nothing so much as the dismal evening concert of a pack of wolves. The

children, on the other hand, kept quiet, and clung to their mothers, as

all children do in exciting times; the mothers grinned and laughed and

chattered, "as becomes the gentler sex" in the savage state; while the

men, all smoking short clay pipes, (one of their customs borrowed from

civilization,) looked on with that air of stolid indifference peculiar

to the male barbarian. They were mostly dressed in suits of seal-skins,

but some of them wore greasy Guernsey frocks and other European

clothing. Many of the women carried cunning-looking babies strapped upon

their backs in seal-skin pouches. The heads of men and women alike were

for the most part capless; but every one of the dark, beardless faces

was surmounted by a heavy mass of straight, uncombed, and tangled

jet-black hair. There were some half-breed girls standing in little

groups upon the rocks, who, adding something of taste to the simple need

of an artificial covering for the body, were attired in dresses, which,

although of the Esquimau fashion, were quite neatly ornamented. While

passing through this curious crowd, the eye could not but find pleasure

in the novel scene, the more especially as the delight of these

half-barbarous people was excited to the highest pitch by the strange

being who had come among them.

But if what the eye drank in gave delight, less fortunate the nose; for

from about the store-house and the native huts, and, indeed, from almost

everywhere, welled up that horrid odor of decomposing oil and fish and

flesh peculiar to a fishing-town. On this account, if on no other, I

was not sorry when we reached our destination.

"You like not this Greenland odor?" said my conductor. "Luckily it does

not reach me here, or I should seek a still higher perch to roost

on";--saying which, he opened the door and led the way inside, first

through a little vestibule into a square hall, where we deposited our

fur coats, and then to the right, into a small room furnished with a

table, an old pine bench, a single chair, a case with glass doors

containing white jars and glass bottles having Latin labels, and

smelling dreadfully of doctor's stuffs.

"I always come through here," said my host, "after passing the town. It

gives the olfactories a new sensation. This, you observe, is the place

where I physic the people."

"Have you many patients, Doctor?" I inquired.

"Not very many; but, considering that I go sometimes a hundred miles or

so to see the suffering sinners, I have quite enough to satisfy me. Not

much competition, you know. But come, we have some lunch waiting for us

in the next room, and Sophy will be growing impatient."

A lady, eh?

The room into which the Doctor ushered me was neatly furnished. On the

walls were hung some prints and paintings of fruits and animals and

flowers, and in the centre stood a small round table covered with dishes

carefully placed on a snowy cloth.

All very nice, but who's Sophy?

The Doctor tinkled a little bell, the tones of which told that it was

silver; and then, all radiant with smiles and beaming with good-nature,

Sophy entered. A strange apparition.

"This is my housekeeper," said the Doctor, in explanation; "speak to the

American, Sophy."

And, without embarrassment or pausing for an instant, she advanced and

bade me welcome, addressing me in fair English, and extending at the

same time a delicate little hand, which peeped out from cuffs of

eider-down. "I am glad," said she, "to see the American. I have been

looking through the window at him ever since he left the ship."

"Now, Sophy," said the Doctor, "let us see what you have got us for

lunch."

"O, I haven't anything at all, Doctor Molke," answered Sophy; "but I

hope the American will excuse me until dinner, when I have some nice

trout and venison."

"'Pot-luck,' as I told you," exclaimed my host. "But never mind, Sophy,

let's have it, be it what it may." And Sophy tripped lightly out of the

room to do her master's bidding.

"A right good girl that," said the Doctor, when the door was closed.

"Takes capital care of me."

Strange Sophy! A pretty face of dusky hue, and a fine figure attired in

native costume, neatly ornamented and arranged with cultivated taste.

Pantaloons of mottled seal-skin, and of silvery lustre, tapered down

into long white boots, which enclosed the neatest of ankles and the

daintiest of feet. A little jacket of Scotch plaid, with a collar and

border of fur, covered the body to the waist, while from beneath the

collar peeped up a pure white cambric handkerchief, covering the throat;

and heavy masses of glossy black hair were intertwined with ribbons of

gay red. Marvellous Sophy! Dusky daughter of a Danish father and a

native mother. From her mother she had her rich brunette complexion and

raven hair; from her father, Saxon features, and light blue Saxon eyes.

If the housekeeper attracted my attention, so did the dishes which she

set before me. Smoked salmon of exquisite delicacy, reindeer sausages,

reindeer tongues nicely dried and thinly sliced, and fine fresh Danish

bread, made up a style of "pot-luck" calculated to cause a hungry man

from the high seas and sailors' "prog" to wish for the same style of

luck for the remainder of his days. But when all this came to be washed

down with the contents of sundry bottles with which Sophy dotted the

clean white cloth, the "luck" was perfect, and there was nothing further

to desire.

"Ah! here we are," said my entertainer. "Sophy wishes to make amends for

the dryness of her fare. This is a choice Margaux, and I can recommend

it. But, Sophy, here, you haven't warmed this quite enough. Ah! my dear

sir, you experience the trouble of a Greenland life. One can never get

his wines properly tempered."

One cannot get his wines properly tempered!--and this is the trouble of

a Greenland life!! "Surely," thought I, "one might find something worse

than this."

"Here," picking up the next bottle, "we have some Johannisberg, very

fine as I can assure you; but I have little fancy even for the best of

these Rhenish wines. Too much like a pretty woman without soul. They

never warm the imagination. There's something better to build upon there

close beside your elbow. Since the claret's forbidden us for the

present, I'll drink you welcome in that rich Madeira. Why, do you know,

sir," rattled on the Doctor, as I passed the bottle, seemingly rejoiced

in his very heart at having some one to talk to,--"do you know, sir,

that I have kept that by me here these ten years past? My good old

father sent it to me as a mark of special favor. Why, sir, it has a

pedigree as long as one of Locksley's cloth-yard shafts. But the

pedigree will keep: let's prove it,"--and he filled up two dainty French

straw-stem glasses, and pledged me in the good old Danish style. Then,

when the claret came back, this time all rightly tempered, the Doctor

filled the glasses, and hoped that, when I "left this place, the girls

would pull lustily on the tow-ropes."

Hunger and thirst were soon appeased. "And now," said the Doctor, when

this was done, "I know you are dying for the want of something fresh and

green. You have probably tasted nothing that grew out of dear old Mother

Earth since leaving home";--and he tinkled his silver bell again, and

Sophy of the silver seal-skin pantaloons and dainty boots tripped softly

through the door.

"Sophy, haven't you a surprise for the American?"

Sophy smiled knowingly, and said, "Yes," as she retreated. In a moment

she came back, carrying a little silver dish, with a little green

pyramid upon it. Out from the green peeped little round red

globes,--_radishes_, as I lived!--round red radishes!--_ten_ round red

radishes!

"What! radishes in Greenland!" I exclaimed involuntarily.

"Yes, and raised on my own farm, too; you shall see it by and by." The

Doctor was enjoying my surprise, and Sophy looked on with undisguised

satisfaction. Meanwhile I lost no time in tumbling the pyramid to

pieces, and crunching the delicious bulbs. They disappeared in a

twinkling. Their rich and luscious juices seemed to pour at once into

the very blood, and to tingle at the very finger-tips. I never knew

before the full enjoyment of the fresh growth of the soil. After so long

a deprivation it was indeed a strange, as it will remain a lasting

sensation. Never to my dying day shall I forget the ten radishes of

Greenland.

"You see that I was right," exclaimed my host, after the vigorous

assault was ended. "And now," continued he, addressing Sophy, "bring the

other things."

The "other things" proved to be a plate of fine lettuce, a bit of

Stilton cheese, and coffee in transparent little china cups, and sugar

in a silver bowl, and then cigars,--everything of the best and purest;

and as we passed from one thing to another, I became at length persuaded

that the Arctic Circle was a myth, that my cruise among the icebergs was

a dream, and that Greenland was set down wrongly on the maps. Long

before this I had been convinced that Doctor Molke was a most mysterious

character, and wholly unaccountable.

After we had finished this sumptuous lunch and chatted for a while, the

Doctor surprised me again by asking if I would like a game of billiards.

(Billiards in Greenland, as well as radishes!) "But first," said he,

"let us try this sunny Burgundy. Ah! these red wines are the only truly

generous wines. They monopolize all the sensuous glories and

associations of the fruit. With these red wines one drinks in the very

soul and sentiment of the lands which grow the grapes that breed them."

"Even if drank in Greenland?"

"Yes, or at the very Pole. Geographical lines may confine our bodies;

but nature is an untamed wild, where the spirit roams at will. If I am

here hemmed in by barren hills, and live in a desert waste, yet, as one

of your sweetest poets has put it, my

'Fancy, like the finger of a clock,

Runs the great circuit and is still at home';

and truly, I believe that I have in this retreat about as much enjoyment

of life as they who taste of it more freely; for while I can here feel

all the world's warm pulsations, I am freed from its annoyances: if the

sweet is less sweet, the bitter is less bitter. But--Well, let's have

the billiards."

My host now led the way into the billiard-room, which was tastefully

ornamented with everything needful to harmonize with a handsome table

standing in its centre, upon which we were soon knocking the balls about

in an ill-matched game, for he beat me sadly. I was much surprised at

the skilfulness of his play, and remarked that I thought it something

singular that he "should there find any one to keep him so well in

hand."

"Ah! my dear sir," said he, "you have yet much to learn. This country is

not so bad as you think for. Sophy--native-born Sophy--is my antagonist,

and she beats me three times out of five." Wonderful Sophy!

The game finished, my host next led the way into his study. A charming

retreat as ever human wit and ingenuity devised. It was indeed rather a

parlor than a study. The room was quite large, and was literally filled

with odd bits of furniture, elegant and well kept. Heavy crimson

curtains were draped about the windows, a rich crimson carpet covered

the floor, and there were lounges and chairs of various patterns,

adapted for every temper of mind or mood of body,--all of the same

pleasing color. Odd _étagères_, hanging and standing, and a large solid

walnut case, were all well filled with books, and other books were

carefully arranged on a table in the centre of the room. Among them my

eye quickly detected the works of various English authors, conspicuous

among which were Shakespeare, Byron, Scott, Dickens, Cooper, and

Washington Irving. Sam Slick had a place there, and close beside him was

the renowned Lemuel Gulliver; and in science there were, beside many

others, Brewster, Murchison, and Lyell. The books all showed that they

were well used, and they embraced the principal classical stores of the

French and German tongues, beside the English and his own native Danish.

In short, the collection was precisely such as one would expect to find

in any civilized place, where means were not wanting, the disposition to

read a habit and a pleasure, and the books themselves boon companions.

A charming feature of the room was the air of refreshing _négligé_ with

which sundry robes of bear and fox skins were tossed about upon the

chairs and lounges and floor; while the blank spaces of the walls were

broken by numerous pictures, some of them apparently family relics, and

on little brackets were various souvenirs of art and travel.

"I call this my study," said the Doctor; "but in truth there is the real

shop";--and he led me into a little room adjoining, in which there was

but one window, one table, one chair, no shelves, a great number of

books, lying about in every direction, and great quantities of paper. On

the wall hung about two dozen pipes of various shapes and sizes, and a

fine assortment of guns and rifles and all the paraphernalia of a

practised sportsman. It was easy to see that there was one place where

the native-born Sophy did not come.

The chamber of this singular Greenland recluse was in keeping with his

study. The walls were painted light blue, a blue carpet adorned the

floor, blue curtains softened the light which stole through the windows,

and blue hangings cast a pleasant hue over a snowy pillow. Although

small, there was indeed nothing wanting, not even a well-arranged

bath-room,--nothing that the most fastidious taste could covet or

desire.

"And now," said my entertainer, when we had got seated in the study,

"does this present attractions sufficient to tempt you from your narrow

bunk on shipboard? You are most heartily welcome to that blue den which

you admire so much, and which I am heartily sick of, while I can make

for myself a capital 'shake-down' here, or _vice versa_. If neither of

these will suit you, then cast your eyes out of the window, and you will

observe snow enough to build a more truly Arctic lodging."

I stepped to the window, and there, sure enough, piled up beneath it and

against the house, was a great bank of snow, which the summer's sun had

not yet dissolved; and as I saw this, and then looked beyond it over the

wretched little village, and the desolate waste of rocks on which it

stood, and then on up the craggy steeps to the great white-topped

mountains, I could but wonder what strange occurrence had sent this

luxury-loving man, with books only for companions, into such a howling

wilderness. Was it his own fancy? or was it some cruel necessity? In

truth, the surprise was so great that I found myself suddenly turning

from the scene outside to that within, not indeed without an impulse

that the whole thing might have vanished in the interval, as the palace

of Aladdin in the Arabian tale.

My host was watching me attentively, no doubt reading my thoughts, for

as I turned round he asked if I "liked the contrast." To be quite

candid, I was forced to own myself greatly wondering "that a den so well

fitted for the latitude of Paris should be stumbled upon away up here so

near the Pole."

"Hardly in keeping with 'the eternal fitness of things,' eh?"

"Precisely so."

"You think, then, because a fellow chooses to live in barbarous

Greenland, he must needs turn barbarian?"

"Not exactly that, but we are in the habit of associating the

appreciation of comfort and luxury with the desire for social

intercourse,--certainly not with banishment like this."

"Then you would be inclined to think there is something unnatural, in

short, mysterious, in my being here,--tastes, fancies, inclinations, and

all?"

"I confess it would so strike me, if I took the liberty to speculate

upon it."

"Very far from the truth, I do assure you. I am not obliged to be here

any more than you are. I came from pure choice, and am at liberty to

return when I please. In truth, I do go home with the ship to

Copenhagen, once in three or four years, and spend a winter there,

living the while in a den much like what you here see; but I am always

glad enough to get back again. The salary which I receive from the

government does not support me as I live, so you see _that_ is not a

motive. But I am perfectly independent, have capital health, lots of

adventure, hardship enough (for you must know that, if I do sleep under

a sky-blue canopy, I am esteemed one of the most hardy men in all

Greenland) to satisfy the most insatiate appetite and perverse

disposition."

"Sufficient reason, I should say, for a year or so, but hardly one would

think, for a lifetime."

"Why not?"

"Because the novelty of adventure wears off in a little time. Good

health never gives us satisfaction, for we do not give it thought until

we lose it, so that can never be an impelling motive; and as for

independence, what is that, when one can never be freed from himself? In

short, I should say one so circumstanced as you are would die of ennui;

that his mind, constantly thrown back upon itself, must, sooner or

later, result in a weariness even worse than death itself. However, I am

only curious, not critical."

"But you forget these shelves. Those books are my friends; of them I

never grow weary, they never grow weary of me; we understand each other

perfectly,--they talk to me when I would listen, they sing to me when I

would be charmed, they play for me when I would be amused. Ah! my dear

sir, this country is great as all countries are great, each in its way;

and this is a great country to read books in. Upon my word, I wonder

everybody don't fill ships with books and come up here, burn the ships,

as did the great Spaniard, and each spend the remainder of his days in

devouring his ship-load of books."

"A pretty picture of the country, truly; but let me ask how often do

books reach you?"

"Once a year,--when the Danish ship comes out to bring us bread, sugar,

coffee, coal, and such-like things, and to take home the few little

trifles, such as furs, oil, and fish, which the natives have picked up

in the interval."

"Books to the contrary, I should say the ship would not return more than

once without me, were I in your situation."

"So you would think me a sensible fellow, no doubt, if I would pick up

this box and carry it off to Paris, or may be to New York?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking; or rather it would certainly have

appeared to me more reasonable if you had built it there in the first

instance."

"Quite the contrary, I do assure you,--quite the contrary. Indeed, I can

prove to your entire satisfaction that I am a very sensible man; but

wait until I have shown you all my possessions. Will you look at my

farm?"

Farm!--well, this was, after all, exhibiting some claims of the country

to the consideration of a civilized man. A farm in Greenland was

something I was hardly prepared for.

The Doctor now rose and led the way to the rear of the house, into a

yard about eighty feet square, enclosed by a high board fence.

"This is my farm," said the Doctor.

"Where?"

"Here, look. It isn't a large one." And he pointed to a patch of earth

about thirty feet long by four wide, enclosed with boards and covered

over with glass. Under the glass were growing lettuce, radishes, and

pepper-grass, all looking as bright and fresh and green and well

contented as if they, like the man for whose benefit they grew, cared

little where they sprouted, so only they grew. The ten round red

radishes of the recent luncheon were accounted for.

"So you see," exclaimed the Doctor, "something besides a lover of books

can take root in this country. Are you not growing reconciled to it? To

be sure they are fed on pap from home; but so does the farmer who

cultivates them get his books from the same quarter."

"How is that? Do you mean to say you bring the earth they grow in from

home?"

"Even so. This is good rich Jutland earth, brought in barrels by ship

from Copenhagen."

An imported farm! One more novelty.

"Now you shall see my barn";--and we passed over to a little tightly

made building in the opposite corner, where the first thing that greeted

my ears was the bleating of goats and the grunting of pigs; and as the

door was opened, I heard the cackling and flutter of chickens. Twenty

chickens, two pigs, and three goats!

"All brought from Copenhagen with the farm";--and the Doctor began to

talk to them in a very familiar manner in the Danish tongue. They all

recognized the kindly voice of their master, and flocked round him to be

fed; and while this was being done I observed that he had provided for

the safety of his brood by securing in the centre of their house a large

stove, which was now cold, but which in the winter must give them

abundant heat. And so the Doctor, besides his round red radishes and his

nice fresh butter, had pork and milk and eggs of native growth.

The next object of interest to attract attention was the Doctor's

"smoke-house," then in full operation. This was simply a large hogshead,

with one head pierced with holes and the other head knocked out. The end

without a head was set upon a circle of stones, which supported it about

a foot above the ground, and inside of this circle a great volume of

smoke was being generated, and which came puffing out through the holes

in the head above. Inside of this simple contrivance were suspended a

number of fine salmon, the delicate flesh of which was being dried by

the heat, and penetrated by the sweet aroma of the smoke, which came

puffing through the holes. The smoke arose from a smouldering fire of

the leaves and branches of the Andromeda (_Andromeda tetrigona_), the

heather of Greenland,--a trailing plant with a pretty purple blossom,

which grows in sheltered places in great abundance. Besides moss, this

is the only vegetable production of North Greenland that will burn, and

it is sometimes used by the natives for fuel, after it is dried by the

sun, for which purpose it is torn up and spread over the rocks. The

perfume of the smoke is truly delicious, which accounts for the

excellent flavor of the salmon which the Doctor had given me for lunch.

Nothing, indeed, could exceed the delicacy of the fish thus prepared.

The inspection of the Doctor's garden, or "farm," as he facetiously

called it, occupied us during the remainder of the afternoon; and so

novel was everything to me, from the Doctor down to his vegetables and

perfumed fish, that the time passed away unnoticed, and I was quite

astonished when Sophy came to announce "dinner."

We were soon seated at the table where we had been before, and Sophy

served the dinner. Her soup was excellent, the trout were of fine

quality and well cooked, the haunch was done to a turn, the wines were

this time rightly tempered, the champagne needed not to be iced, more of

the round red radishes appeared in season, and then followed lettuce and

cheese and coffee, and then we found ourselves at another game of

billiards, and at length were settled for the evening in the Doctor's

study, one on either side of a table, on which stood all the ingredients

for an arrack punch, and a bundle of cigars.

Our conversation naturally enough ran upon the affairs of the big world

on the other side of the Arctic Circle,--upon its politics and

literature and science and art, passing lightly from one to the other,

lingering now and then over some book which we had mutually fancied. I

found my companion perfectly posted up to within a year, and inquired

how he managed so well. "Ah! you must know," answered he, "that is a

clever little illusion of mine. I'm always precisely one year behind the

rest of the world. The Danish ship brings me a file of papers for the

past twelve months, the principal reviews and periodicals, the latest

maps, such books as I have sent for the year previous, and, beside this,

the bookseller and my other home friends make me up an assortment of

what they think will please me. Now, you see, in devouring this, I

pursue an absolute method. The books, of course, I take up as the fancy

pleases me; but the reviews, periodicals, and newspapers I turn over to

Sophy, and the faithful creature places on my breakfast-table every

morning exactly what was published that day one year before. Clever,

isn't it? You see I get every day the news, and go through the drama of

the year with perhaps quite as much satisfaction as they who live the

passing days in the midst of the occurring events. Each day's paper

opens a new act in the play, and what matters it that the 'news' is one

year old? It is none the less news to me; and, besides, are not Gibbon,

Shakespeare, and Mother Goose still more ancient?"

I could but smile at this ingenious device; and the Doctor, seeing

plainly that I was deeply interested in his novel mode of life, loosened

a tongue which, in truth, needed little encouragement, and rattled away

over the rough and smooth of his Greenland experiences, with an

enjoyment on his part perhaps scarcely less than mine; for it was easy

to see that his love of wild adventure kept pace with his love of

comfort, and that he heartily enjoyed the exposures of his career and

the reputation which his hardihood had acquired for him. I perceived,

too, that he possessed a warm and vivid imagination, and that, clothing

everything he saw and everything he did with a fitting sentiment of

strength or beauty, he had blended wild nature and his own strange life

into a romantic scheme which completely filled his fancy,--apparently,

at least, leaving nothing unsupplied,--and this he enjoyed to the very

bottom of his soul.

The hours glided swiftly away as we sat sipping our punch and smoking

our cigars in that quaint study of the Doctor's, chatting of this and of

that; and a novel feature of the evening was, that, as we talked on and

on, the light grew not dim with the passing hours; for when the hand of

a Danish clock which ticked above the mantel told nine, and ten, and

eleven o'clock, it was still broad day; and then in the full blaze of

sunshine the clock rang out the "witching hour" of midnight. The sun,

low down upon the northern horizon, poured his bright rays over the

hills and sea, throwing the dark shadow of the mountains over the town,

but illuminating everything to right and left with that soft and

pleasant light which we so often see at home in the early morning of the

spring.

After the clock had struck twelve, we threw our fur cloaks over our

shoulders, and strolled out into this strange midnight. Passing through

the town, I remarked the quiet which everywhere prevailed, and how all

nature seemed to have caught the inspiration of the hour. Not a soul was

stirring abroad; the dogs, crouching in clusters, were all asleep; and

it seemed as if my little vessel lay under the shadows of the cliffs

with a consciousness that midnight is a solemn thing even in sunshine;

and never did the sun shine more brightly, or a more brilliantly

illuminated landscape give stronger evidence of day. But wearied nature

had sought repose, even though no "sable cloud with silver lining"

turned upon the world its darkening shadow,--for the hour of rest was

come. Walking on over the rough rocks, we came at length upon the sea,

and I noticed that the very birds which were wont to paddle about in

great flocks upon the waters, or fly gayly through the air, had crawled

upon the shore, and, tucking their heads beneath their wings, had gone

to sleep. Even the little flowers and blades of grass seemed to droop,

as if wearied with the long hours of the day, and, defying the restless

sun to rob them of their natural repose, had fallen to sleep with the

beasts and birds. The very sea itself seemed to have caught the

infection of the hour, dissolving in its blue depths the golden clouds

of day.

The night was far from cold, and, selecting the most tempting and sunny

spot, we sat down upon a rock close beside the sea, watching the gentle

wavelets playing on the sand, and the changing light as the sun rolled

on, glistening upon the hills and upon the icebergs, which, in countless

numbers, lay upon the watery plain before us, like great monoliths of

Parian marble, waiting but for the sculptor's chisel to stand forth in

fluted pillar and solid architrave,--floating Parthenons and Pantheons

and Temples of the Sun.

The scene was favorable to the conversation which had been broken off

when we left the study, and the Doctor came back to it of his own

accord. I was much absorbed with the grandeur of this midnight scene,

and had remained for some time quiet. My companion, breaking in

abruptly, said: "I think I promised to prove to you that I am the most

sensible fellow alive. Now let me tell you, to begin with, that I would

not exchange this view for any other I have ever seen. It is one of

which I am very fond; for at this hour the repose which you here see is

frequently repeated; and, to compare big things with little, it might be

likened to some huge lion sleeping over his prey, which he is not yet

prepared to eat, quick to catch the first sound of movement. There is

something truly terrible in this untamed nature. Man's struggle here

gives him something to rejoice in; and I would not barter it for the

effeminate life to which I should be destined at home, on any account

whatever. Perhaps, if I should there be compelled absolutely to earn my

daily bread, the case might be different, for enforced occupation is

quite too sober an affair to give time for much reflection; but I should

most likely lead an idle sort of life there, and should simply live

without--so far as I can see--a motive. I should encounter few perils,

have few sorrows, fewer disappointments, and want for nothing,--nothing,

indeed, but temptation to exert myself, or prove my own manhood in its

strength, or enjoy the luxury of risking the precious breath of life,

which is so little worth, and which is so easily knocked away. You have

seen one side of me,--how I live. Well, I enjoy life and make the most

of it, after my own fashion, as everybody should do. If it is a

luxurious fashion, as you are pleased to say, it but gives me a keener

relish for the opposite; and that it does not unfit me for encountering

the hardships of the field is proved by the reputation for endurance

which I have among the natives. If I sleep between well-aired sheets one

night, I can coil myself up among my dogs on the ice-fields the next,

and sleep there as well,--I care not if it's as cold as the frigid

circle of Lucifer. If I have a _penchant_ for Burgundy, and like to

drink it out of French glass, I can drink train-oil out of a tin cup

when I am cold and hungry, and never murmur. I like well-fitting

clothes, but rough furs suit me just as well in season. Why, it would

make you laugh fit to kill yourself to see these Danish workingmen,--the

laborers, you know, with whom I sometimes travel,--fellows that can't

read nor write, poor mechanics, rough sailors, 'hewers of wood and

drawers of water' generally for this poor settlement,--who never tasted

Burgundy in all their lives, and would rather have one keg of corn

brandy than a tun of it, and who never took their frugal fare off

anything more tempting than tin. Do you think that these people can,

under any circumstances, be induced to strengthen their limbs with

eating blubber or drinking train-oil? Not a bit of it. Do you think they

can be induced to sleep outside of their own not overly elegant

lodgings, without groaning, and everlastingly desiring to get back

again? Not they."

I could not help asking the Doctor what impelled him to exposure, of

which he had grown so fond.

"The motives are various. I have done a good deal of exploring, have

reached many of the glaciers, have dabbled in natural history,

meteorology, magnetism, &c., &c., besides making many photographs and

geographical surveys, and have sent home to various societies and

museums many curiosities and much information. My name, as you know,

stands well enough among the dons of science. But apart from this, my

duties require me to travel about at all times and all seasons. You must

know that everybody in this country lives upon the shore, and therefore

the settlements are reached only by the sea. In the winter I travel over

the ice with my dog sledge, and in the summer, when the ice has broken

up, I go from place to place in that little five-ton yacht which you saw

lying in the harbor. Sometimes I go from choice, stopping at the

villages, and exhibiting my professional abilities upon Dane or native,

as the case may be. Often I am sent for. The Greenlanders don't like to

die any better than other people, and they all have an impression that,

if Dr. Molke only looks upon them, they are safe. So if an old woman but

gets the belly-ache, away goes her son or husband for the Doctor.

Perhaps it is in summer, and the distance may be a hundred miles or

more. No matter, he gets into his kayak and paddles through all sorts of

weather, and, at the rate of seven knots an hour, comes for me. Glad of

the excuse for a change, to say nothing (and the less perhaps any of us

say on that score the better) of the claims of humanity, I send Sophy

after Adam (a converted native), and directly along comes Adam with his

son Carl; and my medicine and instrument cases, my gun and rifle, and a

plentiful supply of ammunition, a tent, and some fur bedding, a lamp,

and other camp fixtures, and a little simple food, are put into the

boat, and off we go. Perhaps a gale springs up, and we are forced to

make a harbor in some little island; or perhaps it falls calm, and we

crawl into one, under oars. It is sure to be alive with ducks and geese

and snipe. The shooting is superb. Happen what may, come storm or calm

or fine weather, though often wet and cold, and frequently in danger,

yet I have a grand time of it. I may be back in a day, two days, a week,

or I may be gone a month. Then the winter comes back, and I have again

to answer another summons. The same traps are put on the sledge, to

which are harnessed the twelve finest dogs in the town,--my own

team,--and, at the wildest pace with which this wolfish herd can rush

along, Adam guides me to my destination. Perhaps it may be early in the

winter, and the ice is in places thin. We very likely break through, and

get wet, and are in danger of freezing. Perhaps we reach a crack which

we cannot pass, and have to hold on, possibly in a hut of snow, waiting

for the frost to build a bridge for us to pass. This is the wildest and

most dangerous of my experiences,--this dog-sledging it from place to

place in the early or late winter,--and I have had many wild adventures.

In the middle of the winter, when it is dark pretty much all the time,

and the snow is hard and crisp, and the clear, cold bracing air makes

the blood run freely through the veins, is the best time for travelling;

for then we may start a bear, and be pretty sure of catching him before

he gets on rotten ice or across a crack defying us in the pursuit."

By this time the sun had begun to climb above the hills, and the shadow

of the cliffs had passed over the town, so we stole back again to the

Doctor's house. The Doctor insisted that I should not sleep on board, so

we returned to the study, where I was soon wrapt in a sound sleep on the

Doctor's "shake-down," from which I never once awoke until there came a

loud tapping on the door.

"Who's there?"

"Sophy."

"What's Sophy want?"

"Breakfast."

Breakfast indeed! It was hard to believe that I was to come back to the

experiences of life under such a summons, for I had dreamed that I was

on a visit to the Man in the Moon, and was enjoying a genuine surprise

at finding him happy and well contented, seated in the centre of an

extinct volcano, with all the riches of the great satellite gathered

round him, hanging in tempting clusters on its horns.

But my eyes at length were opened wide enough to see, near by, the very

terrestrial ruins of our evening's pastime; and if these had left any

doubts upon my mind as to the reality of my present situation, those

doubts would certainly have been removed by the cheerful voice of the

Doctor; for a loud "Good morning!" came from out the painted chamber,

and from beneath the sky-blue canopy a graceful query of the night.

"What of the night, sleeper?--what of the night?" Then I was quickly out

upon the floor, and dressed, and in the cosey little room where the

fruits and flowers were hanging on the wall, and where the bright face

of Sophy, and aromatic coffee, and a charming little breakfast, were

awaiting us with a kindly welcome.

Breakfast over, I left the Doctor to expend his skill and knowledge on a

patient who had sent to claim his services, and strolled out over the

rocks behind the town,--wondering all the while at the strangeness of

the human fancy and its power on the will; and I reflected, too, and

remembered that, in the explanation of the satisfying character of the

life which my new-found friend was leading, there had been no clew given

to the first great motive which had destined such a finely organized and

altogether splendid man to such a career. Was he exempt from the lot of

other mortals, or must he too own, like all the rest of us, when we own

the truth, that every firm step we ever made in those days of our early

lives when steps were critical, was made to please a woman, to win her

slightest praise, to heal a wound or drown a sorrow of her making? I

would have given much to have the question answered, for then a thing

now mysterious would have become as plain as day; but there was no one

there to heed the question, or to give the answer, and I could only

wander on over the rough rocks, wondering more and more.

A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

One morning last April, as I was passing through Boston Common, which

lies pleasantly between my residence and my office, I met a gentleman

lounging along The Mall. I am generally preoccupied when walking, and

often thrid my way through crowded streets without distinctly observing

a single soul. But this man's face forced itself upon me, and a very

singular face it was. His eyes were faded, and his hair, which he wore

long, was flecked with gray. His hair and eyes, if I may say so, were

seventy years old, the rest of him not thirty. The youthfulness of his

figure, the elasticity of his gait, and the venerable appearance of his

head, were incongruities that drew more than one pair of curious eyes

towards him. He was evidently an American,--the New England cut of

countenance is unmistakable,--evidently a man who had seen something of

the world; but strangely old and young.

Before reaching the Park Street gate, I had taken up the thread of

thought which he had unconsciously broken; yet throughout the day this

old young man, with his unwrinkled brow and silvered locks, glided in

like a phantom between me and my duties.

The next morning I again encountered him on The Mall. He was resting

lazily on the green rails, watching two little sloops in distress, which

two ragged ship-owners had consigned to the mimic perils of the Pond.

The vessels lay becalmed in the middle of the ocean, displaying a

tantalizing lack of sympathy with the frantic helplessness of the owners

on shore. As the gentleman observed their dilemma, a light came into his

faded eyes, then died out, leaving them drearier than before. I wondered

if he, too, in his time, had sent out ships that drifted and drifted and

never came to port; and if these poor toys were to him types of his own

losses.

"I would like to know that man's story," I said, half aloud, halting in

one of those winding paths which branch off from the quietness of the

Pond, and end in the rush and tumult of Tremont Street.

"Would you?" replied a voice at my side. I turned and faced Mr. H----, a

neighbor of mine, who laughed heartily at finding me talking to myself.

"Well," he added, reflectingly, "I can tell you this man's story; and if

you will match the narrative with anything as curious, I shall be glad

to hear it."

"You know him then?"

"Yes and no. I happened to be in Paris when he was buried."

"Buried!"

"Well, strictly speaking, not buried; but something quite like it. If

you've a spare half-hour," continued my interlocutor, "we'll sit on this

bench, and I will tell you all I know of an affair that made some noise

in Paris a couple of years ago. The gentleman himself, standing yonder,

will serve as a sort of frontispiece to the romance,--a full-page

illustration, as it were."

The following pages contain the story that Mr. H---- related to me.

While he was telling it, a gentle wind arose; the miniature sloops

drifted feebly about the ocean; the wretched owners flew from point to

point, as the deceptive breeze promised to waft the barks to either

shore; the early robins trilled now and then from the newly fringed

elms; and the old young man leaned on the rail in the sunshine, wearily,

little dreaming that two gossips were discussing his affairs within

twenty yards of him.

* * * * *

Three people were sitting in a chamber whose one large window overlooked

the Place Vendôme. M. Dorine, with his back half turned on the other two

occupants of the apartment, was reading the _Moniteur_, pausing from

time to time to wipe his glasses, and taking scrupulous pains not to

glance towards the lounge at his right, on which were seated

Mademoiselle Dorine and a young American gentleman, whose handsome face

rather frankly told his position in the family. There was not a happier

man in Paris that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Life had become so

delicious to him that he shrunk from looking beyond to-day. What could

the future add to his full heart? what might it not take away? In

certain natures the deepest joy has always something of melancholy in

it, a presentiment, a fleeting sadness, a feeling without a name.

Wentworth was conscious of this subtile shadow, that night, when he rose

from the lounge, and thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his lip for a

moment before parting. A careless observer would not have thought him,

as he was, the happiest man in Paris.