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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-05 03:24:08 -0800 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47481de --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50597 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50597) diff --git a/old/50597-0.txt b/old/50597-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 50571c4..0000000 --- a/old/50597-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9012 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Flute and Violin and other Kentucky Tales -and Romances, by James Lane Allen - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Flute and Violin and other Kentucky Tales and Romances - -Author: James Lane Allen - -Release Date: December 2, 2015 [EBook #50597] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLUTE, VIOLIN, OTHER KENTUCKY TALES *** - - - - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Les Galloway and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -[Illustration: THE MAGIC FLUTE. [_See p. 8._ ] - - - - - Flute and Violin - - AND OTHER KENTUCKY TALES - AND ROMANCES. BY JAMES - LANE ALLEN. ILLUSTRATED - - [Illustration: Drawing of girl] - - NEW YORK - HARPER & BROTHERS - MDCCCXCVI. - - - Copyright, 1891, by HARPER & BROTHERS. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - To her - - FROM WHOSE FRAIL BODY HE DREW LIFE IN THE - BEGINNING, FROM WHOSE STRONG SPIRIT HE - WILL DRAW LIFE UNTIL THE CLOSE, THESE - TALES, WITH ALL OTHERS HAPLY HERE- - AFTER TO BE WRITTEN, ARE DEDI- - CATED AS A PERISHABLE MONU- - MENT OF INEFFABLE - REMEMBRANCE - - - - - PREFACE. - - -The opening tale of this collection is taken from HARPER'S MONTHLY; -the others, from the _Century Magazine_. By leave of these periodicals -they are now published, and of the kindness thus shown the author makes -grateful acknowledgment. - -While the tales and sketches have been appearing, the authorship of -them has now and then been charged to Mr. James Lane Allen, of Chicago, -Illinois--pardonably to his discomfiture. - -A sense of fitness forbade that the author should send along with each, -as it came out, a claim that it was not another's; but he now gladly -asks that the responsibility of all his work be placed where it solely -belongs. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - -[Illustration: Woman standing] - - PAGE - - FLUTE AND VIOLIN 3 - - KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY 65 - - TWO GENTLEMEN OF KENTUCKY 97 - - THE WHITE COWL 135 - - SISTER DOLOROSA 175 - - POSTHUMOUS FAME 281 - - -[Illustration: Man reading by candle light] - - - - -[Illustration: People at dinner] - - - FLUTE AND VIOLIN - - - THE PARSON'S MAGIC FLUTE. - -On one of the dim walls of Christ Church, in Lexington, Kentucky, there -hangs, framed in thin black wood, an old rectangular slab of marble. A -legend sets forth that the tablet is in memory of the Reverend James -Moore, first minister of Christ Church and President of Transylvania -University, who departed this life in the year 1814, at the age of -forty-nine. Just beneath runs the record that he was learned, liberal, -amiable, and pious. - -Save this concise but not unsatisfactory summary, little is now known -touching the reverend gentleman. A search through other sources of -information does, indeed, result in reclaiming certain facts. Thus, -it appears that he was a Virginian, and that he came to Lexington in -the year 1792--when Kentucky ceased to be a county of Virginia, and -became a State. At first he was a candidate for the ministry of the -Presbyterian Church; but the Transylvania Presbytery having reproved -him for the liberality of his sermons, James kicked against such rigor -in his brethren, and turned for refuge to the bosom of the Episcopal -Communion. But this body did not offer much of a bosom to take refuge -in. - -Virginia Episcopalians there were in and around the little wooden -town; but so rampant was the spirit of the French Revolution and the -influence of French infidelity that a celebrated local historian, who -knew thoroughly the society of the place, though writing of it long -afterwards, declared that about the last thing it would have been -thought possible to establish there was an Episcopal church. - -"Not so," thought James. He beat the canebrakes and scoured the buffalo -trails for his Virginia Episcopalians, huddled them into a dilapidated -little frame house on the site of the present building, and there -fired so deadly a volley of sermons at the sinners free of charge that -they all became living Christians. Indeed, he fired so long and so -well that, several years later--under favor of Heaven and through the -success of a lottery with a one-thousand-dollar prize and nine hundred -and seventy-four blanks--there was built and furnished a small brick -church, over which he was regularly called to officiate twice a month, -at a salary of two hundred dollars a year. - -Here authentic history ends, except for the additional fact that in the -university he sat in the chair of logic, metaphysics, moral philosophy, -and belles-lettres--a large chair to sit in with ill-matched legs and -most uncertain bottom. Another authority is careful to state that he -had a singularly sweet breath and beautiful manners. Thus it has -been well with the parson as respects his posthumous fame; for how many -of our fellow-creatures are learned without being amiable, amiable -without being pious, and pious without having beautiful manners! - -[Illustration: "HE HAD BEAUTIFUL MANNERS."] - -And yet the best that may be related of him is not told in the books; -and it is only when we have allowed the dust to settle once more upon -the histories, and have peered deep into the mists of oral tradition, -that the parson is discovered standing there in spirit and the flesh, -but muffled and ghost-like, as a figure seen through a dense fog. - -A tall, thinnish man, with silky pale-brown hair, worn long and put -back behind his ears, the high tops of which bent forward a little -under the weight, and thus took on the most remarkable air of paying -incessant attention to everybody and everything; set far out in front -of these ears, as though it did not wish to be disturbed by what was -heard, a white, wind-splitting face, calm, beardless, and seeming never -to have been cold, or to have dropped the kindly dew of perspiration; -under the serene peak of this forehead a pair of large gray eyes, -patient and dreamy, being habitually turned inward upon a mind toiling -with hard abstractions; having within him a conscience burning always -like a planet; a bachelor--being a logician; therefore sweet-tempered, -never having sipped the sour cup of experience; gazing covertly at -womankind from behind the delicate veil of unfamiliarity that lends -enchantment; being a bachelor and a bookworm, therefore already old at -forty, and a little run down in his toilets, a little frayed out at the -elbows and the knees, a little seamy along the back, a little deficient -at the heels; in pocket poor always, and always the poorer because of -a spendthrift habit in the matter of secret chanties; kneeling down -by his small hard bed every morning and praying that during the day -his logical faculty might discharge its function morally, and that his -moral faculty might discharge its function logically, and that over all -the operations of all his other faculties he might find heavenly grace -to exercise both a logical and a moral control; at night kneeling down -again to ask forgiveness that, despite his prayer of the morning, one -or more of these same faculties--he knew and called them all familiarly -by name, being a metaphysician--had gone wrong in a manner the most -abnormal, shameless, and unforeseen; thus, on the whole, a man shy -and dry; gentle, lovable; timid, resolute; forgetful, remorseful; -eccentric, impulsive, thinking too well of every human creature but -himself; an illogical logician, an erring moralist, a wool-gathered -philosopher, but, humanly speaking, almost a perfect man. - -But the magic flute? Ah, yes! The magic flute! - -Well, the parson had a flute--a little one--and the older he grew, and -the more patient and dreamy his gray eyes, always the more and more -devotedly he blew this little friend. How the fond soul must have loved -it! They say that during his last days as he lay propped high on white -pillows, once, in a moment of wandering consciousness, he stretched -forth his hand and in fancy lifting it from the white counterpane, -carried it gently to his lips. Then, as his long, delicate fingers -traced out the spirit ditties of no tone and his mouth pursed itself in -the fashion of one who is softly blowing, his whole face was overspread -with a halo of ecstatic peace. - -And yet, for all the love he bore it, the parson was never known to -blow his flute between the hours of sunrise and sunset--that is, never -but once. Alas, that memorable day! But when the night fell and he came -home--home to the two-story log-house of the widow Spurlock; when the -widow had given him his supper of coffee sweetened with brown sugar, -hot johnny-cake, with perhaps a cold joint of venison and cabbage -pickle; when he had taken from the supper table, by her permission, the -solitary tallow dip in its little brass candlestick, and climbed the -rude steep stairs to his room above; when he had pulled the leathern -string that lifted the latch, entered, shut the door behind him on -the world, placed the candle on a little deal table covered with -text-books and sermons, and seated himself beside it in a rush-bottomed -chair--then--He began to play? No; then there was dead silence. - -For about half an hour this silence continued. The widow Spurlock used -to say that the parson was giving his supper time to settle; but, alas! -it must have settled almost immediately, so heavy was the johnny-cake. -Howbeit, at the close of such an interval, any one standing at the -foot of the steps below, or listening beneath the window on the street -outside, would have heard the silence broken. - -At first the parson blew low, peculiar notes, such as a kind and -faithful shepherd might blow at nightfall as an invitation for his -scattered wandering sheep to gather home about him. Perhaps it was a -way he had of calling in the disordered flock of his faculties--some -weary, some wounded, some torn by thorns, some with their fleeces, -which had been washed white in the morning prayer, now bearing many -a stain. But when they had all answered, as it were, to this musical -roll-call, and had taken their due places within the fold of his -brain, obedient, attentive, however weary, however suffering, then the -flute was laid aside, and once more there fell upon the room intense -stillness; the poor student had entered upon his long nightly labors. - -Hours passed. Not a sound was to be heard but the rustle of book -leaves, now rapidly, now slowly turned, or the stewing of sap in the -end of a log on the hearth, or the faint drumming of fingers on the -table--those long fingers, the tips of which seemed not so full of -particles of blood as of notes of music, circulating impatiently back -and forth from his heart. At length, as midnight drew near, and the -candle began to sputter in the socket, the parson closed the last book -with a decisive snap, drew a deep breath, buried his face in his hands -for a moment, as if asking a silent blessing on the day's work, and -then, reaching for his flute, squared himself before the dying embers, -and began in truth to play. This was the one brief, pure pleasure he -allowed himself. - -It was not a musical roll-call that he now blew, but a dismissal -for the night. One might say that he was playing the cradle song of -his mind. And what a cradle song it was! A succession of undertone, -silver-clear, simple melodies; apparently one for each faculty, as -though he was having something kind to say to them all; thanking some -for the manner in which they had served him during the day, the music -here being brave and spirited; sympathizing with others that had been -unjustly or too rudely put upon, the music here being plaintive and -soothing; and finally granting his pardon to any such as had not used -him quite fairly, the music here having a searching, troubled quality, -though ending in the faintest breath of love and peace. - -It was not known whence the parson had these melodies; but come whence -they might, they were airs of heavenly sweetness, and as he played -them, one by one his faculties seemed to fall asleep like quieted -children. His long, out-stretched legs relaxed their tension, his feet -fell over sidewise on the hearth-stone, his eyes closed, his head -sank towards his shoulder. Still, he managed to hold on to his flute, -faintly puffing a few notes at greater intervals, until at last, by the -dropping of the flute from his hands or the sudden rolling of his big -head backward, he would awaken with a violent jerk. The next minute he -would be asleep in bed, with one ear out on guard, listening for the -first sound that should awake him in the morning. - -Such having been the parson's fixed habit as long as any one had known -him, it is hard to believe that five years before his death he abruptly -ceased to play his flute and never touched it again. But from this -point the narrative becomes so mysterious that it were better to have -the testimony of witnesses. - - - II. - -Every bachelor in this world is secretly watched by some woman. The -parson was watched by several, but most closely by two. One of these -was the widow Spurlock, a personage of savory countenance and wholesome -figure--who was accused by the widow Babcock, living at the other end -of the town, of having robust intentions towards her lodger. This piece -of slander had no connection with the fact that she had used the point -of her carving knife to enlarge in the door of his room the hole -through which the latch-string passed, in order that she might increase -the ventilation. The aperture for ventilation thus formed was exactly -the size of one of her innocent black eyes. - -[Illustration: Head of woman] - -The other woman was an infirm, ill-favored beldam by the name of Arsena -Furnace, who lived alone just across the street, and whose bedroom was -on the second floor, on a level with the parson's. Being on terms of -great intimacy with the widow Spurlock, she persuaded the latter that -the parson's room was poorly lighted for one who used his eyes so much, -and that the window-curtain of red calico should be taken down. On the -same principle of requiring less sun because having less use for her -eyes, she hung before her own window a faded curtain, transparent only -from within. Thus these two devoted, conscientious souls conspired to -provide the parson unawares with a sufficiency of air and light. - -On Friday night, then, of August 31, 1809--for this was the exact -date--the parson played his flute as usual, because the two women -were sitting together below and distinctly heard him. It was unusual -for them to be up at such an hour, but on that day the drawing of the -lottery had come off, and they had held tickets, and were discussing -their disappointment in having drawn blanks. Towards midnight the -exquisite notes of the flute floated down to them from the parson's -room. - -"I suppose he'll keep on playing those same old tunes as long as there -is a thimbleful of wind in him: _I_ wish he'd learn some new ones," -said the hag, taking her cold pipe from her cold lips, and turning her -eyes towards her companion with a look of some impatience. - -"He might be better employed at such an hour than playing on the -flute," replied the widow, sighing audibly and smoothing a crease out -of her apron. - -As by-and-by the notes of the flute became intermittent, showing that -the parson was beginning to fall asleep, Arsena said good-night, and -crossing the street to her house, mounted to the front window. Yes, -there he was; the long legs stretched out towards the hearth, head -sunk sidewise on his shoulder, flute still at his lips, the sputtering -candle throwing its shadowy light over his white weary face, now -wearing a smile. Without doubt he played his flute that night as usual; -and Arsena, tired of the sight, turned away and went to bed. - -A few minutes later the widow Spurlock placed an eye at the aperture of -ventilation, wishing to see whether the logs on the fire were in danger -of rolling out and setting fire to the parson's bed; but suddenly -remembering that it was August, and that there was no fire, she glanced -around to see whether his candle needed snuffing. Happening, however, -to discover the parson in the act of shedding his coat, she withdrew -her eye, and hastened precipitately down-stairs, but sighing so loud -that he surely must have heard her had not his faculty of external -perception been already fast asleep. - -At about three o'clock on the afternoon of the next day, as Arsena -was sweeping the floor of her kitchen, there reached her ears a sound -which caused her to listen for a moment, broom in air. It was the -parson playing--playing at three o'clock in the afternoon!-- and -playing--she strained her ears again and again to make sure--playing -a Virginia reel. Still, not believing her ears, she hastened aloft to -the front window and looked across the street. At the same instant the -widow Spurlock, in a state of equal excitement, hurried to the front -door of her house, and threw a quick glance up at Arsena's window. The -hag thrust a skinny hand through a slit in the curtain and beckoned -energetically, and a moment later the two women stood with their heads -close together watching the strange performance. - -Some mysterious change had come over the parson and over the spirit of -his musical faculty. He sat upright in his chair, looking ten years -younger, his whole figure animated, his foot beating time so audibly -that it could be heard across the street, a vivid bloom on his lifeless -cheeks, his head rocking to and fro like a ship in a storm, and his -usually dreamy, patient gray eyes now rolled up towards the ceiling -in sentimental perturbation. And how he played that Virginia reel! -Not once, but over and over, and faster and faster, until the notes -seemed to get into the particles of his blood and set them to dancing. -And when he had finished that, he snatched his handkerchief from his -pocket, dashed it across his lips, blew his nose with a resounding -snort, and settling his figure into a more determined attitude, began -another. And the way he went at that! And when he finished that, the -way he went at another! Two negro boys, passing along the street with -a spinning-wheel, put it down and paused to listen; then, catching -the infection of the music, they began to dance. And then the widow -Spurlock, catching the infection also, began to dance, and bouncing -into the middle of the room, there actually did dance until her -tucking-comb rolled out, and--ahem!--one of her stockings slipped -down. Then the parson struck up the "Fisher's Hornpipe," and the widow, -still in sympathy, against her will, sang the words: - - "Did you ever see the Devil - With his wood and iron shovel, - A-hoeing up coal - For to burn your soul?" - -"He's bewitched," said old Arsena, trembling and sick with terror. - -"By _whom?_" cried the widow Spurlock, indignantly, laying a heavy hand -on Arsena's shoulder. - -"By his flute," replied Arsena, more fearfully. - -At length the parson, as if in for it, and possessed to go all -lengths, jumped from his chair, laid the flute on the table, and -disappeared in a hidden corner of the room. Here he kept closely locked -a large brass-nailed hair trunk, over which hung a looking-glass. -For ten minutes the two women waited for him to reappear, and -then he did reappear, not in the same clothes, but wearing the -ball dress of a Virginia gentleman of an older time, perhaps his -grandfather's--knee-breeches, silk stockings, silver buckles, low -shoes, laces at his wrists, laces at his throat and down his bosom. And -to make the dress complete he had actually tied a blue ribbon around -his long silky hair. Stepping airily and gallantly to the table, he -seized the flute, and with a little wave of it through the air he began -to play, and to tread the mazes of the minuet, about the room, this way -and that, winding and bowing, turning and gliding, but all the time -fingering and blowing for dear life. - -"Who would have thought it was in him?" said Arsena, her fear changed -to admiration. - -"_I_ would!" said the widow. - -While he was in the midst of this performance the two women had their -attention withdrawn from him in a rather singular way. A poor lad -hobbling on a crutch made his appearance in the street below, and -rapidly but timidly swung himself along to the widow Spurlock's door. -There he paused a moment, as if overcome by mortification, but finally -knocked. His summons not being answered, he presently knocked more -loudly. - -"Hist!" said the widow to him, in a half-tone, opening a narrow slit in -the curtain. "What do you want, David?" - -The boy wheeled and looked up, his face at once crimson with shame. "I -want to see the parson," he said, in a voice scarcely audible. - -"The parson's not at home," replied the widow, sharply. "He's out; -studying up a sermon." And she closed the curtain. - -An expression of despair came into the boy's face, and for a moment in -physical weakness he sat down on the door-step. He heard the notes of -the flute in the room above; he knew that the parson _was_ at home; but -presently he got up and moved away. - -The women did not glance after his retreating figure, being reabsorbed -by the movements of the parson. Whence had he that air of grace and -high-born courtesy? that vivacity of youth? - -"He must be in love," said Arsena. "He must be in love with the widow -Babcock." - -"He's no more in love with her than _I_ am," replied her companion, -with a toss of her head. - -[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO PLAY."] - -A few moments later the parson, whose motions had been gradually -growing less animated, ceased dancing, and disappeared once more -in the corner of the room, soon emerging therefrom dressed in his -own clothes, but still wearing on his hair the blue ribbon, which he -had forgotten to untie. Seating himself in his chair by the table, -he thrust his hands into his pockets, and with his eyes on the floor -seemed to pass into a trance of rather demure and dissatisfying -reflections. - -When he came down to supper that night he still wore his hair in the -forgotten queue, and it may have been this that gave him such an air of -lamb-like meekness. The widow durst ask him no questions, for there was -that in him which held familiarity at a distance; but although he ate -with unusual heartiness, perhaps on account of such unusual exercise, -he did not lift his eyes from his plate, and thanked her for all her -civilities with a gratitude that was singularly plaintive. - -That night he did not play his flute. The next day being Sunday, and -the new church not yet being opened, he kept his room. Early in the -afternoon a messenger handed to the widow a note for him, which, being -sealed, she promptly delivered. On reading it he uttered a quick, -smothered cry of grief and alarm, seized his hat, and hurried from -the house. The afternoon passed and he did not return. Darkness fell, -supper hour came and went, the widow put a candle in his room, and then -went across to commune with Arsena on these unusual proceedings. - -Not long afterwards they saw him enter his room carrying under his arm -a violin case. This he deposited on the table, and sitting down beside -it, lifted out a boy's violin. - -"A _boy's_ violin!" muttered Arsena. - -"A _boy's_ violin!" muttered the widow; and the two women looked -significantly into each other's eyes. - -"Humph!" - -"Humph!" - -By-and-by the parson replaced the violin in the box and sat motionless -beside it, one of his arms hanging listlessly at his side, the other -lying on the table. The candle shone full in his face, and a storm of -emotions passed over it. At length they saw him take up the violin -again, go to the opposite wall of the room, mount a chair, knot the -loose strings together, and hang the violin on a nail above his meagre -shelf of books. Upon it he hung the bow. Then they saw him drive a -nail in the wall close to the other, take his flute from the table, -tie around it a piece of blue ribbon he had picked up off the floor, -and hang it also on the wall. After this he went back to the table, -threw himself in his chair, buried his head in his arms, and remained -motionless until the candle burned out. - -"What's the meaning of all this?" said one of the two women, as they -separated below. - -"I'll find out if it's the last act of my life," said the other. - -But find out she never did. For question the parson directly she dared -not; and neither to her nor any one else did he ever vouchsafe an -explanation. Whenever, in the thousand ways a woman can, she would hint -her desire to fathom the mystery, he would baffle her by assuming an -air of complete unconsciousness, or repel her by a look of warning so -cold that she hurriedly changed the subject. - -As time passed on it became evident that some grave occurrence indeed -had befallen him. Thenceforth, and during the five remaining years of -his life, he was never quite the same. For months his faculties, long -used to being soothed at midnight by the music of the flute, were like -children put to bed hungry and refused to be quieted, so that sleep -came to him only after hours of waiting and tossing, and his health -suffered in consequence. And then in all things he lived like one who -was watching himself closely as a person not to be trusted. - -[Illustration: Man standing on chair] - -Certainly he was a sadder man. Often the two women would see him lift -his eyes from his books at night, and turn them long and wistfully -towards the wall of the room where, gathering cobwebs and dust, hung -the flute and the violin. - -If any one should feel interested in having this whole mystery cleared -up, he may read the following tale of a boy's violin. - - - III. - - A BOY'S VIOLIN. - -On Friday, the 31st of August, 1809--that being the day of the -drawing of the lottery for finishing and furnishing the new Episcopal -church--at about ten o'clock in the morning, there might have been -seen hobbling slowly along the streets, in the direction of the public -square, a little lad by the name of David. He was idle and lonesome, -not wholly through his fault. If there had been white bootblacks in -those days, he might now have been busy around a tavern door polishing -the noble toes of some old Revolutionary soldier; or if there had -been newsboys, he might have been selling the _Gazette_ or the -_Reporter_--the two papers which the town afforded at that time. But -there were enough negro slaves to polish all the boots in the town for -nothing when the boots got polished at all, as was often not the case; -and if people wanted to buy a newspaper, they went to the office of the -editor and publisher, laid the silver down on the counter, and received -a copy from the hands of that great man himself. - -The lad was not even out on a joyous summer vacation, for as yet there -was not a public school in the town, and his mother was too poor to -send him to a private one, teaching him as best she could at home. This -home was one of the rudest of the log-cabins of the town, built by his -father, who had been killed a few years before in a tavern brawl. His -mother earned a scant livelihood, sometimes by taking in coarse sewing -for the hands of the hemp factory, sometimes by her loom, on which with -rare skill she wove the finest fabrics of the time. - -As he hobbled on towards the public square, he came to an elm-tree -which cast a thick cooling shade on the sidewalk, and sitting down, he -laid his rickety crutch beside him, and drew out of the pocket of his -home-made tow breeches a tangled mass of articles--pieces of violin -strings, all of which had plainly seen service under the bow at many a -dance; three old screws, belonging in their times to different violin -heads; two lumps of resin, one a rather large lump of dark color and -common quality, the other a small lump of transparent amber wrapped -sacredly to itself in a little brown paper bag labelled "Cucumber -Seed;" a pair of epaulets, the brass fringes of which were tarnished -and torn; and further miscellany. - -These treasures he laid out one by one, first brushing the dirt off -the sidewalk with the palm of one dirty hand, and then putting his -mouth close down to blow away any loose particles that might remain to -soil them; and when they were all displayed, he propped himself on one -elbow, and stretched his figure caressingly beside them. - -A pretty picture the lad made as he lay there dreaming over his earthly -possessions--a pretty picture in the shade of the great elm, that -sultry morning of August, three-quarters of a century ago! The presence -of the crutch showed there was something sad about it; and so there -was; for if you had glanced at the little bare brown foot, set toes -upward on the curb-stone, you would have discovered that the fellow to -it was missing--cut off about two inches above the ankle. And if this -had caused you to throw a look of sympathy at his face, something yet -sadder must long have held your attention. Set jauntily on the back of -his head was a weather-beaten dark blue cloth cap, the patent-leather -frontlet of which was gone; and beneath the ragged edge of this there -fell down over his forehead and temples and ears a tangled mass of soft -yellow hair, slightly curling. His eyes were large, and of a blue to -match the depths of the calm sky above the tree-tops; the long lashes -which curtained them were brown; his lips were red, his nose delicate -and fine, and his cheeks tanned to the color of ripe peaches. It was -a singularly winning face, intelligent, frank, not describable. On it -now rested a smile, half joyous, half sad, as though his mind was full -of bright hopes, the realization of which was far away. From his neck -fell the wide collar of a white cotton shirt, clean but frayed at the -elbows, and open and buttonless down his bosom. Over this he wore an -old-fashioned satin waistcoat of a man, also frayed and buttonless. -His dress was completed by a pair of baggy tow breeches, held up by a -single tow suspender fastened to big brown horn buttons. - -After a while he sat up, letting his foot hang down over the -curb-stone, and uncoiling the longest of the treble strings, he put one -end between his shining teeth, and stretched it tight by holding the -other end off between his thumb and forefinger. Then, waving in the air -in his other hand an imaginary bow, with his head resting a little on -one side, his eyelids drooping, his mind in a state of dreamy delight, -the little musician began to play--began to play the violin that he had -long been working for, and hoped would some day become his own. - -It was nothing to him now that his whole performance consisted of one -broken string. It was nothing to him, as his body rocked gently to -and fro, that he could not hear the music which ravished his soul. So -real was that music to him that at intervals, with a little frown of -vexation as though things were not going perfectly, he would stop, take -up the small lump of costly resin, and pretend to rub it vigorously on -the hair of the fancied bow. Then he would awake that delicious music -again, playing more ecstatically, more passionately than before. - -At that moment there appeared in the street, about a hundred yards off, -the Reverend James Moore, who was also moving in the direction of the -public square, his face more cool and white than usual, although the -morning was never more sultry. - -He had arisen with an all but overwhelming sense of the importance -of that day. Fifteen years are an immense period in a brief human -life, especially fifteen years of spiritual toil, hardships, and -discouragements, rebuffs, weaknesses, and burdens, and for fifteen such -years he had spent himself for his Episcopalians, some of whom read too -freely Tom Paine and Rousseau, some loved too well the taverns of the -town, some wrangled too fiercely over their land suits. What wonder if -this day, which, despite all drawbacks, was to witness the raising of -money for equipping the first brick church, was a proud and happy one -to his meek but victorious spirit! What wonder if, as he had gotten -out of bed that morning, he had prayed with unusual fervor that for -this day in especial his faculties, from the least to the greatest, -and from the weakest to the strongest, might discharge their functions -perfectly, and that the drawing of the lottery might come off decently -and in good order; and that--yes, this too was in the parson's -prayer--that if it were the will of Heaven and just to the other -holders of tickets, the right one of the vestry-men might draw the -thousand-dollar prize; for he felt very sure that otherwise there would -be little peace in the church for many a day to come, and that for him -personally the path-way of life would be more slippery and thorny. - -So that now as he hurried down the street he was happy; but he was -anxious; and being excited for both reasons, the way was already -prepared for him to lose that many-handed self-control which he had -prayed so hard to retain. - -He passed within the shade of the great elm, and then suddenly came to -a full stop. A few yards in front of him the boy was performing his -imaginary violin solo on a broken string, and the sight went straight -to the heart of that musical faculty whose shy divinity was the flute. -For a few moments he stood looking on in silence, with all the sympathy -of a musician for a comrade in poverty and distress. - -Other ties also bound him to the boy. If the divine voice had said to -the Reverend James Moore: "Among all the people of this town, it will -be allowed you to save but one soul. Choose you which that shall be," -he would have replied: "Lord, this is a hard saying, for I wish to save -them all. But if I must choose, let it be the soul of this lad." - -The boy's father and he had been boyhood friends in Virginia, -room-mates and classmates in college, and together they had come to -Kentucky. Summoned to the tavern on the night of the fatal brawl, he -had reached the scene only in time to lay his old playfellow's head on -his bosom, and hear his last words: - -"Be kind to my boy!... Be a better father to him than I have been!... -Watch over him and help him!... Guard him from temptation!... Be kind -to him in his little weaknesses!... Win his heart, and you can do -everything with him!... Promise me this!" - -"So help me Heaven, all that I can do for him I will do!" - -[Illustration: Man kneeling at bedside] - -From that moment he had taken upon his conscience, already toiling -beneath its load of cares, the burden of this sacred responsibility. -During the three years of his guardianship that had elapsed, this -burden had not grown lighter; for apparently he had failed to acquire -any influence over the lad, or to establish the least friendship -with him. It was a difficult nature that had been bequeathed him to -master--sensitive, emotional, delicate, wayward, gay, rebellious of -restraint, loving freedom like the poet and the artist. The Reverend -James Moore, sitting in the chair of logic, moral philosophy, -metaphysics, and belles-lettres; lecturing daily to young men on all -the powers and operations of the human mind, taking it to pieces and -putting it together and understanding it so perfectly, knowing by name -every possible form of fallacy and root of evil--the Reverend James -Moore, when he came to study the living mind of this boy, confessed to -himself that he was as great a dunce as the greatest in his classes. -But he loved the boy, nevertheless, with the lonely resources of his -nature, and he never lost hope that he would turn to him in the end. - -How long he might have stood now looking on and absorbed with the -scene, it is impossible to say; for the lad, happening to look up and -see him, instantly, with a sidelong scoop of his hand, the treasures on -the sidewalk disappeared in a cavernous pocket, and the next moment he -had seized his crutch, and was busy fumbling at a loosened nail. - -"Why, good-morning, David," cried the parson, cheerily, but with some -embarrassment, stepping briskly forward, and looking down upon the -little figure now hanging its head with guilt. "You've got the coolest -seat in town," he continued, "and I wish I had time to sit down and -enjoy it with you; but the drawing comes off at the lottery this -morning, and I must hurry down to see who gets the capital prize." A -shade of anxiety settled on his face as he said this. "But here's the -morning paper," he added, drawing out of his coat-pocket the coveted -sheet of the weekly _Reporter_, which he was in the habit of sending to -the lad's mother, knowing that her silver was picked up with the point -of her needle. "Take it to your mother, and tell her she must be sure -to go to see the wax figures." What a persuasive smile overspread his -face as he said this! "And _you_ must be certain to go too! They'll be -fine. Good-bye." - -He let one hand rest gently on the lad's blue cloth cap, and looked -down into the upturned face with an expression that could scarcely have -been more tender. - -"He looks feverish," he said to himself as he walked away, and then his -thoughts turned to the lottery. - -"Good-bye," replied the boy, in a low voice, lifting his dark blue eyes -slowly to the patient gray ones. "I'm glad he's gone!" he added to -himself; but he nevertheless gazed after the disappearing figure with -shy fondness. Then he also began to think of the lottery. - -If Mr. Leuba should draw the prize, he might give Tom Leuba a new -violin; and if he gave Tom a new violin, then he had promised to give -him Tom's old one. It had been nearly a year since Mr. Leuba had said -to him, laughing, in his dry, hard little fashion: - -"Now, David, you must be smart and run my errands while Tom's at school -of mornings; and some of these days, when I get rich enough, I'll give -Tom a new violin and I'll give you his old one." - -"Oh, Mr. Leuba!" David had cried, his voice quivering with excitement, -and his whole countenance beaming with delight, "I'll wait on you -forever, if you'll give me Tom's old violin." - -Yes, nearly a whole year had passed since then--a lifetime of waiting -and disappointment. Many an errand he had run for Mr. Leuba. Many a -bit of a thing Mr. Leuba had given him: pieces of violin strings, odd -worn-out screws, bits of resin, old epaulets, and a few fourpences; but -the day had never come when he had given him Tom's violin. - -Now if Mr. Leuba would only draw the prize! As he lay on his back on -the sidewalk, with the footless stump of a leg crossed over the other, -he held the newspaper between his eyes and the green limbs of the elm -overhead, and eagerly read for the last time the advertisement of -the lottery. Then, as he finished reading it, his eyes were suddenly -riveted upon a remarkable notice printed just beneath. - -This notice stated that Messrs. Ollendorf and Mason respectfully -acquainted the ladies and gentlemen of Lexington that they had opened -at the Kentucky Hotel a new and elegant collection of wax figures, -judged by connoisseurs to be equal, if not superior, to any exhibited -in America. Among which are the following characters: An excellent -representation of General George Washington giving orders to the -Marquis de la Fayette, his aid. In another scene the General is -represented as a fallen victim to death, and the tears of America, -represented by a beautiful female weeping over him--which makes it -a most interesting scene. His Excellency Thomas Jefferson. General -Buonaparte in marshal action. General Hamilton and Colonel Burr. In -this interesting scene the Colonel is represented in the attitude of -firing, while the General stands at his distance waiting the result -of the first fire: both accurate likenesses. The death of General -Braddock, who fell in Braddock's Defeat. An Indian is represented as -scalping the General, while one of his men, in an attempt to rescue -him out of the hands of the Indians, was overtaken by another Indian, -who is ready to split him with his tomahawk. Mrs. Jerome Buonaparte, -formerly Miss Patterson. The Sleeping Beauty. Eliza Wharton, or the -American coquette, with her favorite gallant and her intimate friend -Miss Julia Granby. The Museum will be open from ten o'clock in the -morning 'til nine in the evening. Admittance fifty cents for grown -persons; children half price. Profiles taken with accuracy at the -Museum. - -The greatest attraction of the whole Museum will be a large magnificent -painting of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. - -All this for a quarter! The newspaper suddenly dropped from his hands -into the dirt of the street--he had no quarter! For a moment he sat as -immovable as if the thought had turned him into stone; but the next -moment he had sprung from the sidewalk and was speeding home to his -mother. Never before had the stub of the little crutch been plied so -nimbly among the stones of the rough sidewalk. Never before had he -made a prettier picture, with the blue cap pushed far back from his -forehead, his yellow hair blowing about his face, the old black satin -waistcoat flopping like a pair of disjointed wings against his sides, -the open newspaper streaming backward from his hand, and his face alive -with hope. - - - IV. - -Two hours later he issued from the house, and set his face in the -direction of the museum--a face full of excitement still, but full also -of pain, because he had no money, and saw no chance of getting any. It -was a dull time of the year for his mother's work. Only the day before -she had been paid a month's earnings, and already the money had been -laid out for the frugal expenses of the household. It would be a long -time before any more would come in, and in the mean time the exhibition -of wax figures would have been moved to some other town. When he had -told her that the parson had said that she must go to see them, she had -smiled fondly at him from beside her loom, and quietly shaken her head -with inward resignation; but when he told her the parson had said _he_ -must be sure to go too, the smile had faded into an expression of fixed -sadness. - -On his way down town he passed the little music store of Mr. Leuba, -which was one block this side of the Kentucky Hotel. He was all -eagerness to reach the museum, but his ear caught the sounds of the -violin, and he forgot everything else in his desire to go in and speak -with Tom, for Tom was his lord and master. - -"Tom, are you going to see the wax figures?" he cried, with trembling -haste, curling himself on top of the keg of nails in his accustomed -corner of the little lumber-room. But Tom paid no attention to the -question or the questioner, being absorbed in executing an intricate -passage of "O Thou Fount of every Blessing!" For the moment David -forgot his question himself, absorbed likewise in witnessing this -envied performance. - -When Tom had finished, he laid the violin across his knees and wiped -his brow with his shirt-sleeves. "Don't you know that you oughtn't to -talk to me when I'm performing?" he said, loftily, still not deigning -to look at his offending auditor. "Don't you know that it disturbs a -fiddler to be spoken to when he's performing?" - -[Illustration: "EXECUTING AN INTRICATE PASSAGE."] - -Tom was an overgrown, rawboned lad of some fifteen years, with stubby -red hair, no eyebrows, large watery blue eyes, and a long neck with a -big Adam's apple. - -"I didn't mean to interrupt you, Tom," said David, in a tone of the -deepest penitence. "You know that I'd rather hear you play than -anything." - -"Father got the thousand-dollar prize," said Tom coldly, accepting the -apology for the sake of the compliment. - -"Oh, _Tom_! I'm so glad! _Hurrah!_" shouted David, waving his old blue -cap around his head, his face transfigured with joy, his heart leaping -with a sudden hope, and now at last he would get the violin. - -"What are _you_ glad for?" said Tom, with dreadful severity. "He's _my_ -father; he's not _your_ father;" and for the first time he bestowed a -glance upon the little figure curled up on the nail keg, and bending -eagerly towards him with clasped hands. - -"I _know_ he's _your_ father, Tom, but--" - -"Well, then, what are you _glad_ for?" insisted Tom. "You're not going -to get any of the money." - -"I know _that_, Tom," said David, coloring deeply, "but--" - -"Well, then, what _are_ you glad for?" - -"I don't think I'm so _very_ glad, Tom," replied David, sorrowfully. - -But Tom had taken up the bow and was rubbing the resin on it. He used -a great deal of resin in his playing, and would often proudly call -David's attention to how much of it would settle as a white dust under -the bridge. David was too well used to Tom's rebuffs to mind them long, -and as he now looked on at this resining process, the sunlight came -back into his face. - -"Please let me try it once, Tom--just _once_." Experience had long ago -taught him that this was asking too much of Tom; but with the new hope -that the violin might now soon become his, his desire to handle it was -ungovernable. - -"Now look here, David," replied Tom, with a great show of kindness -in his manner, "I'd let you try it once, but you'd spoil the tone. -It's taken me a long time to get a good tone into this fiddle, and -you'd take it all out the very first whack. As soon as you learn to -get a good tone out of it, I'll let you play on it. Don't you _know_ -you'd spoil it, if I was to let you try it _now_?" he added, suddenly -wheeling with tremendous energy upon his timid petitioner. - -"I'm afraid I would, Tom," replied David, with a voice full of anguish. - -"But just listen to me," said Tom; and taking up the violin, he -rendered the opening passage of "O Thou Fount of every Blessing!" -Scarcely had he finished when a customer entered the shop, and he -hurried to the front, leaving the violin and the bow on the chair that -he had quitted. - -No sooner was he gone than the little figure slipped noiselessly from -its perch, and hobbling quickly to the chair on which the violin -lay, stood beside it in silent love. Touch it he durst not; but his -sensitive, delicate hands passed tremblingly over it, and his eyes -dwelt upon it with unspeakable longing. Then, with a sigh, he turned -away, and hastened to the front of the shop. Tom had already dismissed -his customer, and was standing in the door, looking down the street in -the direction of the Kentucky Hotel, where a small crowd had collected -around the entrance of the museum. - -As David stepped out upon the sidewalk, it was the sight of this crowd -that recalled him to a new sorrow. - -"Tom," he cried, with longing, "are you going to see the wax figures?" - -"Of course I'm going," he replied, carelessly. "We're all going." - -"When, Tom?" asked David, with breathless interest. - -"Whenever we want to, of course," replied Tom. "I'm not going just -once; I'm going as often as I like." - -"Why don't you go now, Tom? It's so hot--they might melt." - -This startling view of the case was not without its effect on Tom, -although a suggestion from such a source was not to be respected. He -merely threw his eyes up towards the heavens and said, sturdily: "You -ninny! they'll not melt. Don't you see it's going to rain and turn -cooler?" - -"I'll bet you _I'd_ not wait for it to turn cooler. I'll bet you _I'd_ -be in there before you could say Jack Roberson, if _I_ had a quarter," -said David, with resolution. - - - V. - -All that long afternoon he hung in feverish excitement around the door -of the museum. There was scarce a travelling show in Kentucky in those -days. It was not strange if to this idler of the streets, in whom -imagination was all-powerful, and in whose heart quivered ungovernable -yearnings for the heroic, the poetic, and the beautiful, this day of -the first exhibition of wax figures was the most memorable of his life. - -It was so easy for everybody to go in who wished; so impossible for -him. Groups of gay ladies slipped their silver half-dollars through -the variegated meshes of their silken purses. The men came in jolly -twos and threes, and would sometimes draw out great rolls of bills. -Now a kind-faced farmer passed in, dropping into the hands of the -door-keeper a half-dollar for himself, and three quarters for three -sleek negroes that followed at his heels; and now a manufacturer with -a couple of apprentices--lads of David's age and friends of his. Poor -little fellow! at many a shop of the town he had begged to be taken as -an apprentice himself, but no one would have him because he was lame. - -And now the people were beginning to pour out, and he hovered about -them, hoping in this way to get some idea of what was going on inside. -Once, with the courage of despair, he seized the arm of a lad as he -came out. - -"Oh, Bobby, _tell_ me all about it!" - -But Bobby shook him off, and skipped away to tell somebody else who -didn't want to hear. - -After a while two sweet-faced ladies dressed in mourning appeared. As -they passed down the street he was standing on the sidewalk, and there -must have been something in his face to attract the attention of one of -them, for she paused, and in the gentlest manner said: - -"My little man, how did you like the wax figures and the picture?" - -"Oh, madam," he replied, his eyes filling, "I have not seen them!" - -"But you will see them, I hope," she said, moving away, but bestowing -on him the lingering smile of bereft motherhood. - -The twilight fell, and still he lingered, until, with a sudden -remorseful thought of his mother, he turned away and passed up the dark -street. His tongue was parched, there was a lump in his throat, and a -numb pain about his heart. Far up the street he paused and looked back. -A lantern had been swung out over the entrance of the museum, and the -people were still passing in. - - - VI. - -A happy man was the Reverend James Moore the next morning. The lottery -had been a complete success, and he would henceforth have a comfortable -church, in which the better to save the souls of his fellow-creatures. -The leading vestry-man had drawn the capital prize, and while the other -members who had drawn blanks were not exactly satisfied, on the whole -the result seemed as good as providential. As he walked down town at -an early hour, he was conscious of suffering from a dangerous elation -of spirit; and more than once his silent prayer had been: "Lord, let -me not be puffed up this day! Let me not be blinded with happiness! -Keep the eyes of my soul clear, that I overlook no duty! What have I, -unworthy servant, done that I should be so fortunate?" - -Now and then, as he passed along, a church member would wring his hand -and offer congratulations. After about fifteen years of a more or less -stranded condition a magnificent incoming tide of prosperity now seemed -to lift him off his very feet. - -From wandering rather blindly about the streets for a while, he started -for the new church, remembering that he had an engagement with a -committee of ladies, who had taken in charge the furnishing of it. But -when he reached there, no one had arrived but the widow Babcock. She -was very beautiful; and looking at womankind from behind his veil of -unfamiliarity, the parson, despite his logic, had always felt a desire -to lift that veil when standing in her presence. The intoxication of -his mood was not now lessened by coming upon her so unexpectedly alone. - -"My dear Mrs. Babcock," he said, offering her his hand in his beautiful -manner, "it seems peculiarly fitting that you should be the first of -the ladies to reach the spot; for it would have pained me to think you -less zealous than the others. The vestry needs not only your taste in -furniture, but the influence of your presence." - -The widow dropped her eyes, the gallantry of the speech being so -unusual. "I came early on purpose," she replied, in a voice singularly -low and tremulous. "I wanted to see you alone. Oh, Mr. Moore, the -ladies of this town owe you such a debt of gratitude! You have been -such a comfort to those who are sad, such a support to those who needed -strengthening! And who has needed these things as much as I?" - -As she spoke, the parson, with a slight look of apprehension, had put -his back against the wall, as was apt to be his way when talking with -ladies. - -[Illustration: "THE WIDOW DROPPED HER EYES."] - -"Who has needed these things as I have?" continued the widow, taking a -step forward, and with increasing agitation. "Oh, Mr. Moore, I should -be an ungrateful woman if I did not mingle my congratulations with the -others. And I want to do this now with my whole soul. May God bless -you, and crown the labors of your life with every desire of your -heart!" And saying this, the widow laid the soft tips of one hand on -one of the parson's shoulders, and raising herself slightly on tiptoe, -kissed him. - -"Oh, Mrs. Babcock!" cried the dismayed logician, "what have you done?" -But the next moment, the logician giving place to the man, he grasped -one of her hands, and murmuring, "May God bless _you_ for _that_!" -seized his hat, and hurried out into the street. - -The most careless observer might have been interested in watching his -movements as he walked away. - -He carried his hat in his hand, forgetting to put it on. Several -persons spoke to him on the street, but he did not hear them. He strode -a block or two in one direction, and then a block or two in another. - -"If she does it again," he muttered to himself--"if she does it again, -I'll marry her!... Old?... I could run a mile in a minute!" - -As he was passing the music-store, the dealer called out to him: - -"Come in, parson. I've got a present for you." - -"A--present--for--_me_?" repeated the parson, blank with amazement. In -his life the little music-dealer had never made him a present. - -"Yes, a present," repeated the fortunate vestry-man, whose dry heart, -like a small seed-pod, the wind of good-fortune had opened, so that a -few rattling germs of generosity dropped out. Opening a drawer behind -his counter, he now took out a roll of music. "Here's some new music -for your flute," he said. "Accept it with my compliments." - -New music for his flute! The parson turned it over dreamily, and -it seemed that the last element of disorder had come to derange his -faculties. - -"And Mrs. Leuba sends her compliments, and would like to have you to -dinner," added the shopkeeper, looking across the counter with some -amusement at the expression of the parson, who now appeared as much -shocked as though his whole nervous system had been suddenly put in -connection with a galvanic battery of politeness. - -It was a very gay dinner, having been gotten up to celebrate the -drawing of the prize. The entire company were to go in the afternoon to -see the waxworks, and some of the ladies wore especial toilets, with a -view to having their profiles taken. - -"Have you been to see the waxworks, Mr. Moore?" inquired a spinster -roguishly, wiping a drop of soup from her underlip. - -The unusual dinner, the merriment, the sense of many ladies present, -mellowed the parson like old wine. - -"No, madam," he replied, giddily; "but I shall go this very afternoon. -I find it impossible any longer to deny myself the pleasure of -beholding the great American Coquette and the Sleeping Beauty. I must -take my black sheep," he continued, with expanding warmth. "I must -drive my entire flock of soiled lambs into the favored and refining -presence of Miss Julia Granby." - -Keeping to this resolution, as soon as dinner was over he made his -excuses to the company, and set off to collect a certain class of boys -which he had scraped together by hook and crook from the by-ways of -the town, and about an hour later he might have been seen driving them -before him towards the entrance of the museum. There he shouldered -his way cheerfully up to the door, and shoved each of the lads -good-naturedly in, finally passing in himself, with a general glance at -the by-standers, as if to say, "Was there ever another man as happy in -this world?" - -But he soon came out, leaving his wild lambs to browse at will in those -fresh pastures, and took his way up street homeward. He seemed to be -under some necessity of shaking them off in order to enjoy the solitude -of his thoughts. - -"If she does it again!... If she does it again!... _Whee! whee! -whee!--whee! whee! whee!_" and he began to whistle for his flute with a -nameless longing. - -It was soon after this that the two women heard him playing the reel, -and watched him perform certain later incredible evolutions. For -whether one event, or all events combined, had betrayed him into this -outbreak, henceforth he was quite beside himself. - -Is it possible that on this day the Reverend James Moore had driven the -ancient, rusty, creaky chariot of his faculties too near the sun of -love? - - - VII. - -A sad day it had been meantime for the poor lad. - -He had gotten up in the morning listless and dull and sick at the sight -of his breakfast. But he had feigned to be quite well that he might -have permission to set off down-town. There was no chance of his being -able to get into the museum, but he was drawn irresistibly thither -for the mere pleasure of standing around and watching the people, and -hoping that something--_something_ would turn up. He was still there -when his dinner-hour came, but he never thought of this. Once, when the -door-keeper was at leisure, he had hobbled up and said to him, with -a desperate effort to smile, "Sir, if I were rich, I'd live in your -museum for about five years." - -But the door-keeper had pushed him rudely back, telling him to be off -and not obstruct the sidewalk. - -[Illustration: Boys walking through village] - -He was still standing near the entrance when the parson came down the -street driving his flock of boys. Ah, if he had only joined that class, -as time after time he had been asked to do! All at once his face lit up -with a fortunate inspiration, and pushing his way to the very side of -the door-keeper, he placed himself there that the parson might see him -and take him with the others; for had he not said that _he_ must be -sure to go? But when the parson came up, this purpose had failed him, -and he had apparently shrunk to half his size behind the bulk of the -door-keeper, fearing most of all things that the parson would discover -him and know why he was there. - -He was still lingering outside when the parson reappeared and started -homeward; and he sat down and watched him out of sight. He seemed -cruelly hurt, and his eyes filled with tears. - -"_I'd_ have taken _him_ in the very first one," he said, choking down -a sob; and then, as if he felt this to be unjust, he murmured over and -over: "Maybe he forgot me; maybe he didn't mean it; maybe he forgot me." - -Perhaps an hour later, slowly and with many pauses, he drew near the -door of the parson's home. There he lifted his hand three times before -he could knock. - -"The parson's not at home," the widow Spurlock had called sharply down -to him. - -With this the last hope had died out of his bosom; for having dwelt -long on the parson's kindness to him--upon all the parson's tireless -efforts to befriend him--he had summoned the courage at last to go and -ask him to lend him a quarter. - -With little thought of whither he went, he now turned back down-town, -but some time later he was still standing at the entrance of the museum. - -He looked up the street again. All the Leubas were coming, Tom walking, -with a very haughty air, a few feet ahead. - -"Why don't you go in?" he said, loudly, walking up to David and -jingling the silver in his pockets. "What are you standing out here -for? If you _want_ to go in, why don't you _go_ in?" - -"Oh, Tom!" cried David, in a whisper of eager confidence, his utterance -choked with a sob, "I haven't got any money." - -"I'd hate to be as poor as _you_ are," said Tom, contemptuously. "I'm -going this evening, and to-night, and as often as I want," and he -turned gayly away to join the others. - -He was left alone again, and his cup of bitterness, which had been -filling drop by drop, now ran over. - -Several groups came up just at that moment. There was a pressure and -a jostling of the throng. As Mr. Leuba, who had made his way up to -the door-keeper, drew a handful of silver from his pocket, some one -accidentally struck his elbow, and several pieces fell to the pavement. -Then there was laughter and a scrambling as these were picked up and -returned. But out through the legs of the crowd one bright silver -quarter rolled unseen down the sloping sidewalk towards the spot where -David was standing. - -It was all done in an instant. He saw it coming; the little crutch was -set forward a pace, the little body was swung silently forward, and as -the quarter fell over on its shining side, the dirty sole of a brown -foot covered it. - -The next minute, with a sense of triumph and bounding joy, the -poverty-tortured, friendless little thief had crossed the threshold -of the museum, and stood face to face with the Redeemer of the world; -for the picture was so hung as to catch the eye upon entering, and -it arrested his quick, roving glance and held it in awe-stricken -fascination. Unconscious of his own movements, he drew nearer and -nearer, until he stood a few feet in front of the arc of spectators, -with his breathing all but suspended, and one hand crushing the old -blue cloth cap against his naked bosom. - -[Illustration: BEFORE THE PICTURE.] - -It was a strange meeting. The large rude painting possessed no claim -to art. But to him it was an overwhelming revelation, for he had -never seen any pictures, and he was gifted with an untutored love of -painting. Over him, therefore, it exercised an inthralling influence, -and it was as though he stood in the visible presence of One whom he -knew that the parson preached of and his mother worshipped. - -Forgetful of his surroundings, long he stood and gazed. Whether it -may have been the thought of the stolen quarter that brought him -to himself, at length he drew a deep breath, and looked quickly -around with a frightened air. From across the room he saw Mr. Leuba -watching him gravely, as it seemed to his guilty conscience, with -fearful sternness. A burning flush dyed his face, and he shrank back, -concealing himself among the crowd. The next moment, without ever -having seen or so much as thought of anything else in the museum, he -slipped out into the street. - -There the eyes of everybody seemed turned upon him. Where should he go? -Not home. Not to Mr. Leuba's music-store. No; he could never look into -Mr. Leuba's face again. And Tom? He could hear Tom crying out, wherever -he should meet him, "You stole a quarter from father." - -In utter terror and shame, he hurried away out to the southern end of -the town, where there was an abandoned rope-walk. - -It was a neglected place, damp and unhealthy. In the farthest corner -of it he lay down and hid himself in a clump of iron-weeds. Slowly -the moments dragged themselves along. Of what was he thinking? Of his -mother? Of the parson? Of the violin that would now never be his? Of -that wonderful sorrowful face which he had seen in the painting? The -few noises of the little town grew very faint, the droning of the -bumblebee on the purple tufts of the weed overhead very loud, and -louder still the beating of his heart against the green grass as he lay -on his side, with his head on his blue cap and his cheek in his hand. -And then he fell asleep. - -When he awoke he started up bewildered. The sun had set, and the heavy -dews of twilight were falling. A chill ran through him; and then the -recollection of what had happened came over him with a feeling of -desolation. When it was quite dark he left his hiding-place and started -back up-town. - -He could reach home in several ways, but a certain fear drew him into -the street which led past the music-store. If he could only see Mr. -Leuba, he felt sure that he could tell by the expression of his face -whether he had missed the quarter. At some distance off he saw by the -light of the windows Mr. Leuba standing in front of his shop talking to -a group of men. Noiselessly he drew near, noiselessly he was passing -without the courage to look up. - -"Stop, David. Come in here a moment. I want to talk to you." - -As Mr. Leuba spoke, he apologized to the gentlemen for leaving, and -turned back into the rear of the shop. Faint, and trembling so that he -could scarcely stand, his face of a deadly whiteness, the boy followed. - -"David," said Mr. Leuba--in his whole life he had never spoken so -kindly; perhaps his heart had been touched by some belated feeling, as -he had studied the boy's face before the picture in the museum, and -certainly it had been singularly opened by his good-fortune--"David," -he said, "I promised when I got rich enough I'd give Tom a new violin, -and give you his old one. Well, I gave him a new one to-day; so here's -yours," and going to a corner of the room, he took up the box, brought -it back, and would have laid it on the boy's arm, only there was no arm -extended to receive it. - -"Take it! It's yours!" - -"Oh, Mr. Leuba!" - -It was all he could say. He had expected to be charged with stealing -the quarter, and instead there was held out to him the one treasure in -the world--the violin of which he had dreamed so long, for which he had -served so faithfully. - -"Oh, Mr. Leuba!" - -There was a pitiful note in the cry, but the dealer was not the man to -hear it, or to notice the look of angelic contrition on the upturned -face. He merely took the lad's arm, bent it around the violin, patted -the ragged cap, and said, a little impatiently: - -"Come, come! they're waiting for me at the door. To-morrow you can come -down and run some more errands for me," and he led the way to the front -of the shop and resumed his conversation. - -Slowly along the dark street the lad toiled homeward with his treasure. -At any other time he would have sat down on the first curb-stone, -opened the box, and in ecstatic joy have lifted out that peerless -instrument; or he would have sped home with it to his mother, flying -along on his one crutch as if on the winds of heaven. But now he could -not look at it, and something clogged his gait so that he loitered and -faltered and sometimes stood still irresolute. - -But at last he approached the log-cabin which was his home. A rude -fence enclosed the yard, and inside this fence there grew a hedge of -lilacs. When he was within a few feet of the gate he paused, and did -what he had never done before--he put his face close to the panels -of the fence, and with a look of guilt and sorrow peeped through the -lilacs at the face of his mother, who was sitting in the light of the -open door-way. - -She was thinking of him. He knew that by the patient sweetness of -her smile. All the heart went out of him at the sight, and hurrying -forward, he put the violin down at her feet, and threw his arms around -her neck, and buried his head on her bosom. - - - VIII. - -After he had made his confession, a restless and feverish night he had -of it, often springing up from his troubled dreams and calling to her -in the darkness. But the next morning he insisted upon getting up for a -while. - -Towards the afternoon he grew worse again, and took to his bed, the -yellow head tossing to and fro, the eyes bright and restless, and his -face burning. At length he looked up and said to his mother, in the -manner of one who forms a difficult resolution: "Send for the parson. -Tell him I am sick and want to see him." - -It was this summons that the widow Spurlock had delivered on the Sunday -afternoon when the parson had quitted the house with such a cry of -distress. He had not so much as thought of the boy since the Friday -morning previous. - -[Illustration] - -"How is it possible," he exclaimed, as he hurried on--"how is it -_possible_ that I _could_ have forgotten _him?_" - -The boy's mother met him outside the house and drew him into an -adjoining room, silently, for her tears were falling. He sank into the -first chair. - -"Is he so ill?" he asked, under his trembling breath. - -"I'm afraid he's going to be very ill. And to see him in so much -trouble--" - -"What is the matter? In God's name, has anything happened to him?" - -She turned her face away to hide her grief. "He said he would tell you -himself. Oh, if I've been too hard with him! But I did it for the best. -I didn't know until the doctor came that he was going to be ill, or I -would have waited. Do anything you can to quiet him--anything he should -ask you to do," she implored, and pointed towards the door of the room -in which the boy lay. - -Conscience-stricken and speechless, the parson opened it and entered. - -The small white bed stood against the wall beneath an open window, and -one bright-headed sunflower, growing against the house outside, leaned -in and fixed its kind face anxiously upon the sufferer's. - -The figure of the boy was stretched along the edge of the bed, his -cheek on one hand and his eyes turned steadfastly towards the middle of -the room, where, on a table, the violin lay exposed to view. - -He looked quickly towards the door as the parson entered, and an -expression of relief passed over his face. - -"Why, David," said the parson, chidingly, and crossing to the bed -with a bright smile. "Sick? This will never do;" and he sat down, -imprisoning one of the burning palms in his own. - -The boy said nothing, but looked at him searchingly, as though needing -to lay aside masks and disguises and penetrate at once to the bottom -truth. Then he asked, "Are you mad at me?" - -"My poor boy!" said the parson, his lips trembling a little as he -tightened his pressure--"my poor boy! why should _I_ be mad at _you_?" - -"You never could do anything with me." - -"Never mind that now," said the parson, soothingly, but adding, with -bitterness, "it was all my fault--all my fault." - -"It wasn't your fault," said the boy. "It was mine." - -A change had come over him in his treatment of the parson. Shyness had -disappeared, as is apt to be the case with the sick. - -"I want to ask you something," he added, confidentially. - -"Anything--anything! Ask me anything!" - -"Do you remember the wax figures?" - -"Oh yes, I remember them very well," said the parson, quickly, uneasily. - -"I wanted to see 'em, and I didn't have any money, and I stole a -quarter from Mr. Leuba." - -Despite himself a cry escaped the parson's lips, and dropping the boy's -hand, he started from his chair and walked rapidly to and fro across -the room, with the fangs of remorse fixed deep in his conscience. - -"Why didn't you come to me?" he asked at length, in a tone of helpless -entreaty. "Why didn't you come to me? Oh, if you had only come to me!" - -"I did come to you," replied the boy. - -"When?" asked the parson, coming back to the bedside. - -"About three o'clock yesterday." - -About three o'clock yesterday! And what was he doing at that time? He -bent his head over to his very knees, hiding his face in his hands. - -[Illustration: Woman sitting beside child in bed] - -"But why didn't you let me know it? Why didn't you come in?" - -"Mrs. Spurlock told me you were at work on a sermon." - -"God forgive me!" murmured the parson, with a groan. - -"I thought you'd lend me a quarter," said the boy, simply. "You took -the other boys, and you told me _I_ must be certain to go. I thought -you'd lend me a quarter till I could pay you back." - -"Oh, David!" cried the parson, getting down on his knees by the -bedside, and putting his arms around the boy's neck, "I would have lent -you--I would have given you--anything I have in this poor world!" - -The boy threw his arms around the parson's neck and clasped him close. -"Forgive me!" - -"Oh, boy! boy! can you forgive _me_?" Sobs stifled the parson's -utterance, and he went to a window on the opposite side of the room. - -When he turned his face inward again, he saw the boy's gaze fixed once -more intently upon the violin. - -"There's something I want you to do for me," he said. "Mr. Leuba gave -me a violin last night, and mamma says I ought to sell it and pay him -back. Mamma says it will be a good lesson for me." The words seemed -wrung from his heart's core. "I thought I'd ask _you_ to sell it for -me. The doctor says I may be sick a long time, and it worries me." He -began to grow excited, and tossed from side to side. - -"Don't worry," said the parson, "I'll sell it for you." - -The boy looked at the violin again. To him it was priceless, and his -eyes grew heavy with love for it. Then he said, cautiously: "I thought -_you'd_ get a good price for it. I don't think I could take less than a -hundred dollars. It's worth more than that, but if I have to sell it, I -don't think I _could_ take less than a hundred dollars," and he fixed -his burning eyes on the parson's. - -"Don't worry! I'll sell it for you. Oh yes, you can easily get a -hundred dollars for it. I'll bring you a hundred dollars for it by -to-morrow morning." - -As the parson was on the point of leaving the room, with the violin -under his arm, he paused with his hand on the latch, an anxious look -gathering in his face. Then he came back, laid the violin on the table, -and going to the bedside, took the boy's hands in both of his own. - -"David," said the moral philosopher, wrestling in his consciousness -with the problem of evil--"David, was it the face of the Saviour that -you wished to see? Was it _this_ that tempted you to--" and he bent -over the boy breathless. - -"I wanted to see the Sleeping Beauty." - -The parson turned away with a sigh of acute disappointment. - -It was on this night that he was seen to enter his room with a boy's -violin under his arm, and later to hang it, and hang his beloved flute, -tied with a blue ribbon, above the meagre top shelf of books--Fuller's -_Gospel_, Petrarch, Volney's _Ruins_, Zollicoffer's _Sermons_, and -the _Horrors of San Domingo_. After that he remained motionless at -his table, with his head bowed on his folded arms, until the candle -went out, leaving him in inner and outer darkness. Moralist, logician, -philosopher, he studied the transgression, laying it at last solely to -his own charge. - -At daybreak he stood outside the house with the physician who had been -with the boy during the night. "Will he die?" he asked. - -The physician tapped his forehead with his forefinger. "The chances are -against him. The case has peculiar complications. All night it has been -nothing but the wax figures and the stolen quarter and the violin. His -mother has tried to persuade him not to sell it. But he won't bear the -sight of it now, although he is wild at the thought of selling it." - -"David," said the parson, kneeling by the bedside, and speaking -in a tone pitiful enough to have recalled a soul from the other -world--"David, here's the money for the violin; here's the hundred -dollars," and he pressed it into one of the boy's palms. The hand -closed upon it, but there was no recognition. It was half a year's -salary. - -The first sermon that the parson preached in the new church was on the -Sunday after the boy's death. It was expected that he would rise to -the occasion and surpass himself, which, indeed, he did, drawing tears -even from the eyes of those who knew not that they could shed them, -and all through making the greatest effort to keep back his own. The -subject of the sermon was "The Temptations of the Poor." The sermon of -the following fortnight was on the "Besetting Sin," the drift of it -going to show that the besetting sin may be the one pure and exquisite -pleasure of life, involving only the exercise of the loftiest faculty. -And this was followed by a third sermon on "The Kiss that Betrayeth," -in which the parson ransacked history for illustrations to show that -every species of man--ancient, mediæval, and modern--had been betrayed -in this way. During the delivery of this sermon the parson looked so -cold and even severe that it was not understood why the emotions of -any one should have been touched, or why the widow Babcock should have -lowered her veil and wept bitterly. - -And thus being ever the more loved and revered as he grew ever the -more lovable and saint-like, he passed onward to the close. But not -until the end came did he once stretch forth a hand to touch his flute; -and it was only in imagination then that he grasped it, to sound -the final roll-call of his wandering faculties, and to blow a last -good-night to his tired spirit. - -[Illustration: Man resting head on book] - - - - - KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY. - - - I. - -It had been a year of strange disturbances--a desolating drought, a -hurly-burly of destructive tempests, killing frosts in the tender -valleys, mortal fevers in the tender homes. Now came tidings that all -day the wail of myriads of locusts was heard in the green woods of -Virginia and Tennessee; now that Lake Erie was blocked with ice on the -very verge of summer, so that in the Niagara new rocks and islands -showed their startling faces. In the Blue-grass Region of Kentucky -countless caterpillars were crawling over the ripening apple orchards -and leaving the trees as stark as when tossed in the thin air of bitter -February days. - -Then, flying low and heavily through drought and tempest and frost and -plague, like the royal presence of disaster, that had been but heralded -by its mournful train, came nearer and nearer the dark angel of the -pestilence. - -M. Xaupi had given a great ball only the night before in the -dancing-rooms over the confectionery of M. Giron--that M. Giron who -made the tall pyramids of meringues and macaroons for wedding-suppers, -and spun around them a cloud of candied webbing as white and misty as -the veil of the bride. It was the opening cotillon party of the summer. -The men came in blue cloth coats with brass buttons, buff waistcoats, -and laced and ruffled shirts; the ladies came in white satins with -ethereal silk overdresses, embroidered in the figure of a gold beetle -or an oak leaf of green. The walls of the ball-room were painted to -represent landscapes of blooming orange-trees, set here and there in -clustering tubs; and the chandeliers and sconces were lighted with -innumerable wax-candles, yellow and green and rose. - -Only the day before, also, Clatterbuck had opened for the summer a new -villa-house, six miles out in the country, with a dancing-pavilion in a -grove of maples and oaks, a pleasure-boat on a sheet of crystal water, -and a cellar stocked with old sherry, Sauterne, and Château Margaux -wines, with anisette, "Perfect Love," and Guigholet cordials. - -Down on Water Street, near where now stands a railway station, Hugh -Lonney, urging that the fear of cholera was not the only incentive to -cleanliness, had just fitted up a sumptuous bath-house, where cold and -shower baths might be had at twelve and a half cents each, or hot ones -at three for half a dollar. - -Yes, the summer of 1833 was at hand, and there must be new pleasures, -new luxuries; for Lexington was the Athens of the West and the Kentucky -Birmingham. - -Old Peter Leuba felt the truth of this, as he stepped smiling out of -his little music-store on Main Street, and, rubbing his hands briskly -together, surveyed once more his newly-arranged windows, in which were -displayed gold and silver epaulets, bottles of Jamaica rum, garden -seeds from Philadelphia, drums and guitars and harps. Dewees & Grant -felt it in their drug-store on Cheapside, as they sent off a large -order for calomel and superior Maccoboy, rappee, and Lancaster snuff. -Bluff little Daukins Tegway felt it, as he hurried on the morning of -that day to the office of the _Observer and Reporter_, and advertised -that he would willingly exchange his beautiful assortment of painted -muslins and Dunstable bonnets for flax and feathers. On the threshold -he met a florid farmer, who had just offered ten dollars' reward for -a likely runaway boy with a long fresh scar across his face; and -to-morrow the paper would contain one more of those tragical little -cuts, representing an African slave scampering away at the top of his -speed, with a stick swung across his shoulder and a bundle dangling -down his back. In front of Postlethwaite's Tavern, where now stands -the PhÅ“nix Hotel, a company of idlers, leaning back in Windsor chairs -and planting their feet against the opposite wall on a level with -their heads, smoked and chewed and yawned, as they discussed the -administration of Jackson and arranged for the coming of Daniel Webster -in June, when they would give him a great barbecue, and roast in -his honor a buffalo bull taken from the herd emparked near Ashland. -They hailed a passing merchant, who, however, would hear nothing of -the bull, but fell to praising his Rocky Mountain beaver and Goose -Creek salt; and another, who turned a deaf ear to Daniel Webster, and -invited them to drop in and examine his choice essences of peppermint, -bergamot, and lavender. - -But of all the scenes that might have been observed in Lexington on -that day, the most remarkable occurred in front of the old court-house -at the hour of high noon. On the mellow stroke of the clock in the -steeple above the sheriff stepped briskly forth, closely followed by -a man of powerful frame, whom he commanded to station himself on -the pavement several feet off. A crowd of men and boys had already -collected in anticipation, and others came quickly up as the clear -voice of the sheriff was heard across the open public square and old -market-place. - -He stood on the topmost of the court-house steps, and for a moment -looked down on the crowd with the usual air of official severity. - -"Gentlemen," he then cried out sharply, "by an ordah of the cou't I now -offah this man at public sale to the highes' biddah. He is able-bodied -but lazy, without visible property or means of suppoht, an' of -dissolute habits. He is therefoh adjudged guilty of high misdemeanahs, -an' is to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. How much, then, am I -offahed foh the vagrant? How much am I offahed foh ole King Sol'mon?" - -Nothing was offered for old King Solomon. The spectators formed -themselves into a ring around the big vagrant and settled down to enjoy -the performance. - -"Staht 'im, somebody." - -Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the circle. - -The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed severity, but -catching the eye of an acquaintance on the outskirts, he exchanged a -lightning wink of secret appreciation. Then he lifted off his tight -beaver hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of perspiration which -rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed a degree to his theme. - -"Come, gentlemen," he said, more suasively, "it's too hot to stan' heah -all day. Make me an offah! You all know ole King Sol'mon; don't wait -to be interduced. How much, then, to staht 'im? Say fifty dollahs! -Twenty-five! Fifteen! Ten! Why, gentlemen! Not _ten_ dollahs? Remembah -this is the Blue-grass Region of Kentucky--the land of Boone an' -Kenton, the home of Henry Clay!" he added, in an oratorical _crescendo_. - -"He ain't wuth his victuals," said an oily little tavern-keeper, -folding his arms restfully over his own stomach and cocking up one -piggish eye into his neighbor's face. "He ain't wuth his 'taters." - -"Buy 'im foh 'is rags!" cried a young law-student, with a Blackstone -under his arm, to the town rag-picker opposite, who was unconsciously -ogling the vagrant's apparel. - -"I _might_ buy 'im foh 'is _scalp_," drawled a farmer, who had taken -part in all kinds of scalp contests and was now known to be busily -engaged in collecting crow scalps for a match soon to come off between -two rival counties. - -"I think I'll buy 'im foh a hat-sign," said a manufacturer of -ten-dollar Castor and Rhorum hats. This sally drew merry attention to -the vagrant's hat, and the merchant felt rewarded. - -"You'd bettah say the town ought to buy 'im an' put 'im up on top of -the cou't-house as a scarecrow foh the cholera," said some one else. - -"What news of the cholera did the stage-coach bring this mohning?" -quickly inquired his neighbor in his ear; and the two immediately fell -into low, grave talk, forgot the auction, and turned away. - -"Stop, gentlemen, stop!" cried the sheriff, who had watched the -rising tide of good-humor, and now saw his chance to float in on -it with spreading sails. "You're runnin' the price in the wrong -direction--down, not up. The law requires that he be sole to the -highes' biddah, not the lowes'. As loyal citizens, uphole the -constitution of the commonwealth of Kentucky an' make me an offah; -the man is really a great bargain. In the first place, he would cos' -his ownah little or nothin', because, as you see, he keeps himself in -cigahs an' clo'es; then, his main article of diet is whiskey--a supply -of which he always has on han'. He don't even need a bed, foh you know -he sleeps jus' as well on any doohstep; noh a chair, foh he prefers -to sit roun' on the curb-stones. Remembah, too, gentlemen, that ole -King Sol'mon is a Virginian--from the same neighbohhood as Mr. Clay. -Remembah that he is well educated, that he is an _awful_ Whig, an' that -he has smoked mo' of the stumps of Mr. Clay's cigahs than any other man -in existence. If you don't b'lieve _me_, gentlemen, yondah goes Mr. -Clay now; call _him_ ovah an' ask 'im foh yo'se'ves." - -He paused, and pointed with his right forefinger towards Main street, -along which the spectators, with a sudden craning of necks, beheld the -familiar figure of the passing statesman. - -"But you don't need _any_body to tell you these fac's, gentlemen," he -continued. "You merely need to be reminded that ole King Sol'mon is no -ohdinary man. Mo'ovah he has a kine heaht, he nevah spoke a rough wohd -to anybody in this worl', an' he is as proud as Tecumseh of his good -name an' charactah. An', gentlemen," he added, bridling with an air of -mock gallantry and laying a hand on his heart, "if anythin' fu'thah -is required in the way of a puffect encomium, we all know that there -isn't anothah man among us who cuts as wide a swath among the ladies. -The'foh, if you have any appreciation of virtue, any magnanimity of -heaht; if you set a propah valuation upon the descendants of Virginia, -that mothah of Presidents; if you believe in the pure laws of Kentucky -as the pioneer bride of the Union; if you love America an' love the -worl'--make me a gen'rous, high-toned offah foh ole King Sol'mon!" - -He ended his peroration amid a shout of laughter and applause, and, -feeling satisfied that it was a good time for returning to a more -practical treatment of his subject, proceeded in a sincere tone: - -"He can easily earn from one to two dollahs a day, an' from three to -six hundred a yeah. There's not anothah white man in town capable of -doin' as much work. There's not a niggah han' in the hemp factories -with such muscles an' such a chest. _Look_ at 'em! An', if you don't -b'lieve me, step fo'wahd and _feel_ 'em. How much, then, is bid foh -'im?" - -"One dollah!" said the owner of a hemp factory, who had walked forward -and felt the vagrant's arm, laughing, but coloring up also as the -eyes of all were quickly turned upon him. In those days it was not an -unheard-of thing for the muscles of a human being to be thus examined -when being sold into servitude to a new master. - -"Thank you!" cried the sheriff, cheerily. "One precinc' heard from! One -dollah! I am offahed one dollah foh ole King Sol'mon. One dollah foh -the king! Make it a half. One dollah an' a half. Make it a half. One -dol-dol-dol-dollah!" - -Two medical students, returning from lectures at the old Medical Hall, -now joined the group, and the sheriff explained: - -"One dollah is bid foh the vagrant ole King Sol'mon, who is to be sole -into labah foh a twelvemonth. Is there any othah bid? Are you all done? -One dollah, once--" - -"Dollah and a half," said one of the students, and remarked half -jestingly under his breath to his companion, "I'll buy him on the -chance of his dying. We'll dissect him." - -"Would you own his body if he _should_ die?" - -"If he dies while bound to me, I'll arrange _that_." - -"One dollah an' a half," resumed the sheriff; and falling into the tone -of a facile auctioneer he rattled on: - -"One dollah an' a half foh ole Sol'mon--sol, sol, sol,--do, re, mi, -fa, sol--do, re, mi, fa, sol! Why, gentlemen, you can set the king to -music!" - -All this time the vagrant had stood in the centre of that close ring -of jeering and humorous by-standers--a baffling text from which to -have preached a sermon on the infirmities of our imperfect humanity. -Some years before, perhaps as a master-stroke of derision, there had -been given to him that title which could but heighten the contrast of -his personality and estate with every suggestion of the ancient sacred -magnificence; and never had the mockery seemed so fine as at this -moment, when he was led forth into the streets to receive the lowest -sentence of the law upon his poverty and dissolute idleness. He was -apparently in the very prime of life--a striking figure, for nature at -least had truly done some royal work on him. Over six feet in height, -erect, with limbs well shaped and sinewy, with chest and neck full -of the lines of great power, a large head thickly covered with long -reddish hair, eyes blue, face beardless, complexion fair but discolored -by low passions and excesses--such was old King Solomon. He wore a -stiff, high, black Castor hat of the period, with the crown smashed in -and the torn rim hanging down over one ear; a black cloth coat in the -old style, ragged and buttonless; a white cotton shirt, with the broad -collar crumpled, wide open at the neck and down his sunburnt bosom; -blue jeans pantaloons, patched at the seat and the knees; and ragged -cotton socks that fell down over the tops of his dusty shoes, which -were open at the heels. - -In one corner of his sensual mouth rested the stump of a cigar. Once -during the proceedings he had produced another, lighted it, and -continued quietly smoking. If he took to himself any shame as the -central figure of this ignoble performance, no one knew it. There was -something almost royal in his unconcern. The humor, the badinage, the -open contempt, of which he was the public target, fell thick and fast -upon him, but as harmlessly as would balls of pith upon a coat of mail. -In truth, there was that in his great, lazy, gentle, good-humored bulk -and bearing which made the gibes seem all but despicable. He shuffled -from one foot to the other as though he found it a trial to stand up so -long, but all the while looking the spectators full in the eyes without -the least impatience. He suffered the man of the factory to walk round -him and push and pinch his muscles as calmly as though he had been the -show bull at a country fair. Once only, when the sheriff had pointed -across the street at the figure of Mr. Clay, he had looked quickly in -that direction with a kindling light in his eye and a passing flush on -his face. For the rest, he seemed like a man who has drained his cup of -human life and has nothing left him but to fill again and drink without -the least surprise or eagerness. - -The bidding between the man of the factory and the student had gone -slowly on. The price had reached ten dollars. The heat was intense, -the sheriff tired. Then something occurred to revivify the scene. -Across the market-place and towards the steps of the court-house -there suddenly came trundling along in breathless haste a huge old -negress, carrying on one arm a large shallow basket containing apple -crab-lanterns and fresh gingerbread. With a series of half-articulate -grunts and snorts she approached the edge of the crowd and tried to -force her way through. She coaxed, she begged, she elbowed and pushed -and scolded, now laughing, and now with the passion of tears in her -thick, excited voice. All at once, catching sight of the sheriff, she -lifted one ponderous brown arm, naked to the elbow, and waved her hand -to him above the heads of those in front. - -"Hole on, marseter! Hole on!" she cried, in a tone of humorous -entreaty. "Don' knock 'im off till I come! Gim _me_ a bid at 'im!" - -The sheriff paused and smiled. The crowd made way tumultuously, with -broad laughter and comment. - -"Stan' aside theah an' let Aun' Charlotte in!" - -"_Now_ you'll see biddin'!" - -"Get out of the way foh Aun' Charlotte!" - -"Up, my free niggah! Hurrah foh Kentucky!" - -A moment more and she stood inside the ring of spectators, her basket -on the pavement at her feet, her hands plumped akimbo into her -fathomless sides, her head up, and her soft, motherly eyes turned -eagerly upon the sheriff. Of the crowd she seemed unconscious, and on -the vagrant before her she had not cast a single glance. - -She was dressed with perfect neatness. A red and yellow Madras kerchief -was bound about her head in a high coil, and another was crossed over -the bosom of her stiffly starched and smoothly ironed blue cottonade -dress. Rivulets of perspiration ran down over her nose, her temples, -and around her ears, and disappeared mysteriously in the creases of her -brown neck. A single drop accidentally hung glistening like a diamond -on the circlet of one of her large brass ear-rings. - -The sheriff looked at her a moment, smiling, but a little disconcerted. -The spectacle was unprecedented. - -"What do you want heah, Aun' Charlotte?" he asked, kindly. "You can't -sell yo' pies an' gingerbread heah." - -"I don' _wan'_ sell no pies en gingerbread," she replied, -contemptuously. "I wan' bid on _him_," and she nodded sidewise at the -vagrant. - -"White folks allers sellin' niggahs to wuk fuh _dem_; I gwine buy a -white man to wuk fuh _me_. En he gwine t' git a mighty hard mistiss, -you heah _me_!" - -The eyes of the sheriff twinkled with delight. - -"Ten dollahs is offahed foh ole King Sol'mon. Is theah any othah bid? -Are you all done?" - -"'Leben," she said. - -Two young ragamuffins crawled among the legs of the crowd up to her -basket and filched pies and cake beneath her very nose. - -"Twelve!" cried the student, laughing. - -"Thirteen!" she laughed too, but her eyes flashed. - -"_You are bidding against a niggah_," whispered the student's companion -in his ear. - -"So I am; let's be off," answered the other, with a hot flush on his -proud face. - -Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed. In a -distant corner of the court-yard the ragged urchins were devouring -their unexpected booty. The old negress drew a red handkerchief out of -her bosom, untied a knot in a corner of it, and counted out the money -to the sheriff. Only she and the vagrant were now left on the spot. - -"You have bought me. What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly. - -"Lohd, honey!" she answered, in a low tone of affectionate chiding, "I -don' wan' you to do _nothin'_! I wuzn' gwine t' 'low dem white folks to -buy you. Dey'd wuk you till you dropped dead. You go 'long en do ez you -please." - -She gave a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at naught the -ends of justice, and, in a voice rich and musical with affection, she -said, as she gave him a little push: - -"You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on home! I be 'long -by-en-by." - -He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water Street, -where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled across the -market-place towards Cheapside, muttering to herself the while: - -"I come mighty nigh gittin' dah too late, foolin' 'long wid dese pies. -Sellin' _him_ 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! If all de men in dis town -dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d' wouldn' be 'nough money in -de town to buy 'em! Don' I see 'em settin' 'roun' dese taverns f'om -mohnin' till night?" - -She snorted out her indignation and disgust, and sitting down on the -sidewalk, under a Lombardy poplar, uncovered her wares and kept the -flies away with a locust bough, not discovering, in her alternating -good and ill humor, that half of them had been filched by her old -tormentors. - -This was the memorable scene enacted in Lexington on that memorable -day of the year 1833--a day that passed so briskly. For whoever met -and spoke together asked the one question: Will the cholera come to -Lexington? And the answer always gave a nervous haste to business--a -keener thrill to pleasure. It was of the cholera that the negro woman -heard two sweet passing ladies speak as she spread her wares on the -sidewalk. They were on their way to a little picture-gallery just -opened opposite M. Giron's ball-room, and in one breath she heard -them discussing their toilets for the evening and in the next several -portraits by Jouett. - -So the day passed, the night came on, and M. Xaupi gave his brilliant -ball. Poor old Xaupi--poor little Frenchman! whirled as a gamin of -Paris through the mazes of the Revolution, and lately come all the way -to Lexington to teach the people how to dance. Hop about blithely on -thy dry legs, basking this night in the waxen radiance of manners and -melodies and graces! Where will be thy tunes and airs to-morrow? Ay, -smile and prompt away! On and on! Swing corners, ladies and gentlemen! -Form the basket! Hands all around! - -While the bows were still darting across the strings, out of the low, -red east there shot a long, tremulous bow of light up towards the -zenith. And then, could human sight have beheld the invisible, it might -have seen hovering over the town, over the ball-room, over M. Xaupi, -the awful presence of the plague. - -But knowing nothing of this, the heated revellers went merrily home -in the chill air of the red and saffron dawn. And knowing nothing -of it also, a man awakened on the door-step of a house opposite the -ball-room, where he had long since fallen asleep. His limbs were -cramped and a shiver ran through his frame. Staggering to his feet, he -made his way down to the house of Free Charlotte, mounted to his room -by means of a stair-way opening on the street, threw off his outer -garments, kicked off his shoes, and taking a bottle from a closet -pressed it several times to his lips with long outward breaths of -satisfaction. Then, casting his great white bulk upon the bed, in a -minute more he had sunk into a heavy sleep--the usual drunken sleep of -old King Solomon. - -He, too, had attended M. Xaupi's ball, in his own way and in his proper -character, being drawn to the place for the pleasure of seeing the -fine ladies arrive and float in, like large white moths of the summer -night; of looking in through the open windows at the many-colored waxen -lights and the snowy arms and shoulders, of having blown out to him -the perfume and the music; not worthy to go in, being the lowest of -the low, but attending from a door-step of the street opposite--with -a certain rich passion in his nature for splendor and revelry and -sensuous beauty. - - - II. - -About 10 o'clock the sunlight entered through the shutters and awoke -him. He threw one arm up over his eyes to intercept the burning rays. -As he lay out-stretched and stripped of grotesque rags, it could be -better seen in what a mould nature had cast his figure. His breast, -bare and tanned, was barred by full, arching ribs and knotted by -crossing muscles; and his shirt-sleeve, falling away to the shoulder -from his bent arm, revealed its crowded muscles in the high relief of -heroic bronze. For, although he had been sold as a vagrant, old King -Solomon had in earlier years followed the trade of a digger of cellars, -and the strenuous use of mattock and spade had developed every sinew to -the utmost. His whole person, now half naked and in repose, was full -of the suggestions of unspent power. Only his face, swollen and red, -only his eyes, bloodshot and dull, bore the impress of wasted vitality. -There, all too plainly stamped, were the passions long since raging and -still on fire. - -The sunlight had stirred him to but a low degree of consciousness, and -some minutes passed before he realized that a stifling, resinous fume -impregnated the air. He sniffed it quickly; through the window seemed -to come the smell of burning tar. He sat up on the edge of the bed and -vainly tried to clear his thoughts. - -The room was a clean but poor habitation--uncarpeted, whitewashed, -with a piece or two of the cheapest furniture, and a row of pegs on -one wall, where usually hung those tattered coats and pantaloons, -miscellaneously collected, that were his purple and fine linen. He -turned his eyes in this direction now and noticed that his clothes were -missing. The old shoes had disappeared from their corner; the cigar -stumps, picked up here and there in the streets according to his wont, -were gone from the mantel-piece. Near the door was a large bundle tied -up in a sheet. In a state of bewilderment, he asked himself what it all -meant. Then a sense of the silence in the street below possessed him. -At this hour he was used to hear noises enough--from Hugh Lonney's new -bath-house on one side, from Harry Sikes's barber-shop on the other. - -A mysterious feeling of terror crept over and helped to sober him. How -long had he lain asleep? By degrees he seemed to remember that two or -three times he had awakened far enough to drink from the bottle under -his pillow, only to sink again into heavier stupefaction. By degrees, -too, he seemed to remember that other things had happened--a driving of -vehicles this way and that, a hurrying of people along the street. He -had thought it the breaking-up of M. Xaupi's ball. More than once had -not some one shaken and tried to arouse him? Through the wall of Harry -Sikes's barber-shop had he not heard cries of pain--sobs of distress? - -He staggered to the window, threw open the shutters, and, kneeling at -the sill, looked out. The street was deserted. The houses opposite were -closed. Cats were sleeping in the silent door-ways. But as he looked up -and down he caught sight of people hurrying along cross-streets. From a -distant lumber-yard came the muffled sound of rapid hammerings. On the -air was the faint roll of vehicles--the hush and the vague noises of a -general terrifying commotion. - -In the middle of the street below him a keg was burning, and, as he -looked, the hoops gave way, the tar spread out like a stream of black -lava, and a cloud of inky smoke and deep-red furious flame burst upward -through the sagging air. Just beneath the window a common cart had -been backed close up to the door of the house. In it had been thrown a -few small articles of furniture, and on the bottom bedclothes had been -spread out as if for a pallet. While he looked old Charlotte hurried -out with a pillow. - -He called down to her in a strange, unsteady voice: - -"What is the matter? What are you doing, Aunt Charlotte?" - -She uttered a cry, dropped the pillow, and stared up at him. Her face -looked dry and wrinkled. - -"My God! De chol'ra's in town! I'm waitin' on you! Dress, en come down -en fetch de bun'le by de dooh." And she hurried back into the house. - -But he continued leaning on his folded arms, his brain stunned by the -shock of the intelligence. Suddenly he leaned far out and looked down -at the closed shutters of the barber-shop. Old Charlotte reappeared. - -"Where is Harry Sikes?" he asked. - -"Dead en buried." - -"When did he die?" - -"Yestidd'y evenin'." - -"What day is this?" - -"Sadd'y." - -M. Xaupi's ball had been on Thursday evening. That night the cholera -had broken out. He had lain in his drunken stupor ever since. Their -talk had lasted but a minute, but she looked up anxiously and urged him. - -"D' ain' no time to was'e, honey! D' ain' no time to was'e. I done got -dis cyart to tek you 'way in, en I be ready to start in a minute. Put -yo' clo'es on en bring de bun'le wid all yo' yudder things in it." - -With incredible activity she climbed into the cart and began to roll -up the bedclothes. In reality she had made up her mind to put him into -the cart, and the pallet had been made for him to lie and finish his -drunken sleep on, while she drove him away to a place of safety. - -Still he did not move from the window-sill. He was thinking of Harry -Sikes, who had shaved him many a time for nothing. Then he suddenly -called down to her: - -"Have many died of the cholera? Are there many cases in town?" - -She went on with her preparations and took no notice of him. He -repeated the question. She got down quickly from the cart and began to -mount the staircase. He went back to bed, pulled the sheet up over him, -and propped himself up among the pillows. Her soft, heavy footsteps -slurred on the stair-way as though her strength were failing, and as -soon as she entered the room she sank into a chair, overcome with -terror. He looked at her with a sudden sense of pity. - -"Don't be frightened," he said, kindly. "It might only make it the -worse for you." - -"I can' he'p it, honey," she answered, wringing her hands and rocking -herself to and fro; "de ole niggah can' he'p it. If de Lohd jes spah -me to git out'n dis town wid you! Honey, ain' you able to put on yo' -clo'es?" - -"You've tied them all up in the sheet." - -"De Lohd he'p de crazy ole niggah!" - -She started up and tugged at the bundle, and laid out a suit of his -clothes, if things so incongruous could be called a suit. - -"Have many people died of the cholera?" - -"Dey been dyin' like sheep ev' since yestidd'y mohnin'--all day, en all -las' night, en dis mohnin'! De man he done lock up de huss, en dey been -buryin' 'em in cyarts. En de grave-diggah he done run away, en hit look -like d' ain' nobody to dig de graves." - -She bent over the bundle, tying again the four corners of the sheet. -Through the window came the sound of the quick hammers driving nails. -She threw up her arms into the air, and then seizing the bundle dragged -it rapidly to the door. - -"You heah dat? Dey nailin' up cawfins in de lumbah-yahd! Put on yo' -clo'es, honey, en come on." - -A resolution had suddenly taken shape in his mind. - -"Go on away and save your life. Don't wait for me; I'm not going. And -good-bye, Aunt Charlotte, in case I don't see you any more. You've been -very kind to me--kinder than I deserved. Where have you put my mattock -and spade?" - -He said this very quietly, and sat up on the edge of the bed, his feet -hanging down, and his hand stretched out towards her. - -"Honey," she explained, coaxingly, from where she stood, "can't you -sobah up a little en put on yo' clo'es? I gwine to tek you 'way to -de country. You don' wan' no tools. You can' dig no cellahs now. De -chol'ra's in town en de people's dyin' like sheep." - -"I expect they will need me," he answered. - -She perceived now that he was sober. For an instant her own fear was -forgotten in an outburst of resentment and indignation. - -"Dig graves fuh 'em, when dey put you up on de block en sell you same -ez you wuz a niggah! Dig graves fuh 'em, when dey allers callin' you -names on de street en makin' fun o' you!" - -"They are not to blame. I have brought it on myself." - -"But we can' stay heah en die o' de chol'ra!" - -"You mustn't stay. You must go away at once." - -"But if I go, who gwine tek cyah o' _you_?" - -"Nobody." - -She came quickly across the room to the bed, fell on her knees, clasped -his feet to her breast, and looked up into his face with an expression -of imploring tenderness. Then, with incoherent cries and with sobs and -tears, she pleaded with him--pleaded for dear life; his and her own. - -It was a strange scene. What historian of the heart will ever be able -to do justice to those peculiar ties which bound the heart of the negro -in years gone by to a race of not always worthy masters? This old -Virginia nurse had known King Solomon when he was a boy playing with -her young master, till that young master died on the way to Kentucky. - -At the death of her mistress she had become free with a little -property. By thrift and industry she had greatly enlarged this. Years -passed and she became the only surviving member of the Virginian -household, which had emigrated early in the century to the Blue-grass -Region. The same wave of emigration had brought in old King Solomon -from the same neighborhood. As she had risen in life, he had sunk. -She sat on the sidewalks selling her fruits and cakes; he sat on the -sidewalks more idle, more ragged and dissolute. On no other basis than -these facts she began to assume a sort of maternal pitying care of him, -patching his rags, letting him have money for his vices, and when, a -year or two before, he had ceased working almost entirely, giving him a -room in her house and taking in payment what he chose to pay. - -He brushed his hand quickly across his eyes as she knelt before him -now, clasping his feet to her bosom. From coaxing him as an intractable -child she had, in the old servile fashion, fallen to imploring him, -with touching forgetfulness of their real relations: - -"O my marseter! O my marseter Solomon! Go 'way en save yo' life, en tek -yo' po' ole niggah wid you!" - -But his resolution was formed, and he refused to go. A hurried footstep -paused beneath the window and a loud voice called up. The old nurse got -up and went to the window. A man was standing by the cart at her door. - -"For God's sake let me have this cart to take my wife and little -children away to the country! There is not a vehicle to be had in town. -I will pay you--" He stopped, seeing the distress on her face. - -"Is he dead?" he asked, for he knew of her care of old King Solomon. - -"He _will_ die!" she sobbed. "Tilt de t'ings out on de pavement. I -gwine t' stay wid 'im en tek cyah o' 'im." - - - III. - -A little later, dressed once more in grotesque rags and carrying on his -shoulder a rusty mattock and a rusty spade, old King Solomon appeared -in the street below and stood looking up and down it with an air of -anxious indecision. Then shuffling along rapidly to the corner of Mill -Street, he turned up towards Main. - -Here a full sense of the terror came to him. A man, hurrying along with -his head down, ran full against him and cursed him for the delay: - -"Get out of my way, you old beast!" he cried. "If the cholera would -carry you off it would be a blessing to the town." - -Two or three little children, already orphaned and hungry, wandered -past, crying and wringing their hands. A crowd of negro men with the -muscles of athletes, some with naked arms, some naked to the waist, -their eyes dilated, their mouths hanging open, sped along in tumultuous -disorder. The plague had broken out in the hemp factory and scattered -them beyond control. - -He grew suddenly faint and sick. His senses swam, his heart seemed to -cease beating, his tongue burned, his throat was dry, his spine like -ice. For a moment the contagion of deadly fear overcame him, and, -unable to stand, he reeled to the edge of the sidewalk and sat down. - -Before him along the street passed the flying people--men on horseback -with their wives behind and children in front, families in carts and -wagons, merchants in two-wheeled gigs and sulkies. A huge red and -yellow stage-coach rolled ponderously by, filled within, on top, in -front, and behind with a company of riotous students of law and of -medicine. A rapid chorus of voices shouted to him as they passed: - -"Good-bye, Solomon!" - -"The cholera'll have you befoah sunset!" - -"Better be diggin' yoah grave, Solomon! That 'll be yoah last cellah." - -"Dig us a big wine cellah undah the Medical Hall while we are away." - -"And leave yo' body there! We want yo' skeleton." - -"Good-bye, old Solomon!" - -A wretched carry-all passed with a household of more wretched women; -their tawdry and gay attire, their haggard and painted and ghastly -faces, looking horrible in the blaze of the pitiless sunlight. They, -too, simpered and hailed him and spent upon him their hardened and -degraded badinage. Then there rolled by a high-swung carriage, with -the most luxurious of cushions, upholstered with morocco, with a -coat-of-arms, a driver and a footman in livery, and drawn by sparkling, -prancing horses. Lying back on the satin cushions a fine gentleman; at -the window of the carriage two rosy children, who pointed their fingers -at the vagrant and turned and looked into their father's face, so that -he leaned forward, smiled, leaned back again, and was whirled away to a -place of safety. - -Thus they passed him, as he sat down on the sidewalk--even physicians -from their patients, pastors from their stricken flocks. Why should -not he flee? He had no ties, except the faithful affection of an old -negress. Should he not at least save her life by going away, seeing -that she would not leave him? - -The orphaned children wandered past again, sobbing more wearily. He -called them to him. - -"Why do you not go home? Where is your mother?" he asked. - -"She is dead in the house," they answered; "and no one has come to bury -her." - -Slowly down the street was coming a short funeral train. It passed--a -rude cortege: a common cart, in the bottom of which rested a box of -plain boards containing the body of the old French dancing-master; -walking behind it, with a cambric handkerchief to his eyes, the old -French confectioner; at his side, wearing the robes of his office and -carrying an umbrella to ward off the burning sun, the beloved Bishop -Smith; and behind them, two by two and with linked arms, perhaps a -dozen men, most of whom had been at the ball. - -No head was lifted or eye turned to notice the vagrant seated on the -sidewalk. But when the train had passed he rose, laid his mattock and -spade across his shoulder, and, stepping out into the street, fell into -line at the end of the procession. - -They moved down Short Street to the old burying-ground, where the -Baptist church-yard is to-day. As they entered it, two grave-diggers -passed out and hurried away. Those before them had fled. They had been -at work but a few hours. Overcome with horror at the sight of the dead -arriving more and more rapidly, they, too, deserted that post of peril. -No one was left. Here and there in the church-yard could be seen bodies -awaiting interment. Old King Solomon stepped quietly forward and, -getting down into one of the half-finished graves, began to dig. - -The vagrant had happened upon an avocation. - - - IV. - -All summer long, Clatterbuck's dancing-pavilion was as silent in its -grove of oaks as a temple of the Druids, and his pleasure-boat nestled -in its moorings, with no hand to feather an oar in the little lake. All -summer long, no athletic young Kentuckians came to bathe their white -bodies in Hugh Lonney's new bath-house for twelve and a half cents, -and no one read Daukins Tegway's advertisement that he was willing -to exchange his Dunstable bonnets for flax and feathers. The likely -runaway boy, with a long, fresh scar across his face, was never found, -nor the buffalo bull roasted for Daniel Webster, and Peter Leuba's -guitars were never thrummed on any moonlit verandas. Only Dewees and -Grant were busy, dispensing, not snuff, but calomel. - -Grass grew in the deserted streets. Gardens became little wildernesses -of rank weeds and riotous creepers. Around shut window-lattices roses -clambered and shed their perfume into the poisoned air, or dropped -their faded petals to strew the echoless thresholds. In darkened rooms -family portraits gazed on sad vacancy or looked helplessly down on -rigid sheeted forms. - -In the trees of poplar and locust along the streets the unmolested -birds built and brooded. The oriole swung its hempen nest from a bough -over the door of the spider-tenanted factory, and in front of the old -Medical Hall the blue-jay shot up his angry crest and screamed harshly -down at the passing bier. In a cage hung against the wall of a house in -a retired street a mocking-bird sung, beat its breast against the bars, -sung more passionately, grew silent and dropped dead from its perch, -never knowing that its mistress had long since become a clod to its -full-throated requiem. - -Famine lurked in the wake of the pestilence. Markets were closed. A -few shops were kept open to furnish necessary supplies. Now and then -some old negro might have been seen, driving a meat-wagon in from the -country, his nostrils stuffed with white cotton saturated with camphor. -Oftener the only visible figure in the streets was that of a faithful -priest going about among his perishing fold, or that of the bishop -moving hither and thither on his ceaseless ministrations. - -But over all the ravages of that terrible time there towered highest -the solitary figure of that powerful grave-digger, who, nerved by the -spectacle of the common misfortune, by one heroic effort rose for the -time above the wrecks of his own nature. In the thick of the plague, -in the very garden spot of the pestilence, he ruled like an unterrified -king. Through days unnaturally chill with gray cloud and drizzling -rain, or unnaturally hot with the fierce sun and suffocating damps -that appeared to steam forth from subterranean caldrons, he worked -unfaltering, sometimes with a helper, sometimes with none. There were -times when, exhausted, he would lie down in the half-dug graves and -there sleep until able to go on; and many a midnight found him under -the spectral moon, all but hidden by the rank nightshade as he bent -over to mark out the lines of one of those narrow mortal cellars. - -What weaknesses he fought and conquered through those days and nights! -Out of what unforeseen depths of nature did he draw the tough fibre of -such a resolution! To be alone with the pestilential dead at night--is -not that a test of imperial courage? To live for weeks braving swift -death itself--is not that the fierce and ungovernable flaring up of the -soul in heroism? For all the mockery and derision of his name, had it -not some fitness? For had he not a royal heart? - - - V. - -Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our graves with -flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when the spring returns. - -It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The air -blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there were no -corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the plague. A spectator -in the open court-square might have seen many signs of life returning -to the town. Students hurried along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for -the first time and spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly -and neatly dressed, came into the market-place, and sitting down on a -sidewalk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant gingerbread. -She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in her soft, motherly -black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A group of young ragamuffins -eyed her longingly from a distance. Court was to open for the first -time since the spring. The hour was early, and one by one the lawyers -passed slowly in. On the steps of the court-house three men were -standing: Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just -walked over from his music-store on Main Street; and little M. Giron, -the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his hat, and their -voices were low and grave. - -"Gentlemen," the sheriff was saying, "it was on this very spot the day -befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a vagrant. An' I did -the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I hel' 'im up to public ridicule -foh his weaknesses an' made spoht of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is -povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I delivahed on 'im as complete an oration -of sarcastic detraction as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own -meanness an' with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if -I only had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the -midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public apology, -offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself unworthy to shake 'is -han'! But, gentlemen, that crowd will nevah reassemble. Neahly ev'ry -man of them is dead, an' ole King Sol'mon buried them." - -"He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi," said François Giron, touching his -eyes with his handkerchief. - -"There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever he comes for -it," said old Leuba, clearing his throat. - -"But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon we ought -not to fohget who it is that has supported 'im. Yondah she sits on the -sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread." - -The three men looked in the direction indicated. - -"Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now," exclaimed the sheriff. - -Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly along with -his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation. A minute more and -he had come over and passed into the court-house by a side door. - -"Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day?" - -"He is expected, I think." - -"Then let's go in; there will be a crowd." - -"I don't know; so many are dead." - -They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as possible; for a -strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court-room. Until the bar -assembled, it had not been realized how many were gone. The silence was -that of a common overwhelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor, -no one observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat -on one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. He had -not sat there since the day of his indictment for vagrancy. The judge -took his seat and, making a great effort to control himself, passed his -eyes slowly over the court-room. All at once he caught sight of old -King Solomon sitting against the wall in an obscure corner; and before -any one could know what he was doing, he hurried down and walked up to -the vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not. Old -King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter--buried them one clouded -midnight, with no one present but himself. - -Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed the example; -and then the other members, rising by a common impulse, filed slowly -back and one by one wrung that hard and powerful hand. After them came -the other persons in the court-room. The vagrant, the grave-digger, -had risen and stood against the wall, at first with a white face and -a dazed expression, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he -understood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell -thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his were not -the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid his tribute of -emotion as he stepped forward to honor that image of sadly eclipsed -but still effulgent humanity. It was not grief, it was not gratitude, -nor any sense of making reparation for the past. It was the softening -influence of an act of heroism, which makes every man feel himself a -brother hand in hand with every other--such power has a single act of -moral greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting up one, and -bringing all others to do him homage. - -It was the coronation scene in the life of old King Solomon of -Kentucky. - - - - - TWO GENTLEMEN OF KENTUCKY. - - - "The woods are hushed, their music is no more: - The leaf is dead, the yearning passed away: - New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: - New life, new love, to suit the newer day." - - - THE WOODS ARE HUSHED. - -It was near the middle of the afternoon of an autumnal day, on the -wide, grassy plateau of Central Kentucky. - -The Eternal Power seemed to have quitted the universe and left all -nature folded in the calm of the Eternal Peace. Around the pale blue -dome of the heavens a few pearl-colored clouds hung motionless, as -though the wind had been withdrawn to other skies. Not a crimson leaf -floated downward through the soft, silvery light that filled the -atmosphere and created the sense of lonely, unimaginable spaces. This -light overhung the far-rolling landscape of field and meadow and wood, -crowning with faint radiance the remoter low-swelling hill-tops and -deepening into dreamy half-shadows on their eastern slopes. Nearer, it -fell in a white flake on an unstirred sheet of water which lay along -the edge of a mass of sombre-hued woodland, and nearer still it touched -to spring-like brilliancy a level, green meadow on the hither edge of -the water, where a group of Durham cattle stood with reversed flanks -near the gleaming trunks of some leafless sycamores. Still nearer, -it caught the top of the brown foliage of a little bent oaktree and -burned it into a silvery flame. It lit on the back and the wings of a -crow flying heavily in the path of its rays, and made his blackness as -white as the breast of a swan. In the immediate foreground, it sparkled -in minute gleams along the stalks of the coarse, dead weeds that fell -away from the legs and the flanks of a white horse, and slanted across -the face of the rider and through the ends of his gray hair, which -straggled from beneath his soft black hat. - -The horse, old and patient and gentle, stood with low-stretched neck -and closed eyes half asleep in the faint glow of the waning heat; and -the rider, the sole human presence in all the field, sat looking across -the silent autumnal landscape, sunk in reverie. Both horse and rider -seemed but harmonious elements in the panorama of still-life, and -completed the picture of a closing scene. - -To the man it was a closing scene. From the rank, fallow field through -which he had been riding he was now surveying, for the last time, the -many features of a landscape that had been familiar to him from the -beginning of memory. In the afternoon and the autumn of his age he was -about to rend the last ties that bound him to his former life, and, -like one who had survived his own destiny, turn his face towards a -future that was void of everything he held significant or dear. - -The Civil War had only the year before reached its ever-memorable -close. From where he sat there was not a home in sight, as there was -not one beyond the reach of his vision, but had felt its influence. -Some of his neighbors had come home from its camps and prisons, aged -or altered as though by half a lifetime of years. The bones of some -lay whitening on its battle-fields. Families, reassembled around their -hearth-stones, spoke in low tones unceasingly of defeat and victory, -heroism and death. Suspicion and distrust and estrangement prevailed. -Former friends met each other on the turnpikes without speaking; -brothers avoided each other in the streets of the neighboring town. -The rich had grown poor; the poor had become rich. Many of the latter -were preparing to move West. The negroes were drifting blindly hither -and thither, deserting the country and flocking to the towns. Even the -once united church of his neighborhood was jarred by the unstrung and -discordant spirit of the times. At affecting passages in the sermons -men grew pale and set their teeth fiercely; women suddenly lowered -their black veils and rocked to and fro in their pews; for it is always -at the bar of Conscience and before the very altar of God that the -human heart is most wrung by a sense of its losses and the memory of -its wrongs. The war had divided the people of Kentucky as the false -mother would have severed the child. - -It had not left the old man unscathed. His younger brother had fallen -early in the conflict, borne to the end of his brief warfare by his -impetuous valor; his aged mother had sunk under the tidings of the -death of her latest-born; his sister was estranged from him by his -political differences with her husband; his old family servants, men -and women, had left him, and grass and weeds had already grown over -the door-steps of the shut, noiseless cabins. Nay, the whole vast -social system of the old régime had fallen, and he was henceforth but a -useless fragment of the ruins. - -All at once his mind turned from the cracked and smoky mirror of -the times and dwelt fondly upon the scenes of the past. The silent -fields around him seemed again alive with the negroes, singing as they -followed the ploughs down the corn-rows or swung the cradles through -the bearded wheat. Again, in a frenzy of merriment, the strains of the -old fiddles issued from crevices of cabin-doors to the rhythmic beat of -hands and feet that shook the rafters and the roof. Now he was sitting -on his porch, and one little negro was blacking his shoes, another -leading his saddle-horse to the stiles, a third bringing his hat, and -a fourth handing him a glass of ice-cold sangaree; or now he lay under -the locust-trees in his yard, falling asleep in the drowsy heat of the -summer afternoon, while one waved over him a bough of pungent walnut -leaves, until he lost consciousness and by-and-by awoke to find that -they both had fallen asleep side by side on the grass and that the -abandoned fly-brush lay full across his face. - -From where he sat also were seen slopes on which picnics were danced -under the broad shade of maples and elms in June by those whom death -and war had scattered like the transitory leaves that once had -sheltered them. In this direction lay the district schoolhouse where on -Friday evenings there were wont to be speeches and debates; in that, -lay the blacksmith's shop where of old he and his neighbors had met -on horseback of Saturday afternoons to hear the news, get the mails, -discuss elections, and pitch quoits. In the valley beyond stood the -church at which all had assembled on calm Sunday mornings like the -members of one united family. Along with these scenes went many a -chastened reminiscence of bridal and funeral and simpler events that -had made up the annals of his country life. - -The reader will have a clearer insight into the character and past -career of Colonel Romulus Fields by remembering that he represented a -fair type of that social order which had existed in rank perfection -over the blue-grass plains of Kentucky during the final decades of the -old régime. Perhaps of all agriculturists in the United States the -inhabitants of that region had spent the most nearly idyllic life, on -account of the beauty of the climate, the richness of the land, the -spacious comfort of their homes, the efficiency of their negroes, and -the characteristic contentedness of their dispositions. Thus nature and -history combined to make them a peculiar class, a cross between the -aristocratic and the bucolic, being as simple as shepherds and as proud -as kings, and not seldom exhibiting among both men and women types of -character which were as remarkable for pure, tender, noble states of -feeling as they were commonplace in powers and cultivation of mind. - -It was upon this luxurious social growth that the war naturally fell -as a killing frost, and upon no single specimen with more blighting -power than upon Colonel Fields. For destiny had quarried and chiselled -him, to serve as an ornament in the barbaric temple of human bondage. -There _were_ ornaments in that temple, and he was one. A slave-holder -with Southern sympathies, a man educated not beyond the ideas of his -generation, convinced that slavery was an evil, yet seeing no present -way of removing it, he had of all things been a model master. As such -he had gone on record in Kentucky, and no doubt in a Higher Court; -and as such his efforts had been put forth to secure the passage -of many of those milder laws for which his State was distinguished. -Often, in those dark days, his face, anxious and sad, was to be seen -amid the throng that surrounded the blocks on which slaves were sold -at auction; and more than one poor wretch he had bought to save him -from separation from his family or from being sold into the Southern -plantations--afterwards riding far and near to find him a home on one -of the neighboring farms. - -But all those days were over. He had but to place the whole picture of -the present beside the whole picture of the past to realize what the -contrast meant for him. - -At length he gathered the bridle reins from the neck of his old horse -and turned his head homeward. As he rode slowly on, every spot gave -up its memories. He dismounted when he came to the cattle and walked -among them, stroking their soft flanks and feeling in the palm of his -hand the rasp of their salt-loving tongues; on his sideboard at home -was many a silver cup which told of premiums on cattle at the great -fairs. It was in this very pond that as a boy he had learned to swim on -a cherry rail. When he entered the woods, the sight of the walnut-trees -and the hickory-nut trees, loaded on the topmost branches, gave him a -sudden pang. - -Beyond the woods he came upon the garden, which he had kept as his -mother had left it--an old-fashioned garden with an arbor in the -centre, covered with Isabella grape-vines on one side and Catawba on -the other; with walks branching thence in four directions, and along -them beds of jump-up-johnnies, sweet-williams, daffodils, sweet-peas, -larkspur, and thyme, flags and the sensitive-plant, celestial and -maiden's-blush roses. He stopped and looked over the fence at the very -spot where he had found his mother on the day when the news of the -battle came. - -She had been kneeling, trowel in hand, driving away vigorously at the -loamy earth, and, as she saw him coming, had risen and turned towards -him her face with the ancient pink bloom on her clear cheeks and the -light of a pure, strong soul in her gentle eyes. Overcome by his -emotions, he had blindly faltered out the words, "Mother, John was -among the killed!" For a moment she had looked at him as though stunned -by a blow. Then a violent flush had overspread her features, and then -an ashen pallor; after which, with a sudden proud dilating of her -form as though with joy, she had sunk down like the tenderest of her -lily-stalks, cut from its root. - -Beyond the garden he came to the empty cabin and the great wood-pile. -At this hour it used to be a scene of hilarious activity--the little -negroes sitting perched in chattering groups on the topmost logs or -playing leap-frog in the dust, while some picked up baskets of chips or -dragged a back-log into the cabins. - -At last he drew near the wooden stiles and saw the large house of which -he was the solitary occupant. What darkened rooms and noiseless halls! -What beds, all ready, that nobody now came to sleep in, and cushioned -old chairs that nobody rocked! The house and the contents of its attic, -presses, and drawers could have told much of the history of Kentucky -from almost its beginning; for its foundations had been laid by his -father near the beginning of the century, and through its doors had -passed a long train of forms, from the veterans of the Revolution -to the soldiers of the Civil War. Old coats hung up in closets; old -dresses folded away in drawers; saddle-bags and buckskin-leggins; -hunting-jackets, powder-horns, and militiamen hats; looms and -knitting-needles; snuffboxes and reticules--what a treasure-house of -the past it was! And now the only thing that had the springs of life -within its bosom was the great, sweet-voiced clock, whose faithful face -had kept unchanged amid all the swift pageantry of changes. - -He dismounted at the stiles and handed the reins to a gray-haired -negro, who had hobbled up to receive them with a smile and a gesture of -the deepest respect. - -"Peter," he said, very simply, "I am going to sell the place and move -to town. I can't live here any longer." - -With these words he passed through the yard-gate, walked slowly up the -broad pavement, and entered the house. - - - MUSIC NO MORE. - -On the disappearing form of the colonel was fixed an ancient pair of -eyes that looked out at him from behind a still more ancient pair of -silver-rimmed spectacles with an expression of indescribable solicitude -and love. - -These eyes were set in the head of an old gentleman--for such he -was--named Peter Cotton, who was the only one of the colonel's -former slaves that had remained inseparable from his person and his -altered fortunes. In early manhood Peter had been a wood-chopper; -but he had one day had his leg broken by the limb of a falling tree, -and afterwards, out of consideration for his limp, had been made -supervisor of the wood-pile, gardener, and a sort of nondescript -servitor of his master's luxurious needs. - -Nay, in larger and deeper characters must his history be writ, he -having been, in days gone by, one of those ministers of the gospel whom -conscientious Kentucky masters often urged to the exercise of spiritual -functions in behalf of their benighted people. In course of preparation -for this august work, Peter had learned to read and had come to -possess a well-chosen library of three several volumes--_Webster's -Spelling-Book_, _The Pilgrim's Progress_, and the Bible. But even these -unusual acquisitions he deemed not enough; for being touched with a -spark of poetic fire from heaven, and fired by the African's fondness -for all that is conspicuous in dress, he had conceived for himself -the creation of a unique garment which should symbolize in perfection -the claims and consolations of his apostolic office. This was nothing -less than a sacred blue-jeans coat that he had had his old mistress -make him, with very long and spacious tails, whereon, at his further -direction, she embroidered sundry texts of Scripture which it pleased -him to regard as the fit visible annunciations of his holy calling. -And inasmuch as his mistress, who had had the coat woven on her own -looms from the wool of her finest sheep, was, like other gentlewomen -of her time, rarely skilled in the accomplishments of the needle, -and was moreover in full sympathy with the piety of his intent, she -wrought of these passages a border enriched with such intricate curves, -marvellous flourishes, and harmonious letterings, that Solomon never -reflected the glory in which Peter was arrayed whenever he put it on. -For after much prayer that the Almighty wisdom would aid his reason -in the difficult task of selecting the most appropriate texts, Peter -had chosen seven--one for each day in the week--with such tact, and -no doubt heavenly guidance, that when braided together they did truly -constitute an eloquent epitome of Christian duty, hope, and pleading. - -From first to last they were as follows: "Woe is unto me if I preach -not the gospel;" "Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters -according to the flesh;" "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are -heavy laden;" "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they -toil not, neither do they spin;" "Now abideth faith, hope, and charity, -these three; but the greatest of these is charity;" "I would not have -you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep;" -"For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive." -This concatenation of texts Peter wished to have duly solemnized, -and therefore, when the work was finished, he further requested his -mistress to close the entire chain with the word "Amen," introduced in -some suitable place. - -But the only spot now left vacant was one of a few square inches, -located just where the coat-tails hung over the end of Peter's spine; -so that when any one stood full in Peter's rear, he could but marvel at -the sight of so solemn a word emblazoned in so unusual a locality. - -Panoplied in this robe of righteousness, and with a worn leathern Bible -in his hand, Peter used to go around of Sundays, and during the week, -by night, preaching from cabin to cabin the gospel of his heavenly -Master. - -The angriest lightnings of the sultriest skies often played amid the -darkness upon those sacred coat-tails and around that girdle of -everlasting texts, as though the evil spirits of the air would fain -have burned them and scattered their ashes on the roaring winds. The -slow-sifting snows of winter whitened them as though to chill their -spiritual fires; but winter and summer, year after year, in weariness -of body, often in sore distress of mind, for miles along this lonely -road and for miles across that rugged way, Peter trudged on and on, -withal perhaps as meek a spirit as ever grew foot sore in the paths -of its Master. Many a poor overburdened slave took fresh heart and -strength from the sight of that celestial raiment; many a stubborn, -rebellious spirit, whose flesh but lately quivered under the lash, was -brought low by its humble teaching; many a worn-out old frame, racked -with pain in its last illness, pressed a fevered lip to its hopeful -hem; and many a dying eye closed in death peacefully fixed on its -immortal pledges. - -When Peter started abroad, if a storm threatened, he carried an old -cotton umbrella of immense size; and as the storm burst, he gathered -the tails of his coat carefully up under his armpits that they might be -kept dry. Or if caught by a tempest without his umbrella, he would take -his coat off and roll it up inside out, leaving his body exposed to the -fury of the elements. No care, however, could keep it from growing old -and worn and faded; and when the slaves were set free and he was called -upon by the interposition of Providence to lay it finally aside, it was -covered by many a patch and stain as proofs of its devoted usage. - -One after another the colonel's old servants, gathering their children -about them, had left him, to begin their new life. He bade them all a -kind good-bye, and into the palm of each silently pressed some gift -that he knew would soon be needed. But no inducement could make Peter -or Phillis, his wife, budge from their cabin. "Go, Peter! Go, Phillis!" -the colonel had said time and again. "No one is happier that you are -free than I am; and you can call on me for what you need to set you -up in business." But Peter and Phillis asked to stay with him. Then -suddenly, several months before the time at which this sketch opens, -Phillis had died, leaving the colonel and Peter as the only relics of -that populous life which had once filled the house and the cabins. The -colonel had succeeded in hiring a woman to do Phillis's work; but her -presence was a strange note of discord in the old domestic harmony, and -only saddened the recollections of its vanished peace. - -Peter had a short, stout figure, dark-brown skin, smooth-shaven face, -eyes round, deep-set and wide apart, and a short, stub nose which -dipped suddenly into his head, making it easy for him to wear the -silver-rimmed spectacles left him by his old mistress. A peculiar -conformation of the muscles between the eyes and the nose gave him -the quizzical expression of one who is about to sneeze, and this was -heightened by a twinkle in the eyes which seemed caught from the -shining of an inner sun upon his tranquil heart. - -Sometimes, however, his face grew sad enough. It was sad on this -afternoon while he watched the colonel walk slowly up the pavement, -well overgrown with weeds, and enter the house, which the setting sun -touched with the last radiance of the finished day. - - - NEW LIFE. - -About two years after the close of the war, therefore, the colonel and -Peter were to be found in Lexington, ready to turn over a new leaf in -the volumes of their lives, which already had an old-fashioned binding, -a somewhat musty odor, and but few unwritten leaves remaining. - -After a long, dry summer you may have seen two gnarled old apple-trees, -that stood with interlocked arms on the western slope of some quiet -hill-side, make a melancholy show of blooming out again in the autumn -of the year and dallying with the idle buds that mock their sapless -branches. Much the same was the belated, fruitless efflorescence of the -colonel and Peter. - -The colonel had no business habits, no political ambition, no wish to -grow richer. He was too old for society, and without near family ties. -For some time he wandered through the streets like one lost--sick with -yearning for the fields and woods, for his cattle, for familiar faces. -He haunted Cheapside and the court-house square, where the farmers -always assembled when they came to town; and if his eye lighted on -one, he would button-hole him on the street-corner and lead him into -a grocery and sit down for a quiet chat. Sometimes he would meet an -aimless, melancholy wanderer like himself, and the two would go off -and discuss over and over again their departed days; and several times -he came unexpectedly upon some of his old servants who had fallen into -bitter want, and who more than repaid him for the help he gave by -contrasting the hardships of a life of freedom with the ease of their -shackled years. - -In the course of time, he could but observe that human life in the town -was reshaping itself slowly and painfully, but with resolute energy. -The colossal structure of slavery had fallen, scattering its ruins far -and wide over the State; but out of the very débris was being taken -the material to lay the deeper foundations of the new social edifice. -Men and women as old as he were beginning life over and trying to fit -themselves for it by changing the whole attitude and habit of their -minds--by taking on a new heart and spirit. But when a great building -falls, there is always some rubbish, and the colonel and others like -him were part of this. Henceforth they possessed only an antiquarian -sort of interest, like the stamped bricks of Nebuchadnezzar. - -Nevertheless he made a show of doing something, and in a year or two -opened on Cheapside a store for the sale of hardware and agricultural -implements. He knew more about the latter than anything else; and, -furthermore, he secretly felt that a business of this kind would enable -him to establish in town a kind of headquarters for the farmers. His -account-books were to be kept on a system of twelve months' credit; and -he resolved that if one of his customers couldn't pay then, it would -make no difference. - -Business began slowly. The farmers dropped in and found a good -lounging-place. On county-court days, which were great market-days for -the sale of sheep, horses, mules, and cattle in front of the colonel's -door, they swarmed in from the hot sun and sat around on the counter -and the ploughs and machines till the entrance was blocked to other -customers. - -When a customer did come in, the colonel, who was probably talking with -some old acquaintance, would tell him just to look around and pick -out what he wanted and the price would be all right. If one of those -acquaintances asked for a pound of nails, the colonel would scoop up -some ten pounds and say, "I reckon that's about a pound, Tom." He had -never seen a pound of nails in his life; and if one had been weighed on -his scales, he would have said the scales were wrong. - -He had no great idea of commercial despatch. One morning a lady came in -for some carpet-tacks, an article that he had forgotten to lay in. But -he at once sent off an order for enough to have tacked a carpet pretty -well all over Kentucky; and when they came, two weeks later, he told -Peter to take her up a dozen papers with his compliments. He had laid -in, however, an ample and especially fine assortment of pocket-knives, -for that instrument had always been to him one of gracious and very -winning qualities. Then when a friend dropped in he would say, -"General, don't you need a new pocket-knife?" and, taking out one, -would open all the blades and commend the metal and the handle. The -"general" would inquire the price, and the colonel, having shut the -blades, would hand it to him, saying in a careless, fond way, "I reckon -I won't charge you anything for that." His mind could not come down to -the low level of such ignoble barter, and he gave away the whole case -of knives. - -These were the pleasanter aspects of his business life which did not -lack as well its tedium and crosses. Thus there were many dark stormy -days when no one he cared to see came in; and he then became rather a -pathetic figure, wandering absently around amid the symbols of his past -activity, and stroking the ploughs, like dumb companions. Or he would -stand at the door and look across at the old court-house, where he had -seen many a slave sold and had listened to the great Kentucky orators. - -But what hurt him most was the talk of the new farming and the abuse of -the old which he was forced to hear; and he generally refused to handle -the improved implements and mechanical devices by which labor and waste -were to be saved. - -Altogether he grew tired of "the thing," and sold out at the end of the -year with a loss of over a thousand dollars, though he insisted he had -done a good business. - -As he was then seen much on the streets again and several times heard -to make remarks in regard to the sidewalks, gutters, and crossings, -when they happened to be in bad condition, the _Daily Press_ one -morning published a card stating that if Colonel Romulus Fields would -consent to make the race for mayor he would receive the support of many -Democrats, adding a tribute to his virtues and his influential past. It -touched the colonel, and he walked down-town with a rather commanding -figure the next morning. But it pained him to see how many of his -acquaintances returned his salutations very coldly; and just as he was -passing the Northern Bank he met the young opposition candidate--a -little red-haired fellow, walking between two ladies, with a rose-bud -in his button-hole--who refused to speak at all, but made the ladies -laugh by some remark he uttered as the colonel passed. The card had -been inserted humorously, but he took it seriously; and when his -friends found this out, they rallied round him. The day of election -drew near. They told him he must buy votes. He said he wouldn't buy -a vote to be mayor of the New Jerusalem. They told him he must "mix" -and "treat." He refused. Foreseeing he had no chance, they besought -him to withdraw. He said he would not. They told him he wouldn't poll -twenty votes. He replied that _one_ would satisfy him, provided it was -neither begged nor bought. When his defeat was announced, he accepted -it as another evidence that he had no part in the present--no chance of -redeeming his idleness. - -A sense of this weighed heavily on him at times; but it is not likely -that he realized how pitifully he was undergoing a moral shrinkage -in consequence of mere disuse. Actually, extinction had set in with -him long prior to dissolution, and he was dead years before his heart -ceased beating. The very basic virtues on which had rested his once -spacious and stately character were now but the mouldy corner-stones of -a crumbling ruin. - -It was a subtle evidence of deterioration in manliness that he had -taken to dress. When he had lived in the country, he had never dressed -up unless he came to town. When he had moved to town, he thought he -must remain dressed up all the time; and this fact first fixed his -attention on a matter which afterwards began to be loved for its -own sake. Usually he wore a Derby hat, a black diagonal coat, gray -trousers, and a white necktie. But the article of attire in which he -took chief pleasure was hose; and the better to show the gay colors of -these, he wore low-cut shoes of the finest calf-skin, turned up at the -toes. Thus his feet kept pace with the present, however far his head -may have lagged in the past; and it may be that this stream of fresh -fashions, flowing perennially over his lower extremities like water -about the roots of a tree, kept him from drying up altogether. - -Peter always polished his shoes with too much blacking, perhaps -thinking that the more the blacking the greater the proof of love. He -wore his clothes about a season and a half--having several suits--and -then passed them on to Peter, who, foreseeing the joy of such an -inheritance, bought no new ones. In the act of transferring them the -colonel made no comment until he came to the hose, from which he seemed -unable to part without a final tribute of esteem, as: "These are fine, -Peter;" or, "Peter, these are nearly as good as new." Thus Peter, too, -was dragged through the whims of fashion. To have seen the colonel -walking about his grounds and garden followed by Peter, just a year and -a half behind in dress and a yard and a half behind in space, one might -well have taken the rear figure for the colonel's double, slightly the -worse for wear, somewhat shrunken, and cast into a heavy shadow. - -Time hung so heavily on his hands at night that with a happy -inspiration he added a dress suit to his wardrobe, and accepted the -first invitation to an evening party. - -He grew excited as the hour approached, and dressed in a great fidget -for fear he should be too late. - -"How do I look, Peter?" he inquired at length, surprised at his own -appearance. - -"Splendid, Marse Rom," replied Peter, bringing in the shoes with more -blacking on them than ever before. - -"I think," said the colonel, apologetically--"I think I'd look better -if I'd put a little powder on. I don't know what makes me so red in the -face." - -But his heart began to sink before he reached his hostess's, and -he had a fearful sense of being the observed of all observers as he -slipped through the hall and passed rapidly up to the gentlemen's room. -He stayed there after the others had gone down, bewildered and lonely, -dreading to go down himself. By-and-by the musicians struck up a waltz, -and with a little cracked laugh at his own performance he cut a few -shines of an unremembered pattern; but his ankles snapped audibly, and -he suddenly stopped with the thought of what Peter would say if he -should catch him at these antics. Then he boldly went down-stairs. - -He had touched the new human life around him at various points: as he -now stretched out his arms towards its society, for the first time he -completely realized how far removed it was from him. Here he saw a -younger generation--the flowers of the new social order--sprung from -the very soil of fraternal battle-fields, but blooming together as -the emblems of oblivious peace. He saw fathers, who had fought madly -on opposite sides, talking quietly in corners as they watched their -children dancing, or heard them toasting their old generals and their -campaigns over their champagne in the supper-room. He was glad of it; -but it made him feel, at the same time, that, instead of treading -the velvety floors, he ought to step up and take his place among the -canvases of old-time portraits that looked down from the walls. - -The dancing he had done had been not under the blinding glare of -gaslight, but by the glimmer of tallow-dips and star-candles and the -ruddy glow of cavernous firesides--not to the accompaniment of an -orchestra of wind-instruments and strings, but to a chorus of girls' -sweet voices, as they trod simpler measures, or to the maddening sway -of a gray-haired negro fiddler standing on a chair in the chimney -corner. Still, it is significant to note that his saddest thought, long -after leaving, was that his shirt bosom had not lain down smooth, but -stuck out like a huge cracked egg-shell; and that when, in imitation of -the others, he had laid his white silk handkerchief across his bosom -inside his vest, it had slipped out during the evening, and had been -found by him, on confronting a mirror, flapping over his stomach like a -little white masonic apron. - -"Did you have a nice time, Marse Rom?" inquired Peter, as they drove -home through the darkness. - -"Splendid time, Peter, splendid time," replied the colonel, nervously. - -"Did you dance any, Marse Rom?" - -"I didn't _dance_. Oh, I _could_ have danced if I'd _wanted_ to; but I -didn't." - -Peter helped the colonel out of the carriage with pitying gentleness -when they reached home. It was the first and only party. - -Peter also had been finding out that his occupation was gone. - -Soon after moving to town, he had tendered his pastoral services -to one of the fashionable churches of the city--not because it was -fashionable, but because it was made up of his brethren. In reply -he was invited to preach a trial sermon, which he did with gracious -unction. - -It was a strange scene, as one calm Sunday morning he stood on the edge -of the pulpit, dressed in a suit of the colonel's old clothes, with one -hand in his trousers-pocket, and his lame leg set a little forward at -an angle familiar to those who know the statues of Henry Clay. - -How self-possessed he seemed, yet with what a rush of memories did -he pass his eyes slowly over that vast assemblage of his emancipated -people! With what feelings must he have contrasted those silk hats, -and walking-canes, and broadcloths; those gloves and satins, laces -and feathers, jewelry and fans--that whole many-colored panorama of -life--with the weary, sad, and sullen audiences that had often heard -him of old under the forest trees or by the banks of some turbulent -stream! - -In a voice husky, but heard beyond the flirtation of the uttermost pew, -he took his text: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; -they toil not, neither do they spin." From this he tried to preach a -new sermon, suited to the newer day. But several times the thoughts of -the past were too much for him, and he broke down with emotion. - -The next day a grave committee waited on him and reported that the -sense of the congregation was to call a colored gentleman from -Louisville. Private objections to Peter were that he had a broken leg, -wore Colonel Fields's second-hand clothes, which were too big for him, -preached in the old-fashioned way, and lacked self-control and repose -of manner. - -Peter accepted his rebuff as sweetly as Socrates might have done. -Humming the burden of an old hymn, he took his righteous coat from a -nail in the wall and folded it away in a little brass-nailed deer-skin -trunk, laying over it the spelling-book and the _Pilgrim's Progress_, -which he had ceased to read. Thenceforth his relations to his people -were never intimate, and even from the other servants of the colonel's -household he stood apart. But the colonel took Peter's rejection -greatly to heart, and the next morning gave him the new silk socks -he had worn at the party. In paying his servants the colonel would -sometimes say, "Peter, I reckon I'd better begin to pay you a salary; -that's the style now." But Peter would turn off, saying he didn't "have -no use fur no salary." - -Thus both of them dropped more and more out of life, but as they did -so drew more and more closely to each other. The colonel had bought -a home on the edge of the town, with some ten acres of beautiful -ground surrounding. A high osage-orange hedge shut it in, and forest -trees, chiefly maples and elms, gave to the lawn and house abundant -shade. Wild-grape vines, the Virginia-creeper, and the climbing-oak -swung their long festoons from summit to summit, while honeysuckles, -clematis, and the Mexican-vine clambered over arbors and trellises, or -along the chipped stone of the low, old-fashioned house. Just outside -the door of the colonel's bedroom slept an ancient, broken sundial. - -The place seemed always in half-shadow, with hedgerows of box, clumps -of dark holly, darker firs half a century old, and aged, crape-like -cedars. - -It was in the seclusion of this retreat, which looked almost like a -wild bit of country set down on the edge of the town, that the colonel -and Peter spent more of their time as they fell farther in the rear -of onward events. There were no such flower-gardens in the city, and -pretty much the whole town went thither for its flowers, preferring -them to those that were to be had for a price at the nurseries. - -There was, perhaps, a suggestion of pathetic humor in the fact that -it should have called on the colonel and Peter, themselves so nearly -defunct, to furnish the flowers for so many funerals; but, it is -certain, almost weekly the two old gentlemen received this chastening -admonition of their all-but-spent mortality. The colonel cultivated -the rarest fruits also, and had under glass varieties that were not -friendly to the climate; so that by means of the fruits and flowers -there was established a pleasant social bond with many who otherwise -would never have sought them out. - -But others came for better reasons. To a few deep-seeing eyes the -colonel and Peter were ruined landmarks on a fading historic landscape, -and their devoted friendship was the last steady burning-down of that -pure flame of love which can never again shine out in the future of -the two races. Hence a softened charm invested the drowsy quietude of -that shadowy paradise in which the old master without a slave and the -old slave without a master still kept up a brave pantomime of their -obsolete relations. No one ever saw in their intercourse ought but -the finest courtesy, the most delicate consideration. The very tones -of their voices in addressing each other were as good as sermons on -gentleness, their antiquated playfulness as melodious as the babble of -distant water. To be near them was to be exorcised of evil passions. - -The sun of their day had indeed long since set; but like twin clouds -lifted high and motionless into some far quarter of the gray twilight -skies, they were still radiant with the glow of the invisible orb. - -Henceforth the colonel's appearances in public were few and regular. -He went to church on Sundays, where he sat on the edge of the choir -in the centre of the building, and sang an ancient bass of his own -improvisation to the older hymns, and glanced furtively around to -see whether any one noticed that he could not sing the new ones. At -the Sunday-school picnics the committee of arrangements allowed him -to carve the mutton, and after dinner to swing the smallest children -gently beneath the trees. He was seen on Commencement Day at Morrison -Chapel, where he always gave his bouquet to the valedictorian. It was -the speech of that young gentleman that always touched him, consisting -as it did of farewells. - -In the autumn he might sometimes be noticed sitting high up in the -amphitheatre at the fair, a little blue around the nose, and looking -absently over into the ring where the judges were grouped around the -music-stand. Once he had strutted around as a judge himself, with a -blue ribbon in his button-hole, while the band played "Sweet Alice, -Ben Bolt," and "Gentle Annie." The ring seemed full of young men now, -and no one even thought of offering him the privileges of the grounds. -In his day the great feature of the exhibition had been cattle; now -everything was turned into a horse-show. He was always glad to get home -again to Peter, his true yoke-fellow. For just as two old oxen--one -white and one black--that have long toiled under the same yoke will, -when turned out to graze at last in the widest pasture, come and put -themselves horn to horn and flank to flank, so the colonel and Peter -were never so happy as when ruminating side by side. - - - NEW LOVE. - -In their eventless life the slightest incident acquired the importance -of a history. Thus, one day in June, Peter discovered a young couple -love-making in the shrubbery, and with the deepest agitation reported -the fact to the colonel. - -Never before, probably, had the fluttering of the dear god's wings -brought more dismay than to these ancient involuntary guardsmen of -his hiding-place. The colonel was at first for breaking up what he -considered a piece of underhand proceedings, but Peter reasoned stoutly -that if the pair were driven out they would simply go to some other -retreat; and without getting the approval of his conscience to this -view, the colonel contented himself with merely repeating that they -ought to go straight and tell the girl's parents. Those parents lived -just across the street outside his grounds. The young lady he knew very -well himself, having a few years before given her the privilege of -making herself at home among his flowers. It certainly looked hard to -drive her out now, just when she was making the best possible use of -his kindness and her opportunity. Moreover, Peter walked down street -and ascertained that the young fellow was an energetic farmer living a -few miles from town, and son of one of the colonel's former friends; on -both of which accounts the latter's heart went out to him. So when, a -few days later, the colonel, followed by Peter, crept up breathlessly -and peeped through the bushes at the pair strolling along the shady -perfumed walks, and so plainly happy in that happiness which comes but -once in a lifetime, they not only abandoned the idea of betraying the -secret, but afterwards kept away from that part of the grounds, lest -they should be an interruption. - -"Peter," stammered the colonel, who had been trying to get the words -out for three days, "do you suppose he has already--_asked_ her?" - -"Some's pow'ful quick on de trigger, en some's mighty slow," replied -Peter, neutrally. "En some," he added, exhaustively, "don't use de -trigger 't all!" - -"I always thought there had to be asking done by _somebody_," remarked -the colonel, a little vaguely. - -"I nuver axed Phillis!" exclaimed Peter, with a certain air of triumph. - -"Did Phillis ask _you_, Peter?" inquired the colonel, blushing and -confidential. - -"No, no, Marse Rom! I couldn't er stood dat from no 'oman!" replied -Peter, laughing and shaking his head. - -The colonel was sitting on the stone steps in front of the house, and -Peter stood below, leaning against a Corinthian column, hat in hand, as -he went on to tell his love-story. - -"Hit all happ'n dis way, Marse Rom. We wuz gwine have pra'r-meetin', -en I 'lowed to walk home wid Phillis en ax 'er on de road. I been -'lowin' to ax 'er heap o' times befo', but I ain' jes nuver done so. -So I says to myse'f, says I, 'I jes mek my sermon to-night kiner lead -up to whut I gwine tell Phillis on de road home.' So I tuk my tex' -from de _lef'_ tail o' my coat: 'De greates' o' dese is charity;' caze -I knowed charity wuz same ez love. En all de time I wuz preachin' an' -glorifyin' charity en identifyin' charity wid love, I couldn' he'p -thinkin' 'bout what I gwine say to Phillis on de road home. Dat mek me -feel better; en de better I _feel_, de better I _preach_, so hit boun' -to mek my _heahehs_ feel better likewise--Phillis 'mong um. So Phillis -she jes sot dah listenin' en listenin' en lookin' like we wuz a'ready -on de road home, till I got so wuked up in my feelin's I jes knowed de -time wuz come. By-en-by, I had n' mo' 'n done preachin' en wuz lookin' -roun' to git my Bible en my hat, 'fo' up popped dat big Charity Green, -who been settin' 'longside o' Phillis en tekin' ev'y las' thing I said -to _her_se'f. En she tuk hole o' my han' en squeeze it, en say she felt -mos' like shoutin'. En 'fo' I knowed it, I jes see Phillis wrap 'er -shawl roun' 'er head en tu'n 'er nose up at me right quick en flip out -de dooh. De dogs howl mighty mou'nful when I walk home by myse'f _dat_ -night," added Peter, laughing to himself, "en I ain' preach dat sermon -no mo' tell atter me en Phillis wuz married. - -"Hit wuz long time," he continued, "'fo' Phillis come to heah me preach -any mo'. But 'long 'bout de nex' fall we had big meetin', en heap -mo' um j'ined. But Phillis, she ain't nuver j'ined yit. I preached -mighty nigh all roun' my coat-tails till I say to myse'f, D' ain't but -one tex' lef', en I jes got to fetch 'er wid dat! De tex' wuz on de -_right_ tail o' my coat: 'Come unto me, all ye dat labor en is heavy -laden.' Hit wuz a ve'y momentous sermon, en all 'long I jes see Phillis -wras'lin' wid 'erse'f, en I say, 'She _got_ to come _dis_ night, de -Lohd he'pin' me.' En I had n' mo' 'n said de word, 'fo' she jes walked -down en guv me 'er han'. - -"Den we had de baptizin' in Elkhorn Creek, en de watter wuz deep en -de curren' tol'ble swif'. Hit look to me like dere wuz five hundred -uv um on de creek side. By-en-by I stood on de edge o' de watter, en -Phillis she come down to let me baptize 'er. En me en 'er j'ined han's -en waded out in the creek, mighty slow, caze Phillis didn' have no shot -roun' de bottom uv 'er dress, en it kep' bobbin' on top de watter till -I pushed it down. But by-en-by we got 'way out in de creek, en bof uv -us wuz tremblin'. En I says to 'er ve'y kin'ly, 'When I put you un'er -de watter, Phillis, you mus' try en hole yo'se'f stiff, so I can lif' -you up easy.' But I hadn't mo' 'n jes got 'er laid back over de watter -ready to souze 'er un'er when 'er feet flew up off de bottom uv de -creek, en when I retched out to fetch 'er up, I stepped in a hole; en -'fo' I knowed it, we wuz flounderin' roun' in de watter, en de hymn -dey was singin' on de bank sounded mighty confused-like. En Phillis -she swallowed some watter, en all 't oncet she jes grap me right tight -roun' de neck, en say mighty quick, says she, 'I gwine marry whoever -gits me out'n dis yere watter!' - -"En by-en-by, when me en 'er wuz walkin' up de bank o' de creek, -drippin' all over, I says to 'er, says I: - -"'Does you 'member what you said back yon'er in de watter, Phillis?' - -"'I ain' out'n no watter yit,' says she, ve'y contemptuous. - -"'When does, you consider yo'se'f out'n de watter?' says I, ve'y humble. - -"'When I git dese soakin' clo'es off'n my back,' says she. - -"Hit wuz good dark when we got home, en atter a while I crope up to -de dooh o' Phillis's cabin en put my eye down to de key-hole, en see -Phillis jes settin' 'fo' dem blazin' walnut logs dressed up in 'er new -red linsey dress, en 'er eyes shinin'. En I shuk so I 'mos' faint. Den -I tap easy on de dooh, en say in a mighty tremblin' tone, says I: - -"'Is you out'n de watter yit, Phillis?' - -"'I got on dry dress,' says she. - -"'Does you 'member what you said back yon'er in de watter, Phillis?' -says I. - -"'De latch-string on de outside de dooh,' says she, mighty sof'. - -"En I walked in." - -As Peter drew near the end of this reminiscence, his voice sank to a -key of inimitable tenderness; and when it was ended he stood a few -minutes, scraping the gravel with the toe of his boot, his head dropped -forward. Then he added, huskily: - -"Phillis been dead heap o' years now;" and turned away. - -This recalling of the scenes of a time long gone by may have awakened -in the breast of the colonel some gentle memory; for after Peter was -gone he continued to sit a while in silent musing. Then getting up, he -walked in the falling twilight across the yard and through the gardens -until he came to a secluded spot in the most distant corner. There he -stooped or rather knelt down and passed his hands, as though with mute -benediction, over a little bed of old-fashioned China pinks. When he -had moved in from the country he had brought nothing away from his -mother's garden but these, and in all the years since no one had ever -pulled them, as Peter well knew; for one day the colonel had said, with -his face turned away: - -"Let them have all the flowers they want; but leave the pinks." - -He continued kneeling over them now, touching them softly with his -fingers, as though they were the fragrant, never-changing symbols of -voiceless communion with his past. Still it may have been only the -early dew of the evening that glistened on them when he rose and slowly -walked away, leaving the pale moonbeams to haunt the spot. - -Certainly after this day he showed increasing concern in the young -lovers who were holding clandestine meetings in his grounds. - -"Peter," he would say, "why, if they love each other, don't they get -married? Something may happen." - -"I been spectin' some'n' to happ'n fur some time, ez dey been quar'lin' -right smart lately," replied Peter, laughing. - -Whether or not he was justified in this prediction, before the end -of another week the colonel read a notice of their elopement and -marriage; and several days later he came up from down-town and told -Peter that everything had been forgiven the young pair, who had gone -to house-keeping in the country. It gave him pleasure to think he had -helped to perpetuate the race of blue-grass farmers. - - - THE YEARNING PASSED AWAY. - -It was in the twilight of a late autumn day in the same year that -nature gave the colonel the first direct intimation to prepare for the -last summons. They had been passing along the garden walks, where a few -pale flowers were trying to flourish up to the very winter's edge, and -where the dry leaves had gathered unswept and rustled beneath their -feet. All at once the colonel turned to Peter, who was a yard and a -half behind, as usual, and said: - -"Give me your arm, Peter, I feel tired;" and thus the two, for the -first time in all their lifetime walking abreast, passed slowly on. - -"Peter," said the colonel, gravely, a minute or two later, "we are -like two dried-up stalks of fodder. I wonder the Lord lets us live any -longer." - -"I reck'n He's managin' to use us _some_ way, or we wouldn' be heah," -said Peter. - -"Well, all I have to say is, that if He's using me, He can't be in much -of a hurry for his work," replied the colonel. - -"He uses snails, en I _know_ we ain' ez slow ez _dem_," argued Peter, -composedly. - -"I don't know. I think a snail must have made more progress since the -war than I have." - -The idea of his uselessness seemed to weigh on him, for a little later -he remarked, with a sort of mortified smile: - -"Do you think, Peter, that we would pass for what they call -representative men of the New South?" - -"We done _had_ ou' day, Marse Rom," replied Peter. "We got to pass fur -what we _wuz_. Mebbe de _Lohd's_ got mo' use fur us yit 'n _people_ -has," he added, after a pause. - -From this time on the colonel's strength gradually failed him; but it -was not until the following spring that the end came. - -A night or two before his death his mind wandered backward, after the -familiar manner of the dying, and his delirious dreams showed the -shifting, faded pictures that renewed themselves for the last time on -his wasting memory. It must have been that he was once more amid the -scenes of his active farm life, for his broken snatches of talk ran -thus: - -"Come, boys, get your cradles! Look where the sun is! You are late -getting to work this morning. That is the finest field of wheat in the -county. Be careful about the bundles! Make them the same size and tie -them tight. That swath is too wide, and you don't hold your cradle -right, Tom.... - -"Sell _Peter_! _Sell Peter Cotton!_ No, sir! You might buy _me_ some -day and work _me_ in your cotton-field; but as long as he's mine, you -can't buy Peter, and you can't buy any of _my_ negroes.... - -"Boys! boys! If you don't work faster, you won't finish this field -to-day.... You'd better go in the shade and rest now. The sun's very -hot. Don't drink too much ice-water. There's a jug of whisky in the -fence-corner. Give them a good dram around, and tell them to work slow -till the sun gets lower."... - -Once during the night a sweet smile played over his features as he -repeated a few words that were part of an old rustic song and dance. -Arranged, not as they came broken and incoherent from his lips, but as -he once had sung them, they were as follows: - - "O Sister PhÅ“be! How merry were we - When we sat under the juniper-tree, - The juniper-tree, heigho! - Put this hat on your head! Keep your head warm; - Take a sweet kiss! It will do you no harm, - Do you no harm, I know!" - -After this he sank into a quieter sleep, but soon stirred with a look -of intense pain. - -"Helen! Helen!" he murmured. "Will you break your promise? Have you -changed in your feelings towards me? I have brought you the pinks. -Won't you take the pinks, Helen?" - -Then he sighed as he added, "It wasn't her fault. If she had only -known--" - -Who was the Helen of that far-away time? Was this the colonel's -love-story? - -But during all the night, whithersoever his mind wandered, at intervals -it returned to the burden of a single strain--the harvesting. Towards -daybreak he took it up again for the last time: - -"O boys, boys, _boys_! If you don't work faster you won't finish the -field to-day. Look how low the sun is!... I am going to the house. They -can't finish the field to-day. Let them do what they can, but don't let -them work late. I want Peter to go to the house with me. Tell him to -come on."... - -In the faint gray of the morning, Peter, who had been watching by the -bedside all night, stole out of the room, and going into the garden -pulled a handful of pinks--a thing he had never done before--and, -re-entering the colonel's bedroom, put them in a vase near his sleeping -face. Soon afterwards the colonel opened his eyes and looked around -him. At the foot of the bed stood Peter, and on one side sat the -physician and a friend. The night-lamp burned low, and through the -folds of the curtains came the white light of early day. - -"Put out the lamp and open the curtains," he said, feebly. "It's day." -When they had drawn the curtains aside, his eyes fell on the pinks, -sweet and fresh with the dew on them. He stretched out his hand and -touched them caressingly, and his eyes sought Peter's with a look of -grateful understanding. - -"I want to be alone with Peter for a while," he said, turning his face -towards the others. - -When they were left alone, it was some minutes before anything was -said. Peter, not knowing what he did, but knowing what was coming, had -gone to the window and hid himself behind the curtains, drawing them -tightly around his form as though to shroud himself from sorrow. - -At length the colonel said, "Come here!" - -Peter, almost staggering forward, fell at the foot of the bed, and, -clasping the colonel's feet with one arm, pressed his cheek against -them. - -"Come closer!" - -Peter crept on his knees and buried his head on the colonel's thigh. - -"Come up here--_closer_;" and putting one arm around Peter's neck he -laid the other hand softly on his head, and looked long and tenderly -into his eyes. "I've got to leave you, Peter. Don't you feel sorry for -me?" - -"Oh, Marse Rom!" cried Peter, hiding his face, his whole form shaken by -sobs. - -"Peter," added, the colonel with ineffable gentleness, "if I had served -my Master as faithfully as you have served yours, I should not feel -ashamed to stand in his presence." - -"If my Marseter is ez mussiful to me ez you have been--" - -"I have fixed things so that you will be comfortable after I am gone. -When your time comes, I should like you to be laid close to me. We can -take the long sleep together. Are you willing?" - -"That's whar I want to be laid." - -The colonel stretched out his hand to the vase, and taking the bunch of -pinks, said very calmly: - -"Leave these in my hand; I'll carry them with me." A moment more, and -he added: - -"If I shouldn't wake up any more, good-bye, Peter!" - -"Good-bye, Marse Rom!" - -And they shook hands a long time. After this the colonel lay back -on the pillows. His soft, silvery hair contrasted strongly with his -child-like, unspoiled, open face. To the day of his death, as is apt to -be true of those who have lived pure lives but never married, he had a -boyish strain in him--a softness of nature, showing itself even now in -the gentle expression of his mouth. His brown eyes had in them the same -boyish look when, just as he was falling asleep, he scarcely opened -them to say: - -"Pray, Peter." - -Peter, on his knees, and looking across the colonel's face towards the -open door, through which the rays of the rising sun streamed in upon -his hoary head, prayed, while the colonel fell asleep, adding a few -words for himself now left alone. - -Several hours later, memory led the colonel back again through the dim -gate-way of the past, and out of that gate-way his spirit finally took -flight into the future. - -Peter lingered a year. The place went to the colonel's sister, but he -was allowed to remain in his quarters. With much thinking of the past, -his mind fell into a lightness and a weakness. Sometimes he would be -heard crooning the burden of old hymns, or sometimes seen sitting -beside the old brass-nailed trunk, fumbling with the spelling-book and -_The Pilgrim's Progress_. Often, too, he walked out to the cemetery on -the edge of the town, and each time could hardly find the colonel's -grave amid the multitude of the dead. - -One gusty day in spring, the Scotch sexton, busy with the blades of -blue-grass springing from the animated mould, saw his familiar figure -standing motionless beside the colonel's resting-place. He had taken -off his hat --one of the colonel's last bequests--and laid it on the -colonel's head-stone. On his body he wore a strange coat of faded -blue, patched and weather-stained, and so moth-eaten that parts of the -curious tails had dropped entirely away. In one hand he held an open -Bible, and on a much-soiled page he was pointing with his finger to the -following words: - -"I would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are -asleep." - -It would seem that, impelled by love and faith, and guided by his -wandering reason, he had come forth to preach his last sermon on the -immortality of the soul over the dust of his dead master. - -The sexton led him home, and soon afterwards a friend, who had loved -them both, laid him beside the colonel. - -It was perhaps fitting that his winding-sheet should be the vestment in -which, years agone, he had preached to his fellow-slaves in bondage; -for if it so be that the dead of this planet shall come forth from -their graves clad in the trappings of mortality, then Peter should -arise on the Resurrection Day wearing his old jeans coat. - - - - - THE WHITE COWL. - - - I. - -In a shadowy solitary valley of Southern Kentucky and beside a -noiseless stream there stands to-day a great French abbey of -white-cowled Trappist monks. It is the loneliest of human habitations. -Though not a ruin, an atmosphere of gray antiquity hangs about and -forever haunts it. The pale-gleaming cross on the spire looks as though -it would fall to the earth, weary of its aged unchangeableness. The -long Gothic windows; the rudely carven wooden crucifixes, suggesting -the very infancy of holy art; the partly encompassing wall, seemingly -built to resist a siege; the iron gate of the porter's lodge, locked -against profane intrusion--all are the voiceless but eloquent emblems -of a past that still enchains the memory by its associations as it once -enthralled the reason by its power. - -Over the placid stream and across the fields to the woody crests around -float only the sounds of the same sweet monastery bells that in the -quiet evening air ages ago summoned a ruder world to nightly rest -and pious thoughts of heaven. Within the abbey at midnight are heard -the voices of monks chanting the self-same masses that ages ago were -sung by others, who all night long from icy chapel floors lifted up -piteous hands with intercession for poor souls suffering in purgatory. -One almost expects to see coming along the dusty Kentucky road which -winds through the valley meek brown palmers returning from the Holy -Sepulchre, or through an upper window of the abbey to descry lance and -visor and battle-axe flashing in the sunlight as they wind up a distant -hill-side to the storming of some perilous citadel. - -Ineffable influences, too, seem to bless the spot. Here, forsooth, some -saint, retiring to the wilderness to subdue the devil in his flesh, -lived and struggled and suffered and died, leaving his life as an -heroic pattern for others who in the same hard way should wish to win -the fullest grace of Christlike character. Perhaps even one of the old -monks, long since halting towards the close of his pilgrimage, will -reverently lead you down the aisle to the dim sepulchre of some martyr, -whose relics repose under the altar while his virtues perpetually -exhale heavenward like gracious incense. - -The beauty of the region, and especially of the grounds surrounding -the abbey, thus seems but a touching mockery. What have these -inward-gazing, heavenward-gazing souls to do with the loveliness of -Nature, with change of season, or flight of years, with green pastures -and waving harvest-fields outside the wall, with flowers and orchards -and vineyards within? - -It was in a remote corner of the beautiful gardens of the monastery -that a young monk, Father Palemon, was humbly at work one morning some -years ago amid the lettuces and onions and fast-growing potatoes. -The sun smote the earth with the fierce heat of departing June; and -pausing to wipe the thick bead of perspiration from his forehead, he -rested a moment, breathing heavily. His powerful legs were astride a -row of the succulent shoots, and his hands clasped the handle of the -hoe that gave him a staff-like support in front. He was dressed in the -sacred garb of his order. His heavy sabots crushed the clods in the -furrows. His cream-colored serge cowl, the long skirt of which would -have touched the ground, had been folded up to his knees and tied with -hempen cords. The wide sleeves, falling away, showed up to the elbows -the superb muscles of his bronzed arms; and the calotte, pushed far -back from his head, revealed the outlines of his neck, full, round, -like a column. Nearly a month had passed since the convent barber had -sheared his poll, and his yellow hair was just beginning to enrich his -temples with a fillet of thick curling locks. Had Father Palemon's -hair been permitted to grow, it would have fallen down on each side -in masses shining like flax and making the ideal head of a saint. But -his face was not the face of a saint. It had in it no touch of the -saint's agony--none of those fine subtle lines that are the material -net-work of intense spirituality brooding within. Scant vegetarian diet -and the deep shadows of cloistral life had preserved in his complexion -the delicate hues of youth, noticeable still beneath the tan of recent -exposure to the summer sun. His calm, steady blue eyes, also, had the -open look peculiar to self-unconscious childhood; so that as he stood -thus, tall, sinewy, supple, grave, bareheaded under the open sky, -clad in spotless white, a singular union of strength, manliness, and -unawakened innocence, he was a figure startling to come upon. - -As he rested, he looked down and discovered that the hempen cords -fastening the hem of his cowl were becoming untied, and walking to the -border of grass which ran round the garden just inside the monastery -wall, he sat down to secure the loosened threads. He was very tired. -He had come forth to work before the first gray of dawn. His lips -were parched with thirst. Save the little cup of cider and a slice of -black bread with which he had broken his fast after matins, he had not -tasted food since the frugal meal of the previous noon. Both weary -and faint, therefore, he had hardly sat down before, in the weakness -of his flesh, a sudden powerful impulse came upon him to indulge in a -moment's repose. His fingers fell away from the untied cords, his body -sank backward against the trunk of the gnarled apple-tree by which he -was shaded, and closing his eyes, he drank in eagerly all the sweet -influences of the perfect day. - -For Nature was in an ecstasy. The sunlight never fell more joyous -upon the unlifting shadows of human life. The breeze that cooled his -sweating face was heavy with the odor of the wonderful monastery roses. -In the dark green canopy overhead two piping flame-colored orioles -drained the last bright dew-drop from the chalice of a leaf. All the -liquid air was slumbrous with the minute music of insect life, and from -the honeysuckles clambering over the wall at his back came the murmur -of the happy, happy bees. - -But what power have hunger and thirst and momentary weariness over -the young? Father Palemon was himself part of the pure and beautiful -nature around him. His heart was like some great secluded crimson -flower that is ready to burst open in a passionate seeking of the sun. -As he sat thus in the midst of Nature's joyousness and irrepressible -unfoldings, and peaceful consummations, he forgot hunger and thirst -and weariness in a feeling of delicious languor. But beneath even -this, and more subtle still, was the stir of restlessness and the low -fever of vague desire for something wholly beyond his experience. He -sighed and opened his eyes. Right before them, on the spire beyond the -gardens, was the ancient cross to which he was consecrated. On his -shoulders were the penitential wounds he had that morning inflicted -with the knotted scourge. In his ears was the faint general chorus of -saints and martyrs, echoing backward ever more solemnly to the very -passion of Christ. While Nature was everywhere clothing itself with -living greenness, around his gaunt body and muscular limbs--over his -young head and his coursing hot blood--he had wrapped the dead white -cowl of centuries gone as the winding-sheet of his humanity. These -were not clear thoughts in his mind, but the vaguest suggestions of -feeling, which of late had come to him at times, and now made him sigh -more deeply as he sat up and bent over again to tie the hempen cords. -As he did so, his attention was arrested by the sound of voices just -outside the monastery wall, which was low here, so that in the general -stillness they became entirely audible. - - - II. - -Outside the wall was a long strip of woodland which rose gently to the -summit of a ridge half a mile away. This woodland was but little used. -Into it occasionally a lay-brother drove the gentle monastery cows to -pasture, or here a flock sheltered itself beneath forest oaks against -the noontide summer heat. Beyond the summit lay the homestead of a -gentleman farmer. As one descended this slope towards the abbey, he -beheld it from the most picturesque side, and visitors at the homestead -usually came to see it by this secluded approach. - -If Father Palemon could have seen beyond the wall, he would have -discovered that the voices were those of a young man and a young -woman--the former a slight, dark cripple, and invalid. He led the way -along a foot-path up quite close to the wall, and the two sat down -beneath the shade of a great tree. Father Palemon, listening eagerly, -unconsciously, overheard the following conversation: - -"I should like to take you inside the abbey wall, but, of course, that -is impossible, as no woman is allowed to enter the grounds. So we shall -rest here a while. I find that the walk tires me more than it once -did, and this tree has become a sort of outside shrine to me on my -pilgrimages." - -"Do you come often?" - -"Oh yes. When we have visitors, I am appointed their guide, probably -because I feel more interest in the place than any one else. If they -are men, I take them over the grounds inside; and if they are women, I -bring them thus far and try to describe the rest." - -"As you will do for me now?" - -"No; I am not in the mood for describing. Even when I am, my -description always disappoints me. How is one to describe such human -beings as these monks? Sometimes, during the long summer days, I walk -over here alone and lie for hours under this tree, until the influences -of the place have completely possessed me and I feel wrought up to the -point of description. The sensation of a chill comes over me. Look up -at these Kentucky skies! You have never seen them before. Are there -any more delicate and tender? Well, at such times, where they bend -over this abbey, they look as hard and cold as a sky of Landseer's. -The sun seems no longer to warm the pale cross on the spire yonder, -the great drifting white clouds send a shiver through me as though -uplifted snow-banks were passing over my head. I fancy that if I were -to go inside I should see the white butterflies dropping down dead from -the petals of the white roses, finding them stiff with frost, and that -the white rabbits would be limping trembling through the frozen grass, -like the hare in 'The Eve of St. Agnes.' Everything becomes cold to -me--cold, cold, cold! The bleak and rugged old monks themselves, in -their hoary cowls, turn to personifications of perpetual winter; and if -I were in the chapel, I should expect to meet in one of them Keats's -very beadsman--patient, holy man, meagre, wan--whose fingers were numb -while he told his rosary, and his breath frosted as it took flight for -heaven. Ugh! I am cold now. My blood must be getting very thin." - -"No; you make _me_ shiver also." - -"At least the impression is a powerful one. I have watched these old -monks closely. Whether it is from the weakness of vigils and fasts or -from positive cold, they all tremble--perpetually tremble. I fancy that -their souls ache as well. Are not their cowls the grave-clothes of a -death in life?" - -"You seem to forget, Austin, that faith warms them." - -"By extinguishing the fires of nature! Why should not faith and -nature grow strong together? I have spent my life on the hill-side -back yonder, as you know, and I have had leisure enough for studying -these monks. I have tried to do them justice. At different times I -have almost lived with St. Benedict at Subiaco, and St. Patrick on the -mountain, and St. Anthony in the desert, and St. Thomas in the cell. -I understand and value the elements of truth and beauty in the lives -of the ancient solitaries. But they belong so inalienably to the past. -We have outgrown the ideals of antiquity. How can a man now look upon -his body as his evil tenement of flesh? How can he believe that he -approaches sainthood by destroying his manhood? The highest type of -personal holiness is said to be attained in the cloister. That is not -true. The highest type of personal holiness is to be attained in the -thick of the world's temptations. Then it becomes sublime. It seems -to me that the heroisms worth speaking of nowadays are active, not -meditative. But why should I say this to you, who as much as any one -else have taught me to think thus--I who myself am able to do nothing? -But though I can do nothing, I can at least look upon the monastic -ideal of life as an empty, dead, husk, into which no man with the -largest ideas of duty will ever compress his powers. Even granting that -it develops personal holiness, this itself is but one element in the -perfect character, and not even the greatest one." - -"But do you suppose that these monks have deliberately and freely -chosen their vocation? You know perfectly well that often there are -almost overwhelming motives impelling men and women to hide themselves -away from the world--from, its sorrows, its dangers, its temptations." - -"You are at least orthodox. I know that such motives exist, but are -they sufficient? Of course there was a time when the cloister was a -refuge from dangers. Certainly that is not true in this country now. -And as for the sorrows and temptations, I say that they must be met in -the world. There is no sorrow _befalling_ a man in the world that he -should not _bear_ in the world--bear it as well for the sake of his -own character as for the sake of helping others who suffer like him. -This way lie moral heroism and martyrdom. This way, even, lies the -utmost self-sacrifice, if one will only try to see it. No, I have but -little sympathy with such cases. The only kind of monk who has all my -sympathy is the one that is produced by early training and education. -Take a boy whose nature has nothing in common with the scourge and the -cell. Immure him. Never let him get from beneath the shadow of convent -walls or away from the sound of masses and the waving of crucifixes. -Bend him, train him, break him, until he turns monk despite nature's -purposes, and ceases to be a man without becoming a saint. I have -sympathy for _him_. Sympathy! I do not know of any violation of the law -of personal liberty that gives me so much positive suffering." - -"But why suffer over imaginary cases? Such constraint belongs to the -past." - -"On the contrary, it is just such an instance of constraint that has -colored my thoughts of this abbey. It is this that has led me to haunt -the place for years from a sort of sad fascination. Men find their way -to this valley from the remotest parts of the world. No one knows from -what inward or outward stress they come. They are hidden away here and -their secret histories are buried with them. But the history of one of -these fathers is known, for he has grown up here under the shadow of -these monastery walls. You may think the story one of mediæval flavor, -but I believe its counterpart will here and there be found as long as -monasteries rise and human beings fall. - -"He was an illegitimate child. Who his father was, no one ever so much -as suspected. When his mother died he was left a homeless waif in one -of the Kentucky towns. But some invisible eye was upon him. He was soon -afterwards brought to the boarding-school for poor boys which is taught -by the Trappist fathers here. Perhaps this was done by his father, who -wished to get him safely out of the world. Well, he has never left this -valley since then. The fathers have been his only friends and advisers. -He has never looked on the face of a woman since he looked into his -mother's when a child. He knows no more of the modern world--except -what the various establishments connected with the abbey have taught -him--than the most ancient hermit. While he was in the Trappist school, -during afternoons and vacations he worked in the monastery fields with -the lay-brothers. With them he ate and slept. When his education was -finished he became a lay-brother himself. But amid such influences -the rest of the story is foreseen; in a few years he put on the brown -robe and leathern girdle of a brother of the order, and last year he -took final vows, and now wears the white cowl and black scapular of a -priest." - -"But if he has never known any other life, he, most of all, should be -contented with this. It seems to me that it would be much harder to -have known human life and then renounce it." - -"That is because you are used to dwell upon the good, and strive to -better the evil. No; I do not believe that he is happy. I do not -believe nature is ever thwarted without suffering, and nature in -him never cried out for the monkish life, but against it. His first -experience with the rigors of its discipline proved nearly fatal. He -was prostrated with long illness. Only by special indulgence in food -and drink was his health restored. His system even now is not inured to -the cruel exactions of his order. You see, I have known him for years. -I was first attracted to him as a lonely little fellow with the sad -lay-brothers in the fields. As I would pass sometimes, he would eye me -with a boy's unconscious appeal for the young and for companionship. I -have often gone into the abbey since then, to watch and study him. He -works with a terrible pent-up energy. I know his type among the young -Kentuckians. They make poor monks. Time and again they have come here -to join the order. But all have soon fallen away. Only Father Palemon -has ever persevered to the taking of the vows that bind him until -death. My father knew his mother and says that he is much like her--an -impulsive, passionate, trustful, beautiful creature, with the voice of -a seraph. Father Palemon himself has the richest voice in the monks' -choir. Ah, to hear him, in the dark chapel, sing the _Salve Regina_! -The others seem to moderate their own voices, that his may rise clear -and uncommingled to the vaulted roof. But I believe that it is only -the music he feels. He puts passion and an outcry for human sympathy -into every note. Do you wonder that I am so strongly drawn towards -him? I can give you no idea of his appearance. I shall show you his -photograph, but that will not do it. I have often imagined you two -together by the very law of contrast. I think of you at home in New -York City, with your charities, your missions, your energetic, untiring -beneficence. You stand at one extreme. Then I think of him at the -other--doing nothing, shut up in this valley, spending his magnificent -manhood in a never-changing, never-ending routine of sterile vigils -and fasts and prayers. Oh, we should change places, he and I! I should -be in there and he out here. He should be lying here by your side, -looking up into your face, loving you as I have loved you, and winning -you as I never can. Oh, Madeline, Madeline, Madeline!" - -The rapid, broken utterance suddenly ceased. - -In the deep stillness that followed, Father Palemon heard the sound of -a low sob and a groan. - -He had sat all this time rivetted to the spot, and as though turned -into stone. He had hardly breathed. A bright lizard gliding from out -a crevice in the wall had sunned itself in a little rift of sunshine -between his feet. A bee from the honeysuckles had alighted unnoticed -upon his hand. Others sounds had died away from his ears, which were -strained to catch the last echoes of these strange voices from another -world. - -Now all at once across the gardens came the stroke of a bell summoning -to instant prayer. Why had it suddenly grown so loud and terrible? He -started up. He forgot priestly gravity and ran--fairly ran, headlong -and in a straight course, heedless of the tender plants that were being -crushed beneath his feet. From another part of the garden an aged -brother, his eye attracted by the sunlight glancing on a bright moving -object, paused while training a grape-vine and watched with amazement -the disorderly figure as it fled. As he ran on, the skirts of his cowl, -which he had forgotten to tie up, came down. When at last he reached -the door of the chapel and stooped to unroll them, he discovered that -they had been draggled over the dirt and stained against the bruised -weeds until they were hardly recognizable as having once been spotless -white. A pang of shame and alarm went through him. It was the first -stain. - - - III. - -Every morning the entire Trappist brotherhood meet in a large room for -public confession and accusation. High at one end sits the venerable -abbot; beside him, but lower, the prior; while the fathers in white and -the brothers in brown range themselves on benches placed against the -wall on each side. - -It was near the close of this impressive ceremony that Father Palemon -arose, and, pushing the hood far back from his face, looked sorrowfully -around upon the amazed company. A thrill of the tenderest sympathy -shot through them. He was the youngest by far of their number and -likeliest therefore to go astray; but never had any one found cause to -accuse him, and never had he condemned himself. Many a head wearing -its winter of age and worldly scars had been lifted in that sacred -audience-chamber of the soul confessing to secret sin. But not he. -So awful a thing is it for a father to accuse himself, that in utter -self-abasement his brethren throw themselves prone to the floor when -he rises. It was over the prostrate forms of his brethren that Father -Palemon now stood up erect, alone. Unearthly spectacle! He began his -confession. In the hushed silence of the great bare chamber his voice -awoke such echoes as might have terrified the soul had one gone into -a vast vault and harangued the shrouded dead. But he went on, sparing -not himself and laying bare his whole sin--the yielding to weariness -in the garden; the listening to the conversation; most of all, the -harboring of strange doubts and desires since then. Never before -had the word "woman" been breathed at this confessional of devoted -celibates. More than one hooded, faded cheek blushed secret crimson -at the sound. The circumstances attending Father Palemon's temptation -invested it with an ancient horror. The scene, a garden; the tempter, a -woman. It was like some modern Adam confessing his fall. - -His penance was severe. For a week he was not to leave his cell, except -at brief seasons. Every morning he must scourge himself on his naked -back until the blood came. Every noon he must go about the refectory on -his knees, begging his portion of daily bread, morsel by morsel, from -his brethren, and must eat it sitting before them on the floor. This -repast was reduced in quantity one half. An aged deaf monk took his -place in the garden. - -His week of penance over, Father Palemon came forth too much weakened -to do heavy work, and was sent to relieve one of the fathers in the -school. Educated there himself, he had often before this taught its -round of familiar duties. - -The school is situated outside the abbey wall on a hill-side several -hundred yards away. Between it and the abbey winds the road which -enters the valley above and goes out below, connecting two country -highways. Where it passes the abbey it offers slippery, unsafe footing -on account of a shelving bed of rock which rises on each side as a -steep embankment, and is kept moist by overhanging trees and by a small -stream that issues from the road-side and spreads out over the whole -pass. The fathers are commanded to cross this road at a quick gait, -the hood drawn completely over the face, and the eyes bent on the -ground. - -One sultry afternoon, a few days later, Father Palemon had sent away -his little group of pious pupils, and seated himself to finish his -work. The look of unawakened innocence had vanished from his eyes. -They were full of thought and sorrow. A little while and, as though -weighed down with heaviness, his head sank upon his arms, which were -crossed over the desk. But he soon lifted it with alarm. One of the -violent storms which gather and pass so quickly in the Kentucky skies -was rushing on from the south. The shock of distant thunder sent a -tremor through the building. He walked to the window and stood for a -moment watching the rolling edge of the low storm-cloud with its plumes -of white and gray and ominous dun-green colors. Suddenly his eyes were -drawn to the road below. Around a bend a horse came running at full -speed, uncontrolled by the rider. He clasped his hands and breathed a -prayer. Just ahead was the slippery, dangerous footing. Another moment -and horse and rider disappeared behind the embankment. Then the horse -reappeared on the other side, without saddle or rider, rushing away -like a forerunner of the tempest. - -He ran down. When he reached the spot he saw lying on the road-side -the form of a woman--the creature whom his priestly vows forbade him -ever to approach. Her face was upturned, but hidden under a great wave -of her long, loosened, brown hair. He knelt down and, lifting the hair -aside, gazed down into it. - -"_Ave Maria!_--Mother of God!" The disjointed exclamations were -instinctive. The first sight of beautiful womanhood had instantly -lifted his thought to the utmost height of holy associations. Indeed, -no sweet face had he ever looked on but the Virgin's picture. Many a -time in the last few years had he, in moments of restlessness, drawn -near and studied it with a sudden rush of indefinable tenderness and -longing. But beauty, such as this seemed to him, he had never dreamed -of. He bent over it, reverential, awe-stricken. Then, as naturally -as the disciple John might have succored Mary, finding her wounded -and fainting by the wayside, he took the unconscious sufferer in his -arms and bore her to the school-room for refuge from the bursting -storm. There he quickly stripped himself of his great soft cowl, and, -spreading it on the bare floor, laid her on it, and with cold water and -his coarse monk's handkerchief bathed away the blood that flowed from a -little wound on her temple. - -A few moments and she opened her eyes. He was bending close over her, -and his voice sounded as sweet and sorrowful as a vesper bell: - -"Do you suffer? Are you much hurt? Your horse must have fallen among -the rocks. The girth was broken." - -She sat up bewildered, and replied slowly: - -"I think I am only stunned. Yes, my horse fell. I was hurrying home out -of the storm. He took fright at something and I lost control of him. -What place is this?" - -"This is the school of the abbey. The road passes just below. I was -standing at the window when your horse ran past, and I brought you -here." - -"I must go home at once. They will be anxious about me. I am visiting -at a place not more than a mile away." - -He shook his head and pointed to the window. A sudden gray blur of rain -had effaced the landscape. The wind shook the building. - -"You must remain here until the storm is over. It will last but a -little while." - -During this conversation she had been sitting on the white cowl, -and he, with the frankness of a wondering, innocent child, had been -kneeling quite close beside her. Now she got up and walked to one of -the windows, looking out upon the storm, while he retired to another -window at the opposite end of the room. - -What was the tempest-swept hill outside to the wild, swift play of -emotions in him? A complete revulsion of feeling quickly succeeded his -first mood. What if she was more beautiful--far more beautiful--than -the sweet Virgin's picture in the abbey? She was a devil, a beautiful -devil. Her eyes, her hair, which had blown against his face and around -his neck, were the Devil's implements; her form, which he had clasped -in his arms, was the Devil's subtlest hiding-place. She had brought -sin into the world. She had been the curse of man ever since. She had -tempted St. Anthony. She had ruined many a saint, sent many a soul -to purgatory, many a soul to bell. Perhaps she was trying to send -_his_ soul to hell now--now while he was alone with her and under her -influence. It was this same woman who had broken into the peace of his -life two weeks before, for he had instantly recognized the voice as -the one that he had heard in the garden and that had been the cause of -his severe penance. Amid all his scourgings, fasts, and prayers that -voice had never left him. It made him ache to think of what penance he -must now do again on her account; and with a sudden impulse he walked -across the room, and, standing before her with arms folded across his -breast, said in a voice of the simplest sorrow: - -"Why have you crossed my path-way, thus to tempt me?" - -She looked at him with eyes that were calm but full of natural surprise. - -"I do not understand how I have tempted you." - -"You tempt me to believe that woman is not the devil she is." - -She was silent with confusion. The whole train of his thought was -unknown to her. It was difficult, bewildering. A trivial answer was out -of the question, for he hung upon her expected reply with a look of -pitiable eagerness. She took refuge in the didactic. - -"I have nothing to say about the nature of woman. It is vague, -contradictory; it is anything, everything. But I _can_ speak to you of -the lives of women; that is a definite subject. Some women may be what -you call devils. But some are not. I thought that you recognized the -existence of saintly women within the memories and the present pale of -your church." - -"True. It is the women of the world who are the devils." - -"You know so well the women of the world?" - -"I have been taught. I have been taught that if Satan were to appear -to me on my right hand and a beautiful woman of the world on my left, -I should flee to Satan from the arms of my greater enemy. You tempt me -to believe that this is not true--to believe that the fathers have lied -to me. You tempt me to believe that Satan would not dare to appear in -your presence. Is it because you are yourself a devil that you tempt -me thus?" - -"Should you ask me? I am a woman of the world. I live in a city of -more than a million souls--in the company of thousands of these -women-devils. I see hundreds of them daily. I may be one myself. If you -think I am a devil, you ought not to ask me to tell you the truth. You -should not listen to me or believe me." - -She felt the cruelty of this. It was like replying logically to a child -who had earnestly asked to be told something that might wreck its faith -and happiness. - -The storm was passing. In a few minutes this strange interview would -end: he back to his cell again: she back to the world. Already it had -its deep influence over them both. She, more than he, felt its almost -tragical gravity, and was touched by its pathos. These two young human -souls, true and pure, crossing each other's path-way in life thus -strangely, now looked into each other's eyes, as two travellers from -opposite sides of the world meet and salute and pass in the midst of -the desert. - -"I shall believe whatever you tell me," he said, with tremulous -eagerness. - -The occasion lifted her ever-serious nature to the extraordinary; and -trying to cast the truth that she wished to teach into the mould which -would be most familiar to him, she replied: - -"Do you know who are most like you monks in consecration of life? It -is the women--the good women of the world. What are your great vows? -Are they not poverty, labor, self-denial, chastity, prayer? Well, there -is not one of these but is kept in the hearts of good women. Only, you -monks keep your vows for your own sakes, while women keep them as well -for the sakes of others. For the sake of others they live and die poor. -Sometimes they even starve. You never do that. They work for others as -you have never worked; they pray for others as you have never prayed. -In sickness and weariness, day and night, they deny themselves and -sacrifice themselves for others as you have never done--never can do. -You keep yourselves pure. They keep themselves pure and make others -pure. If you are the best examples of personal holiness that may be -found in the world apart from temptation, they are the higher types of -it maintained amid temptations that never cease. You are content to -pray for the world, they also work for it. If you wish to see, in the -most nearly perfect form that is ever attained in this world, love and -sympathy and forgiveness, if you wish to find vigils and patience and -charity--go to the good women of the world. They are all through the -world, of which you know nothing--in homes, and schools, and hospitals; -with the old, the suffering, the dying. Sometimes they are clinging to -the thankless, the dissolute, the cruel; sometimes they are ministering -to the weary, the heart-broken, the deserted. No, no! Some women may be -what you call them, devils--" - -She blushed all at once with recollection of her earnestness. It was -the almost elemental simplicity of her listener that had betrayed her -into it. Meantime, as she had spoken, his quickly changing mood had -regained its first pitch. She seemed to rise higher--to be arraigning -him and his ideals of duty. In his own sight he seemed to grow smaller, -shrink up, become despicable; and when she suddenly ceased speaking, he -lifted his eyes to her, alas! too plainly now betraying his heart. - -"And you are one of these good women?" - -"I have nothing to say of myself; I spoke of others. I may be a devil." - -For an instant through the scattering clouds the sunlight had fallen in -through the window, lighting up her head as with a halo. It fell upon -the cowl also, which lay on the floor like a luminous heap. She went to -it, and, lifting it, said to him: - -"Will you leave me now? They must pass here soon looking for me. I -shall see them from the window. I do not know what should have happened -to me but for your kindness. And I can only thank you very gratefully." - -He took the hand that she gave him in both of his, and held it closely -a while as his eyes rested long and intently upon her face. Then, -quickly muffling up his own in the folds of his cowl, he turned away -and left the room. She watched him disappear behind the embankment -below and then reappear on the opposite side, striding rapidly towards -the abbey. - - - IV. - -All that night the two aged monks whose cells were one on each side -of Father Palemon's heard him tossing in his sleep. At the open -confessional next morning he did not accuse himself. The events of the -day before were known to none. There were in that room but two who -could have testified against him. One was Father Palemon himself; the -other was a small dark-red spot on the white bosom of his cowl, just by -his heart. It was a blood-stain from the wounded head that had lain on -his breast. Through the dread examination and the confessions Father -Palemon sat motionless, his face shadowed by his hood, his arms crossed -over his bosom, hiding this scarlet stain. What nameless foreboding -had blanched his cheek when he first beheld it? It seemed to be a dead -weight over his heart, as those earth-stains on the hem had begun to -clog his feet. - -That day he went the round of his familiar duties faultlessly but -absently. Without heeding his own voice, he sang the difficult ancient -offices of the Church in a full volume of tone, that was heard -above the rich unison of the unerring choir. When, at twilight, he -lay down on his hard, narrow bed, with the leathern cincture about -his gaunt waist, he seemed girt for some lonely spiritual conflict -of the midnight hours. Once, in the sad tumult of his dreams, his -out-stretched arms struck sharply against some object and he awoke; it -was the crucifix that hung against the bare wall at his head. - -He sat up. The bell of the monastery tolled twelve. A new day was -beginning. A new day for him? In two hours he would set his feet, as -evermore, in the small circle of ancient monastic exactions. Already -the westering moon poured its light through the long windows of the -abbey and flooded his cell. He arose softly and walked to the open -casement, looking out upon the southern summer midnight. Beneath the -window lay the garden of flowers. Countless white roses, as though -censers swung by unseen hands, waved up to him their sweet incense. -Some dreaming bird awoke its happy mate with a note prophetic of -the coming dawn. From the bosom of the stream below, white trailing -shapes rose ethereal through the moonlit air, and floated down the -valley as if journeying outward to some mysterious bourn. On the dim -horizon stood the domes of the forest trees, marking the limits of the -valley--the boundary of his life. He pressed his hot head against the -cold casement and groaned aloud, seeming to himself, in his tumultuous -state, the only thing that did not belong to the calm and holy beauty -of the scene. Disturbed by the sound, an old monk sleeping a few feet -distant turned in his cell and prayed aloud: - -"_Seigneur! Seigneur! Oubliez la faiblesse de ma jeunesse! Vive Jésus! -Vive sa Croix!_" - -The prayer smote him like a warning. Conscience was still torturing -this old man--torturing him even in his dreams on account of the sinful -fevers that had burned up within him half a century ago. On the very -verge of the grave he was uplifting his hands to implore forgiveness -for the errors of his youth. Ah! and those other graves in the quiet -cemetery garth below--the white-cowled dust of his brethren, mouldering -till the resurrection morn. They, too, had been sorely tempted--had -struggled and prevailed, and now reigned as saints in heaven, whence -they looked sorrowfully and reproachfully down upon him, and upon their -sinful heaps of mortal dust, which had so foiled the immortal spirit. - -Miserably, piteously, he wrestled with himself. Even conscience was -divided in twain and fought madly on both sides. His whole training had -left him obedient to ideas of duty. To be told what to do always had -been for him to do it. But hitherto his teachers had been the fathers. -Lately two others had appeared--a man and a woman of the world, who had -spoken of life and of duty as he had never thought of them. The pale, -dark hunchback, whom he had often seen haunting the monastery grounds -and hovering around him at his work, had unconsciously drawn aside for -him the curtains of the world and a man's nobler part in it. The woman, -whom he had addressed as a devil, had come in his eyes to be an angel. -Both had made him blush for his barren life, his inactivity. Both had -shown him which way duty lay. - -Duty? Ah! it was not duty. It was the woman, the woman! The old -tempter! It was the sinful passion of love that he was responding to; -it was the recollection of that sweet face against which his heart had -beat--of the helpless form that he had borne in his arms. Duty or love, -he could not separate them. The great world, on the boundaries of which -he wished to set his feet, was a dark, formless, unimaginable thing, -and only the light from the woman's face streamed across to him and -beckoned him on. It was she who made his priestly life wretched--made -even the wearing of his cowl an act of hypocrisy that was the last -insult to Heaven. Better anything than this. Better the renunciation -of his sacred calling, though it should bring him the loss of earthly -peace and eternal pardon. - -The clock struck half-past one. He turned back to his cell. The ghastly -beams of the setting moon suffused it with the pallor of a death-scene. -God in heaven! The death-scene was there--the crucifixion! The sight -pierced him afresh with the sharpest sorrow, and taking the crucifix -down, he fell upon his knees and covered it with his kisses and his -tears. There was the wound in the side, there were the drops of blood -and the thorns on the brow, and the divine face still serene and -victorious in the last agony of self-renunciation. Self-renunciation! - -"Lord, is it true that I cannot live to Thee alone? And Thou didst -sacrifice Thyself to the utmost for me! Consider me, how I am made! -Have mercy, have mercy! If I sin, be Thou my witness that I do not know -it!--Thou, too, didst love her well enough to die for her!" - -In that hour, when he touched the highest point that nature ever -enabled him to attain, Father Palemon, looking into his conscience and -into the divine face, took his final resolution. He was still kneeling -in steadfast contemplation of the cross when the moon withdrew its last -ray and over it there rushed a sudden chill and darkness. He was still -immovable before it when, at the resounding clangor of the bell, all -the spectral figures of his brethren started up from their couches like -ghosts from their graves, and in a long, shadowy line wound noiselessly -downward into the gloom of the chapel, to begin the service of matins -and lauds. - - - V. - -He did not return with them when at the close of day they wound upward -again to their solemn sleep. He slipped unseen into the windings of a -secret passage-way, and hastening to the reception-room of the abbey -sent for the abbot. - -It was a great bare room. A rough table and two plain chairs in the -middle were the only furniture. Over the table there swung from the -high ceiling a single low, lurid point of light, that failed to reach -the shadows of the recesses. The few poor pictures of saints and -martyrs on the walls were muffled in gloom. The air was dank and -noisome, and the silence was that of a vault. - -Standing half in light and half in darkness, Father Palemon awaited the -coming of his august superior. It was an awful scene. His face grew -whiter than his cowl, and he trembled till he was ready to sink to the -floor. A few moments, and through the dim door-way there softly glided -in the figure of the aged abbot, like a presence rather felt than seen. -He advanced to the little zone of light, the iron keys clanking at his -girdle, his delicate fingers interlaced across his breast, his gray -eyes filled with a look of mild surprise and displeasure. - -"You have disturbed me in my rest and meditations. The occasion must be -extraordinary. Speak! Be brief!" - -"The occasion _is_ extraordinary. I shall be brief. Father Abbot, I -made a great mistake in ever becoming a monk. Nature has not fitted -me for such a life. I do not any longer believe that it is my duty to -live it. I have disturbed your repose only to ask you to receive the -renunciation of my priestly vows and to take back my cowl: I will never -put it on again." - -As he spoke he took off his cowl and laid it on the table between them, -showing that he wore beneath the ordinary dress of a working-man. - -Under the flickering spark the face of the abbot had at first flushed -with anger and then grown ashen with vague, formless terror. He pushed -the hood back from his head and pressed his fingers together until the -jewelled ring cut into the flesh. - -"You are a priest of God, consecrated for life. Consider the sin and -folly of what you say. You have made no mistake. It would be too late -to correct it, if you had." - -"I shall do what I can to correct it as soon as possible. I shall leave -the monastery to-night." - -"To-night you confess what has led you to harbor this suggestion of -Satan. To-night I forgive you. To-night you sleep once more at peace -with the world and your own soul. Begin! Tell me everything that has -happened--everything!" - -"It were better untold. It could only pain--only shock you." - -"Ha! You say this to me, who stand to you in God's stead?" - -"Father Abbot, it is enough that Heaven should know my recent struggles -and my present purposes. It does know them." - -"And it has not smitten you? It is merciful." - -"It is also just." - -"Then do not deny the justice you receive. Did you not give yourself up -to my guidance as a sheep to a shepherd? Am I not to watch near you in -danger and lead you back when astray? Do you not realize that I may not -make light of the souls committed to my charge, as my own soul shall -be called into judgment at the last day? Am I to be pushed aside--made -naught of--at such a moment as this?" - -Thus urged, Father Palemon told what had recently befallen him, adding -these words: - -"Therefore I am going--going now. I cannot expect your approval: that -pains me. But have I not a claim upon your sympathy? You are an old -man, Father Abbot. You are nearer heaven than this earth. But you have -been young; and I ask you, is there not in the past of your own buried -life the memory of some one for whom you would have risked even the -peace and pardon of your own soul?" - -The abbot threw up his hands with a gesture of sudden anguish, and -turned away into the shadowy distances of the room. - -When he emerged again, he came up close to Father Palemon in the -deepest agitation. - -"I tell you this purpose of yours is a suggestion of the Evil Spirit. -Break it against the true rock of the Church. You should have spoken -sooner. Duty, honor, gratitude, should have made you speak. Then I -could have made this burden lighter for you. But, heavy as it is, it -will pass. You suffer now, but it will pass, and you will be at peace -again--at perfect peace again." - -"Never! Never again at peace here! My place is in the world. Conscience -tells me that. Besides, have I not told you, Father Abbot, that I love -her, that I think of her day and night? Then I am no priest. There is -nothing left for me but to go out into the world." - -"The world! What do you know of the world? If I could sum up human life -to you in an instant of time, I might make you understand into what -sorrow this caprice of restlessness and passion is hurrying you." - -Sweetness had forsaken the countenance of the aged shepherd. His tones -rung hoarse and hollow, and the muscles of his face twitched and -quivered as he went on: - -"Reflect upon the tranquil life that you have spent here, preparing -your soul for immortality. All your training has been for the solitude -of the cloister. All your enemies have been only the spiritual foes -of your own nature. You say that you are not fitted for this life. -Are you then prepared for a life in the world? Foolish, foolish boy! -You exchange the terrestrial solitude of heaven for the battle-field -of hell. Its coarse, foul atmosphere will stifle and contaminate you. -It has problems that you have not been taught to solve. It has shocks -that you would never withstand. I see you in the world? Never, never! -See you in the midst of its din and sweat of weariness, its lying and -dishonor? You say that you love this woman. Heaven forgive you this -sin! You would follow her. Do you not know that you may be deluded, -trifled with, disappointed? She may love another. Ah! you are a -child--a simple child!" - -"Father Abbot, it is time that I were becoming a man." - -But the abbot did not hear or pause, borne on now by a torrent of -ungovernable feelings: - -"Your parents committed a great sin." He suddenly lifted the cross from -his bosom to his lips, which moved rapidly for an instant in silent -prayer. "It has never been counted against you here, as it will never -be laid to your charge in heaven. But the world will count it against -you. It will make you feel its jeers and scorn. You have no father," -again he bent over and passionately kissed his cross, "you have no -name. You are an illegitimate child. There is no place for you in the -world--in the world that takes no note of sin unless it is discovered. -I warn you--I warn you by all the years of my own experience, and by -all the sacred obligations of your holy order, against this fatal -step." - -"Though it be fatal, I must and will take it." - -"I implore you! God in heaven, dost thou punish me thus? See! I am an -old man. I have but a few years to live. You are the only tie of human -tenderness that binds me to my race. My heart is buried in yours. I -have watched over you since you were brought here, a little child. I -have nursed you through months of sickness. I have hastened the final -assumption of your vows, that you might be safe within the fold. I have -stayed my last days on earth with the hope that when I am dead, as I -soon shall be, you would perpetuate my spirit among your brethren, -and in time come to be a shepherd among them, as I have been. Do not -take this solace from me. The Church needs you--most of all needs you -in this age and in this country. I have reared you within it that you -might be glorified at last among the saints and martyrs. No, no! You -will not go away!" - -"Father Abbot, what better can I do than heed the will of Heaven in my -own conscience?" - -"I implore you!" - -"I must go." - -"I warn you, I say." - -"Oh, my father! You only make more terrible the anguish of this moment. -Bless me, and let me go in peace." - -"_Bless_ you?" almost shrieked the abbot, starting back with horror, -his features strangely drawn, his uplifted arms trembling, his whole -body swaying. "_Bless_ you? Do this, and I will hurl upon you the awful -curse of the everlasting Church!" - -As though stricken by the thunderbolt of his own imprecation, he fell -into one of the chairs and buried his head in his arms upon the table. -Father Palemon had staggered backward, as though the curse had struck -him in the forehead. These final words he had never thought of--never -foreseen. For a moment the silence of the great chamber was broken -only by his own quick breathing and by the convulsive agitation of the -abbot. Then with a rapid movement Father Palemon came forward, knelt, -and kissed the hem of the abbot's cowl, and, turning away, went out. - -Love--duty--the world; in those three words lie all the human, all the -divine, tragedy. - - - VI. - -Years soon pass away in the life of a Trappist priest. - - For shade to shade will come too drowsily, - And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. - -Another June came quickly into the lonely valley of the Abbey of -Gethsemane. Again the same sweet monastery bells in the purple -twilights, and the same midnight masses. Monks again at work in the -gardens, their cowls well tied up with hempen cords. Monks once more -teaching the pious pupils in the school across the lane. The gorgeous -summer came and passed beyond the southern horizon, like a mortal -vision of beauty never to return. There were few changes to note. Only -the abbot seemed to have grown much feebler. His hand trembled visibly -now as he lifted the crosier, and he walked less than of yore among his -brethren while they busied themselves with the duties of the waning -autumn. But he was oftener seen pacing to and fro where the leaves -fell sadly from the moaning choir of English elms. Or at times he would -take a little foot-path that led across the brown November fields, -and, having gained a crest on the boundary of the valley, would stand -looking far over the outward landscape into imaginary spaces, limitless -and unexplored. - -But Father Palemon, where was he? Amid what splendors of the great -metropolis was he bursting Joy's grape against his palate fine? What -of his dreams of love and duty, and a larger, more modern stature of -manhood? - - * * * * * - -Late one chill, cloud-hung afternoon in November there came into the -valley of Gethsemane the figure of a young man. He walked slowly along -the road towards the abbey, with the air of one who is weary and -forgetful of his surroundings. His head dropped heavily forward on his -breast, and his empty hands hung listlessly down. At the iron gate of -the porter's lodge entrance was refused him; the abbey was locked in -repose for the night. Urging the importance of his seeing the abbot, he -was admitted. He erased a name from a card and on it wrote another, and -waited for the interview. - -Again the same great dark room, lighted by a flickering spark. He did -not stand half in light and half in shadow, but hid himself away in one -of the darkest recesses. In a few moments the abbot entered, holding -the card in his hand and speaking with tremulous haste: - -"'Father Palemon?'--who wrote this name, 'Father Palemon?'" - -Out of the darkness came a low reply: - -"I wrote it." - -"I do not know you." - -"I am Father Palemon." - -The calm of a great sadness was in the abbot's voice, as he replied, -musingly: - -"There--_is_--no--Father Palemon: he died long ago." - -"Oh, my father! Is this the way you receive me?" - -He started forward and came into the light. Alas! No; it was not Father -Palemon. His long hair was unkempt and matted over his forehead, his -face pinched and old with suffering, and ashen gray except for the red -spots on his cheeks. Deep shadows lay under his hollow eyes, which were -bloodshot and restless and burning. - -"I have come back to lead the life of a monk. Will you receive me?" - -"Twice a monk, no monk. Receive you for what time? Until next June?" - -"Until death." - -"I have received you once already until death. How many times am I to -receive you until death?" - -"I beseech you do not contest in words with me. It is too much. I am -ill. I am in trouble." - -He suddenly checked his passionate utterance, speaking slowly and with -painful self-control: - -"I cannot endure how to tell you all that has befallen me since I went -away. The new life that I had begun in the world has come to an end. -Father Abbot, she is dead. I have just buried her and my child in one -grave. Since then the one desire I have had has been to return to -this place. God forgive me! I have no heart now for the duties I had -undertaken. I had not measured my strength against this calamity. It -has left me powerless for good to any human creature. My plans were -wrecked when she died. My purposes have gone to pieces. There is no -desire in me but for peace and solitude and prayer. All that I can do -now is to hide my poor, broken, ineffectual life here, until by God's -will, sooner or later, it is ended." - -"You speak in the extremity of present suffering. You are young. -Nearly all your life lies yet before you. In time Nature heals nearly -all the wounds that she inflicts. In a few years this grief which now -unmans you--which you think incurable--will wear itself out. You do not -believe this. You think me cruel. But I speak the truth. Then you may -be happy again--happier than you have ever been. Then the world will -resume its hold upon you. If the duties of a man's life have appealed -to your conscience, as I believe they have, they will then appeal -to it with greater power and draw you with a greater sense of their -obligations. Moreover, you may love again--ah! Hush! Hear me through! -You think this is more unfeeling still. But I must speak, and speak -now. It is impossible to seclude you here against all temptation. Some -day you may see another woman's face--hear another woman's voice. You -may find your priestly vows intolerable again. Men who once break their -holiest pledges for the sake of love will break them again, if they -love again. No, no! If you were unfit for the life of a monk once, much -more are you unfit now. Now that you are in the world, better to remain -there." - -"In Heaven's name, will you deny me? I tell you that this is the only -desire left to me. The world is as dead to me as though it never -existed, because my heart is broken. You misunderstood me then. You -misunderstand me now. Does experience count for nothing in preparing a -man for the cloister?" - -"I did misunderstand you once; I thought that you were fitted for the -life of a monk. I understand you now: I do not make the same mistake -twice." - -"This is the home of my childhood, and you turn me away?" - -"You went away yourself, in the name of conscience and of your own -passion." - -"This is the house of God, and you close its doors against me?" - -"You burst them open of your own self-will." - -Hitherto the abbot had spoken for duty, for his church, for the -inviolable sanctity of his order. Against these high claims the pent-up -tenderness of his heart had weighed as nothing. But now as the young -man, having fixed a long look upon his face, turned silently away -towards the door, with out-stretched arms he tottered after him, and -cried out in broken tones: "Stop! Stop, I pray you! You are ill. You -are free to remain here a guest. No one was ever refused shelter. Oh, -my God! what have I done?" - -Father Palemon had reeled and fallen fainting in the door-way. - - * * * * * - -In this life, from earliest childhood, we are trained by merciful -degrees to brave its many sorrows. We begin with those of infancy, -which, Heaven knows, at the time seem grievous enough to be borne. -As we grow older we somehow also grow stronger, until through the -discipline of many little sufferings we are enabled to bear up under -those final avalanches of disaster that rush down upon us in maturer -years. Even thus fortified, there are some of us on whom these fall -only to overwhelm. - -But Father Palemon. Unnaturally shielded by the cloister up to that -period of young manhood when feeling is deepest and fortitude least, -he had suddenly appeared upon the world's stage only to enact one -of the greatest scenes in the human tragedy--that scene wherein the -perfect ecstasy of love by one swift, mortal transition becomes the -perfect agony of loss. What wonder if he had staggered blindly, and if, -trailing the habiliments of his sorrow, he had sought to return to the -only place that was embalmed in his memory as a peaceful haven for the -shipwrecked? But even this quiet port was denied him. - - * * * * * - -Into the awful death-chamber of the abbey they bore him one midnight -some weeks later. The tension of physical powers during the days of his -suspense and suffering, followed by the shock of his rejection, had -touched those former well-nigh fatal ravages that had prostrated him -during the period of his austere novitiate. He was dying. The delirium -of his fever had passed away, and with a clear, dark, sorrowful eye he -watched them prepare for the last agony. - -On the bare floor of the death-chamber they sprinkled consecrated ashes -in the form of a cross. Over these they scattered straw, and over the -straw they drew a coarse serge cloth. This was his death-bed--a sign -that in the last hour he was admitted once more to the fellowship of -his order. From the low couch on which he lay he looked at it. Then he -made a sign to the abbot, in the mute language of the brotherhood. The -abbot repeated it to one of the attendant fathers, who withdrew and -soon returned, bringing a white cowl. Lifting aside the serge cloth, he -spread the cowl over the blessed cinders and straw. Father Palemon's -request had been that he might die upon his cowl, and on this they now -stretched his poor emaciated body, his cold feet just touching the old -earth-stains upon its hem. He lay for a little while quite still, with -closed eyes. Then he turned them upon the abbot and the monks, who were -kneeling in prayer around him, and said, in a voice of great and gentle -dignity: - -"My father--my brethren, have I your full forgiveness?" - -With sobs they bowed themselves around him. After this he received -the crucifix, tenderly embracing it, and then lay still again, as if -awaiting death. But finally he turned over on one side, and raising -himself on one forearm, sought with the hand of the other among the -folds of his cowl until he found a small blood-stain now faint upon its -bosom. Then he lay down again, pressing his cheek against it; and thus -the second time a monk, but even in death a lover, he breathed out his -spirit with a faint whisper--"Madeline!" - -And as he lay on the floor, so now he lies in the dim cemetery garth -outside, wrapped from head to foot in his cowl, with its stains on the -hem and the bosom. - - - - - SISTER DOLOROSA. - - - I. - -When Sister Dolorosa had reached the summit of a low hill on her way -to the convent she turned and stood for a while looking backward. The -landscape stretched away in a rude, unlovely expanse of gray fields, -shaded in places by brown stubble, and in others lightened by pale, -thin corn--the stunted reward of necessitous husbandry. This way -and that ran wavering lines of low fences, some worm-eaten, others -rotting beneath over-clambering wild rose and blackberry. About the -horizon masses of dense and rugged woods burned with sombre fires as -the westering sun smote them from top to underbrush. Forth from the -edge of one a few long-horned cattle, with lowered heads, wound meekly -homeward to the scant milking. The path they followed led towards -the middle background of the picture, where the weather-stained and -sagging roof of a farm-house rose above the tops of aged cedars. Some -of the branches, broken by the sleet and snow of winters, trailed their -burdens from the thinned and desolated crests--as sometimes the highest -hopes of the mind, after being beaten down by the tempests of the -world, droop around it as memories of once transcendent aspirations. - -Where she stood in the dead autumn fields few sounds broke in upon the -pervasive hush of the declining day. Only a cricket, under the warm -clod near by, shrilled sturdily with cheerful forethought of drowsy -hearth-stones; only a lamb, timid of separation from the fold, called -anxiously in the valley beyond the crest of the opposite hill; only -the summoning whistle of a quail came sweet and clear from the depths -of a neighboring thicket. Through all the air floated that spirit of -vast loneliness which at seasons seems to steal like a human mood -over the breast of the great earth and leave her estranged from her -transitory children. At such an hour the heart takes wing for home, if -any home it have; or when, if homeless, it feels the quick stir of that -yearning for the evening fireside with its half-circle of trusted faces -young and old, and its bonds of love and marriage, those deepest, most -enchanting realities to the earthly imagination. The very landscape, -barren and dead, but framing the simple picture of a home, spoke to the -beholder the everlasting poetry of the race. - -But Sister Dolorosa, standing on the brow of the hill whence the whole -picture could be seen, yet saw nothing of it. Out of the western sky -there streamed an indescribable splendor of many-hued light, and far -into the depths of this celestial splendor her steadfast eyes were -gazing. - -She seemed caught up to some august height of holy meditation. Her -motionless figure was so lightly poised that her feet, just visible -beneath the hem of her heavy black dress, appeared all but rising from -the dust of the path-way; her pure and gentle face was upturned, so -that the dark veil fell away from her neck and shoulders; her lips were -slightly parted; her breath came and went so imperceptibly that her -hands did not appear to rise and fall as they clasped the cross to her -bosom. Exquisite hands they were--most exquisite--gleaming as white as -lilies against the raven blackness of her dress; and with startling -fitness of posture, the longest finger of the right hand pointed like a -marble index straight towards a richly embroidered symbol over her left -breast--the mournful symbol of a crimson heart pierced by a crimson -spear. Whether attracted by the lily-white hands or by the red symbol, -a butterfly, which had been flitting hither and thither in search -of the gay races of the summer gone, now began to hover nearer, and -finally lighted unseen upon the glowing spot. Then, as if disappointed -not to find it the bosom of some rose, or lacking hope and strength for -further quest--there it rested, slowly fanning with its white wings the -tortured emblem of the divine despair. - -Lower sank the sun, deeper and more wide-spread the splendor of the -sky, more rapt and radiant the expression of her face. A painter of the -angelic school, seeing her standing thus, might have named the scene -the transfiguration of angelic womanhood. What but heavenly images -should she be gazing on; or where was she in spirit but flown out of -the earthly autumn fields and gone away to sainted vespers in the -cloud-built realm of her own fantasies? Perhaps she was now entering -yon vast cathedral of the skies, whose white spires touched blue -eternity; or toiling devoutly up yon gray mount of Calvary, with its -blackened crucifix falling from the summit. - -Standing thus towards the close of the day, Sister Dolorosa had not yet -passed out of that ideal time which is the clear white dawn of life. -She was still within the dim, half-awakened region of womanhood, whose -changing mists are beautiful illusions, whose shadows about the horizon -are the mysteries of poetic feeling, whose purpling east is the palette -of the imagination, and whose upspringing skylark is blithe aspiration -that has not yet felt the weight of the clod it soars within. Before -her still was the full morning of reality and the burden of the mid-day -hours. - -But if the history of any human soul could be perfectly known, who -would wish to describe this passage from the dawn of the ideal to -the morning of the real--this transition from life as it is imagined -through hopes and dreams to life as it is known through action and -submission? It is then that within the country of the soul occur events -too vast, melancholy, and irreversible to be compared to anything less -than the downfall of splendid dynasties, or the decay of an august -religion. It is then that there leave us forever bright, aerial spirits -of the fancy, separation from whom is like grief for the death of the -beloved. - -The moment of this transition had come in the life of Sister Dolorosa, -and unconsciously she was taking her last look at the gorgeous western -clouds from the hill-tops of her chaste life of dreams. - -A flock of frightened doves sped hurtling low over her head, and put -an end to her reverie. Pressing the rosary to her lips, she turned -and walked on towards the convent, not far away. The little foot-path -across the fields was well trodden and familiar, running as it did -between the convent and the farm-house behind her in which lived old -Ezra and Martha Cross; and as she followed its windings, her thoughts, -as is likely to be true of the thoughts of nuns, came home from the -clouds to the humblest concerns of the earth, and she began to recall -certain incidents of the visit from which she was returning. - -The aged pair were well known to the Sisters. Their daughters had been -educated at the convent; and, although these were married and scattered -now, the tie then formed had since become more close through their age -and loneliness. Of late word had come to the Mother Superior that old -Martha was especially ailing, and Sister Dolorosa had several times -been sent on visits of sympathy. For reasons better to be understood -later on, these visits had had upon her the effect of an April shower -on a thirsting rose. Her missions of mercy to the aged couple over, -for a while the white taper of ideal consecration to the Church always -burned in her bosom with clearer, steadier lustre, as though lit afresh -from the Light eternal. But to-day she could not escape the conviction -that these visits were becoming a source of disquietude; for the -old couple, forgetting the restrictions which her vows put upon her -very thoughts, had spoken of things which it was trying for her to -hear--love-making, marriage, and children. In vain had she tried to -turn away from the proffered share in such parental confidences. The -old mother had even read aloud a letter from her eldest son, telling -them of his approaching marriage and detailing the hope and despair of -his wooing. With burning cheeks and downcast eyes Sister Dolorosa had -listened till the close and then risen and quickly left the house. - -The recollection of this returned to her now as she pursued her way -along the foot-path which descended into the valley; and there came to -her, she knew not whence or why, a piercing sense of her own separation -from all but the divine love. The cold beauty of unfallen spirituality -which had made her august as she stood on the hill-top died away, and -her face assumed a tenderer, more appealing loveliness, as there crept -over it, like a shadow over snow, that shy melancholy under which -those women dwell who have renounced the great drama of the heart. She -resolved to lay her trouble before the Mother Superior to-night, and -ask that some other Sister be sent hereafter in her stead. And yet this -resolution gave her no peace, but a throb of painful renunciation; -and since she was used to the most scrupulous examination of her -conscience, to detect the least presence of evil, she grew so disturbed -by this state of her heart that she quite forgot the windings of the -path-way along the edge of a field of corn, and was painfully startled -when a wounded bird, lying on the ground a few feet in front of her, -flapped its wings in a struggle to rise. Love and sympathy were the -strongest principles of her nature, and with a little outcry she bent -over and took it up; but scarce had she done so, when, with a final -struggle, it died in her hand. A single drop of blood oozed out and -stood on its burnished breast. - -She studied it--delicate throat, silken wings, wounded bosom--in the -helpless way of a woman, unwilling to put it down and leave it, yet -more unwilling to take it away. Many a time, perhaps, she had watched -this very one flying to and fro among its fellows in the convent elms. -Strange that any one should be hunting in these fields, and she looked -quickly this way and that. Then, with a surprised movement of the -hands that caused her to drop the bird at her feet, Sister Dolorosa -discovered, standing half hidden in the edge of the pale-yellow corn a -few yards ahead, wearing a hunting-dress, and leaning on the muzzle of -his gun, a young man who was steadfastly regarding her. For an instant -they stood looking each into the other's face, taken so unprepared as -to lose all sense of convention. Their meeting was as unforeseen as -another far overhead, where two white clouds, long shepherded aimlessly -and from opposite directions across the boundless pastures by the -unreasoning winds, touched and melted into one. Then Sister Dolorosa, -the first to regain self-possession, gathered her black veil closely -about her face, and advancing with an easy, rapid step, bowed low with -downcast eyes as she passed him, and hurried on towards the convent. - -She had not gone far before she resolved to say nothing about the -gossip to which she had listened. Of late the Mother Superior had -seemed worn with secret care and touched with solicitude regarding -her. Would it be kind to make this greater by complaining like a weak -child of a trivial annoyance? She took her conscience proudly to task -for ever having been disturbed by anything so unworthy. And as for -this meeting in the field, even to mention that would be to give it -a certain significance, whereas it had none whatever. A stranger had -merely crossed her path a moment and then gone his way. She would -forget the occurrence herself as soon as she could recover from her -physical agitation. - - - II. - -The Convent of the Stricken Heart is situated in that region of -Kentucky which early became the great field of Catholic immigration. -It was established in the first years of the present century, when -mild Dominicans, starving Trappists, and fiery Jesuits hastened into -the green wildernesses of the West with the hope of turning them into -religious vineyards. Then, accordingly, derived from such sources as -the impassioned fervor of Italy, the cold, monotonous endurance of -Flanders, and the dying sorrows of ecclesiastical France, there sprang -up this new flower of faith, unlike any that ever bloomed in pious -Christendom. From the meagrest beginning, the order has slowly grown -rich and powerful, so that it now has branches in many States, as far -as the shores of the Pacific Ocean. - -The convent is situated in a retired region of country, remote from -any village or rural highway. The very peace of the blue skies seems -to descend upon it. Around the walls great elms stand like tranquil -sentinels, or at a greater distance drop their shadows on the velvet -verdure of the artificial lawns. Here, when the sun is hot, some white -veiled novice may be seen pacing soft-footed and slow, while she fixes -her sad eyes upon pictures drawn from the literature of the Dark Ages, -or fights the first battle with her young heart, which would beguile -her to heaven by more jocund path-ways. Drawn by the tranquillity of -this retreat--its trees and flowers and dews--all singing-birds of the -region come here to build and brood. No other sounds than their pure -cadences disturb the echoless air except the simple hymns around the -altar, the vesper bell, the roll of the organ, the deep chords of the -piano, or the thrum of the harp. It may happen, indeed, that some one -of the Sisters, climbing to the observatory to scan the horizon of her -secluded world, will catch the faint echoes of a young ploughman in -a distant field lustily singing of the honest passion in his heart, -or hear the shouts of happy harvesters as they move across the yellow -plains. The population scattered around the convent domain are largely -of the Catholic faith, and from all directions the country is threaded -by foot-paths that lead to the church as a common shrine. It was along -one of these that Sister Dolorosa, as has been said, hastened homeward -through the falling twilight. - -When she reached the convent, instead of seeking the Mother Superior -as heretofore with news from old Martha, she stole into the shadowy -church and knelt for a long time in wordless prayer--wordless, because -no petition that she could frame appeared inborn and quieting. An -unaccountable remorse gnawed the heart out of language. Her spirit -seemed parched, her will was deadened as by a blow. Trained to the most -rigorous introspection, she entered within herself and penetrated to -the deepest recesses of her mind to ascertain the cause. The bright -flame of her conscience thus employed was like the turning of a sunbeam -into a darkened chamber to reveal the presence of a floating grain of -dust. But nothing could be discovered. It was the undiscovered that -rebuked her as it often rebukes us all--the undiscovered evil that has -not yet linked itself to conscious transgression. At last she rose with -a sigh and, dejected, left the church. - -Later, the Mother Superior, noiselessly entering her room, found her -sitting at the open window, her hands crossed on the sill, her eyes -turned outward into the darkness. - -"Child, child," she said, hurriedly, "how uneasy you have made me! Why -are you so late returning?" - -"I went to the church when I came back, Mother," replied Sister -Dolorosa, in a voice singularly low and composed. "I must have returned -nearly an hour ago." - -"But even then it was late." - -"Yes, Mother; I stopped on the way back to look at the sunset. The -clouds looked like cathedrals. And then old Martha kept me. You know it -is difficult to get away from old Martha." - -The Mother Superior laughed slightly, as though her anxiety had been -removed. She was a woman of commanding presence, with a face full of -dignity and sweetness, but furrowed by lines of difficult resignation. - -"Yes; I know," she answered. "Old Martha's tongue is like a terrestrial -globe; the whole world is mapped out on it, and a little movement of it -will show you a continent. How is her rheumatism?" - -"She said it was no worse," replied Sister Dolorosa, absently. - -The Mother Superior laughed again. "Then it must be better. Rheumatism -is always either better or worse." - -"Yes, Mother." - -This time the tone caught the Mother Superior's ear. - -"You seem tired. Was the walk too long?" - -"I enjoyed the walk, Mother. I do not feel tired." - -They had been sitting on opposite sides of the room. The Mother -Superior now crossed, and, laying her hand softly on Sister Dolorosa's -head, pressed it backward and looked fondly down into the upturned eyes. - -"Something troubles you. What has happened?" - -There is a tone that goes straight to the hearts of women in trouble. -If there are tears hidden, they gather in the eyes. If there is any -confidence to give, it is given then. - -A tremor, like that of a child with an unspent sob, passed across -Sister Dolorosa's lips, but her eyes were tearless. - -"Nothing has happened, Mother. I do not know why, but I feel disturbed -and unhappy." This was the only confidence that she had to give. - -The Mother Superior passed her hand slowly across the brow, white and -smooth like satin. Then she sat down, and as Sister Dolorosa slipped to -the floor beside her she drew the young head to her lap and folded her -aged hands upon it. What passionate, barren loves haunt the hearts of -women in convents! Between these two there existed a tenderness more -touching than the natural love of mother and child. - -"You must not expect to know at all times," she said, with grave -gentleness. "To be troubled without any visible cause is one of the -mysteries of our nature. As you grow older you will understand this -better. We are forced to live in conscious possession of all faculties, -all feelings, whether or not there are outward events to match them. -Therefore you must expect to have anxiety within when your life is -really at peace without; to have moments of despair when no failure -threatens; to have your heart wrung with sympathy when no object of -sorrow is nigh; to be spent with the need of loving when there is no -earthly thing to receive your love. This is part of woman's life, and -of all women, especially those who, like you, must live not to stifle -the tender, beautiful forces of nature, but to ennoble and unite them -into one divine passion. Do not think, therefore, to escape these hours -of heaviness and pain. No saint ever walked this earth without them. -Perhaps the lesson to be gained is this: that we may feel things before -they happen, so that if they do happen we shall be disciplined to bear -them." - -The voice of the Mother Superior had become low and meditative; and, -though resting on the bowed head, her eyes seemed fixed on events long -past. After the silence of a few moments she continued in a brighter -tone: - -"But, my child, I know the reason of _your_ unhappiness. I have warned -you that excessive ardor would leave you overwrought and nervous; that -you were being carried too far by your ideals. You live too much in -your sympathies and your imagination. Patience, my little St. Theresa! -No saint was ever made in a day, and it has taken all the centuries of -the Church to produce its martyrs. Only think that your life is but -begun; there will be time enough to accomplish everything. I have been -watching, and I know. This is why I send _you_ to old Martha. I want -you to have the rest, the exercise, the air of the fields. Go again -to-morrow, and take her the ointment. I found it while you were gone -to-day. It has been in the Church for centuries, and you know this -bottle came from blessed Loretto in Italy. It may do her some good. -And, for the next few days, less reading and study." - -"Mother!" Sister Dolorosa spoke as though she had not been listening. -"What would become of me if I should ever--if any evil should ever -befall me?" - -The Mother Superior stretched her hands out over the head on her -knees as some great, fierce, old, gray eagle, scarred and strong with -the storms of life, might make a movement to shield its imperilled -young. The tone in which Sister Dolorosa had spoken startled her as -the discovered edge of a precipice. It was so quiet, so abrupt, so -terrifying with its suggestion of an abyss. For a moment she prayed -silently and intensely. - -"Heaven mercifully shield you from harm!" she then said, in an -awe-stricken whisper. "But, timid lamb, what harm can come to you?" - -Sister Dolorosa suddenly rose and stood before the Mother Superior. - -"I mean," she said, with her eyes on the floor and her voice scarcely -audible--"I mean--if I should ever fail, would you cast me out?" - -"My child!--Sister!--Sister Dolorosa!--Cast you out!" - -The Mother Superior started up and folded her arms about the slight, -dark figure, which at once seemed to be standing aloof with infinite -loneliness. For some time she sought to overcome this difficult, -singular mood. - -"And now, my daughter," she murmured at last, "go to sleep and forget -these foolish fears. I am near you!" There seemed to be a fortress of -sacred protection and defiance in these words; but the next instant her -head was bowed, her upward-pointing finger raised in the air, and in a -tone of humble self-correction she added: "Nay, not I; the Sleepless -guards you! Good-night." - -Sister Dolorosa lifted her head from the strong shoulder and turned her -eyes, now luminous, upon the troubled face. - -"Forgive me, Mother!" she said, in a voice of scornful resolution. -"Never--never again will I disturb you with such weakness as I have -shown to-night. I _know_ that no evil can befall me! Forgive me, -Mother. Good-night." - -While she sleeps learn her history. Pauline Cambron was descended from -one of those sixty Catholic families of Maryland that formed a league -in 1785 for the purpose of emigrating to Kentucky without the rending -of social ties or separation from the rites of their ancestral faith. -Since then the Kentucky branch of the Cambrons has always maintained -friendly relations with the Maryland branch, which is now represented -by one of the wealthy and cultivated families of Baltimore. On one side -the descent is French; and, as far back as this can be traced, there -runs a tradition that some of the most beautiful of its women became -barefoot Carmelite nuns in the various monasteries of France or on some -storm-swept island of the Mediterranean Sea. - -The first of the Kentucky Cambrons settled in that part of the State -in which nearly a hundred years later lived the last generation of -them--the parents of Pauline. Of these she was the only child, so that -upon her marriage depended the perpetuation of the Kentucky family. It -gives to the Protestant mind a startling insight into the possibilities -of a woman's life and destiny in Kentucky to learn the nature of the -literature by which her sensitive and imaginative character was from -the first impressed. This literature covers a field wholly unknown -to the ordinary student of Kentucky history. It is not to be found -in well-known works, but in the letters, reminiscences, and lives -of foreign priests, and in the kindling and heroic accounts of the -establishment of Catholic missions. It abounds in such stories as those -of a black friar fatally thrown from a wild horse in the pathless -wilderness; of a gray friar torn to pieces by a saw-mill; of a starving -white friar stretched out to die under the green canopy of an oak; of -priests swimming half-frozen rivers with the sacred vestments in their -teeth; of priests hewing logs for a hut in which to celebrate the -mass; of priests crossing and recrossing the Atlantic and traversing -Italy and Belgium and France for money and pictures and books; of -devoted women laying the foundation of powerful convents in half-ruined -log-cabins, shivering on beds of straw sprinkled on the ground, driven -by poverty to search in the wild woods for dyes with which to give to -their motley worldly apparel the hue of the cloister, and dying at -last, to be laid away in pitiless burial without coffin or shroud. - -Such incidents were to her the more impressive since happening in -part in the region where lay the Cambron estate; and while very -young she was herself repeatedly taken to visit the scenes of early -religious tragedies. Often, too, around the fireside there was proud -reference to the convent life of old France and to the saintly zeal of -the Carmelites; and once she went with her parents to Baltimore and -witnessed the taking of the veil by a cousin of hers--a scene that -afterwards burned before her conscience as a lamp before a shrine. - -Is it strange if under such influences, living in a country place -with few associates, reading in her father's library books that were -to be had on the legends of the monastic orders and the lives of the -saints--is it strange if to the young Pauline Cambron this world before -long seemed little else than the battle-field of the Church, the ideal -man in it a monk, the ideal woman a nun, the human heart a solemn -sacrifice to Heaven, and human life a vast, sad pilgrimage to the -shrine eternal? - -Among the places which had always appealed to her imagination as one of -the heroic sites of Kentucky history was the Convent of the Stricken -Heart, not far away. Whenever she came hither she seemed to be treading -on sacred ground. Happening to visit it one summer day before her -education was completed, she asked to be sent hither for the years -that remained. When these were past, here, with the difficult consent -of her parents, who saw thus perish the last hope of the perpetuation -of the family, she took the white veil. Here at last she hid herself -beneath the black. Her whole character at this stage of its unfolding -may be understood from the name she assumed--Sister Dolorosa. With this -name she wished not merely to extinguish her worldly personality, but -to clothe herself with a life-long expression of her sympathy with the -sorrows of the world. By this act she believed that she would attain -a change of nature so complete that the black veil of Sister Dolorosa -would cover as in a funeral urn the ashes which had once been the heart -of Pauline Cambron. And thus her conventual life began. - -But for those beings to whom the span on the summer-evening cloud -is as nothing compared with that fond arch of beauty which it is a -necessity of their nature to hang as a bow of promise above every -beloved hope--for such dreamers the sadness of life lies in the -dissipation of mystery and the disillusion of truth. When she had been -a member of the order long enough to see things as they were, Sister -Dolorosa found herself living in a large, plain, comfortable brick -convent, situated in a retired and homely region of Southern Kentucky. -Around her were plain nuns with the invincible contrariety of feminine -temperament. Before her were plain duties. Built up around her were -plain restrictions. She had rushed with out-stretched arms towards -poetic mysteries, and clasped prosaic reality. - -As soon as the lambent flame of her spirit had burned over this new -life, as a fire before a strong wind rushes across a plain, she one -day surveyed it with that sense of reality which sometimes visits the -imaginative with such appalling vividness. Was it upon this dreary -waste that her soul was to play out its drama of ideal womanhood? - -She answered the question in the only way possible to such a nature as -hers. She divided her life in twain. Half, with perfect loyalty, she -gave out to duty; the other, with equal loyalty, she stifled within. -But perhaps this is no uncommon lot--this unmating of the forces of -the mind, as though one of two singing-birds should be released to -fly forth under the sky, while the other--the nobler singer--is kept -voiceless in a darkened chamber. - -But the Sisters of the Stricken Heart are not cloistered nuns. Their -chief vow is to go forth into the world to teach. Scarcely had Sister -Dolorosa been intrusted with work of this kind before she conceived -an aspiration to become a great teacher of history or literature, and -obtained permission to spend extra hours in the convent library on a -wider range of sacred reading. Here began a second era in her life. -Books became the avenues along which she escaped from her present into -an illimitable world. Her imagination, beginning to pine, now took wing -and soared back to the remote, the splendid, the imperial, the august. -Her sympathies, finding nothing around her to fix upon, were borne afar -like winged seed and rooted on the colossal ruins of the centuries. Her -passion for beauty fed on holy art. She lived at the full flood of life -again. - -If in time revulsion came, she would live a shy, exquisite, hidden -life of poetry in which she herself played the historic roles. Now she -would become a powerful abbess of old, ruling over a hundred nuns in an -impregnable cloister. To the gates, stretched on a litter, wounded to -death, they bore a young knight of the Cross. She had the gates opened. -She went forth and bent over him; heard his dying message; at his -request drew the plighted ring from his finger to send to another land. -How beautiful he was! How many masses--how many, many masses--had she -not ordered for the peace of his soul! Now she was St. Agatha, tortured -by the proconsul; now she lay faint and cold in an underground cell, -and was visited by Thomas à Kempis, who read to her long passages from -the _Imitation_. Or she would tire of the past, and making herself an -actor in her own future, in a brief hour live out the fancied drama of -all her crowded years. - -But whatever part she took in this dream existence and beautiful -passion-play of the soul, nothing attracted her but the perfect. For -the commonplace she felt a guileless scorn. - -Thus for some time these unmated lives went on--the fixed outward life -of duty, and the ever-wandering inner life of love. In mid-winter, -walking across the shining fields, you have come to some little -frost-locked stream. How mute and motionless! You set foot upon it, -the ice is broken, and beneath is musical running water. Thus under -the chaste, rigid numbness of convent existence the heart of Sister -Dolorosa murmured unheard and hurried away unseen to plains made warm -and green by her imagination. But the old may survive upon memories; -the young cannot thrive upon hope. Love, long reaching outward in vain, -returns to the heart as self-pity. Sympathies, if not supported by -close realities, fall in upon themselves like the walls of a ruined -house. At last, therefore, even the hidden life of Sister Dolorosa grew -weary of the future and the past, and came home to the present. - -The ardor of her studies and the rigor of her duties combined--but -more than either that wearing away of the body by a restless mind--had -begun to affect her health. Both were relaxed, and she was required to -spend as much time as possible in the garden of the convent It was like -lifting a child that has become worn out with artificial playthings to -an open window to see the flowers. With inexpressible relief she turned -from mediæval books to living nature; and her beautiful imagination, -that last of all faculties to fail a human being in an unhappy lot, now -began to bind nature to her with fellowships which quieted the need of -human association. She had long been used to feign correspondences with -the fathers of the Church; she now established intimacies with dumb -companions, and poured out her heart to them in confidence. - -The distant woods slowly clothing themselves in green; the faint -perfume of the wild rose, running riot over some rotting fence; the -majestical clouds about the sunset; the moon dying in the spectral -skies; the silken rustling of doves' wings parting the soft foliage of -the sentinel elms; landscapes of frost on her window-pane; crumbs in -winter for the sparrows on the sill; violets under the leaves in the -convent garden; myrtle on the graves of the nuns--such objects as these -became the means by which her imprisoned life was released. On the -sensuous beauty of the world she spent the chaste ravishments of her -virginal heart. Her love descended on all things as in the night the -dew fills and bends down the cups of the flowers. - -A few of these confidences--written on slips of paper, and no sooner -written than cast aside--are given here. They are addressed severally -to a white violet, an English sparrow, and a butterfly. - -"I have taken the black veil, but thou wearest the white, and -thou dwellest in dim cloisters of green leaves--in the domed and -many-pillared little shrines that line the dusty road-side, or seem -more fitly built in the depths of holy woodlands. How often have -I drawn near with timid steps, and, opening the doors of thy tiny -oratories, found thee bending at thy silent prayers--bending so low -that thy lips touched the earth, while the slow wind rang thine -Angelus! Wast thou blooming anywhere near when He came into the wood -of the thorn and the olive? Didst thou press thy cool face against his -bruised feet? Had I been thou, I would have bloomed at the foot of -the cross, and fed his failing lungs with my last breath. Time never -destroys thee, little Sister, or stains thy whiteness; and thou wilt be -bending at thy prayers among the green graves on the twilight hill-side -ages after I who lie below have finished mine. Pray for me then, pray -for thine erring sister, thou pure-souled violet!" - -"How cold thou art! Shall I take thee in and warm thee on my bosom? Ah, -no! For I know who thou art! Not a bird, but a little brown mendicant -friar, begging barefoot in the snow. And thou livest in a cell under -the convent eaves opposite my window. What ugly feet thou hast, little -Father! And the thorns are on thy toes instead of about thy brow. That -is a bad sign for a saint. I saw thee in a brawl the other day with a -mendicant brother of thine order, and thou drovest him from roof to -roof and from icy twig to twig, screaming and wrangling in a way to -bring reproach upon the Church. Thou shouldst learn to defend a thesis -more gently. Who is it that visits thy cell so often? A penitent to -confess? And dost thou shrive her freely? I'd never confess to thee, -thou cross little Father! Thou'dst have no mercy on me if I sinned, as -sin I must since human I am. The good God is very good to thee that he -keeps thee from sinning while he leaves me to do wrong. Ah, if it were -but natural for me to be perfect! But that, little Father, is my idea -of heaven. In heaven it will be natural for me to be perfect. I'll feed -thee no longer than the winter lasts, for then thou'lt be a monk no -longer, but a bird again. And canst thou tell me why? Because, when the -winter is gone, thou'lt find a mate, and wert thou a monk thou'dst have -none. For thou knowest perfectly well, little Father, that monks do not -wed." - -"No fitting emblem of my soul art thou, fragile Psyche, mute and -perishable lover of the gorgeous earth. For my soul has no summer, -and there is no earthly object of beauty that it may fly to and rest -upon as thou upon the beckoning buds. It is winter where I live. All -things are cold and white, and my soul flies only above fresh fields of -flowerless snow. But no blast can chill its wings, no mire bedraggle, -or rude touch fray. I often wonder whether thou art mute, or the divine -framework of winged melodies. Thy very wings are shaped like harps for -the winds to play upon. So, too, my soul is silent never, though none -can hear its music. Dost thou know that I am held in exile in this -world that I inhabit? And dost thou know the flower that I fly ever -towards and cannot reach? It is the white flower of eternal perfection -that blooms and waits for the soul in Paradise. Upon that flower I -shall some day rest my wings as thou foldest thine on a faultless rose." - -Harmonizing with this growing passion for the beauty of the world--a -passion that marked her approach to riper womanhood--was the care she -took of her person. The coarse, flowing habit of the order gave no hint -of the curves and symmetry of the snow-white figure throbbing with -eager life within; but it could not conceal an air of refinement and -movements of the most delicate grace. There was likewise a suggestion -of artistic study in the arrangement of her veil, and the sacred symbol -on her bosom was embroidered with touches of elaboration. - -It was when she had grown weary of books, of the imaginary drama of her -life, and the loveliness of Nature, that Sister Dolorosa was sent by -the Mother Superior on those visits of sympathy to old Martha Cross; -and it was during her return from one of them that there befell her -that adventure which she had deemed too slight to mention. - - - III. - -Her outward history was that night made known to Gordon Helm by old -Martha Cross. When Sister Dolorosa passed him he followed her at a -distance until she entered the convent gates. It caused him subtle -pain to think what harm might be lurking to insnare her innocence. But -subtler pain shot through him as he turned away, leaving her housed -within that inaccessible fold. - -Who was she, and from what mission returning alone at such an hour -across those darkening fields? He had just come to the edge of the -corn and started to follow up the path in quest of shelter for the -night, when he had caught sight of her on the near hill-top, outlined -with startling distinctness against the jasper sky and bathed in a -tremulous sea of lovely light. He had held his breath as she advanced -towards him. He had watched the play of emotions in her face as she -paused a few yards off, and her surprise at the discovery of him--the -timid start; the rounding of the fawn-like eyes; the vermeil tint -overspreading the transparent purity of her skin: her whole nature -disturbed like a wind-shaken anemone. All this he now remembered as -he returned along the foot-path. It brought him to the door of the -farm-house, where he arranged to pass the night. - -"You are a stranger in this part of the country," said the old -housewife an hour later. - -When he came in she had excused herself from rising from her chair -by the chimney-side; but from that moment her eyes had followed -him--those eyes of the old which follow the forms of the young with -such despairing memories. By the chimney-side sat old Ezra, powerful, -stupid, tired, silently smoking, and taking little notice of the -others. Hardly a chill was in the air, but for her sake a log blazed in -the cavernous fireplace and threw its flickering light over the guest -who sat in front. - -He possessed unusual physical beauty--of the type sometimes found in -the men of those Kentucky families that have descended with little -admixture from English stock; body and limbs less than athletic, but -formed for strength and symmetry; hair brown, thick, and slightly -curling over the forehead and above the ears; complexion blond, but -mellowed into rich tints from sun and open air; eyes of dark gray-blue, -beneath brows low and firm; a mustache golden-brown, thick, and curling -above lips red and sensuous; a neck round and full, and bearing aloft a -head well poised and moulded. The irresistible effect of his appearance -was an impression of simple joyousness in life. There seemed to be -stored up in him the warmth of the sunshine of his land; the gentleness -of its fields; the kindness of its landscapes. And he was young--so -young! To study him was to see that he was ripe to throw himself -heedless into tragedy; and that for him, not once but nightly, Endymion -fell asleep to be kissed in his dreams by encircling love. - -"You are a stranger in this part of the country," said the old -housewife, observing the elegance of his hunting-dress and his manner -of high breeding. - -"Yes; I have never been in this part of Kentucky before." He paused; -but seeing that some account of himself was silently waited for, and -as though wishing at once to despatch the subject, he added: "I am -from the blue-grass region, about a hundred miles northward of here. -A party of us were on our way farther south to hunt. On the train we -fell in with a gentleman who told us he thought there were a good many -birds around here, and I was chosen to stop over to ascertain. We might -like to try this neighborhood as we return, so I left my things at the -station and struck out across the country this afternoon. I have heard -birds in several directions, but had no dog. However, I shot a few -doves in a cornfield." - -"There are plenty of birds close around here, but most of them stay on -the land that is owned by the Sisters, and they don't like to have it -hunted over. All the land between here and the convent belongs to them -except the little that's mine." This was said somewhat dryly by the old -man, who knocked the ashes off his pipe without looking up. - -"I am sorry to have trespassed; but I was not expecting to find a -convent out in the country, although I believe I have heard that there -is an abbey of Trappist monks somewhere down here." - -"Yes; the abbey is not far from here." - -"It seems strange to me. I can hardly believe I am in Kentucky," he -said, musingly, and a solemn look came over his face as his thoughts -went back to the sunset scene. - -The old housewife's keen eyes pierced to his secret mood. - -"You ought to go there." - -"Do they receive visitors at the convent?" he asked, quickly. - -"Certainly; the Sisters are very glad to have strangers visit the -place. It's a pity you hadn't come sooner. One of the Sisters was here -this afternoon, and you might have spoken to her about it." - -This intelligence threw him into silence, and again her eyes fed upon -his firelit face with inappeasable hunger. She was one of those women, -to be met with the world over and in any station, who are remarkable -for a love of youth and the world, which age, sickness, and isolation -but deepen rather than subdue; and his sudden presence at her fireside -was more than grateful. Not satisfied with what he had told, she led -the talk back to the blue-grass country, and got from him other facts -of his life, asking questions in regard to the features of that more -fertile and beautiful land. In return she sketched the history of -her own region, and dwelt upon its differences of soil, people, and -religion--chiefly the last. It was while she spoke of the Order of the -Stricken Heart that he asked a question he had long reserved. - -"Do you know the history of any of these Sisters?" - -"I know the history of all of them who are from Kentucky. I have known -Sister Dolorosa since she was a child." - -"Sister Dolorosa!" The name pierced him like a spear. - -"The nun who was here to-day is called Sister Dolorosa. Her real name -was Pauline Cambron." - -The fire died away. The old man left the room on some pretext and did -not return. The story that followed was told with many details not -given here--traced up from parentage and childhood with that fine -tracery of the feminine mind which is like intricate embroidery, -and which leaves the finished story wrought out on the mind like a -complete design, with every point fastened to the sympathies. - -As soon as she had finished he rose quickly from a desire to be -alone. So well had the story been knit to his mind that he felt it an -irritation, a binding pain. He was bidding her good-night when she -caught his hand. Something in his mere temperament drew women towards -him. - -"Are you married?" she asked, looking into his eyes in the way with -which those who are married sometimes exchange confidences. - -He looked quickly away, and his face flushed a little fiercely. - -"I am not married," he replied, withdrawing his hand. - -She threw it from her with a gesture of mock, pleased impatience; and -when he had left the room, she sat for a while over the ashes. - -"If she were not a nun"--then she laughed and made her difficult way to -her bed. But in the room above he sat down to think. - -Was this, then, not romance, but life in his own State? Vaguely he had -always known that farther south in Kentucky a different element of -population had settled, and extended into the New World that mighty -cord of ecclesiastical influence which of old had braided every -European civilization into an iron tissue of faith. But this knowledge -had never touched his imagination. In his own land there were no rural -Catholic churches, much less convents, and even among the Catholic -congregations of the neighboring towns he had not many acquaintances -and fewer friends. - -To descend as a gay bird of passage, therefore, upon these secluded, -sombre fields, and find himself in the neighborhood of a powerful -Order--to learn that a girl, beautiful, accomplished, of wealth and -high social position, had of her own choice buried herself for life -within its bosom--gave him a startling insight into Kentucky history -as it was forming in his own time. Moreover--and this touched him -especially--it gave him a deeper insight into the possibilities of -woman's nature; for a certain narrowness of view regarding the true -mission of woman in the world belonged to him as a result of education. -In the conservative Kentucky society by which he had been largely -moulded the opinion prevailed that woman fulfilled her destiny when she -married well and adorned a home. All beauty, all accomplishments, all -virtues and graces, were but means for attaining this end. - -As for himself he came of a stock which throughout the generations of -Kentucky life, and back of these along the English ancestry, had stood -for the home; a race of men with the fireside traits: sweet-tempered, -patient, and brave; well-formed and handsome; cherishing towards women -a sense of chivalry; protecting them fiercely and tenderly; loving them -romantically and quickly for the sake of beauty; marrying early, and -sometimes at least holding towards their wives such faith, that these -had no more to fear from all other women in the world than from all -other men. - -Descended from such a stock and moulded by the social ideals of his -region, Helm naturally stood for the home himself. And yet there -was a difference. In a sense he was a product of the new Kentucky. -His infancy had been rocked on the chasm of the Civil War; his -childhood spent amid its ruins; his youth ruled by two contending -spirits--discord and peace: and earliest manhood had come to him only -in the morning of the new era. It was because the path of his life had -thus run between light and shade that his nature was joyous and grave; -only joy claimed him entirely as yet, while gravity asserted itself -merely in the form of sympathy with anything that suffered, and a -certain seriousness touching his own responsibility in life. - -Reflecting on this responsibility while his manhood was yet forming, -he felt the need of his becoming a better, broader type of man, -matching the better, broader age. His father was about his model of -a gentleman; but he should be false to the admitted progress of the -times were he not an improvement on his father. And since his father -had, as judged by the ideals of the old social order, been a blameless -gentleman of the rural blue-grass kind, with farm, spacious homestead, -slaves, leisure, and a library--to all of which, except the slaves, -he would himself succeed upon his father's death--his dream of duty -took the form of becoming a rural blue-grass gentleman of the newer -type, reviving the best traditions of the past, but putting into his -relations with his fellow-creatures an added sense of helpfulness, -a broader sense of justice, and a certain energy of leadership in -all things that made for a purer, higher human life. It will thus be -seen that he took seriously not only himself, but the reputation of -his State; for he loved it, people and land, with broad, sensitive -tenderness, and never sought or planned for his future apart from civil -and social ends. - -It was perhaps a characteristic of him as a product of the period that -he had a mind for looking at his life somewhat abstractedly and with -a certain thought-out plan; for this disposition of mind naturally -belongs to an era when society is trembling upon the brink of new -activities and forced to the discovery of new ideals. But he cherished -no religious passion, being committed by inheritance to a mild, -unquestioning, undeviating Protestantism. His religion was more in his -conduct than in his prayers, and he tried to live its precepts instead -of following them from afar. Still, his make was far from heroic. He -had many faults; but it is less important to learn what these were than -to know that, as far as he was aware of their existence, he was ashamed -of them, and tried to overcome them. - -Such, in brief, were Pauline Cambron and Gordon Helm: coming from -separate regions of Kentucky, descended from unlike pasts, moulded -by different influences, striving towards ends in life far apart and -hostile. And being thus, at last they slept that night. - -When she had been left alone, and had begun to prepare herself for -bed, across her mind passed and repassed certain words of the Mother -Superior, stilling her spirit like the waving of a wand of peace: -"To be troubled without any visible cause is one of the mysteries of -our nature." True, before she fell asleep there rose all at once a -singularly clear recollection of that silent meeting in the fields; but -her prayers fell thick and fast upon it like flakes of snow, until it -was chastely buried from the eye of conscience; and when she slept, two -tears, slowly loosened from her brain by some repentant dream, could -alone have told that there had been trouble behind her peaceful eyes. - - - IV. - -Sister Dolorosa was returning from her visit to old Martha on the -following afternoon. When she awoke that morning she resolutely put -away all thought of what had happened the evening before. She prayed -oftener than usual that day. She went about all duties with unwonted -fervor. When she set out in the afternoon, and reached the spot in -the fields where the meeting had taken place, it was inevitable that -a nature sensitive and secluded like hers should be visited by some -question touching who he was and whither he had gone; for it did not -even occur to her that he would ever cross her path again. Soon she -reached old Martha's; and then--a crippled toad with a subtile tongue -had squatted for an hour at the ear of Eve, and Eve, beguiled, had -listened. And now she was again returning across the fields homeward. -Homeward? - -Early that afternoon Helm had walked across the country to the station, -some two miles off, to change his dress, with the view of going to the -convent the next day. As he came back, he followed the course which he -had taken the day before, and this brought him into the same foot-path -across the fields. - -Thus they met the second time. When she saw him, had she been a bird, -with one sudden bound she would have beaten the air down beneath her -frightened wings and darted high over his head straight to the convent. -But his step grew slower and his look expectant. When they were a few -yards apart he stepped out of the path into the low, gray weeds of the -field, and seemed ready to pause; but she had instinctively drawn her -veil close, and was passing on. Then he spoke quickly. - -"I beg your pardon, but are strangers allowed to visit the convent?" - -There was no mistaking the courtesy of the tone. But she did not lift -her face towards him. She merely paused, though seeming to shrink away. -He saw the fingers of one hand lace themselves around the cross. Then a -moment later, in a voice very low and gentle, she replied, "The Mother -Superior is glad to receive visitors at the convent," and, bowing, -moved away. - -He stood watching her with a quick flush of disappointment. Her voice, -even more than her garb, had at once waved off approach. In his mind -he had crossed the distance from himself to her so often that he had -forgotten the actual abyss of sacred separation. Very thoughtfully he -turned at last and took his way along the foot-path. - -As he was leaving the farm-house the next day to go to the convent, -Ezra joined him, merely saying that he was going also. The old man had -few thoughts; but with that shrewd secretiveness which is sometimes -found in the dull mind he kept his counsels to himself. Their walk was -finished in silence, and soon the convent stood before them. - -Through a clear sky the wan light fell upon it as lifeless as though -sent from a dead sun. The air hung motionless. The birds were gone. -Not a sound fell upon the strained ear. Not a living thing relieved -the eye. And yet within what tragedies and conflicts, what wounds and -thorns of womanhood! Here, then, she lived and struggled and soared. -An unearthly quietude came over him as he walked up the long avenue -of elms, painfully jarred on by the noise of Ezra's shuffling feet -among the dry leaves. Joyous life had retired to infinite remoteness; -and over him, like a preternatural chill in the faint sunlight, crept -the horror of this death in life. Strangely enough he felt at one and -the same time a repugnance to his own nature of flesh and a triumphant -delight in the possession of bodily health, liberty--the liberty of the -world--and a mind unfettered by tradition. - -A few feet from the entrance an aged nun stepped from behind a -hedge-row of shrubbery and confronted them. - -"Will you state your business?" she said, coldly, glancing at Helm and -fixing her eyes on Ezra, who for reply merely nodded to Helm. - -"I am a stranger in this part of the country, and heard that I would be -allowed to visit the convent." - -"Are you a Catholic?" - -"No; I am a Protestant." - -"Are you acquainted with any of the young ladies in the convent?" - -"I am not." - -She looked him through and through. He met her scrutiny with frank -unconsciousness. - -"Will you come in? I will take your name to the Mother Superior." - -They followed her into a small reception-room, and sat for a long time -waiting. Then an inner door opened, and another aged nun, sweet-faced -and gentle, entered and greeted them pleasantly, recognizing Ezra as an -acquaintance. - -"Another Sister will be sent to accompany us," she said, and sat down -to wait, talking naturally the while to the old man. Then the door -opened again, and the heart of Helm beat violently; there was no -mistaking the form, the grace. She crossed to the Sister, and spoke in -an undertone. - -"Sister Generose is engaged. Mother sent me in her place, Sister." Then -she greeted Ezra and bowed to Helm, lifting to him an instant, but -without recognition, her tremulous eyes. Her face had the whiteness of -alabaster. - -"We will go to the church first," said the Sister, addressing Helm, who -placed himself beside her, the others following. - -When they entered the church he moved slowly around the walls, trying -to listen to his guide and to fix his thoughts upon the pictures and -the architecture. Presently he became aware that Ezra had joined them, -and as soon as pretext offered he looked back. In a pew near the door -through which they had entered he could just see the kneeling form -and bowed head of Sister Dolorosa. There she remained while they made -the circuit of the building, and not until they were quitting it did -she rise and again place herself by the side of Ezra. Was it her last -prayer before her temptation? - -They walked across the grounds towards the old-fashioned flower-garden -of the convent. The Sister opened the little latticed gate, and the -others passed in. The temptation was to begin in the very spot where -Love had long been wandering amid dumb companions. - -"Ezra!" called the aged Sister, pausing just inside the gate and -looking down at some recently dug bulbs, "has Martha taken up her -tender bulbs? The frost will soon be falling." The old man sometimes -helped at the convent in garden work. - -"Who is this young man?" she inquired carelessly a few moments later. - -But Ezra was one of those persons who cherish a faint dislike of all -present company. Moreover, he knew the good Sister's love of news. So -he began to resist her with the more pleasure that he could at least -evade her questions. - -"I don't know," he replied, with a mysterious shake of the head. - -"Come this way," she said beguilingly, turning aside into another walk, -"and look at the chrysanthemums. How did you happen to meet him?" - - * * * * * - -When Sister Dolorosa and Helm found themselves walking slowly side -by side down the garden-path--this being what he most had hoped for -and she most had feared--there fell upon each a momentary silence -of preparation. Speak she must; if only in speaking she might not -err. Speak he could; if only in speaking he might draw from her more -knowledge of her life, and in some becoming way cause her to perceive -his interest in it. - -Then she, as his guide, keeping her face turned towards the border -of flowers, but sometimes lifting it shyly to his, began with great -sweetness and a little hurriedly, as if fearing to pause: - -"The garden is not pretty now. It is full of flowers, but only a few -are blooming. These are daffodils. They bloomed in March, long ago. -And here were spring beauties. They grow wild, and do not last long. -The Mother Superior wished some cultivated in the garden, but they are -better if let alone to grow wild. And here are violets, which come in -April. And here is Adam and Eve, and tulips. They are gay flowers, -and bloom together for company. You can see Adam and Eve a long way -off, and they look better at a distance. These were the white lilies, -but one of the Sisters died, and we made a cross. That was in June. -Jump-up-Johnnies were planted in this bed, but they did not do well. -It has been a bad year. A storm blew the hollyhocks down, and there -were canker-worms in the roses. That is the way with the flowers: they -fail one year, and they succeed the next. They would never fail if they -were let alone. It is pleasant to see them starting out in the Spring -to be perfect each in its own way. It is pleasant to water them and -to help. But some will be perfect, and some will be imperfect, and no -one can alter that. They are like the children in the school; only the -flowers would all be perfect if they had their way, and the children -would all be wrong if they had theirs--the poor, good children! This -is touch-me-not. Perhaps you have never heard of any such flower. And -there, next to it, is love-lies-bleeding. We have not much of that; -only this one little plant." And she bent over and stroked it. - -His whole heart melted under the white radiance of her innocence. He -had thought her older; now his feeling took the form of the purest -delight in some exquisite child nature. And therefore, feeling thus -towards her, and seeing the poor, dead garden with only common flowers, -which nevertheless she separately loved, oblivious of their commonness, -he said with sudden warmth, holding her eyes with his: - -"I wish you could see my mother's garden and the flowers that bloom in -it." And as he spoke there came to him a vision of her as she might -look in a certain secluded corner of it, where ran a trellised walk; -over-clambering roses pale-golden, full-blown or budding, and bent with -dew; the May sun golden in the heavens; far and near birds singing and -soaring in ecstasy; the air lulling the sense with perfume, quickening -the blood with freshness; and there, within that frame of roses, her -head bare and shining, her funereal garb forever laid aside for one -that matched the loveliest hue of living nature around, a flower at -her throat, flowers in her hand, sadness gone from her face, there -the pure and radiant incarnation of a too-happy world, this exquisite -child-nature, advancing towards him with eyes of love. - -Having formed this picture, he could not afterwards destroy it; and as -they resumed their walk he began very simply to describe his mother's -garden, she listening closely because of her love for flowers, which -had become companions to her, and merely saying dreamily, half to -herself and with guarded courtesy half to him, "It must be beautiful." - - * * * * * - -"The Mother Superior intends to make the garden larger next year, and -to have fine flowers in it, Ezra. It has been a prosperous year in the -school, and there will be money to spare. This row of lilacs is to be -dug up, and the fence set back so as to take in the onion patch over -there. When does he expect to go away?" The aged Sister had not made -rapid progress. - -"I haven't heard him say," replied the old man. - -"Perhaps Martha has heard him say." - -Ezra only struck the toe of his stout boot with his staff. - -"The Mother Superior will want _you_ to dig up the lilacs, Ezra. You -can do it better than any one else." - -The old man shook his head threateningly at the bushes. "I can settle -them," he said. - -"Better than any one else. Has Martha heard him say when he is going -away?" - -"To-morrow," he replied, conceding something in return for the lilacs. - - * * * * * - -"These are the chrysanthemums. They are white, but some are perfect and -some are imperfect, you see. Those that are perfect are the ones to -feel proud of, but the others are the ones to love." - -"If all were perfect would you no longer love them?" he said gently, -thinking how perfect she was and how easy it would be to love her. - -"If all were perfect, I could love all alike, because none would need -to be loved more than others." - -"And when the flowers in the garden are dead, what do you find to love -then?" he asked, laughing a little and trying to follow her mood. - -"It would not be fair to forget them because they are dead. But they -are not dead; they go away for a season, and it would not be fair to -forget them because they have gone away." This she said simply and -seriously as though her conscience were dealing with human virtues and -duties. - -"And are you satisfied to love things that are not present?" he asked, -looking at her with sudden earnestness. - - * * * * * - -"The Mother Superior will wish him to take away a favorable impression -of the convent," said the Sister. "Young ladies are sometimes sent to -us from that region." And now, having gotten from Ezra the information -she desired and turned their steps towards the others, she looked at -Helm with greater interest. - -"Should you like to go upon the observatory?" she meekly asked, -pointing to the top of the adjacent building. "From there you can see -how far the convent lands extend. Besides, it is the only point that -commands a view of the whole country." - -The scene of the temptation was to be transferred to the pinnacle of -the temple. - -"It is not asking too much of you to climb so far for my pleasure?" - -"It is our mission to climb," she replied, wearily; "and if our -strength fails, we rest by the way." - -Of herself she spoke literally; for when they came to the topmost story -of the building, from which the observatory was reached by a short -flight of steps, she sank into a seat placed near as a resting-place. - -"Will you go above, Sister?" she said feebly. "I will wait here." - -On the way up, also, the old man had been shaking his head with a -stupid look of alarm and muttering his disapproval. - -"There is a high railing, Ezra," she now said to him. "You could not -fall." But he refused to go farther; he suffered from vertigo. - -The young pair went up alone. - -For miles in all directions the landscape lay shimmering in the -autumnal sunlight--a poor, rough, homely land, with a few farm houses -of the plainest kind. Briefly she traced for him the boundary of the -convent domain. And then he, thinking proudly of his own region, now -lying heavy in varied autumnal ripeness and teeming with noble, gentle -animal life; with rolling pastures as green as May under great trees -of crimson and gold; with flashing streams and placid sheets of water, -and great secluded homesteads--he, in turn, briefly described it; and -she, loving the sensuous beauty of the world, listened more dreamily, -merely repeating over and over, half to herself, and with more guarded -courtesy half to him, "It must be very beautiful." - -But whether she suddenly felt that she had yielded herself too far -to the influence of his words and wished to counteract this, or -whether she was aroused to offset his description by another of unlike -interest, scarcely had he finished when she pointed towards a long -stretch of woodland that lay like a mere wavering band of brown upon -the western horizon. - -"It was through those woods," she said, her voice trembling slightly, -"that the procession of Trappists marched behind the cross when they -fled to this country from France. Beyond that range of hills is the -home of the Silent Brotherhood. In this direction," she continued, -pointing southward, "is the creek which used to be so deep in winter -that the priests had to swim it as they walked from one distant mission -to another in the wilderness, holding above the waves the crucifix and -the sacrament. Under that tree down there the Father who founded this -convent built with his own hands the cabin that was the first church, -and hewed out of logs the first altar. It was from those trees that -the first nuns got the dyes for their vestments. On the floor of that -cabin they sometimes slept in mid-winter with no other covering than an -armful of straw. Those were heroic days." - -If she had indeed felt some secret need to recover herself by reciting -the heroisms of local history, she seemed to have succeeded. Her face -kindled with emotion; and as he watched it he forgot even her creed -in this revelation of her nature, which touched in him also something -serious and exalted. But as she ceased he asked, with peculiar interest: - -"Are there any Kentuckians among the Trappist Fathers?" - -"No," she replied, after a momentary silence, and in a voice lowered to -great sadness. "There was one a few years ago. His death was a great -blow to the Fathers. They had hoped that he might some day become the -head of the order in Kentucky. He was called Father Palemon." - -For another moment nothing was said. They were standing side by side, -looking towards that quarter of the horizon which she had pointed out -as the site of the abbey. Then he spoke meditatively, as though his -mind had gone back unawares to some idea that was very dear to him: - -"No, this does not seem much like Kentucky; but, after all, every -landscape is essentially the same to me if there are homes on it. Poor -as this country is, still it is history; it is human life. Here are -the eternal ties and relations. Here are the eternal needs and duties; -everything that keeps the world young and the heart at peace. Here is -the unchanging expression of our common destiny, as creatures who must -share all things, and bear all things, and be bound together in life -and death." - -"Sister!" called up the nun waiting below, "is not the wind blowing? -Will you not take cold?" - -"The wind is not blowing, Sister, but I am coming." - -They turned their faces outward upon the landscape once more. Across -it wound the little foot-path towards the farm-house in the distance. -By a common impulse their eyes rested upon the place of their first -meeting. He pointed to it. - -"I shall never forget that spot," he said, impulsively. - -"Nor I!" - -Her words were not spoken. They were not uttered within. As -unexpectedly and silently as in the remotest profound of the heavens at -midnight some palest little star is loosened from its orbit, shoots a -brief span, and disappears, this confession of hers traced its course -across the depths of her secret consciousness; but, having made it to -herself, she kept her eyes veiled, and did not look at him again that -day. - -"I think you have now seen everything that could be of any interest," -the aged Sister said, doubtfully, when they stood in the yard below. - -"The place is very interesting to me," he answered, looking around that -he might discover some way of prolonging his visit. - -"The graveyard, Sister. We might go there." The barely audible -words were Sister Dolorosa's. The scene of the temptation was to be -transferred for the third time. - -They walked some distance down a sloping hill-side, and stepped softly -within the sacred enclosure. A graveyard of nuns! O Mother Earth, -all-bearing, passion-hearted mother! Thou that sendest love one for -another into thy children, from the least to the greatest, as thou -givest them life! Thou that livest by their loves and their myriad -plightings of troth and myriad marriages! With what inconsolable sorrow -must thou receive back upon thy bosom the chaste dust of lorn virgins, -whose bosoms thou didst mould for a lover's arms and a babe's slumbers! -As marble vestals of the ancient world, buried and lost, they lie, -chiselled into a fixed attitude of prayer through the silent centuries. - -The aspect and spirit of the place: the simple graves placed side -by side like those of the nameless poor or of soldiers fallen in an -unfriendly land; the rude wooden cross at the head of each, bearing -the sacred name of her who was dust below; the once chirruping nests -of birds here and there in the grass above the songless lips; the sad -desolation of this unfinished end--all were the last thing needed to -wring the heart of Helm with dumb pity and an ungovernable anguish of -rebellion. This, then, was to be her portion. His whole nature cried -aloud against it. His ideas of human life, civilization, his age, his -country, his State, rose up in protest. He did not heed the words of -the Sister beside him. His thoughts were with Sister Dolorosa, who -followed with Ezra in a silence which she had but once broken since her -last words to him. He could have caught her up and escaped back with -her into the liberty of life, into the happiness of the world. - -Unable to endure the place longer, he himself led the way out. At the -gate the Sister fell behind with Ezra. - -"He seems deeply impressed by his visit," she said, in an undertone, -"and should bear with him a good account of the convent. Note what he -says, Ezra. The order wants friends in Kentucky, where it was born and -has flourished;" and looking at Sister Dolorosa and Helm, who were a -short distance in front, she added to herself: - -"In her, more than in any other one of us, he will behold the perfect -spiritual type of the convent. By her he will be made to feel the power -of the order to consecrate women, in America, in Kentucky, to the -service of the everlasting Church." - -Meantime, Sister Dolorosa and Helm walked side by side in a silence -that neither could break. He was thinking of her as a woman of -Kentucky--of his own generation--and trying to understand the motive -that had led her to consecrate herself to such a life. His own ideal of -duty was so different. - -"I have never thought," he said, at length, in a voice lowered so as to -reach her ear alone--"I have never thought that my life would not be -full of happiness. I have never supposed I could help being happy if I -did my duty." - -She made no reply, and again they walked on in silence and drew near -the convent building. There was so much that he wished to say, but -scarcely one of his thoughts that he dared utter. At length he said, -with irrepressible feeling: - -"I wish your life did not seem to me so sad. I wish, when I go away -to-morrow, that I could carry away, with my thoughts of this place, the -thought that you are happy. As long as I remember it I wish I could -remember you as being happy." - -"You have no right to remember me at all," she said, quickly, speaking -for the nun and betraying the woman. - -"But I cannot help it," he said. - -"Remember me, then, not as desiring to be happy, but as living to -become blessed." - -This she said, breaking the long silence which had followed upon his -too eager exclamation. Her voice had become hushed into unison with her -meek and patient words. And then she paused, and, turning, waited for -the Sister to come up beside them. Nor did she even speak to him again, -merely bowing without lifting her eyes when, a little later, he thanked -them and took his leave. - -In silence he and the old man returned to the farm-house, for his -thoughts were with her. In the garden she had seemed to him almost -as a child, talking artlessly of her sympathies and ties with mute -playthings; then on the heights she had suddenly revealed herself as -the youthful transcendent devotee; and finally, amid the scenes of -death, she had appeared a woman too quickly aged and too early touched -with resignation. He did not know that the effect of convent life is to -force certain faculties into maturity while others are repressed into -unalterable unripeness; so that in such instances as Sister Dolorosa's -the whole nature resembles some long, sloping mountain-side, with an -upper zone of ever-lingering snow for childhood, below this a green -vernal belt for maidenhood, and near the foot fierce summer heats and -summer storms for womanhood. Gradually his plan of joining his friends -the next day wavered for reasons that he could hardly have named. - -And Sister Dolorosa--what of her when the day was over? Standing -that night in a whitewashed, cell-like room, she took off the heavy -black veil and hood which shrouded her head from all human vision, -and then unfastening at waist and throat the heavier black vestment -of the order, allowed it to slip to the floor, revealing a white -under-habit of the utmost simplicity of design. It was like the magical -transformation of a sorrow-shrouded woman back into the shape of her -own earliest maidenhood. - -Her hair, of the palest gold, would, if unshorn, have covered her -figure in a soft, thick golden cloud; but shorn, it lay about her neck -and ears in large, lustrous waves that left defined the contour of -her beautiful head, and gave to it the aerial charm that belongs to -the joyousness of youth. Her whole figure was relaxed into a posture -slightly drooping; her bare arms, white as the necks of swans, hung -in forgotten grace at her sides; her eyes, large, dark, poetic, and -spiritual, were bent upon the floor, so that the lashes left their -shadows on her cheeks, while the delicate, overcircling brows were -arched high with melancholy. As the nun's funereal robes had slipped -from her person had her mind slipped back into the past, that she stood -thus, all the pure oval of her sensitive face stilled to an expression -of brooding pensiveness? On the urn which held the ashes of her heart -had some legend of happy shapes summoned her fondly to return?--some -garden? some radiant playfellow of childhood summers, already dim but -never to grow dimmer? - -Sighing deeply, she stepped across the dark circle on the floor which -was the boundary of her womanhood. As she did so her eyes rested on -a small table where lay a rich veil of white that she had long been -embroidering for a shrine of the Virgin. Slowly, still absently, she -walked to it, and, taking it up, threw it over her head, so that the -soft fabric enveloped her head and neck and fell in misty folds about -her person; she thinking the while only of the shrine; she looking -down on this side and on that, and wishing only to judge how well this -design and that design, patiently and prayerfully wrought out, might -adorn the image of the Divine Mother in the church of the convent. - -But happening to be standing quite close to the white wall of the room -with the lamp behind her, when she raised her eyes she caught sight of -her shadow, and with a low cry clasped her hands, and for an instant, -breathless, surveyed it. No mirrors are allowed in the convent. Since -entering it Sister Dolorosa had not seen a reflection of herself, -except perhaps her shadow in the sun or her face in a troubled basin of -water. Now, with one overwhelming flood of womanly self-consciousness, -she bent forward, noting the outline of her uncovered head, of her -bared neck and shoulders and arms. Did this accidental adorning of -herself in the veil of a bride, after she had laid aside the veil of -the Church, typify her complete relapse of nature? And was this the -lonely marriage-moment of her betrayed heart? - -For a moment, trembling, not before the image on the wall, but before -that vivid mirror which memory and fancy set before every woman when -no real mirror is nigh, she indulged her self-surrender to thoughts -that covered her, on face and neck, with a rosy cloud more maidenly -than the white mist of the veil. Then, as if recalled by some lightning -stroke of conscience, with fearful fingers she lifted off the veil, -extinguished the lamp, and, groping her way on tiptoe to the bedside, -stood beside it, afraid to lie down, afraid to pray, her eyes wide open -in the darkness. - - - V. - -Sleep gathers up the soft threads of passion that have been spun by -us during the day, and weaves them into a tapestry of dreams on which -we see the history of our own characters. We awake to find our wills -more inextricably caught in the tissues of their own past; we stir, and -discover that we are the heirs to our dead selves of yesterday, with a -larger inheritance of transmitted purpose. - -When Gordon awoke the next morning among his first thoughts was the -idea of going on to join his friends that day, and this thought now -caused him unexpected depression. Had he been older, he might have -accepted this unwillingness to go away as the best reason for leaving; -but, young, and habitually self-indulgent towards his desires when -they were not connected with vice, he did not trouble himself with any -forecast of consequences. - -"You ought not to go away to-day," the old housewife said to him in the -morning, wishing to detain him through love of his company. "To-morrow -will be Sunday, and you ought to go to vespers and hear Sister Dolorosa -sing. There is not such another voice in any convent in Kentucky." - -"I will stay," he replied, quickly; and the next afternoon he was -seated in the rear of the convent church, surrounded by rural Catholic -worshippers who had assembled from the neighborhood. The entire front -of the nave on one side was filled with the black-veiled Sisters -of the order; that on the other with the white-veiled novices--two -far-journeying companies of consecrated souls who reminded him in the -most solemn way how remote, how inaccessible, was that young pilgrim -among them of whom for a long time now he had been solely thinking. -With these two companies of sacrificial souls before him he understood -her character in a new light. - -He beheld her much as a brave, beautiful boy volunteer, who, suddenly -waving a bright, last adieu to gay companions in some gay-streeted -town, from motives of the loftiest heroism, takes his place in the rear -of passing soldiery, marching to misguided death; who, from the rear, -glowing with too impetuous ardor, makes his way from rank to rank ever -towards the front; and who, at last, bearing the heavy arms and wearing -the battle-stained uniform of a veteran, steps forward to the van at -the commander's side and sets his fresh, pure face undaunted towards -destruction. As he thought of her thus, deeper forces stirred within -his nature than had ever been aroused by any other woman. In comparison -every one that he had known became for the moment commonplace, human -life as he was used to it gross and uninspiring, and his own ideal -of duty a dwarfish mixture of selfishness and luxurious triviality. -Impulsive in his recognition of nobleness of nature wherever he -perceived it, for this devotedness of purpose he began to feel the -emotion which of all that ever visit the human heart is at once the -most humbling, the most uplifting, and the most enthralling--the -hero-worship of a strong man for a fragile woman. - -The service began. As it went on he noticed here and there among those -near him such evidences of restlessness as betray in a seated throng -high-wrought expectancy of some pleasure too long deferred. But at -last these were succeeded by a breathless hush, as, from the concealed -organ-loft above, a low, minor prelude was heard, groping and striving -nearer and nearer towards the concealed motive, as a little wave creeps -farther and farther along a melancholy shore. Suddenly, beautiful and -clear, more tender than love, more sorrowful than death, there floated -out upon the still air of the church the cry of a woman's soul that -has offended, and that, shrinking from every prayer of speech, pours -forth its more intense, inarticulate, and suffering need through the -diviner faculty of song. - -At the sound every ear was strained to listen. Hitherto the wont had -been to hear that voice bear aloft the common petition as calmly as -the incense rose past the altar to the roof; but now it quivered -over troubled depths of feeling, it rose freighted with the burden -of self-accusal. Still higher and higher it rose, borne triumphantly -upward by love and aspiration, until the powers of the singer's frame -seemed spending themselves in one superhuman effort of the soul to make -its prayer understood to the divine forgiveness. Then, all at once, -at the highest note, as a bird soaring towards the sun has its wings -broken by a shot from below, it too broke, faltered, and there was a -silence. But only for a moment: another voice, poor and cold, promptly -finished the song; the service ended; the people poured out of the -church. - -When Gordon came out there were a few groups standing near the door -talking; others were already moving homeward across the grounds. Not -far off he observed a lusty young countryman, with a frank, winning -face, who appeared to be waiting, while he held a child that had laid -its bright head against his tanned, athletic neck. Gordon approached -him, and said with forced calmness: - -"Do you know what was the matter in the church?" - -"My wife has gone to see," he replied, warmly. "Wait; she'll be here in -a minute. Here she is now." - -The comely, Sunday-dressed young wife came up and took the child, who -held out its arms, fondly smiling. - -"She hadn't been well, and they didn't want her to sing to-day; but she -begged to sing, and broke down." Saying this, the young mother kissed -her child, and slipping one hand into the great brown hand of her -husband, which closed upon it, turned away with them across the lawn -homeward. - -When Sister Dolorosa, who had passed a sleepless, prayerless night, -stood in the organ-loft and looked across the church at the scene -of the Passion, at the shrine of the Virgin, at the white throng of -novices and the dark throng of the Sisters, the common prayer of whom -was to be borne upward by her voice, there came upon her like a burying -wave a consciousness of how changed she was since she had stood there -last. Thus at the moment when Gordon, sitting below, reverently set -her far above him, as one looks up to a statue whose feet are above -the level of his head, she, thinking of what she had been and had now -become, seemed to herself as though fallen from a white pedestal to -the miry earth. But when, to a nature like hers, absolute loyalty to -a sinless standard of character is the only law of happiness itself, -every lapse into transgression is followed by an act of passionate -self-chastisement and by a more passionate outburst of love for the -wronged ideal; and therefore scarce had she begun to sing, and in -music to lift up the prayer she had denied herself in words, before -the powers of her body succumbed, as the strings of an instrument snap -under too strenuous a touch of the musician. - -Gordon walked out of the grounds beside the rustic young husband and -wife, who plainly were lovers still. - -"The Sister who sang has a beautiful voice," he said. - -"None of them can sing like her," replied the wife. "I love her better -than any of the others." - -"I tin sing!" cried the little girl, looking at Gordon, resentfully, as -though he had denied her that accomplishment. - -"But you'll never sing in a convent, missy," cried the father, -snatching her from her mother. "You'll sing for some man till he -marries you as your mother did me. I was going to join the Trappist -monks, but my wife said I was too good a sweetheart to spoil, and she -had made up her mind to have me herself," he added, turning to Gordon -with a laugh. - -"I'd have been a Sister long ago if you hadn't begged and begged me -not," was the reply, with the coquettish toss of a pretty head. - -"I doin' be Tap monk," cried the little girl, looking at Gordon still -more assertively, but joining in the laugh that followed with a scream -of delight at the wisdom of her decision. - -Their paths here diverged, and Gordon walked slowly on alone, but not -without turning to watch the retreating figures, his meeting with whom -at such a moment formed an episode in the history of that passion under -the influence of which he was now rapidly passing. For as he had sat in -the church his nature, which was always generous in its responsiveness, -had lent itself wholly to the solicitations of the service; and for -a time the stillness, the paintings portraying the divine sorrow, -the slow procession of nameless women, the tapers, the incense, the -hoary antiquity of the ceremonial, had carried him into a little known -region of his religious feeling. But from this he had been sharply -recalled by the suggestion of a veiled personal tragedy close at hand -in that unfinished song. His mood again became one of vast pity for -her; and issuing from the church with this feeling, there, near the -very entrance, he had come upon a rustic picture of husband, wife, and -child, with a sharpness of transition that had seemed the return of his -spirit to its own world of flesh and blood. There to him was the poetry -and the religion of life--the linked hands of lovers; the twining arms -of childhood; health and joyousness; and a quiet walk over familiar -fields in the evening air from peaceful church to peaceful home. And -so, thinking of this as he walked on alone and thinking also of her, -the two thoughts blended, and her image stood always before him in the -path-way of his ideal future. - -The history of the next several days may soon be told. He wrote to his -friends, stating that there was no game in the neighborhood, and that -he had given up the idea of joining them and would return home. He took -the letter to the station, and waited for the train to pass southward, -watching it rush away with a subtle pleasure at being left on the -platform, as though the bridges were now burned behind him. Then he -returned to the farm-house, where Ezra met him with that look of stupid -alarm which was natural to him whenever his few thoughts were agitated -by a new situation of affairs. - -Word had come from the convent that he was wanted there to move a fence -and make changes in the garden, and, proud of the charge, he wished to -go; but certain autumnal work in his own orchard and garden claimed his -time, and hence the trouble. But Gordon, who henceforth had no reason -for tarrying with the old couple, threw himself eagerly upon this -opportunity to do so, and offered his aid in despatching the tasks. -So that thus a few days passed, during which he unconsciously made his -way as far as any one had ever done into the tortuous nature of the old -man, who began to regard him with blind trustfulness. - -But they were restless, serious days. One after another passed, and he -heard nothing of Sister Dolorosa. He asked himself whether she were -ill, whether her visits to old Martha had been made to cease; and he -shrank from the thought of bearing away into his life the haunting pain -of such uncertainty. But some inner change constrained him no longer -to call her name. As he sat with the old couple at night the housewife -renewed her talks with him, speaking sometimes of the convent and of -Sister Dolorosa, the cessation of whose visits plainly gave her secret -concern; but he listened in silence, preferring the privacy of his -own thoughts. Sometimes, under feint of hunting, he would take his -gun in the afternoon and stroll out over the country; but always the -presence of the convent made itself felt over the landscape, dominating -it, solitary and impregnable, like a fortress. It began to draw his -eyes with a species of fascination. He chafed against its assertion -of barriers, and could have wished that his own will might be brought -into conflict with it. It appeared to watch him; to have an eye at -every window; to see in him a lurking danger. At other times, borne -to him across the darkening fields would come the sweet vesper bell, -and in imagination he would see her entering the church amid the long -procession of novices and nuns, her hands folded across her breast, her -face full of the soft glories of the lights that streamed in through -the pictured windows. Over the fancied details of her life more and -more fondly he lingered. - -And thus, although at first he had been interested in her wholly upon -general grounds, believing her secretly unhappy, thus by thinking -always of her, and watching for her, and walking often beside her in -his dreams, with the folly of the young, with the romantic ardor of -his race, and as part of the never-ending blind tragedy of the world, -he came at last to feel for her, among women, that passionate pain of -yearning to know which is to know the sadness of love. - -Sleepless one night, he left the house after the old couple were -asleep. The moon was shining, and unconsciously following the bent -of his thoughts, he took the foot-path that led across the fields. -He passed the spot where he had first met her, and absorbed in -recollection of the scene, he walked on until before him the convent -towered high in light and shadow. He had reached the entrance to the -long avenue of elms. He traversed it, turned aside into the garden, -and, following with many pauses around its borders, lived over again -the day when she had led him through it. The mere sense of his greater -physical nearness to her inthralled him. All her words came back: -"These are daffodils. They bloomed in March, long ago.... And here are -violets, which come in April." After awhile, leaving the garden, he -walked across the lawn to the church and sat upon the steps, trying to -look calmly at this whole episode in his life, and to summon resolution -to bring it to an end. He dwelt particularly upon the hopelessness of -his passion; he made himself believe that if he could but learn that -she were not ill and suffering--if he could but see her once more, and -be very sure--he would go away, as every dictate of reason urged. - -Across the lawn stood the convent building. There caught his eye the -faint glimmer of a light through a half-opened window, and while he -looked he saw two of the nuns moving about within. Was some one dying? -Was this light the taper of the dead? He tried to throw off a sudden -weight of gloomy apprehension, and resolutely got up and walked away; -but his purpose was formed not to leave until he had intelligence of -her. - -One afternoon, a few days days later, happening to come to an elevated -point of the landscape, he saw her figure moving across the fields in -the distance below him. Between the convent and the farm-house, in -one of the fields, there is a circular, basin-like depression; and it -was here, hidden from distant observation, with only the azure of the -heavens above them, that their meeting took place. - -On the day when she had been his guide he had told her that he was -going away on the morrow, and as she walked along now it might have -been seen that she thought herself safe from intrusion. Her eyes were -bent on the dust of the path-way. One hand was passing bead by bead -upward along her rosary. Her veil was pushed back, so that between its -black border and the glistening whiteness of her forehead there ran, -like a rippling band of gold, the exposed edges of her shining hair. -In the other hand she bore a large cluster of chrysanthemums, whose -snow-white petals and green leaves formed a strong contrast with the -crimson symbol that they partly framed against her sable bosom. - -He had come up close before the noise of his feet in the stubble drew -her attention. Then she turned and saw him. But certain instincts of -self-preservation act in women with lightning quickness. She did not -recognize him, or give him time to recognize her. She merely turned -again and walked onward at the same pace. But the chrysanthemums were -trembling with the beating of her heart, and her eyes had in them that -listening look with which one awaits the oncoming of danger from behind. - -But he had stopped. His nature was simple and trustful, and he had -expected to renew his acquaintanceship at the point where it had -ceased. When, therefore, she thus reminded him, as indeed she must, -that there was no acquaintanceship between them, and that she regarded -herself as much alone as though he were nowhere in sight, his feelings -were arrested as if frozen by her coldness. Still, it was for this -chance that he had waited all these days. Another would not come; and -whatever he wished to say to her must be said now. A sensitiveness -wholly novel to his nature held him back, but a moment more and he was -walking beside her. - -"I hope I do not intrude so very far," he said, in a tone of apology, -but also of wounded self-respect. - -It was a difficult choice thus left to her. She could not say "Yes" -without seeming unpardonably rude; she could not say "No" without -seeming to invite his presence. She walked on for a moment, and then, -pausing, turned towards him. - -"Is there anything that you wished to ask me in regard to the convent?" -This she said in the sweetest tone of apologetic courtesy, as though in -having thought only of herself at first she had neglected some larger -duty. - -If he had feared that he would see traces of physical suffering on her -face, he was mistaken. She had forgotten to draw her veil close, and -the sunlight fell upon its loveliness. Never had she been to him half -so beautiful. Whatever the expression her eyes had worn before he had -come up, in them now rested only inscrutable calmness. - -"There is one thing I have wished very much to know," he answered, -slowly, his eyes resting on hers. "I was at the church of the convent -last Sunday and heard you sing. They said you were not well. I have -hoped every day to hear that you were better. I have not cared to go -away until I knew this." - -Scarcely had he begun when a flush dyed her face, her eyes fell, and -she stood betrayed by the self-consciousness of what her own thoughts -had that day been. One hand absently tore to pieces the blooms of the -chrysanthemums, so that the petals fell down over her dark habit like -snowflakes. But when he finished, she lifted her eyes again. - -"I am well now, thank you," she said; and the first smile that he had -ever seen came forth from her soul to her face. But what a smile! It -wrung his heart more than the sight of her tears could have done. - -"Then I shall hope to hear you sing again to-morrow," he said, quickly, -for she seemed on the point of moving away. - -"I shall not sing to-morrow," she replied a little hurriedly, with -averted face, and again she started on. But he walked beside her. - -"In that case I have still to thank you for the pleasure I have had. -I imagine that one would never do wrong if he could hear you sing -whenever he is tempted," he said, looking sidewise at her with a -quiet, tentative smile. - -"It is not my voice," she replied more hurriedly. "It is the music of -the service. Do not thank me. Thank God." - -"I have heard the service before. It was your voice that touched me." - -She drew her veil about her face and walked on in silence. - -"But I have no wish to say anything against your religion," he -continued, his voice deepening and trembling. "If it has such power -over the natures of women, if it lifts them to such ideals of duty, if -it develops in them such characters, that merely to look into their -faces, to be near them, to hear their voices, is to make a man think of -a better world, I do not know why I should say anything against it." - -How often, without meaning it, our words are like a flight of -arrows into another's heart. What he said but reminded her of her -unfaithfulness. And therefore while she revolved how with perfect -gentleness she might ask him to allow her to continue her way alone, -she did what she could: she spoke reverently, though all but inaudibly, -in behalf of her order. - -"Our vows are perfect and divine. If they ever seem less, it is the -fault of those of us who dishonor them." - -The acute self-reproach in her tone at once changed his mood. - -"On the other hand, I have also asked myself this question: Is it the -creed that makes the natures of you women so beautiful, or it is the -nature of woman that gives the beauty to the creed? It is not so with -any other idea that women espouse? with any other cause that they -undertake? Is it not so with anything that they spend their hearts -upon, toil for, and sacrifice themselves for? Do I see any beauty in -your vows except such as your life gives to them? I can believe it. -I can believe that if you had never taken those vows your life would -still be beautiful. I can believe that you could change them for others -and find yourself more nearly the woman that you strive to be--that you -were meant to be!" He spoke in the subdued voice with which one takes -leave of some hope that brightens while it disappears. - -"I must ask you," she said, pausing--"I must ask you to allow me to -continue my walk alone;" and her voice quivered. - -He paused, too, and stood looking into her eyes in silence with the -thought that he should never see her again. The color had died out of -his face. - -"I can never forgive your vows," he said, speaking very slowly and -making an effort to appear unmoved. "I can never forgive your vows that -they make it a sin for me to speak to you. I can never forgive them -that they put between us a gulf that I cannot pass. Remember, I owe you -a great deal. I owe you higher ideas of a woman's nature and clearer -resolutions regarding my own life. Your vows perhaps make it even a -sin that I should tell you this. But by what right? By what right am -I forbidden to say that I shall remember you always, and that I shall -carry away with me into my life--" - -"Will you force me to turn back?" she asked in greater agitation; and -though he could not see her face, he saw her tears fall upon her hands. - -"No," he answered sadly; "I shall not force you to turn back. I know -that I have intruded. But it seemed that I could not go away without -seeing you again, to be quite sure that you were well. And when I saw -you, it seemed impossible not to speak of other things. Of course this -must seem strange to you--stranger, perhaps, than I may imagine, since -we look at human relationships so differently. My life in this world -can be of no interest to you. You cannot, therefore, understand why -yours should have any interest for me. Still, I hope you can forgive -me," he added abruptly, turning his face away as it flushed and his -voice faltered. - -She lifted her eyes quickly, although they were dim. "Do not ask me to -forgive anything. There is nothing to be forgiven. It is I who must -ask--only leave me!" - -"Will you say good-bye to me?" And he held out his hand. - -She drew back, but, overborne by emotion, he stepped forward, gently -took her hand from the rosary, and held it in both his own. - -"Good-bye! But, despite the cruel barriers that they have raised -between us, I shall always--" - -She foresaw what was coming. His manner told her that. She had not -withdrawn her hand. But at this point she dropped the flowers that were -in her other hand, laid it on her breast so that the longest finger -pointed towards the symbol of the transfixed heart, and looked quickly -at him with indescribable warning and distress. Then he released her, -and she turned back towards the convent. - -"Mother," she said, with a frightened face, when she reached it, "I did -not go to old Martha's. Some one was hunting in the fields, and I came -back. Do not send me again, Mother, unless one of the Sisters goes -with me." And with this half-truth on her lips and full remorse for it -in her heart, she passed into that deepening imperfection of nature -which for the most of us makes up the inner world of reality. - -Gordon wrote to her that night. He had not foreseen his confession. It -had been drawn from him under the influences of the moment; but since -it was made, a sense of honor would not have allowed him to stop there, -even had feeling carried him no further. Moreover, some hope had been -born in him at the moment of separation, since she had not rebuked him, -but only reminded him of her vows. - -His letter was full of the confidence and enthusiasm of youth, and its -contents may be understood by their likeness to others. He unfolded the -plan of his life--the life which he was asking her to share. He dwelt -upon its possibilities, he pointed out the field of its aspirations. -But he kept his letter for some days, unable to conceive a way by which -it might be sent to its destination. At length the chance came in the -simplest of disguises. - -Ezra was starting one morning to the convent. As he was leaving the -room, old Martha called to him. She sat by the hearth-stone, with her -head tied up in red flannel, and her large, watery face flushed with -pain, and pointed towards a basket of apples on the window sill. - -"Take them to Sister Dolorosa, Ezra," she said "Mind that you see -_her_, and give them to her with your own hands. And ask her why she -hasn't been to see me, and when she is coming." On this point her mind -seemed more and more troubled. "But what's the use of asking _you_ to -find out for me?" she added, flashing out at him with heroic anger. - -The old man stood in the middle of the room, dry and gnarled, his small -eyes kindling into a dull rage at a taunt made in the presence of a -guest whose good opinion he desired. But he took the apples in silence -and left the room. - -As Gordon followed him beyond the garden, noting how his mind was -absorbed in petty anger, a simple resolution came to him. - -"Ezra," he said, handing him the letter, "when you give the Sister the -apples, deliver this. And we do not talk about business, you know, -Ezra." - -The old man took the letter and put it furtively into his pocket, with -a backward shake of his head towards the house. - -"Whatever risks I may have to run from other quarters, he will never -tell _her_," Gordon said to himself. - -When Ezra returned in the evening he was absorbed, and Gordon noted -with relief that he was also unsuspicious. He walked some distance to -meet the old man the next two days, and his suspense became almost -unendurable, but he asked no questions. The third day Ezra drew from -his pocket a letter, which he delivered, merely saying: - -"The Sister told me to give you this." - -Gordon, soon turned aside across the fields, and having reached a -point, screened from observation he opened the letter and read as -follows: - - "I have received your letter. I have read it. But how could I listen - to your proposal without becoming false to my vows? And if you knew - that I had proved false to what I held most dear and binding, how - could you ever believe that I would be true to anything else? Ah, no! - Should you unite yourself to one who for your sake had been faithless - to the ideal of womanhood which she regarded as supreme, you would - soon withdraw from her the very love that she had sacrificed even her - hopes of Heaven to enjoy. - - "But it seems possible that in writing to me you believe my vows no - longer precious to my heart and sacred to my conscience. You are - wrong. They are more dear to me at this moment than ever before, - because at this moment, as never before, they give me a mournful - admonition of my failure to exhibit to the world in my own life the - beauty of their ineffable holiness. For had there not been something - within me to lead you on--had I shown to you the sinless nature which - it is their office to create--you would never have felt towards me as - you do. You would no more have thought of loving me than of loving an - angel of God. - - "The least reparation I can make for my offense is to tell you that in - offering me your love you offer me the cup of sacred humiliation, and - that I thank you for reminding me of my duty, while I drain it to the - dregs. - - "After long deliberation I have written to tell you this; and if it be - allowed me to make one request, I would entreat that you will never - lay this sin of mine to the charge of my religion and my order. - - "We shall never meet again. Although I may not listen to your - proposal, it is allowed me to love you as one of the works of God. - And since there are exalted women in the world who do not consecrate - themselves to the Church, I shall pray that you may find one of these - to walk by your side through life. I shall pray that she may be worthy - of you; and perhaps you will teach her sometimes to pray for one who - will always need her prayers. - - "I only know that God orders our lives according to his goodness. - My feet he set in one path of duty, yours in another, and he had - separated us forever long before he allowed us to meet. If, therefore, - having thus separated us, he yet brought us together only that we - should thus know each other and then be parted, I cannot believe that - there was not in it some needed lesson for us both. At least, if he - will deign to hear the ceaseless, fervent petition of one so erring, - he will not leave you unhappy on account of that love for me, which in - this world it will never be allowed me to return. Farewell!" - -The first part of this letter awakened in Gordon keen remorse and -a faltering of purpose, but the latter filled him with a joy that -excluded every other feeling. - -"She loves me!" he exclaimed; and, as though registering a vow, he -added aloud, "And nothing--God help me!--nothing shall keep us apart." - -Walking to a point of the landscape that commanded a view of the -convent, he remained there while the twilight fell, revolving how he -was to surmount the remaining barriers between them, for these now -seemed hardly more than cobwebs to be brushed aside by his hand; and -often, meanwhile, he looked towards the convent, as one might look -longingly towards some forbidden shrine, which the coming night would -enable him to approach. - - - VI. - -A night for love it was. The great sun at setting had looked with -steadfast eye at the convent standing lonely on its wide landscape, and -had then thrown his final glance across the world towards the east; and -the moon had quickly risen and hung about it the long silvery twilight -of her heavenly watchfulness. The summer, too, which had been moving -southward, now came slowly back, borne on warm airs that fanned the -convent walls and sighed to its chaste lattices with the poetry of -dead flowers and vanished songsters. But sighed in vain. With many a -prayer, with many a cross on pure brow and shoulder and breast, with -many a pious kiss of crucifix, the convent slept. Only some little -novice, lying like a flushed figure of Sleep on a couch of snow, may -have stirred to draw one sigh, as those zephyrs, toying with her warm -hair, broke some earthly dream of too much tenderness. Or they may -merely have cooled the feverish feet of a withered nun, who clasped her -dry hands in ecstasy, as on her cavernous eyes there dawned a vision -of the glories and rewards of Paradise. But no, not all slept. At an -open window on the eastern side of the convent stood the sleepless one, -looking out into the largeness of the night like one who is lost in the -largeness of her sorrow. - -Across the lawn, a little distance off, stood the church of the -convent. The moonlight rested on it like a smile of peace, the elms -blessed it with tireless arms, and from the zenith of the sky down -to the horizon there rested on out-stretched wings, rank above rank -and pinion brushing pinion, a host of white, angelic cloud-shapes, as -though guarding the sacred portal. - -But she looked at it with timid yearning. Greater and greater had -become the need to pour into some ear a confession and a prayer for -pardon. Her peace was gone. She had been concealing her heart from the -Mother Superior. She had sinned against her vows. She had impiously -offended the Divine Mother. And to-day, after answering his letter in -order that she might defend her religion, she had acknowledged to her -heart that she loved him. But they would never meet again. To-morrow -she would make a full confession of what had taken place. Beyond that -miserable ordeal she dared not gaze into her own future. - -Lost in the fears and sorrows of such thoughts, long she stood looking -out into the night, stricken with a sense of alienation from human -sympathy. She felt that she stood henceforth estranged from the entire -convent--Mother Superior, novice, and nun--as an object of reproach, -and of suffering into which no one of them could enter. - -Sorer yet grew her need, and a little way across the lawn stood the -church, peaceful in the moonlight. Ah, the divine pity! If only -she might steal first alone to the shrine of her whom most she had -offended, and to an ear gracious to sorrow make confession of her -frailty. At length, overcome with this desire and gliding noiselessly -out of the room, she passed down the moonlit hall, on each side of -which the nuns were sleeping. She descended the stair-way, took from -the wall the key of the church, and then softly opening the door, -stepped out into the night. For a moment she paused, icy and faint with -physical fear; then, passing like a swift shadow across the silvered -lawn, she went round to the side entrance of the church, unlocked the -door, and, entering quickly, locked herself inside. There she stood for -some time with hands pressed tightly to her fluttering heart, until -bodily agitation died away before the recollection of her mission; and -there came upon her that calmness with which the soul enacts great -tragedies. Then slowly, very slowly, hidden now, and now visible where -the moonlight entered the long, gothic windows, she passed across the -chancel towards the shrine of one whom ancestral faith had taught her -to believe divine; and before the image of a Jewish woman--who herself -in full humanity loved and married a carpenter nearly two thousand -years ago, living beside him as blameless wife and becoming blameless -mother to his children--this poor child, whose nature was unstained as -snow on the mountain-peaks, poured out her prayer to be forgiven the -sin of her love. - -To the woman of the world, the approaches of whose nature are defended -by the intricacies of willfulness and the barriers of deliberate -reserve; to the woman of the world, who curbs and conceals that -feeling to which she intends to yield herself in the end, it may seem -incredible that there should have rooted itself so easily in the -breast of one of her sex this flower of a fatal passion. But it should -be remembered how unbefriended that bosom had been by any outpost of -feminine self-consciousness; how exposed it was through very belief -in its unearthly consecration; how like some unwatched vase that -had long been collecting the sweet dews and rains of heaven, it had -been silently filling with those unbidden intimations that are shed -from above as the best gifts of womanhood. Moreover, her life was -unspeakably isolate. In the monotony of its routine a trifling event -became an epoch; a fresh impression stirred within the mind material -for a chapter of history. Lifted far above commonplace psychology of -the passions, however, was the planting and the growth of an emotion in -a heart like hers. - -Her prayer began. It began with the scene of her first meeting with -him in the fields, for from that moment she fixed the origin of her -unfaithfulness. Of the entire hidden life of poetic reverie and -unsatisfied desires which she had been living before, her innocent -soul took no account. Therefore, beginning with that afternoon, she -passed in review the history of her thoughts and feelings. The moon -outside, flooding the heavens with its beams, was not so intense a -lamp as memory, now turned upon the recesses of her mind. Nothing -escaped detection. His words, the scenes with him in the garden, in -the field--his voice, looks, gestures--his anxiety and sympathy--his -passionate letter--all were now vividly recalled, that they might be -forgotten; and their influence confessed, that it might forever be -renounced. Her conscience stood beside her love as though it were some -great fast-growing deadly plant in her heart, with deep-twisted roots -and strangling tendrils, each of which to the smallest fibre must be -uptorn so that not a germ should be left. - -But who can describe the prayer of such a soul! It is easy to ask to be -rid of ignoble passions. They come upon us as momentary temptations and -are abhorrent to our better selves; but of all tragedies enacted within -the theatre of the human mind what one is so pitiable as that in which -a pure being prays to be forgiven the one feeling of nature that is -the revelation of beauty, the secret of perfection, the solace of the -world, and the condition of immortality? - -The passing of such a tragedy scars the nature of the penitent like the -passing of an age across a mountain rock. If there had lingered thus -long on Sister Dolorosa's nature any upland of childhood snows, these -vanished in that hour; if any vernal belt of maidenhood, it felt the -hot breath of that experience of the world and of the human destiny -which quickly ages whatever it does not destroy. So that while she -prayed there seemed to rise from within her and take flight forever -that spotless image of herself as she once had been, and in its place -to stand the form of a woman, older, altered, and set apart by sorrow. - -At length her prayer ended and she rose. It had not brought her the -peace that prayer brings to women; for the confession of her love -before the very altar--the mere coming into audience with the Eternal -to renounce it--had set upon it the seal of irrevocable truth. It is -when the victim is led to the altar of sacrifice that it turns its -piteous eyes upon the sacrificing hand and utters its poor dumb cry for -life; and it was when Sister Dolorosa bared the breast of her humanity -that it might be stabbed by the hand of her religion, that she, too, -though attempting to bless the stroke, felt the last pangs of that deep -thrust. - -With such a wound she turned from the altar, walked with bowed head -once more across the church, unlocked the door, stepped forth and -locked it. The night had grown more tender. The host of seraphic -cloud-forms had fled across the sky; and as she turned her eyes -upward to the heavens, there looked down upon her from their serene, -untroubled heights only the stars, that never falter or digress -from their forewritten courses. The thought came to her that never -henceforth should she look up to them without being reminded of how -her own will had wandered from its orbit. The moon rained its steady -beams upon the symbol of the sacred heart on her bosom, until it seemed -to throb again with the agony of the crucifixion. Never again should -she see it without the remembrance that _her_ sin also had pierced it -afresh. - -With what loneliness that sin had surrounded her! As she had issued -from the damp, chill atmosphere of the church, the warm airs of the -south quickened within her long-sleeping memories; and with the -yearning of stricken childhood she thought of her mother, to whom she -had turned of yore for sympathy; but that mother's bosom was now a -mound of dust. She looked across the lawn towards the convent where the -Mother Superior and the nuns were sleeping. To-morrow she would stand -among them a greater alien than any stranger. No; she was alone; among -the millions of human beings on the earth of God there was not one on -whose heart she could have rested her own. Not one save him--him--whose -love had broken down all barriers that it might reach and infold her. -And him she had repelled. A joy, new and indescribable, leaped within -her that for him and not for another she suffered and was bound in this -tragedy of her fall. - -Slowly she took her way along the side of the church towards the front -entrance, from which a paved walk led to the convent building. She -reached the corner, she turned, and then she paused as one might pause -who had come upon the beloved dead, returned to life. - -For he was sitting on the steps of the church, leaning against one of -the pillars, his face lifted upward so that the moonlight fell upon -it. She had no time to turn back before he saw her. With a low cry -of surprise and joy he sprang up and followed along the side of the -church; for she had begun to retrace her steps to the door, to lock -herself inside. When he came up beside her, she paused. Both were -trembling; but when he saw the look of suffering on her face, acting -upon the impulse which had always impelled him to stand between her and -unhappiness, he now took both of her hands. - -"Pauline!" - -He spoke with all the pleading love, all the depth of nature, that was -in him. - -She had attempted to withdraw her hands; but at the sound of that -once-familiar name, she suddenly bowed her head as the wave of memories -and emotions passed over her; then he quickly put his arms around her, -drew her to him, and bent down and kissed her. - - - VII. - -For hours there lasted an interview, during which he, with the delirium -of hope, she with the delirium of despair, drained at their young lips -that cup of life which is full of the first confession of love. - -In recollections so overwhelming did this meeting leave Gordon on the -next morning, that he was unmindful of everything beside; and among the -consequences of absent-mindedness was the wound that he gave himself by -the careless handling of his gun. - -When Ezra had set out for the convent that morning he had walked with -him, saying that he would go to the station for a daily paper, but -chiefly wishing to escape the house and be alone. They had reached -in the fields a rotting fence, on each side of which grew briers and -underwood. He had expected to climb this fence, and as he stood beside -it speaking a few parting words to Ezra he absently thrust his gun -between two of the lower rails, not noticing that the lock was sprung. -Caught in the brush on the other side, it was discharged, making a -wound in his left leg a little below the thigh. He turned to a deadly -paleness, looked at Ezra with that stunned, bewildered expression seen -in the faces of those who receive a wound, and fell. - -By main strength the old man lifted and bore him to the house and -hurried off to the station, near which the neighborhood physician -and surgeon lived. But the latter was away from home; several hours -passed before he came; the means taken to stop the hemorrhage had been -ineffectual; the loss of blood had been very great; certain foreign -matter had been carried into the wound; the professional treatment was -unskilful; and septic fever followed, so that for many days his life -hung upon a little chance. But convalescence came at last, and with -it days of clear, calm thinking. For he had not allowed news of his -accident to be sent home or to his friends; and except the old couple, -the doctor, and the nurse whom the latter had secured, he had no -company but his thoughts. - -No tidings had come to him of Sister Dolorosa since his accident; -and nothing had intervened to remove that sad image of her which had -haunted him through fever and phantasy and dream since the night of -their final interview. For it was then that he had first realized -in how pitiless a tragedy her life had become entangled, and how -conscience may fail to govern a woman's heart in denying her the right -to love, but may still govern her actions in forbidding her to marry. -To plead with her had been to wound only the more deeply a nature that -accepted even this pleading as a further proof of its own disloyalty, -and was forced by it into a state of more poignant humiliation. What -wonder, therefore, if there had been opened in his mind from that hour -a certain wound which grew deeper and deeper, until, by comparison, his -real wound seemed painless and insignificant. - -Nevertheless, it is true that during this interview he had not been -able to accept her decision as irreversible. The spell of her presence -over him was too complete; even his wish to rescue her from a lot, -henceforth unhappier still, too urgent; so that in parting he had -clung to the secret hope that little by little he might change her -conscience, which now interposed the only obstacle between them. - -Even the next day, when he had been wounded and life was rapidly -flowing from him, and earthly ties seemed soon to be snapped, he had -thought only of this tie, new and sacred, and had written to her. Poor -boy!--he had written, as with his heart's blood, his brief, pathetic -appeal that she would come and be united to him before he died. In all -ages of the world there have been persons, simple in nature and simple -in their faith in another life, who have forgotten everything else in -the last hour but the supreme wish to grapple to them those they love, -for eternity, and at whatever cost. Such simplicity of nature and faith -belonged to him; for although in Kentucky the unrest of the century -touching belief in the supernatural, and the many phases by which this -expresses itself, are not, unknown, they had never affected him. He -believed as his fathers had believed, that to be united in this world -in any relation is to be united in that relation, mysteriously changed -yet mysteriously the same, in another. - -But this letter had never been sent. There had been no one to take it -at the time; and when Ezra returned with the physician he had fainted -away from loss of blood. - -Then had followed the dressing of the wound, days of fever and -unconsciousness, and then the assurance that he would get well. Thus, -nearly a month had passed, and for him a great change had come over -the face of nature and the light of the world. With that preternatural -calm of mind which only an invalid or a passionless philosopher ever -obtains, he now looked back upon an episode which thus acquired -fictitious remoteness. So weak that he could scarcely lift his head -from his pillow, there left his heart the keen, joyous sense of human -ties and pursuits. He lost the key to the motives and forces of his -own character. But it is often the natural result of such illness that -while the springs of feeling seem to dry up, the conscience remains -sensitive, or even burns more brightly, as a star through a rarer -atmosphere. So that, lying thus in the poor farm-house during dreary -days, with his life half-gone out of him and with only the sad image -of her always before his eyes, he could think of nothing but his cruel -folly in having broken in upon her peace; for perfect peace of some -sort she must have had in comparison with what was now left her. - -Beneath his pillow he kept her letter, and as he often read it over he -asked himself how he could ever have hoped to change the conscience -which had inspired such a letter as that. If her heart belonged to him, -did not her soul belong to her religion; and if one or the other must -give way, could it be doubtful with such a nature as hers which would -come out victorious? Thus he said to himself that any further attempt -to see her could but result in greater suffering to them both, and that -nothing was left him but what she herself had urged--to go away and -resign her to a life, from which he had too late found out that she -could never be divorced. - -As soon as he had come to this decision, he began to think of her as -belonging only to his past. The entire episode became a thing of memory -and irreparable incompleteness; and with the conviction that she was -lost to him her image passed into that serene, reverential sanctuary -of our common nature, where all the highest that we have grasped at -and missed, and all the beauty that we have loved and lost, take the -forms of statues around dim walls and look down upon us in mournful, -never-changing perfection. - -As he lay one morning revolving his altered purpose, Ezra came quietly -into the room and took from a table near the foot of the bed a waiter -on which were a jelly-glass and a napkin. - -"_She_ said I'd better take these back this morning," he observed, -looking at Gordon for his approval, and motioning with his head towards -that quarter of the house where Martha was supposed to be. - -"Wait awhile, will you, Ezra?" he replied, looking at the old man with -the dark, quiet eye of an invalid. "I think I ought to write a few -lines this morning to thank them for their kindness. Come back in an -hour, will you?" - -The things had been sent from the convent; for, from the time that news -had reached the Mother Superior of the accident of the young stranger -who had visited the convent some days before, there had regularly come -to him delicate attentions which could not have been supplied at the -farm-house. He often asked himself whether they were not inspired by -_her_; and he thought that when the time came for him to write his -thanks, he would put into the expression of them something that would -be understood by her alone--something that would stand for gratitude -and a farewell. - -When Ezra left the room, with the thought of now doing this another -thought came unexpectedly to him. By the side of the bed there stood -a small table on which were writing materials and a few books that -had been taken from his valise. He stretched out his hand and opening -one of them took from it a letter which bore the address, "Sister -Dolorosa." It contained those appealing lines that he had written her -on the day of his accident; and with calm, curious sadness he now read -them over and over, as though they had never come from him. From the -mere monotony of this exercise sleep overtook him, and he had scarcely -restored the letter to the envelope and laid it back on the table -before his eyelids closed. - -While he still lay asleep, Ezra came quietly into the room again, and -took up the waiter with the jelly-glass and the napkin. Then he looked -around for the letter that he was to take. He was accustomed to carry -Gordon's letters to the station, and his eye now rested on the table -where they were always to be found. Seeing one on it, he walked across, -took it up and read the address, "Sister Dolorosa," hesitated, glanced -at Gordon's closed eyes, and then, with an intelligent nod to signify -that he could understand without further instruction, he left the room -and set out briskly for the convent. - -Sister Dolorosa was at the cistern filling a bucket with water when he -came up and, handing her the letter, passed on to the convent kitchen. -She looked at it with indifference; then she opened and read it; and -then in an instant everything whirled before her eyes, and in her ears -the water sounded loud as it dropped from the chain back into the -cistern. And then she was gone--gone with a light, rapid step, down -the avenue of elms, through the gate, across the meadows, out into the -fields--bucket and cistern, Mother Superior and sisterhood, vows and -martyrs, zeal of Carmelite, passion of Christ, all forgotten. - -When, nearly a month before, news had reached the Mother Superior -of the young stranger's accident, in accordance with the rule which -excludes from the convent worldly affairs, she had not made it known -except to those who were to aid in carrying out her kindly plans for -him. To Sister Dolorosa, therefore, the accident had just occurred, and -now--now as she hastened to him--he was dying. - -During the intervening weeks she had undergone by insensible degrees a -deterioration of nature. Prayer had not passed her lips. She believed -that she had no right to pray. Nor had she confessed. From such a -confession as she had now to make, certain new-born instincts of -womanhood bade her shrink more deeply into the privacy of her own -being. And therefore she had become more scrupulous, if possible, of -outward duties, that no one might be led to discover the paralysis of -her spiritual life. But there was that change in her which soon drew -attention; and thenceforth, in order to hide her heart, she began to -practice with the Mother Superior little acts of self-concealment and -evasion, and by-and-by other little acts of pretense and feigning, -until--God pity her!--being most sorely pressed by questions, when -sometimes she would be found in tears or sitting listless with -her hands in her lap like one who is under the spell of mournful -phantasies, these became other little acts of positive deception. But -for each of them remorse preyed upon her the more ruthlessly, so that -she grew thin and faded, with a shadow of fear darkening always her -evasive eyes. - -What most held her apart, and most she deemed put upon her the angry -ban of Heaven, was the consciousness that she still loved him, and that -she was even bound to him the more inseparably since the night of their -last meeting. For it was then that emotions had been awakened which -drew her to him in ways that love alone could not have done. These -emotions had their source in the belief that she owed him reparation -for the disappointment which she had brought upon his life. The -recollection of his face when she had denied him hope rose in constant -reproach before her; and since she held herself blamable that he had -loved her, she took the whole responsibility of his unhappiness. - -It was this sense of having wronged him that cleft even conscience in -her and left her struggling. But how to undo the wrong--this she vainly -pondered; for he was gone, bearing away into his life the burden of -enticed and baffled hope. - -On the morning when she was at the cistern--for the Sisters of the -Order have among them such interchange of manual offices--if, as she -read the letter that Ezra gave her, any one motive stood out clear in -the stress of that terrible moment, it was, that having been false -to other duties she might at least be true to this. She felt but one -desire--to atone to him by any sacrifice of herself that would make his -death more peaceful. Beyond this everything was void and dark within -her as she hurried on, except the consciousness that by this act she -separated herself from her Order and terminated her religious life in -utter failure and disgrace. - -The light, rapid step with which she had started soon brought her -across the fields. As she drew near the house, Martha, who had caught -sight of her figure through the window, made haste to the door and -stood awaiting her. Sister Dolorosa merely approached and said: - -"Where is he?" - -For a moment the old woman did not answer. Then she pointed to a door -at the opposite end of the porch, and with a sparkle of peculiar -pleasure in her eyes she saw Sister Dolorosa cross and enter it. A -little while longer she stood, watching the key-hole furtively, but -then went back to the fireside, where she sat upright and motionless -with the red flannel pushed back from her listening ears. - -The room was dimly lighted through half-closed shutters. Gordon lay -asleep near the edge of the bed, with his face turned towards the -door. It might well have been thought the face of one dying. Her eyes -rested on it a moment, and then with a stifled sob and moan she glided -across the room and sank on her knees at the bedside. In the utter -self-forgetfulness of her remorse, pity, and love, she put one arm -around his neck, she buried her face close beside his. - -He had awaked, bewildered, as he saw her coming towards him. He now -took her arm from around his neck, pressed her hand again and again -to his lips, and then laying it on his heart crossed his arms over -it, letting one of his hands rest on her head. For a little while he -could not trust himself to speak; his love threatened to overmaster -his self-renunciation. But then, not knowing why she had come unless -from some great sympathy for his sufferings, or perhaps to see him -once more since he was now soon to go away, and not understanding any -cause for her distress but the tragedy in which he had entangled her -life--feeling only sorrow for her sorrow and wishing only by means of -his last words to help her back to such peace as she still might win, -he said to her with immeasurable gentleness: - -"I thought you would never come! I thought I should have to go away -without seeing you again! They tell me it is not yet a month since the -accident, but it seems to me so _long_--a lifetime! I have lain here -day after day thinking it over, and I see things differently now--so -differently! That is why I wanted to see you once more. I wanted you -to understand that I felt you had done right in refusing--in refusing -to marry me. I wanted to ask you never to blame yourself for what has -happened--never to let any thought of having made _me_ unhappy add -to the sorrow of your life. It is my fault, not yours. But I meant -it--God _knows_, I meant it!--for the happiness of us both! I believed -that your life was not suited to you. I meant to make you happy! But -since you _cannot_ give up your life, I have only been unkind. And -since you think it wrong to give it up, I am glad that you are so true -to it! If you _must_ live it, Heaven only knows how glad I am that you -will live it heroically. And Heaven keep me equally true to the duty -in mine, that I also shall not fail in it! If we never meet again, we -can always think of each other as living true to ourselves and to one -another. Don't deny me this! Let me believe that your thoughts and -prayers will always follow me. Even your vows will not deny me this! -It will always keep us near each other, and it will bring us together -where they cannot separate us." - -He had spoken with entire repression of himself, in the slow voice -of an invalid, and on the stillness of the room each word had fallen -with hard distinctness. But now, with the thought of losing her, by a -painful effort he moved closer to the edge of the bed, put his arms -around her neck, drew her face against his own, and continued: - -"But do not think it is easy to tell you this! Do not think it is easy -to give you up! Do not think that I do not love you! Oh Pauline--not in -_another_ life, but in _this--in this_!" He could say no more; and out -of his physical weakness tears rose to his eyes and fell drop by drop -upon her veil. - - - VIII. - -Sister Dolorosa had been missed from the convent. There had been -inquiry growing ever more anxious, and search growing ever more -hurried. They found her bucket overturned at the cistern, and near -it the print of her feet in the moist earth. But she was gone. They -sought her in every hidden closet, they climbed to the observatory -and scanned the surrounding fields. Work was left unfinished, prayer -unended, as the news spread through the vast building; and as time went -by and nothing was heard of her, uneasiness became alarm, and alarm -became a vague, immeasurable foreboding of ill. Each now remembered -how strange of late had been Sister Dolorosa's life and actions, and -no one had the heart to name her own particular fears to any other or -to read them in any other's eyes. Time passed on and discipline in the -convent was forgotten. They began to pour out into the long corridors, -and in tumultuous groups passed this way and that, seeking the Mother -Superior. But the Mother Superior had gone to the church with the same -impulse that in all ages has brought the human heart to the altar of -God when stricken by peril or disaster; and into the church they also -gathered. Into the church likewise came the white flock of the novices, -who had burst from their isolated quarter of the convent with a sudden -contagion of fear. When, therefore, the Mother Superior rose from -where she had been kneeling, turned, and in the dark church saw them -assembled close around her, pallid, anxious, disordered, and looking -with helpless dependence to her for that assurance for which she had -herself in helpless dependence looked to God, so unnerved was she by -the spectacle that strength failed her and she sank upon the steps of -the altar, stretching out her arms once more in voiceless supplication -towards the altar of the Infinite helpfulness. - -But at that moment a little novice, whom Sister Dolorosa loved and whom -she had taught the music of the harp, came running into the church, -wringing her hands and crying. When she was half-way down the aisle, in -a voice that rang through the building, she called out: - -"Oh, Mother, she is coming! Something has happened to her! Her veil is -gone!" and, turning again, she ran out of the church. - -They were hurrying after her when a note of command, inarticulate but -imperious, from the Mother Superior arrested every foot and drew every -eye in that direction. Voice had failed her, but with a gesture full -of dignity and reproach she waved them back, and supporting her great -form between two of the nuns, she advanced slowly down the aisle of the -church and passed out by the front entrance. But they forgot to obey -her and followed; and when she descended the steps to the bottom and -made a sign that she would wait there, on the steps behind they stood -grouped and crowded back to the sacred doors. - -Yes, she was coming--coming up the avenue of elms--coming slowly, as -though her strength were almost gone. As she passed under the trees on -one side of the avenue she touched their trunks one by one for support. -She walked with her eyes on the ground and with the abstraction of one -who has lost the purpose of walking. When she was perhaps half-way up -the avenue, as she paused by one of the trees and supported herself -against it, she raised her eyes and saw them all waiting to receive her -on the steps of the church. For a little while she stood and surveyed -the scene; the Mother Superior standing in front, her sinking form -supported between two Sisters, her hands clasping the crucifix to her -bosom; behind her the others, step above step, back to the doors; some -looking at her with frightened faces; others with their heads buried on -each other's shoulders; and hiding somewhere in the throng, the little -novice, only the sound of whose sobbing revealed her presence. Then she -took her hand from the tree, walked on quite steadily until she was -several yards away, and paused again. - -She had torn off her veil and her head was bare and shining. She had -torn the sacred symbol from her bosom, and through the black rent they -could see the glistening whiteness of her naked breast. Comprehending -them in one glance, as though she wished them all to listen, she looked -into the face of the Mother Superior, and began to speak in a voice -utterly forlorn, as of one who has passed the limits of suffering. - -"Mother!--" - -"Mother!--" - -She passed one hand slowly across her forehead, to brush away some -cloud from her brain, and for the third time she began to speak: - -"Mother!--" - -Then she paused, pressed both palms quickly to her temples, and turned -her eyes in bewildered appeal towards the Mother Superior. But she -did not fall. With a cry that might have come from the heart of the -boundless pity the Mother Superior broke away from the restraining arms -of the nuns and rushed forward and caught her to her bosom. - - - IX. - -The day had come when Gordon was well enough to go home. As he sat -giving directions to Ezra, who was awkwardly packing his valise, he -looked over the books, papers, and letters that lay on the table near -the bed. - -"There is one letter missing," he said, with a troubled expression, as -he finished his search. Then he added quickly, in a tone of helpless -entreaty: - -"You couldn't have taken it to the station and mailed it with the -others, could you, Ezra? It was not to go to the station. It was to -have gone to the convent." - -The last sentence he uttered rather to his own thought than for the ear -of his listener. - -"I _took_ it to the convent," said Ezra, stoutly, raising himself from -over the valise in the middle of the floor. "I didn't _take_ it to the -station!" - -Gordon wheeled on him, giving a wrench to his wound which may have -caused the groan that burst from him, and left him white and trembling. - -"You took it _to the convent_! Great God, Ezra! When?" - -"The day you _told_ me to take it," replied Ezra, simply. "The day the -Sister came to see you." - -"Oh, _Ezra_!" he cried piteously, looking into the rugged, faithful -countenance of the old man, and feeling that he had not the right to -censure him. - -Now for the first time he comprehended the whole significance of what -had happened. He had never certainly known what motive had brought her -to him that day. He had never been able to understand why, having come, -she had gone away with such abruptness. Scarcely had he begun to speak -to her when she had strangely shrunk from him; and scarcely had he -ceased speaking when she had left the room without a word, and without -his having so much as seen her face. - -Slowly now the sad truth forced itself upon his mind that she had -come in answer to his entreaty. She must have thought his letter just -written, himself just wounded and dying. It was as if he had betrayed -her into the utmost expression of her love for him and in that moment -had coldly admonished her of her duty. For him she had broken what was -the most sacred obligation of her life, and in return he had given her -an exhortation to be faithful to her vows. - -He went home to one of the older secluded country-places of the -Blue-grass Region not far from Lexington. His illness served to account -for a strange gravity and sadness of nature in him. When the winter -had passed and spring had come, bringing perfect health again, this -sadness only deepened. For health had brought back the ardor of life. -The glowing colors of the world returned; and with these there flowed -back into his heart, as waters flow back into a well that has gone dry, -the perfect love of youth and strength with which he had loved her and -tried to win her at first. And with this love of her came back the -first complete realization that he had lost her; and with this pain, -that keenest pain of having been most unkind to her when he had striven -to be kindest. - -He now looked back upon his illness, as one who has gained some clear -headland looks down upon a valley so dark and overhung with mist that -he cannot trace his own course across it. He was no longer in sympathy -with that mood of self-renunciation which had influenced him in their -last interview. He charged himself with having given up too easily; -for might he not, after all, have won her? Might he not, little by -little, have changed her conscience, as little by little he had gained -her love? Would it have been possible, he asked himself again and -again, for her ever to have come to him as she had done that day, had -not her conscience approved? Of all his torturing thoughts, none cost -him greater suffering than living over in imagination what must have -happened to her since then--the humiliation, perhaps public exposure; -followed by penalties and sorrows of which he durst not think, and -certainly a life more unrelieved in gloom and desolation. - -In the summer his father's health began to fail and in the autumn he -died. The winter was passed in settling the business of the estate, -and before the spring passed again Gordon found himself at the head of -affairs, and stretching out before him, calm and clear, the complete -independence of his new-found manhood. His life was his own to make -it what he would. As fortunes go in Kentucky he was wealthy, his farm -being among the most beautiful of the beautiful ones which make up -that land, and his homestead being dear through family ties and those -intimations of fireside peace which lay closest the heart of his -ideal life. But amid all his happiness, that one lack which made the -rest appear lacking--that vacancy within which nothing would fill! -The beauty of the rich land hence forth brought him the dream-like -recollection of a rough, poor country a hundred miles away. Its quiet -homesteads, with the impression they create of sweet and simple lives, -reminded him only of a convent standing lonely and forbidding on its -wide landscape. The calm liberty of woods and fields, the bounding -liberty of life, the enlightened liberty of conscience and religion, -which were to him the best gifts of his State, his country, and his -time, forced on him perpetual contrast with the ancient confinement in -which she languished. - -Still he threw himself resolutely into his duties. In all that he did -or planned he felt a certain sacred, uplifting force added to his life -by that high bond through which he had sought to link their sundered -path-ways. But, on the other hand, the haunting thought of what might -have befallen her since became a corrosive care, and began to eat out -the heart of his resolute purposes. - -So that when the long, calm summer had passed and autumn had come, -bringing him lonelier days in the brown fields, lonelier rides on -horseback through the gorgeous woods, and lonelier evenings beside -his rekindled hearth-stones, he could bear the suspense no longer, -and made up his mind to go back, if but to hear tidings whether she -yet were living in the convent. He realized, of course, that under no -circumstances could he ever again speak to her of his love. He had put -himself on the side of her conscience against his own cause; but he -felt that he owed it to himself to dissipate uncertainty regarding her -fate. This done, he could return, however sadly, and take up the duties -of his life with better heart. - - - X. - -One Sunday afternoon he got off at the little station. From one of the -rustic loungers on the platform he learned that old Ezra and Martha had -gone the year before to live with a son in a distant State, and that -their scant acres had been absorbed in the convent domain. - -Slowly he took his way across the sombre fields. Once more he reached -the brown foot-path and the edge of the pale, thin corn. Once more the -summoning whistle of the quail came sweet and clear from the depths -of a neighboring thicket. Silently in the reddening west were rising -the white cathedrals of the sky. It was on yonder hill-top he had -first seen her, standing as though transfigured in the evening light. -Overwhelmed by the memories which the place evoked, he passed on -towards the convent. The first sight of it in the distance smote him -with a pain so sharp that a groan escaped his lips as from a reopened -wound. - -It was the hour of the vesper service. Entering the church he sat where -he had sat before. How still it was, how faint the autumnal sunlight -stealing in through the sainted windows, how motionless the dark -company of nuns seated on one side of the nave, how rigid the white -rows of novices on the other! - -With sad fascination of search his eyes roved among the black-shrouded -devotees. She was not there. In the organ-loft above, a voice, poor and -thin, began to pour out its wavering little tide of song. She was not -there, then. Was her soul already gone home to Heaven? - -Noiselessly from behind the altar the sacristine had come forth and -begun to light the candles. With eyes strained and the heart gone out -of him he hung upon the movements of her figure. A slight, youthful -figure it was--slighter, as though worn and wasted; and the hands which -so firmly bore the long taper looked too white and fragile to have -upheld aught heavier than the stalk of a lily. - -With infinite meekness and reverence she moved hither and thither about -the shrine, as though each footfall were a step nearer the glorious -Presence, each breath a prayer. One by one there sprang into being, -beneath her touch of love, the silvery spires of sacred flame. No angel -of the night ever more softly lit the stars of heaven. And it was thus -that he saw her for the last time--folded back to the bosom of that -faith from which it was left him to believe that he had all but rescued -her to love and happiness, and set, as a chastening admonition, to tend -the mortal fires on the altar of eternal service. - -Looking at her across the vast estranging gulf of destiny, -heart-broken, he asked himself in his poor yearning way whether she -longer had any thought of him or longer loved him. For answer he had -only the assurance given in her words, which now rose as a benediction -in his memory: - -"If He will deign to hear the ceaseless, fervent petition of one so -erring, He will not leave you unhappy on account of that love for me -which in this world it will never be allowed me to return." - -One highest star of adoration she kindled last, and then turned and -advanced down the aisle. He was sitting close to it, and as she came -towards him, with irresistible impulse he bent forward to meet -her, his lips parted as though to speak, his eyes implored her for -recognition, his hands were instinctively moved to attract her notice. -But she passed him with unuplifted eyes. The hem of her dress swept -across his foot. In that intense moment, which compressed within itself -the joy of another meeting and the despair of an eternal farewell--in -that moment he may have tried to read through her face and beyond -it in her very soul the story of what she must have suffered. To -any one else, on her face rested only that beauty, transcending all -description, which is born of the sorrow of earth and the peace of God. - -Mournful as was this last sight of her, and touched with remorse, he -could yet bear it away in his heart for long remembrance not untempered -by consolation. He saw her well; he saw her faithful; he saw her -bearing the sorrows of her lot with angelic sweetness. Through years to -come the beauty of this scene might abide with him, lifted above the -realm of mortal changes by the serenitude of her immovable devotion. - - - XI. - -There was thus spared him knowledge of the great change that had taken -place regarding her within the counsels of the Order; nor, perhaps, was -he ever to learn of the other changes, more eventful still, that were -now fast closing in upon her destiny. - -When the Creator wishes to create a woman, the beauty of whose nature -is to prefigure the types of an immortal world, he endows her more -plenteously with the faculty of innocent love. The contravention -of this faculty has time after time resulted in the most memorable -tragedies that have ever saddened the history of the race. He had given -to the nature of Pauline Cambron two strong, unwearying wings: the -pinion of faith and the pinion of love. It was his will that she should -soar by the use of both. But they had denied her the use of one; and -the vain and bewildered struggles which marked her life thenceforth -were as those of a bird that should try to rise into the air with one -of its wings bound tight against its bosom. - -After the illness which followed upon the events of that terrible day, -she took towards her own conduct the penitential attitude enjoined by -her religion. There is little need to lay bare all that followed. She -had passed out of her soft world of heroic dreams into the hard world -of unheroic reality. She had chosen a name to express her sympathy with -the sorrows of the world, and the sorrows of the world had broken in -upon her. Out of the white dawn of the imagination she had stepped into -the heat and burden of the day. - -Long after penances and prayers were over, and by others she might have -felt herself forgiven, she was as far as ever from that forgiveness -which comes from within. It is not characteristic of a nature such as -hers to win pardon so easily for such an offence of her being seemed -concentred more and more in one impassioned desire to expiate her sin; -for, as time passed on, despite penances and prayers, she realized that -she still loved him. - -As she pondered this she said to herself that peace would never come -unless she should go elsewhere and begin life over in some place that -was free from the memories of her fall, there was so much to remind -her of him. She could not go into the garden without recalling the day -when they had walked through it side by side. She could not cross the -threshold of the church without being reminded that it was the scene of -her unfaithfulness and of her exposure. The graveyard, the foot-path -across the fields, the observatory--all were full of disturbing images. -And therefore she besought the Mother Superior to send her away to some -one of the missions of the Order, thinking that thus she would win -forgetfulness of him and singleness of heart. - -But while the plan of doing this was yet being considered by the Mother -Superior, there happened one of those events which seem to fit into the -crises of our lives as though determined by the very laws of fate. The -attention of the civilized world had not yet been fixed upon the heroic -labors of the Belgian priest, Father Damien, among the lepers of the -island of Molokai. But it has been stated that near the convent are -the monks of La Trappe. Among these monks were friends of the American -priest, Brother Joseph, who for years was one of Father Damien's -assistants; and to these friends this priest from time to time wrote -letters, in which he described at great length the life of the leper -settlement and the work of the small band of men and women who had -gone to labor in that remote and awful vineyard. The contents of these -letters were made known to the ecclesiastical superior of the convent; -and one evening he made them the subject of a lecture to the assembled -nuns and novices, dwelling with peculiar eloquence upon the devotion -of the three Franciscan Sisters who had become outcasts from human -society that they might nurse and teach leprous girls, until inevitable -death should overtake them also. - -Among that breathless audience of women there was one soul on whom -his words fell with the force of a message from the Eternal. Here, -then, at last, was offered her a path-way by following meekly to the -end of which she might perhaps find blessedness. The real Man of -Sorrows appeared to stand in it and beckon her on to the abodes of -those abandoned creatures whose sufferings he had with peculiar pity -so often stretched forth his hand to heal. When she laid before the -Mother Superior her petition to be allowed to go, it was at first -refused, being regarded as a momentary impulse; but months passed, and -at intervals, always more earnestly, she renewed her request. It was -pointed out to her that when one has gone among the lepers there is no -return; the alternatives are either life-long banishment, or death from -leprosy, usually at the end of a few years. But always her reply was: - -"In the name of Christ, Mother, let me go!" - -Meantime it had become clear to the Mother Superior that some change -of scene must be made. The days of Sister Dolorosa's usefulness in the -convent were too plainly over. - -It had not been possible in that large household of women to conceal -the fact of her unfaithfulness to her vows. As one black veil -whispered to another--as one white veil communed with its attentive -neighbor--little by little events were gathered and pieced together, -until, in different forms of error and rumor, the story became known -to all. Some from behind window lattices had watched her in the garden -with the young stranger on the day of his visiting the convent. Others -had heard of his lying wounded at the farm-house. Still others were -sure that under pretext of visiting old Martha she had often met him in -the fields. And then the scene on the steps of the church, when she had -returned soiled and torn and fainting. - -So that from the day on which she arose from her illness and began to -go about the convent, she was singled out as a target for those small -arrows which the feminine eye directs with such faultless skill at -one of its own sex. With scarcely perceptible movements they would -draw aside when passing her, as though to escape corrupting contact. -Certain ones of the younger Sisters, who were jealous of her beauty, -did not fail to drop innuendoes for her to overhear. And upon some of -the novices, whose minds were still wavering between the Church and the -world, it was thought that her example might have a dangerous influence. - -It is always wrong to judge motives; but it is possible that the head -of the Order may have thought it best that this ruined life should take -on the halo of martyrdom, from which fresh lustre would be reflected -upon the annals of the Church. However this may be, after about -eighteen months of waiting, during which correspondence was held with -the Sandwich Islands, it was determined that Sister Dolorosa should be -allowed to go thither and join the labors of the Franciscan Sisters. - -From the day when consent was given she passed into that peace with -which one ascends the scaffold or awaits the stake. It was this look of -peace that Gordon had seen on her face as she moved hither and thither -about the shrine. - -Only a few weeks after he had thus seen her the day came for her to -go. Of those who took part in the scene of farewell she was the most -unmoved. A month later she sailed from San Francisco for Honolulu; -and in due time there came from Honolulu to the Mother Superior the -following letter. It contains all that remains of the earthly history -of Pauline Cambron: - - - XII. - - "KALAWAO, MOLOKAI, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS, - - "_January 1, 188--_. - - "DEAR MOTHER,--I entreat you not to let the sight of this strange - handwriting, instead of one that must be so familiar, fill you with - too much alarm. I hasten to assure you that before my letter closes - you will understand why Sister Dolorosa has not written herself. - - "Since the hour when the vessel sailed from the American port, bearing - to us that young life as a consecrated helper in our work among these - suffering outcasts of the human race, I know that your thoughts and - prayers have followed her with unceasing anxiety; so that first I - should give you tidings that the vessel reached Honolulu in safety. I - should tell you also that she had a prosperous voyage, and that she is - now happy--far happier than when she left you. I know, likewise, that - your imagination has constantly hovered about this island, and that - you have pictured it to yourself as the gloomiest of all spots in the - universe of God; so that in the next place I should try to remove this - impression by giving you some description of the island itself, which - has now become her unchanging home. - - "The island of Molokai, then, on which the leper settlement has been - located by the Government, is long, and shaped much like the leaf of - the willow-tree. The Sandwich Islands, as you well know, are a group - of volcanoes out of which the fires have for the most part long since - died. Molokai, therefore, is really but a mountain of cooled lava, - half of which perhaps is beneath the level of the sea. The two leper - villages are actually situated in the cup of an ancient crater. The - island is very low along the southern coast, and slopes gradually to - its greatest altitude on the northern ridge, from which the descent to - the sea is in places all but perpendicular. It is between the bases - of these northern cliffs and the sea that the villages are built. - In the rear of them is a long succession of towering precipices and - wild ravines, that are solemn and terrible to behold; and in front of - them there is a coast line so rough with pointed rocks that as the - waves rush in upon them spray is often thrown to the height of fifty - or a hundred feet. It is this that makes the landing at times so - dangerous; and at other times, when a storm has burst, so fatal. So - that shipwrecks are not unknown, dear Mother, and sometimes add to the - sadness of life in this place. - - "But from this description you would get only a mistaken idea of the - aspect of the island. It is sunny and full of tropical loveliness. - The lapse of centuries has in places covered the lava with exquisite - verdure. Soft breezes blow here, about the dark cliffs hang purple - atmospheres, and above them drift pink and white clouds. Sometimes the - whole island is veiled in golden mist. Beautiful streams fall down - its green precipices into the sea, and the sea itself is of the most - brilliant blue. In its depths are growths of pure white corals, which - are the homes of fishes of gorgeous colors. - - "If I should speak no longer of the island, but of the people, I could - perhaps do something further still to dissipate the dread with which - you and other strangers must regard us. The inhabitants are a simple, - generous, happy race; and there are many spots in this world--many - in Europe and Asia, perhaps some in your own land--where the scenes - of suffering and death are more poignant and appalling. The lepers - live for the most part in decent white cottages. Many are the happy - faces that are seen among them; so that, strange as it may seem, - healthy people would sometimes come here to live if the laws did not - forbid. So much has Christianity done that one may now be buried in - consecrated ground. - - "If all this appears worldly and frivolous, dear Mother, forgive me! - If I have chosen to withhold from you news of her, of whom alone I - know you are thinking, it is because I have wished to give you as - bright a picture as possible. Perhaps you will thus become the better - prepared for what is to follow. - - "So that before I go further, I shall pause again to describe to you - one spot which is the loveliest on the island. About a mile and a - half from the village of Kalawao there is a rocky point which is used - as an irregular landing-place when the sea is wild. Just beyond this - point there is an inward curve of the coast, making an inlet of the - sea; and from the water's edge there slopes backward into the bosom - of the island a deep ravine. Down this ravine there falls and winds a - gleaming white cataract, and here the tropical vegetation grows most - beautiful. The trees are wreathed with moist creepers; the edges and - crevices of the lava blocks are fringed with ferns and moss. Here the - wild ginger blooms and the crimson lehua. Here grow trees of orange - and palm and punhala groves. Here one sees the rare honey-bird with - its plumage of scarlet velvet, the golden plover, and the beautiful - white bos'un-bird, wheeling about the black cliff heights. The spot is - as beautiful as a scene in some fairy tale. When storms roll in from - the sea the surf flows far back into this ravine, and sometimes--after - the waters have subsided--a piece of wreckage from the ocean is left - behind. - - "Forgive me once more, O dear Mother! if again I seem to you so idle - and unmeaning in my words. But I have found it almost impossible to go - on; and, besides, I think you will thank me, after you have read my - letter through, for telling you first of this place. - - "From the day of our first learning that there was a young spirit - among you who had elected, for Christ's sake, to come here and labor - with us, we had counted the days till she should arrive. The news - had spread throughout the leper settlement. Father Damien had made - it known to the lepers in Kalawao, Father Wendolen had likewise told - it among the lepers in Kalapaupa, and the Protestant ministers spoke - of it to their flocks. Thus her name had already become familiar to - hundreds of them, and many a prayer had been offered up for her safety. - - "Once a week there comes to Molokai from Honolulu a little steamer - called _Mokolii_. When it reached here last Saturday morning it - brought the news that just before it sailed from Honolulu the vessel - bearing Sister Dolorosa had come into port. She had been taken in - charge by the Sisters until the _Mokolii_ should return and make the - next trip. I should add that the steamer leaves at about five o'clock - in the afternoon, and that it usually reaches here at about dawn of - the following morning in ordinary weather. - - "And now, dear Mother, I beseech you to lay my letter aside! Do not - read further now. Lay it aside, and do not take it up again until you - have sought in prayer the consolation of our divine religion for the - sorrows of our lives. - - "I shall believe that you have done this, and that, as you now go on - with the reading of my letter, you have gained the fortitude to hear - what I have scarcely the power to write. Heaven knows that in my poor - way I have sought to prepare you! - - "As it was expected that the steamer would reach the island about dawn - on Saturday morning, as usual, it had been arranged that many of us - should be at the landing-place to give her welcome. But about midnight - one of the terrific storms which visit this region suddenly descended, - enveloping the heavens, that had been full of the light of the stars, - in impenetrable darkness. We were sleepless with apprehension that - the vessel would be driven upon the rocks--such was the direction of - the storm--long before it could come opposite the villages: and a - few hours before day Father Damien, accompanied by Father Conradi, - Brother James, and Brother Joseph, went down to the coast. Through - the remaining hours of the night they watched and waited, now at one - point, and now at another, knowing that the vessel could never land in - such a storm. As the dawn broke they followed up the coast until they - came opposite that rocky point of which I have already spoken as being - an irregular landing-place. - - "Here they were met by two or three men who were drenched with the - sea, and just starting towards the villages, and from them they - learned that, an hour or two before, the steamer had been driven upon - the hidden rocks of the point. It had been feared that it would soon - be sunk or dashed to pieces, and as quickly as possible a boat had - been put off, in which were the leper girls that were being brought - from Honolulu. There was little hope that it would ever reach the - shore, but it was the last chance of life. In this boat, dear Mother, - Sister Dolorosa also was placed. Immediately afterwards a second boat - was put off, containing the others that were on board. - - "Of the fate of the first boat they had learned nothing. Their own had - been almost immediately capsized, and, so far as they knew, they were - the sole survivors. The Hawaiians are the most expert of swimmers, - being almost native to the sea; and since the distance was short, and - only these survived, you will realize how little chance there was for - any other. - - "During the early hours of the morning, which broke dark and - inexpressibly sad for us, a few bodies were found washed ashore, among - them those of two leper girls of Honolulu. But our search for her long - proved unavailing. At length Father Damien suggested that we follow - up the ravine which I have described, and it was thither that he and - Brother Joseph and I accordingly went. Father Damien thought it well - that I should go with them. - - "It was far inland, dear Mother, that at last we found her. She lay - out-stretched on a bare, black rock of lava, which sloped upward from - the sea. Her naked white feet rested on the green moss that fringed - its lower edge, and her head was sheltered from the burning sun by - branches of ferns. Almost over her eyes--the lids of which were stiff - with the salt of the ocean--there hung a spray of white poppies. It - was as though nature would be kind to her in death. - - "At the sight of her face, so young, and having in it the purity and - the peace of Heaven, we knelt down around her without a word, and for - a while we could do nothing but weep. Surely nothing so spotless was - ever washed ashore on this polluted island! If I sinned, I pray to be - forgiven; but I found a strange joy in thinking that the corruption - of this terrible disease had never been laid upon her. Heaven had - accepted in advance her faithful spirit, and had spared her the long - years of bodily suffering. - - "At Father Damien's direction Brother Joseph returned to the village - for a bier and for four lepers who should be strong enough to bear it. - When they came we laid her on it, and bore her back to the village, - where Mother Marianne took the body in charge and prepared it for - burial. - - "How shall I describe her funeral? The lepers were her pall-bearers. - The news of the shipwreck had quickly spread throughout the - settlement, and these simple, generous people yield themselves so - readily to the emotion of the hour. When the time arrived, it seemed - that all who could walk had come to follow her to the church-yard. It - was a moving sight--the long, wavering train of that death-stricken - throng, whose sufferings had so touched the pity of our Lord when he - was on earth, and the desolation of whose fate she had come to lessen. - There were the young and the old alike, Protestants and Catholics - without distinction, children with their faces so strangely aged - with ravages of the leprosy, those advanced in years with theirs so - mutilated and marred. Others, upon whom the leprosy had made such - advances that they were too weak to walk, sat in their cottage doors - and lifted their husky voices in singing that wailing native hymn in - which they bemoan their hopeless fate. Some of the women, after a - fashion of their own, wore large wreaths of blue blossoms and green - leaves about their withered faces. - - "And it was thus that we lepers--I say we lepers because I am one of - them, since I cannot expect long to escape the disease--it was thus - that we lepers followed her to the graveyard in the rock by the blue - sea, where Father Damien with his own hands had helped to dig her - grave. And there, dear Mother, all that is mortal of her now rests. - But we know that ere this she has heard the words: 'I was sick and ye - visited me.' - - "Mother Marianne would herself have written, but she was called away - to the Leproserie. - - "SISTER AGATHA." - - - - - POSTHUMOUS FAME; OR, A LEGEND OF THE BEAUTIFUL. - - - I. - -There once lived in a great city, where the dead were all but -innumerable, a young man by the name of Nicholas Vane, who possessed a -singular genius for the making of tombstones. So beautiful they were, -and so fitly designed to express the shadowy pain of mortal memory or -the bright forecasting of eternal hope, that all persons were held -fortunate who could secure them for the calm resting-places of their -beloved sleepers. Indeed, the curious tale was whispered round that -the bereft were not his only patrons, but that certain personages who -were peculiarly ambitious of posthumous fame--seeing they had not long -to live, and unwilling to intrust others with the grave responsibility -of having them commemorated--had gone to his shop and secretly advised -with him respecting such monuments as might preserve their memories -from too swift oblivion. - -However this may fall out, certain it is that his calling had its -secrets; and once he was known to observe that no man could ever -understand the human heart until he had become a maker of tombstones. -Whether the knowledge thus derived should make of one a laughing or -a weeping philosopher, Nicholas himself remained a joyous type of -youthful manhood--so joyous, in fact, that a friend of his who wrought -in color, strolling one day into the workshop where Nicholas stood -surrounded by the exquisite shapes of memorial marbles, had asked to -paint the scene as a representation of Life chiselling to its beautiful -purposes the rugged symbols of Death, and smiling as it wove the words -of love and faith across the stony proofs of the universal tragedy. -Afterwards, it is true, a great change was wrought in the young artisan. - -He had just come in one morning and paused to look around at the -various finished and unfinished mortuary designs. - -"Truly," he said to himself all at once, "if I were a wise man, I'd -begin this day's business by chiselling my own head-stone. For who -knows but that before sunset my brother the grave-digger may be told -to build me one of the houses that last till doomsday! And what man -could then make the monument to stop the door of _my_ house with? But -why should I have a monument? If I lie beneath it, I shall not know -I lie there. If I lie not there, then it will not stand over me. So, -whether I lie there, or lie not there, what will it matter to me then? -Aye; but what if, being dead only to this world and living in another, -I should yet look on the monument erected to my memory and therefore -be the happier? I know not; nor to what end we are vexed with this -desire to be remembered after death. The prospect of vanishing from -a poor, toilsome life fills us with such consternation and pain! It -is therefore we strive to impress ourselves ineffaceably on the race, -so that, after we have gone hence, or ceased to be, we may still have -incorporeal habitation among all coming generations." - -Here he was interrupted by a low knock at the door. Bidden to come in, -there entered a man of delicate physiognomy, who threw a hurried glance -around and inquired in an anxious tone: - -"Sir, are you alone?" - -"I am never alone," replied Nicholas in a ringing voice; "for I dwell -hard by the gate-way of life and death, through which a multitude is -always passing." - -"Not so loud, I beseech you," said the visitor, stretching forth his -thin, white hands with eager deprecation. "I would not, for the world, -have any one discover that I have been here." - -"Are you, then, a personage of such importance to the world?" said -Nicholas, smiling, for the stranger's appearance argued no worldly -consideration whatsoever. The suit of black, which his frail figure -seemed to shrink away from with very sensitiveness, was glossy and -pathetic with more than one covert patch. His shoes were dust-covered -and worn. His long hair went round his head in a swirl, and he bore -himself with an air of damaged, apologetic, self-appreciation. - -"I am a poet," he murmured with a flush of pain, dropping his large -mournful eyes beneath the scrutiny of one who might be an unsympathetic -listener. "I am a poet, and I have come to speak with you privately of -my--of the--of a monument. I am afraid I shall be forgotten. It is a -terrible thought." - -"Can you not trust your poems to keep you remembered?" asked Nicholas, -with more kindliness. - -"I could if they were as widely read as they should be." He appeared -emboldened by his hearer's gentleness. "But, to confess the truth, I -have not been accepted by my age. That, indeed, should give me no -pain, since I have not written for it, but for the great future to -which alone I look for my fame." - -"Then why not look to it for your monument also?" - -"Ah, sir!" he cried, "there are so many poets in the world that I might -be entirely overlooked by posterity, did there not descend to it some -sign that I was held in honor by my own generation." - -"Have you never noticed," he continued, with more earnestness, "that -when strangers visit a cemetery they pay no attention to the thousands -of little head-stones that lie scattered close to the ground, but hunt -out the highest monuments, to learn in whose honor they were erected? -Have you never heard them exclaim: 'Yonder is a great monument! A great -man must be buried there. Let us go and find out who he was and what he -did to be so celebrated.' Oh, sir, you and I know that this is a poor -way of reasoning, since the greatest monuments are not always set over -the greatest men. Still the custom has wrought its good effects, and -splendid memorials do serve to make known in years to come those whom -they commemorate, by inciting posterity to search for their actions or -revive their thoughts. I warrant you the mere bust of Homer--" - -"You are not mentioning yourself in the same breath with Homer, I -hope," said Nicholas, with great good-humor. - -"My poems are as dear to me as Homer's were to him," replied the poet, -his eyes filling. - -"What if you _are_ forgotten? Is it not enough for the poet to have -lived for the sake of beauty?" - -"No!" he cried, passionately. "What you say is a miserable error. For -the very proof of the poet's vocation is in creating the beautiful. But -how know he has created it? By his own mind? Alas, the poet's mind -tells him only what is beautiful to _him_! It is by fame that he knows -it--fame, the gratitude of men for the beauty he has revealed to them! -What is so sweet, then, as the knowledge that fame has come to him -already, or surely awaits him after he is dead?" - -"We labor under some confusion of ideas, I fear," said Nicholas, "and, -besides, are losing time. What kind of mon--" - -"That I leave to you," interrupted the poet. "Only, I should like my -monument to be beautiful. Ah, if you but knew how all through this poor -life of mine I have loved the beautiful! Never, never have I drawn -near it in any visible form without almost holding my breath as though -I were looking deep, deep into God's opened eyes. But it was of the -epitaph I wished to speak." - -Hereupon, with a deeper flush, he drew from a large inside -breast-pocket, that seemed to have been made for the purpose, a worn -duodecimo volume, and fell to turning the much-fingered pages. - -"This," he murmured fondly, without looking up, "is the complete -collection of my poems." - -"Indeed!" exclaimed Nicholas, with deep compassion. - -"Yes, my complete collection. I have written a great deal more, -and should have liked to publish all that I have written. But it -was necessary to select, and I have included here only what it was -intolerable to see wasted. There is nothing I value more than a group -of elegiac poems, which every single member of my large family--who are -fine critics--and all my friends, pronounce very beautiful. I think it -would be a good idea to inscribe a selection from one on my monument, -since those who read the selection would wish to read the entire -poem, and those who read the entire poem would wish to read the entire -collection. I shall now favor you with these elegies." - -"I should be happy to hear them; but my time!" said Nicholas, -courteously. "The living are too impatient to wait on me; the dead too -patient to be defrauded." - -"Surely you would not refuse to hear one of them," exclaimed the poet, -his eyes flashing. - -"Read _one_, by all means." Nicholas seated himself on a monumental -lamb. - -The poet passed one hand gently across his forehead, as though to brush -away the stroke of rudeness; then, fixing upon Nicholas a look of -infinite remoteness, he read as follows: - - "He suffered, but he murmured not; - To every storm he bared his breast; - He asked but for the common lot-- - To be a man among the rest. - - "Here lies he now--" - -"If you ask but for the common lot," interrupted Nicholas, "you should -rest content to be forgotten." - -But before the poet could reply, a loud knock caused him to flap the -leaves of the "Complete Collection" together with one hand, while with -the other he gathered the tails of his long coat about him, as though -preparing to pass through some difficult aperture. The exaltation of -his mood, however, still showed itself in the look and tone of proud -condescension with which he said to Nicholas: - -"Permit me to retire at once by some private pass-way." - -Nicholas led him to a door in the rear of the shop, and there, with a -smile and a tear, stood for a moment watching the precipitate figure -of the retreating bard, who suddenly paused when disappearing and tore -open the breast of his coat to assure himself that his beloved elegies -were resting safe across his heart. - -The second visitor was of another sort. He hobbled on a cork leg, but -inexorably disciplined the fleshly one into old-time firmness and -precision. A faded military cloak draped his stalwart figure. Part of -one bushy gray eyebrow had been chipped away by the same sword-cut that -left its scar across his battle-beaten face. - -"I have come to speak with you about my monument," he said in a gruff -voice that seemed to issue from the mouth of a rusty cannon. "Those of -my old comrades that did not fall at my side are dead. My wife died -long ago, and my little children. I am old and forgotten. It is a time -of peace. There's not a boy who will now listen to me while I tell of -my campaigns. I live alone. Were I to die to-morrow my grave might not -have so much as a head-stone. It might be taken for that of a coward. -Make me a monument for a true soldier." - -"Your grateful country will do that," said Nicholas. - -"Ha?" exclaimed the veteran, whom the shock of battle had made deaf -long ago. - -"Your country," shouted Nicholas, close to his ear, "your country--will -erect a monument--to your memory." - -"My country!" The words were shot out with a reverberating, melancholy -boom. "My country will do no such a thing. How many millions of -soldiers have fallen on her battle-fields! Where are their monuments? -They would make her one vast cemetery." - -"But is it not enough for you to have been a true soldier? Why wish to -be known and remembered for it?" - -"I know I do not wish to be forgotten," he replied, simply. "I know I -take pleasure in the thought that long after I am forgotten there will -be a tongue in my monument to cry out to every passing stranger, 'Here -lies the body of a true soldier.' It is a great thing to be brave!" - -"Is, then, this monument to be erected in honor of bravery, or of -yourself?" - -"There is no difference," said the veteran, bluntly. "Bravery _is_ -myself." - -"It is bravery," he continued, in husky tones, and with a mist -gathering in his eyes that made him wink as though he were trying to -see through the smoke of battle--"it is bravery that I see most clearly -in the character of God. What would become of us if he were a coward? I -serve him as my brave commander; and though I am stationed far from him -and may be faint and sorely wounded, I know that he is somewhere on the -battle-field, and that I shall see him at last, approaching me as he -moves up and down among the ranks." - -"But you say that your country does not notice you--that you have no -friends; do you, then, feel no resentment?" - -"None, none," he answered quickly, though his head dropped on his bosom. - -"And you wish to be remembered by a world that is willing to forget -you?" - -He lifted his head proudly. "There are many true men in the world," he -said, "and it has much to think of. I owe it all I can give, all I can -bequeath; and I can bequeath it nothing but the memory of a true man." - -One day, not long after this, there came into the workshop of Nicholas -a venerable man of the gravest, sweetest, and most scholarly aspect, -who spoke not a word until he had led Nicholas to the front window and -pointed a trembling finger at a distant church-spire. - -"You see yon spire?" he said. "It almost pierces the clouds. In the -church beneath I have preached to men and women for nearly fifty years. -Many that I have christened at the font I have married at the altar; -many of these I have sprinkled with dust. What have I not done for -them in sorrow and want! How have I not toiled to set them in the way -of purer pleasures and to anchor their tempest-tossed hopes! And yet -how soon they will forget me! Already many say I am too old to preach. -Too old! I preach better than I ever did in my life. Yet it may be my -lot to wander down into the deep valley, an idle shepherd with an idle -crook. I have just come from the writing of my next sermon, in which I -exhort my people to strive that their names be not written on earthly -monuments or human hearts, but in the Book of Life. It is my sublimest -theme. If I am ever eloquent, if I am ever persuasive, if I ever for -one moment draw aside to spiritual eyes the veil that discloses the -calm, enrapturing vistas of eternity, it is when I measure my finite -strength against this mighty task. But why? Because they are the -sermons of my own aspiration. I preach them to my own soul. Face to -face with that naked soul I pen those sermons--pen them when all are -asleep save the sleepless Eye that is upon me. Even in the light of -that Eye do I recoil from the thought of being forgotten. How clearly -I foresee it! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Where then will be my -doctrines, my prayers, my sermons?" - -"Is it not enough for you to have scattered your handful of good -broadcast, to ripen as endlessly as the grass? What if they that gather -know naught of him that sowed?" - -"It is not enough. I should like the memory of _me_ to live on and on -in the world, inseparable from the good I may have done. What am I but -the good that is in me? 'Tis this that links me to the infinite and the -perfect. Does not the Perfect One wish his goodness to be associated -with his name? No! No! I do not wish to be forgotten!" - -"It is mere vanity." - -"Not vanity," said the aged servitor, meekly. "Wait until you are old, -till the grave is at your helpless feet: it is the love of life." - -But some years later there befell Nicholas an event that transcended -all past experiences, and left its impress on his whole subsequent life. - - - II. - -The hour had passed when any one was likely to enter his shop. A few -rays of pale sunlight, straggling in through crevices of the door, -rested like a dying halo on the heads of the monumental figures grouped -around. Shadows, creeping upward from the ground, shrouded all else in -thin, penetrable half-gloom, through which the stark gray emblems of -mortality sent forth more solemn suggestions. A sudden sense of the -earthly tragedy overwhelmed him. The chisel and the hammer dropped from -his hands and, resting his head on the block he had been carving, he -gave himself up to that mood of dim, distant reverie in which the soul -seems to soar and float far above the shock and din of the world's -disturbing nearness. On his all but oblivious ear, like the faint -washings of some remote sea, beat the waves of the city's tide-driven -life in the streets outside. The room itself seemed hushed to the awful -stillness of the high aerial spaces. Then all at once this stillness -was broken by a voice, low, clear, and tremuluous, saying close to his -ear: - -"Are you the maker of gravestones?" - -"That is my sad calling," he cried, bitterly, starting up with -instinctive forebodings. - -He saw before him a veiled figure. To support herself, she rested one -hand on the block he had been carving, while she pressed the other -against her heart, as though to stifle pain. - -"Whose monument is this?" - -"A neglected poet's who died not long ago. Soon, perhaps, I shall be -making one for an old soldier, and one for a holy man, whose soul, I -hear, is about to be dismissed." - -"Are not some monuments sadder to make than others?" - -"Aye, truly." - -"What is the saddest you ever made?" - -"The saddest monument I ever made was one for a poor mother who had -lost her only son. One day a woman came in who had no sooner entered -than she sat down and gave way to a passionate outburst of grief." - -"'My good woman,' I said, 'why do you weep so bitterly?' - -"'Do not call me good,' she moaned, and hid her face. - -"I then perceived her fallen character. When she recovered self-control -she drew from her sinful bosom an old purse filled with coins of -different values. - -"'Why do you give me this?' I asked. - -"'It is to pay for a monument for my son,' she said, and the storm of -her grief swept over her again. - -"I learned that for years she had toiled and starved to hoard up a sum -with which to build a monument to his memory, for he had never failed -of his duty to her after all others had cast her out. Certainly he -had his reward, not in the monument, but in the repentance which came -to her after his death. I have never seen such sorrow for evil as the -memory of his love wrought in her. For herself she desired only that -the spot where she should be buried might be unknown. This longing to -be forgotten has led me to believe that none desire to be remembered -for the evil that is in them, but only for some truth, or beauty, -or goodness by which they have linked their individual lives to the -general life of the race. Even the lying epitaphs in cemeteries prove -how we would fain have the dead arrayed on the side of right in the -thoughts of their survivors. This wretched mother and human outcast, -believing herself to have lost everything that makes it well to be -remembered, craved only the mercy of forgetfulness." - -"And yet I think she died a Christian soul." - -"You knew her, then?" - -"I was with her in her last hours. She told me her story. She told me -also of you, and that you would accept nothing for the monument you -were at such care to make. It is perhaps for this reason that I have -felt some desire to see you, and that I am here now to speak with you -of--" - -A shudder passed over her. - -"After all, that was not a sad, but a joyous monument to fashion," she -added, abruptly. - -"Aye, it was joyous. But to me the joyous and the sad are much allied -in the things of this life." - -"And yet there might be one monument wholly sad, might there not?" - -"There might be, but I know not whose it would be." - -"If she you love should die, would not hers be so?" - -"Until I love, and she I love is dead, I cannot know," said Nicholas, -smiling. - -"What builds the most monuments?" she asked, quickly, as though to -retreat from her levity. - -"Pride builds many--splendid ones. Gratitude builds some, forgiveness -some, and pity some. But faith builds more than these, though often -poor, humble ones; and love!--love builds more than all things else -together." - -"And what, of all things that monuments are built in memory of, is most -loved and soonest forgotten?" she asked, with intensity. - -"Nay, I cannot tell that." - -"Is it not a beautiful woman? This, you say, is the monument of a poet. -After the poet grows old, men love him for the songs he sang; they love -the old soldier for the battles he fought, and the preacher for his -remembered prayers. But a woman! Who loves her for the beauty she once -possessed, or rather regards her not with the more distaste? Is there -in history a figure so lonely and despised as that of the woman who, -once the most beautiful in the world, crept back into her native land a -withered hag? Or, if a woman die while she is yet beautiful, how long -is she remembered? Her beauty is like heat and light--powerful only for -those who feel and see it." - -But Nicholas had scarcely heard her. His eyes had become riveted upon -her hand, which rested on the marble, as white as though grown out of -it under the labors of his chisel. - -"My lady," he said, with the deepest respect, "will you permit me to -look at your hand? I have carved many a one in marble, and studied many -a one in life; but never have I seen anything so beautiful as yours." - -He took it with an artist's impetuosity and bent over it, laying its -palm against one of his own and stroking it softly with the other. The -blood leaped through his heart, and he suddenly lifted it to his lips. - -"God only can make the hand beautiful," he said. - -Displaced by her arm which he had upraised, the light fabric that had -concealed her figure parted on her bosom and slipped to the ground. -His eyes swept over the perfect shape that stood revealed. The veil -still concealed her face. The strangely mingled emotions that had -been deepening within him all this time now blended themselves in one -irrepressible wish. - -"Will you permit me to see your face?" - -She drew quickly back. A subtle pain was in his voice as he cried: - -"Oh, my lady? I ask it as one who has pure eyes for the beautiful." - -"My face belongs to my past. It has been my sorrow; it is nothing now." - -"Only permit me to see it!" - -"Is there no other face you would rather see?" - -Who can fathom the motive of a woman's questions? - -"None, none!" - -She drew aside her veil, and her eyes rested quietly on his like a -revelation. So young she was as hardly yet to be a woman, and her -beauty had in it that seraphic purity and mysterious pathos which -is never seen in a woman's face until the touch of another world -has chastened her spirit into the resignation of a saint. The heart -of Nicholas was wrung by the sight of it with a sudden sense of -inconsolable loss and longing. - -"Oh, my lady!" he cried, sinking on one knee and touching his lips to -her hand with greater gentleness. "Do you indeed think the beauty of a -woman so soon forgotten? As long as I live, yours will be as fresh in -my memory as it was the moment after I first saw it in its perfection -and felt its power." - -"Do not recall to me the sorrow of such thoughts." She touched her -heart. "My heart is a tired hour-glass. Already the sands are well-nigh -run through. Any hour it may stop, and then--out like a light! -Shapeless ashes! I have loved life well, but not so well that I have -not been able to prepare to leave it." - -She spoke with the utmost simplicity and calmness, yet her eyes were -turned with unspeakable sadness towards the shadowy recesses of the -room, where from their pedestals the monumental figures looked down -upon her as though they would have opened their marble lips and said, -"Poor child! Poor child!" - -"I have had my wish to see you and to see this place. Before long some -one will come here to have you carve a monument to the most perishable -of all things. Like the poor mother who had no wish to be remembered--" - -Nicholas was moved to the deepest. - -"I have but little skill," he said. "The great God did not bestow on -me the genius of his favorite children of sculpture. But if so sad and -sacred a charge should ever become mine, with his help I will rear such -a monument to your memory that as long as it stands none who see it -will ever be able to forget you. Year after year your memory shall grow -as a legend of the beautiful." - -When she was gone he sat self-forgetful until the darkness grew -impenetrable. As he groped his way out at last along the thick -guide-posts of death, her voice seemed to float towards him from every -head-stone, her name to be written in every epitaph. - -The next day a shadow brooded over the place. Day by day it deepened. -He went out to seek intelligence of her. In the quarter of the city -where she lived he discovered that her name had already become a -nucleus around which were beginning to cluster many little legends of -the beautiful. He had but to hear recitals of her deeds of kindness -and mercy. For the chance of seeing her again he began to haunt the -neighborhood; then, having seen her, he would return to his shop the -victim of more unavailing desire. All things combined to awake in him -that passion of love whose roots are nourished in the soul's finest -soil of pity and hopelessness. Once or twice, under some pretext, he -made bold to accost her; and once, under the stress of his passion, -he mutely lifted his eyes, confessing his love; but hers were turned -aside. - -Meantime he began to dream of the monument he chose to consider she had -committed to his making. It should be the triumph of his art; but more, -it would represent in stone the indissoluble union of his love with her -memory. Through him alone would she enter upon her long after-life of -saint-like reminiscence. - -When the tidings of her death came, he soon sprang up from the -prostration of his grief with a burning desire to consummate his -beloved work. - -"Year after year your memory shall grow as a legend of the beautiful." - -These words now became the inspiration of his masterpiece. Day and -night it took shape in the rolling chaos of his sorrow. What sculptor -in the world ever espoused the execution of a work that lured more -irresistibly from their hiding-places the shy and tender ministers of -his genius? What one ever explored with greater boldness the utmost -limits of artistic expression, or wrought in sterner defiance of the -laws of our common forgetfulness? - - - III. - -One afternoon, when people thronged the great cemetery of the city, -a strolling group were held fascinated by the unique loveliness of a -newly erected monument. - -"Never," they exclaimed, "have we seen so exquisite a masterpiece. In -whose honor is it erected?" - -But when they drew nearer, they found carved on it simply a woman's -name. - -"Who was she?" they asked, puzzled and disappointed. "Is there no -epitaph?" - -"Aye," spoke up a young man lying on the grass and eagerly watching -the spectators. "Aye, a very fitting epitaph." - -"Where is it?" - -"Carved on the heart of the monument!" he cried, in a tone of triumph. - -"On the heart of the monument? Then we cannot see it." - -"It is not meant to be seen." - -"How do _you_ know of it?" - -"I made the monument." - -"Then tell us what it is." - -"It cannot be told. It is there only because it is unknown." - -"Out on you! You play your pranks with the living and the dead." - -"You will live to regret this day," said a thoughtful by-stander. "You -have tampered with the memory of the dead." - -"Why, look you, good people," cried Nicholas, springing up and -approaching his beautiful master-work. He rested one hand lovingly -against it and glanced around him pale with repressed excitement, as -though a long-looked-for moment had at length arrived. "I play no -pranks with the living or the dead. Young as I am, I have fashioned -many monuments, as this cemetery will testify. But I make no more. This -is my last; and as it is the last, so it is the greatest. For I have -fashioned it in such love and sorrow for her who lies beneath it as you -can never know. If it is beautiful, it is yet an unworthy emblem of -that brief and transporting beauty which was hers; and I have planted -it here beside her grave, that as a delicate white flower it may exhale -the perfume of her memory for centuries to come. - -"Tell me," he went on, his lips trembling, his voice faltering with the -burden of oppressive hope--"tell me, you who behold it now, do you not -wed her memory deathlessly to it? To its fair shape, its native and -unchanging purity?" - -"Aye," they interrupted, impatiently. "But the epitaph?" - -"Ah!" he cried, with tenderer feeling, "beautiful as the monument is to -the eye, it would be no fit emblem of her had it not something sacred -hidden within. For she was not lovely to the sense alone, but had a -perfect heart. So I have placed within the monument that which is its -heart, and typifies hers. And, mark you!" he cried, in a voice of such -awful warning that those standing nearest him instinctively shrank -back, "the one is as inviolable as the other. No more could you rend -the heart from the human bosom than this epitaph from the monument. My -deep and lasting curse on him who attempts it! For I have so fitted the -parts of the work together, that to disunite would be to break them in -pieces; and the inscription is so fragile and delicately poised within, -that so much as rudely to jar the monument would shiver it to atoms. It -is put there to be inviolable. Seek to know it, you destroy it. This I -but create after the plan of the Great Artist, who shows you only the -fair outside of his masterpieces. What human eye ever looked into the -mysterious heart of his beautiful--that heart which holds the secret of -inexhaustible freshness and eternal power? Could this epitaph have been -carved on the outside, you would have read it and forgotten it with -natural satiety. But uncomprehended, what a spell I mark it exercises! -You will--nay, you _must_--remember it forever! You will speak of it -to others. They will come. And thus in ever-widening circle will be -borne afar the memory of her whose name is on it, the emblem of whose -heart is hidden within. And what more fitting memorial could a man rear -to a woman, the pure shell of whose beauty all can see, the secret of -whose beautiful being no one ever comprehends?" - -He walked rapidly away, then, some distance off, turned and looked -back. More spectators had come up. Some were earnestly talking, -pointing now to the monument, now towards him. Others stood in rapt -contemplation of his master-work. - -Tears rose to his eyes. A look of ineffable joy overspread his face. - -"Oh, my love!" he murmured, "I have triumphed. Death has claimed your -body, heaven your spirit; but the earth claims the saintly memory -of each. This day about your name begins to grow the Legend of the -Beautiful." - -The sun had just set. The ethereal white shape of the monument stood -outlined against a soft background of rose-colored sky. To his -transfiguring imagination it seemed lifted far into the cloud-based -heavens, and the evening star, resting above its apex, was a celestial -lamp lowered to guide the eye to it through the darkness of the -descending night. - - - IV. - -Mysterious complexity of our mortal nature and estate that we should -so desire to be remembered after death, though born to be forgotten! -Our words and deeds, the influences of our silent personalities, do -indeed pass from us into the long history of the race and abide for -the rest of time: so that an earthly immortality is the heritage, nay, -the inalienable necessity, of even the commonest lives; only it is an -immortality not of self, but of its good and evil. For Nature sows -us and reaps us, that she may gather a harvest, not of us, but from -us. It is God alone that gathers the harvest of us. And well for us -that our destiny should be that general forgetfulness we so strangely -shrink from. For no sooner are we gone hence than, even for such brief -times as our memories may endure, we are apt to grow by processes -of accumulative transformation into what we never were. Thou kind, -kind fate, therefore--never enough named and celebrated--that biddest -the sun of memory rise on our finished but imperfect lives, and then -lengthenest or shortenest the little day of posthumous reminiscence, -according as thou seest there is need of early twilight or of deeper -shadows! - - * * * * * - -Years passed. City and cemetery were each grown vaster. It was again -an afternoon when the people strolled among the graves and monuments. -An old man had courteously attached himself to a group that stood -around a crumbling memorial. He had reached a great age; but his figure -was erect, his face animated by strong emotions, and his eyes burned -beneath his brows. - -"Sirs," said he, interposing in the conversation, which turned wholly -on the monument, "you say nothing of him in whose honor it was erected." - -"We say nothing because we know nothing." - -"Is he then wholly forgotten?" - -"We are not aware that he is at all remembered." - -"The inscription reads: 'He was a poet.' Know you none of his poems?" - -"We have never so much as heard of his poems." - -"My eyes are dim; is there nothing carved beneath his name?" - -One of the by-standers went up and knelt down close to the base. - -"There _was_ something here, but it is effaced by time--Wait!" And -tracing his finger slowly along, he read like a child: - - "He--asked--but--for--the--common--lot. - -"That is all," he cried, springing lightly up. "Oh, the dust on my -knees!" he added with vexation. - -"He may have sung very sweetly," pursued the old man. - -"He may, indeed!" they answered, carelessly. - -"But, sirs," continued he, with a sad smile, "perhaps you are the very -generation that he looked to for the fame which his own denied him; -perhaps he died believing that _you_ would fully appreciate his poems." - -"If so, it was a comfortable faith to die in," they said, laughing, in -return. "He will never know that we did not. A few great poets have -posthumous fame: we know _them_ well enough." And they passed on. - -"This," said the old man, as they paused elsewhere, "seems to be the -monument of a true soldier: know you aught of the victories he helped -to win?" - -"He may not have helped to win any victories. He may have been a -coward. How should _we_ know? Epitaphs often lie. The dust is peopled -with soldiers." And again they moved on. - -"Does any one read his sermons now, know you?" asked the old man as -they paused before a third monument. - -"Read his sermons!" they exclaimed, laughing more heartily. "Are -sermons so much read in the country you come from? See how long he has -been dead! What should the world be thinking of, to be reading his -musty sermons?" - -"At least does it give you no pleasure to read 'He was a good man?'" -inquired he, plaintively. - -"Aye; but if he was good, was not his goodness its own reward?" - -"He may have also wished long to be remembered for it." - -"Naturally; but we have not heard that his wish was gratified." - -"Is it not sad that the memory of so much beauty and truth and goodness -in our common human life should perish? But, sirs,"--and here the old -man spoke with sudden energy--"if there should be one who combined -perfect beauty and truth and goodness in one form and character, do you -not think such a rare being would escape the common fate and be long -and widely remembered?" - -"Doubtless." - -"Sirs," said he, quickly stepping in front of them with flashing eyes, -"is there in all this vast cemetery not a single monument that has kept -green the memory of the being in whose honor it was erected?" - -"Aye, aye," they answered, readily. "Have you not heard of it?" - -"I am but come from distant countries. Many years ago I was here, and -have journeyed hither with much desire to see the place once more. -Would you kindly show me this monument?" - -"Come!" they answered, eagerly, starting off. "It is the best known of -all the thousands in the cemetery. None who see it can ever forget it." - -"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man. "That is why I have--I foresaw--Is it -not a beautiful monument? Does it not lie--in what direction does it -lie?" - -A feverish eagerness seized him. He walked now beside, now before, his -companions. Once he wheeled on them. - -"Sirs, did you not say it perpetuates the memory of her--of the -one--who lies beneath it?" - -"Both are famous. The story of this woman and her monument will never -be forgotten. It is impossible to forget it." - -"Year after year--" muttered he, brushing his hand across his eyes. - -They soon came to a spot where the aged branches of memorial evergreens -interwove a sunless canopy, and spread far around a drapery of gloom -through which the wind passed with an unending sigh. Brushing aside the -lowest boughs, they stepped in awe-stricken silence within the dank, -chill cone of shade. Before them rose the shape of a gray monument, -at sight of which the aged traveller, who had fallen behind, dropped -his staff and held out his arms as though he would have embraced it. -But, controlling himself, he stepped forward, and said, in tones of -thrilling sweetness: - -"Sirs, you have not told me what story is connected with this monument -that it should be so famous. I conceive it must be some very touching -one of her whose name I read--some beautiful legend--" - -"Judge you of that!" interrupted one of the group, with a voice of -stern sadness and not without a certain look of mysterious horror. -"They say this monument was reared to a woman by the man who once -loved her. She was very beautiful, and so he made her a very beautiful -monument. But she had a heart so hideous in its falsity that he carved -in stone an enduring curse on her evil memory, and hung it in the heart -of the monument because it was too awful for any eye to see. But others -tell the story differently. They say the woman not only had a heart -false beyond description, but was in person the ugliest of her sex. -So that while the hidden curse is a lasting execration of her nature, -the beautiful exterior is a masterpiece of mockery which her nature, -and not her ugliness, maddened his sensitive genius to perpetrate. -There can be no doubt that this is the true story, as hundreds tell -it now, and that the woman will be remembered so long as the monument -stands--aye, and longer--not only for her loathsome--Help the old man!" - -He had fallen backward to the ground. They tried in vain to set him on -his feet. Stunned, speechless, he could only raise himself on one elbow -and turn his eyes towards the monument with a look of preternatural -horror, as though the lie had issued from its treacherous shape. At -length he looked up to them, as they bent kindly over him, and spoke -with much difficulty: - -"Sirs, I am an old man--a very old man, and very feeble. Forgive this -weakness. And I have come a long way, and must be faint. While you -were speaking my strength failed me. You were telling me a story--were -you not?--the story--the legend of a most beautiful woman, when all -at once my senses grew confused and I failed to hear you rightly. -Then my ears played me such a trick! Oh, sirs! if you but knew what a -damnable trick my ears played me, you would pity me greatly, very, very -greatly. This story touches me. It is much like one I seemed to have -heard for many years, and that I have been repeating over and over to -myself until I love it better than my life. If you would but go over it -again--carefully--very carefully." - -"My God, sirs!" he exclaimed, springing up with the energy of youth -when he had heard the recital a second time, "tell me _who_ started -this story! Tell me _how_ and _where_ it began!" - -"We cannot. We have heard many tell it, and not all alike." - -"And do they--do you--believe--it is--true?" he asked, helplessly. - -"We all _know_ it is true; do not _you_ believe it?" - -"I can never forget it!" he said, in tones quickly grown harsh and -husky. "Let us go away from so pitiful a place." - -It was near nightfall when he returned, unobserved, and sat down beside -the monument as one who had ended a pilgrimage. - -"They all tell me the same story," he murmured, wearily. "Ah, it was -the hidden epitaph that wrought the error! But for it, the sun of her -memory would have had its brief, befitting day and tender setting. -Presumptuous folly, to suppose they would understand my masterpiece, -when they so often misconceive the hidden heart of His beautiful works, -and convert the uncomprehended good and true into a curse of evil!" - -The night fell. He was awaiting it. Nearer and nearer rolled the dark, -suffering heart of a storm; nearer towards the calm, white breasts of -the dead. Over the billowy graves the many-footed winds suddenly fled -away in a wild, tumultuous cohort. Overhead, great black bulks swung -heavily at one another across the tremulous stars. - -Of all earthly spots, where does the awful discord of the elements seem -so futile and theatric as in a vast cemetery? Blow, then, winds, till -you uproot the trees! Pour, floods, pour, till the water trickles down -into the face of the pale sleeper below! Rumble and flash, ye clouds, -till the earth trembles and seems to be aflame! But not a lock of -hair, so carefully put back over the brows, is tossed or disordered. -The sleeper has not stretched forth an arm and drawn the shroud closer -about his face, to keep out the wet. Not an ear has heard the riving -thunderbolt, nor so much as an eyelid trembled on the still eyes for -all the lightning's fury. - -But had there been another human presence on the midnight scene, some -lightning flash would have revealed the old man, a grand, a terrible -figure, in sympathy with its wild, sad violence. He stood beside his -masterpiece, towering to his utmost height in a posture of all but -superhuman majesty and strength. His long white hair and longer white -beard streamed outward on the roaring winds. His arms, bared to the -shoulder, swung aloft a ponderous hammer. His face, ashen-gray as the -marble before him, was set with an expression of stern despair. Then, -as the thunder crashed, his hammer fell on the monument. Bolt after -bolt, blow after blow. Once more he might have been seen kneeling -beside the ruin, his eyes strained close to its heart, awaiting another -flash to tell him that the inviolable epitaph had shared in the -destruction. - -For days following many curious eyes came to peer into the opened heart -of the shattered structure, but in vain. - -Thus the masterpiece of Nicholas failed of its end, though it served -another. For no one could have heard the story of it, before it was -destroyed, without being made to realize how melancholy that a man -should rear a monument of execration to the false heart of the woman he -once had loved; and how terrible for mankind to celebrate the dead for -the evil that was in them instead of the good. - - - THE END. - - - * * * * * - - -Transcriber's Notes. - -Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, and -hyphenation has been standardised. Variations in spelling and -punctuation have been retained. - -The repetition of Story Titles on consecutive pages has been removed. - -At the beginning of section III of the first story, Friday, the 31st of -August, 1809 was in fact a Thursday. This has not been corrected. - -Italics are represented thus _italic_. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Flute and Violin and other Kentucky -Tales and Romances, by James Lane Allen - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLUTE, VIOLIN, OTHER KENTUCKY TALES *** - -***** This file should be named 50597-0.txt or 50597-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/9/50597/ - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Les Galloway and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Flute and Violin and other Kentucky Tales and Romances - -Author: James Lane Allen - -Release Date: December 2, 2015 [EBook #50597] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLUTE, VIOLIN, OTHER KENTUCKY TALES *** - - - - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Les Galloway and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" > -<img src="images/i_001.jpg" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">THE MAGIC FLUTE. -[<i>See p. 8.</i></div> -</div> -<div class="chapter"></div> - - -<h1 class="invisible">Flute and Violin</h1> -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/title.jpg" alt="Flute and Violin" /> -</div> - <p class="center"><big>AND OTHER KENTUCKY TALES<br /> - AND ROMANCES. BY JAMES<br /> - LANE ALLEN. ILLUSTRATED</big></p> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/title_page.jpg" alt="Head of Child" /> -</div> - - -<p class="center"><small>NEW YORK</small><br /> - HARPER & BROTHERS<br /> -<span class="xs">MDCCCXCVI.</span></p> - - - - -<p class="center space-above"><small>Copyright, 1891, by <span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span></small>.</p> - -<p class="center space-below"><span class="xs"><i>All rights reserved.</i></span></p> - - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/toher.jpg" alt="To her" /> -</div> - -<p class="center"><small>FROM WHOSE FRAIL BODY HE DREW LIFE IN THE<br /> - BEGINNING, FROM WHOSE STRONG SPIRIT HE<br /> - WILL DRAW LIFE UNTIL THE CLOSE, THESE<br /> - TALES, WITH ALL OTHERS HAPLY HERE-<br /> - AFTER TO BE WRITTEN, ARE DEDI-<br /> - CATED AS A PERISHABLE MONU-<br /> - MENT OF INEFFABLE<br /> - REMEMBRANCE</small></p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /><div class="chapter"></div> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE">PREFACE.</a></h2> - - -<p>The opening tale of this collection is taken -from <span class="smcap">Harper's Monthly</span>; the others, from the -<cite>Century Magazine</cite>. By leave of these periodicals -they are now published, and of the kindness thus -shown the author makes grateful acknowledgment.</p> - -<p>While the tales and sketches have been appearing, -the authorship of them has now and then -been charged to Mr. James Lane Allen, of Chicago, -Illinois—pardonably to his discomfiture.</p> - -<p>A sense of fitness forbade that the author should -send along with each, as it came out, a claim that -it was not another's; but he now gladly asks that -the responsibility of all his work be placed where -it solely belongs.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /><div class="chapter"></div> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</a></h2> - - - -<div class="figleft"> -<img src="images/i_008.jpg" alt="Woman standing" /> -</div> - - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#Flute_and_Violin">FLUTE AND VIOLIN</a></td><td align="right">3</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#KING_SOLOMON_OF_KENTUCKY">KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY</a></td><td align="right">65</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#TWO_GENTLEMEN_OF_KENTUCKY">TWO GENTLEMEN OF KENTUCKY</a></td><td align="right">97</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#THE_WHITE_COWL">THE WHITE COWL</a></td><td align="right">135</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#SISTER_DOLOROSA">SISTER DOLOROSA</a></td><td align="right">175</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#POSTHUMOUS_FAME_OR_A_LEGEND">POSTHUMOUS FAME</a></td><td align="right">281</td></tr> -</table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /><div class="chapter"></div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_010.jpg" alt="Man reading by candle light" /></div> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<h2 class="invisible"><a name="Flute_and_Violin" id="Flute_and_Violin">Flute and Violin.</a></h2> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_014.jpg" alt="Flute and Violin" /> -</div> - - - -<p>THE PARSON'S MAGIC FLUTE.</p> - -<p>On one of the dim walls of Christ Church, in Lexington, -Kentucky, there hangs, framed in thin black -wood, an old rectangular slab of marble. A legend -sets forth that the tablet is in memory of the Reverend -James Moore, first minister of Christ Church and President -of Transylvania University, who departed this life -in the year 1814, at the age of forty-nine. Just beneath -runs the record that he was learned, liberal, amiable, -and pious.</p> - -<p>Save this concise but not unsatisfactory summary, -little is now known touching the reverend gentleman. -A search through other sources of information does, -indeed, result in reclaiming certain facts. Thus, it appears -that he was a Virginian, and that he came to -Lexington in the year 1792—when Kentucky ceased to -be a county of Virginia, and became a State. At first -he was a candidate for the ministry of the Presbyterian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span> -Church; but the Transylvania Presbytery having reproved -him for the liberality of his sermons, James -kicked against such rigor in his brethren, and turned -for refuge to the bosom of the Episcopal Communion. -But this body did not offer much of a bosom to take -refuge in.</p> - -<p>Virginia Episcopalians there were in and around the -little wooden town; but so rampant was the spirit of -the French Revolution and the influence of French infidelity -that a celebrated local historian, who knew -thoroughly the society of the place, though writing of it -long afterwards, declared that about the last thing it -would have been thought possible to establish there -was an Episcopal church.</p> - -<p>"Not so," thought James. He beat the canebrakes and -scoured the buffalo trails for his Virginia Episcopalians, -huddled them into a dilapidated little frame house on -the site of the present building, and there fired so deadly -a volley of sermons at the sinners free of charge that -they all became living Christians. Indeed, he fired so -long and so well that, several years later—under favor -of Heaven and through the success of a lottery with a -one-thousand-dollar prize and nine hundred and seventy-four -blanks—there was built and furnished a small -brick church, over which he was regularly called to officiate -twice a month, at a salary of two hundred dollars -a year.</p> - -<p>Here authentic history ends, except for the additional -fact that in the university he sat in the chair of logic, -metaphysics, moral philosophy, and belles-lettres—a -large chair to sit in with ill-matched legs and most uncertain -bottom. Another authority is careful to state -that he had a singularly sweet breath and beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a><br /><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a><br /><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> -manners. Thus it has been well with the parson as -respects his posthumous fame; for how many of our -fellow-creatures are learned without being amiable, -amiable without being pious, and pious without having -beautiful manners!</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_016.jpg" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">"HE HAD BEAUTIFUL MANNERS."</div> -</div> - -<p>And yet the best that may be related of him is not -told in the books; and it is only when we have allowed -the dust to settle once more upon the histories, and -have peered deep into the mists of oral tradition, that -the parson is discovered standing there in spirit and -the flesh, but muffled and ghost-like, as a figure seen -through a dense fog.</p> - -<p>A tall, thinnish man, with silky pale-brown hair, worn -long and put back behind his ears, the high tops of -which bent forward a little under the weight, and thus -took on the most remarkable air of paying incessant -attention to everybody and everything; set far out in -front of these ears, as though it did not wish to be disturbed -by what was heard, a white, wind-splitting face, -calm, beardless, and seeming never to have been cold, -or to have dropped the kindly dew of perspiration; -under the serene peak of this forehead a pair of large -gray eyes, patient and dreamy, being habitually turned -inward upon a mind toiling with hard abstractions; -having within him a conscience burning always like a -planet; a bachelor—being a logician; therefore sweet-tempered, -never having sipped the sour cup of experience; -gazing covertly at womankind from behind the -delicate veil of unfamiliarity that lends enchantment; -being a bachelor and a bookworm, therefore already -old at forty, and a little run down in his toilets, a little -frayed out at the elbows and the knees, a little seamy -along the back, a little deficient at the heels; in pocket<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span> -poor always, and always the poorer because of a spendthrift -habit in the matter of secret chanties; kneeling -down by his small hard bed every morning and praying -that during the day his logical faculty might discharge -its function morally, and that his moral faculty might -discharge its function logically, and that over all the -operations of all his other faculties he might find heavenly -grace to exercise both a logical and a moral control; -at night kneeling down again to ask forgiveness -that, despite his prayer of the morning, one or more of -these same faculties—he knew and called them all -familiarly by name, being a metaphysician—had gone -wrong in a manner the most abnormal, shameless, and -unforeseen; thus, on the whole, a man shy and dry; -gentle, lovable; timid, resolute; forgetful, remorseful; -eccentric, impulsive, thinking too well of every human -creature but himself; an illogical logician, an erring -moralist, a wool-gathered philosopher, but, humanly -speaking, almost a perfect man.</p> - -<p>But the magic flute? Ah, yes! The magic flute!</p> - -<p>Well, the parson had a flute—a little one—and the -older he grew, and the more patient and dreamy his -gray eyes, always the more and more devotedly he blew -this little friend. How the fond soul must have loved -it! They say that during his last days as he lay propped -high on white pillows, once, in a moment of wandering -consciousness, he stretched forth his hand and in fancy -lifting it from the white counterpane, carried it gently to -his lips. Then, as his long, delicate fingers traced out -the spirit ditties of no tone and his mouth pursed itself -in the fashion of one who is softly blowing, his whole -face was overspread with a halo of ecstatic peace.</p> - -<p>And yet, for all the love he bore it, the parson was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span> -never known to blow his flute between the hours of sunrise -and sunset—that is, never but once. Alas, that -memorable day! But when the night fell and he came -home—home to the two-story log-house of the widow -Spurlock; when the widow had given him his supper -of coffee sweetened with brown sugar, hot johnny-cake, -with perhaps a cold joint of venison and cabbage pickle; -when he had taken from the supper table, by her permission, -the solitary tallow dip in its little brass candlestick, -and climbed the rude steep stairs to his room above; -when he had pulled the leathern string that lifted the -latch, entered, shut the door behind him on the world, -placed the candle on a little deal table covered with -text-books and sermons, and seated himself beside it in -a rush-bottomed chair—then—He began to play? -No; then there was dead silence.</p> - -<p>For about half an hour this silence continued. The -widow Spurlock used to say that the parson was giving -his supper time to settle; but, alas! it must have settled -almost immediately, so heavy was the johnny-cake. -Howbeit, at the close of such an interval, any one standing -at the foot of the steps below, or listening beneath -the window on the street outside, would have heard the -silence broken.</p> - -<p>At first the parson blew low, peculiar notes, such as a -kind and faithful shepherd might blow at nightfall as -an invitation for his scattered wandering sheep to gather -home about him. Perhaps it was a way he had of calling -in the disordered flock of his faculties—some weary, -some wounded, some torn by thorns, some with their -fleeces, which had been washed white in the morning -prayer, now bearing many a stain. But when they had -all answered, as it were, to this musical roll-call, and had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span> -taken their due places within the fold of his brain, obedient, -attentive, however weary, however suffering, then -the flute was laid aside, and once more there fell upon -the room intense stillness; the poor student had entered -upon his long nightly labors.</p> - -<p>Hours passed. Not a sound was to be heard but the -rustle of book leaves, now rapidly, now slowly turned, or -the stewing of sap in the end of a log on the hearth, or -the faint drumming of fingers on the table—those long -fingers, the tips of which seemed not so full of particles -of blood as of notes of music, circulating impatiently -back and forth from his heart. At length, as midnight -drew near, and the candle began to sputter in the socket, -the parson closed the last book with a decisive snap, -drew a deep breath, buried his face in his hands for a -moment, as if asking a silent blessing on the day's work, -and then, reaching for his flute, squared himself before -the dying embers, and began in truth to play. This -was the one brief, pure pleasure he allowed himself.</p> - -<p>It was not a musical roll-call that he now blew, but a -dismissal for the night. One might say that he was -playing the cradle song of his mind. And what a cradle -song it was! A succession of undertone, silver-clear, -simple melodies; apparently one for each faculty, -as though he was having something kind to say to them -all; thanking some for the manner in which they had -served him during the day, the music here being brave -and spirited; sympathizing with others that had been -unjustly or too rudely put upon, the music here being -plaintive and soothing; and finally granting his pardon -to any such as had not used him quite fairly, the music -here having a searching, troubled quality, though ending -in the faintest breath of love and peace.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span></p> - -<p>It was not known whence the parson had these melodies; -but come whence they might, they were airs of -heavenly sweetness, and as he played them, one by one -his faculties seemed to fall asleep like quieted children. -His long, out-stretched legs relaxed their tension, his -feet fell over sidewise on the hearth-stone, his eyes closed, -his head sank towards his shoulder. Still, he managed -to hold on to his flute, faintly puffing a few notes at -greater intervals, until at last, by the dropping of the -flute from his hands or the sudden rolling of his big -head backward, he would awaken with a violent jerk. -The next minute he would be asleep in bed, with one -ear out on guard, listening for the first sound that should -awake him in the morning.</p> - -<p>Such having been the parson's fixed habit as long as -any one had known him, it is hard to believe that five -years before his death he abruptly ceased to play his -flute and never touched it again. But from this point -the narrative becomes so mysterious that it were better -to have the testimony of witnesses.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">II.</p> - -<p>Every bachelor in this world is secretly watched by -some woman. The parson was watched by several, but -most closely by two. One of these was the widow -Spurlock, a personage of savory countenance and wholesome -figure—who was accused by the widow Babcock, -living at the other end of the town, of having robust intentions -towards her lodger. This piece of slander had -no connection with the fact that she had used the point -of her carving knife to enlarge in the door of his room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span> -the hole through which the latch-string -passed, in order that she might -increase the ventilation. The aperture -for ventilation thus formed was -exactly the size of one of her innocent -black eyes.</p> - -<div class="figleft"> -<img src="images/i_023.jpg" alt="Head of woman." /> -</div> - -<p>The other woman was an infirm, -ill-favored beldam by the name of -Arsena Furnace, who lived alone just -across the street, and whose bedroom -was on the second floor, on a level -with the parson's. Being on terms -of great intimacy with the widow Spurlock, she persuaded -the latter that the parson's room was poorly lighted -for one who used his eyes so much, and that the window-curtain -of red calico should be taken down. On -the same principle of requiring less sun because having -less use for her eyes, she hung before her own window -a faded curtain, transparent only from within. Thus -these two devoted, conscientious souls conspired to -provide the parson unawares with a sufficiency of air -and light.</p> - -<p>On Friday night, then, of August 31, 1809—for this -was the exact date—the parson played his flute as -usual, because the two women were sitting together below -and distinctly heard him. It was unusual for them -to be up at such an hour, but on that day the drawing -of the lottery had come off, and they had held tickets, -and were discussing their disappointment in having -drawn blanks. Towards midnight the exquisite notes -of the flute floated down to them from the parson's -room.</p> - -<p>"I suppose he'll keep on playing those same old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span> -tunes as long as there is a thimbleful of wind in him: -<em>I</em> wish he'd learn some new ones," said the hag, taking -her cold pipe from her cold lips, and turning her eyes -towards her companion with a look of some impatience.</p> - -<p>"He might be better employed at such an hour than -playing on the flute," replied the widow, sighing audibly -and smoothing a crease out of her apron.</p> - -<p>As by-and-by the notes of the flute became intermittent, -showing that the parson was beginning to fall -asleep, Arsena said good-night, and crossing the street -to her house, mounted to the front window. Yes, there -he was; the long legs stretched out towards the hearth, -head sunk sidewise on his shoulder, flute still at his -lips, the sputtering candle throwing its shadowy light -over his white weary face, now wearing a smile. Without -doubt he played his flute that night as usual; and -Arsena, tired of the sight, turned away and went to bed.</p> - -<p>A few minutes later the widow Spurlock placed an -eye at the aperture of ventilation, wishing to see whether -the logs on the fire were in danger of rolling out and -setting fire to the parson's bed; but suddenly remembering -that it was August, and that there was no fire, -she glanced around to see whether his candle needed -snuffing. Happening, however, to discover the parson -in the act of shedding his coat, she withdrew her eye, -and hastened precipitately down-stairs, but sighing so -loud that he surely must have heard her had not his -faculty of external perception been already fast asleep.</p> - -<p>At about three o'clock on the afternoon of the next -day, as Arsena was sweeping the floor of her kitchen, -there reached her ears a sound which caused her to listen -for a moment, broom in air. It was the parson -playing—playing at three o'clock in the afternoon!—<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span> -and playing—she strained her ears again and again to -make sure—playing a Virginia reel. Still, not believing -her ears, she hastened aloft to the front window and -looked across the street. At the same instant the widow -Spurlock, in a state of equal excitement, hurried to -the front door of her house, and threw a quick glance -up at Arsena's window. The hag thrust a skinny hand -through a slit in the curtain and beckoned energetically, -and a moment later the two women stood with their -heads close together watching the strange performance.</p> - -<p>Some mysterious change had come over the parson -and over the spirit of his musical faculty. He sat upright -in his chair, looking ten years younger, his whole -figure animated, his foot beating time so audibly that it -could be heard across the street, a vivid bloom on his -lifeless cheeks, his head rocking to and fro like a ship -in a storm, and his usually dreamy, patient gray eyes now -rolled up towards the ceiling in sentimental perturbation. -And how he played that Virginia reel! Not once, but -over and over, and faster and faster, until the notes -seemed to get into the particles of his blood and set -them to dancing. And when he had finished that, he -snatched his handkerchief from his pocket, dashed it -across his lips, blew his nose with a resounding snort, -and settling his figure into a more determined attitude, -began another. And the way he went at that! And -when he finished that, the way he went at another! Two -negro boys, passing along the street with a spinning-wheel, -put it down and paused to listen; then, catching -the infection of the music, they began to dance. And -then the widow Spurlock, catching the infection also, -began to dance, and bouncing into the middle of the -room, there actually did dance until her tucking-comb<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span> -rolled out, and—ahem!—one of her stockings slipped -down. Then the parson struck up the "Fisher's Hornpipe," -and the widow, still in sympathy, against her will, -sang the words:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">"Did you ever see the Devil</div> - <div class="verse">With his wood and iron shovel,</div> - <div class="verse">A-hoeing up coal</div> - <div class="verse">For to burn your soul?"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>"He's bewitched," said old Arsena, trembling and -sick with terror.</p> - -<p>"By <em>whom?</em>" cried the widow Spurlock, indignantly, -laying a heavy hand on Arsena's shoulder.</p> - -<p>"By his flute," replied Arsena, more fearfully.</p> - -<p>At length the parson, as if in for it, and possessed to -go all lengths, jumped from his chair, laid the flute on -the table, and disappeared in a hidden corner of the -room. Here he kept closely locked a large brass-nailed -hair trunk, over which hung a looking-glass. For ten -minutes the two women waited for him to reappear, and -then he did reappear, not in the same clothes, but wearing -the ball dress of a Virginia gentleman of an older -time, perhaps his grandfather's—knee-breeches, silk -stockings, silver buckles, low shoes, laces at his wrists, -laces at his throat and down his bosom. And to make -the dress complete he had actually tied a blue ribbon -around his long silky hair. Stepping airily and gallantly -to the table, he seized the flute, and with a little -wave of it through the air he began to play, and to tread -the mazes of the minuet, about the room, this way and -that, winding and bowing, turning and gliding, but all -the time fingering and blowing for dear life.</p> - -<p>"Who would have thought it was in him?" said Arsena, -her fear changed to admiration.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span></p> - -<p>"<em>I</em> would!" said the widow.</p> - -<p>While he was in the midst of this performance the -two women had their attention withdrawn from him in -a rather singular way. A poor lad hobbling on a crutch -made his appearance in the street below, and rapidly -but timidly swung himself along to the widow Spurlock's -door. There he paused a moment, as if overcome by -mortification, but finally knocked. His summons not -being answered, he presently knocked more loudly.</p> - -<p>"Hist!" said the widow to him, in a half-tone, opening -a narrow slit in the curtain. "What do you want, -David?"</p> - -<p>The boy wheeled and looked up, his face at once -crimson with shame. "I want to see the parson," he -said, in a voice scarcely audible.</p> - -<p>"The parson's not at home," replied the widow, sharply. -"He's out; studying up a sermon." And she closed -the curtain.</p> - -<p>An expression of despair came into the boy's face, -and for a moment in physical weakness he sat down on -the door-step. He heard the notes of the flute in the -room above; he knew that the parson <em>was</em> at home; -but presently he got up and moved away.</p> - -<p>The women did not glance after his retreating figure, -being reabsorbed by the movements of the parson. -Whence had he that air of grace and high-born courtesy? -that vivacity of youth?</p> - -<p>"He must be in love," said Arsena. "He must be -in love with the widow Babcock."</p> - -<p>"He's no more in love with her than <em>I</em> am," replied -her companion, with a toss of her head.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_028.jpg" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">"HE BEGAN TO PLAY."</div> -</div> - -<p>A few moments later the parson, whose motions had -been gradually growing less animated, ceased dancing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a><br /><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a><br /><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> -and disappeared once more in the corner of the room, -soon emerging therefrom dressed in his own clothes, -but still wearing on his hair the blue ribbon, which he -had forgotten to untie. Seating himself in his chair by -the table, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and with -his eyes on the floor seemed to pass into a trance of -rather demure and dissatisfying reflections.</p> - -<p>When he came down to supper that night he still -wore his hair in the forgotten queue, and it may have -been this that gave him such an air of lamb-like meekness. -The widow durst ask him no questions, for -there was that in him which held familiarity at a distance; -but although he ate with unusual heartiness, -perhaps on account of such unusual exercise, he did -not lift his eyes from his plate, and thanked her for all -her civilities with a gratitude that was singularly plaintive.</p> - -<p>That night he did not play his flute. The next day -being Sunday, and the new church not yet being opened, -he kept his room. Early in the afternoon a messenger -handed to the widow a note for him, which, being sealed, -she promptly delivered. On reading it he uttered a -quick, smothered cry of grief and alarm, seized his hat, -and hurried from the house. The afternoon passed and -he did not return. Darkness fell, supper hour came -and went, the widow put a candle in his room, and then -went across to commune with Arsena on these unusual -proceedings.</p> - -<p>Not long afterwards they saw him enter his room carrying -under his arm a violin case. This he deposited -on the table, and sitting down beside it, lifted out a boy's -violin.</p> - -<p>"A <em>boy's</em> violin!" muttered Arsena.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span></p> - -<p>"A <em>boy's</em> violin!" muttered the widow; and the two -women looked significantly into each other's eyes.</p> - -<p>"Humph!"</p> - -<p>"Humph!"</p> - -<p>By-and-by the parson replaced the violin in the box -and sat motionless beside it, one of his arms hanging -listlessly at his side, the other lying on the table. The -candle shone full in his face, and a storm of emotions -passed over it. At length they saw him take up the -violin again, go to the opposite wall of the room, mount -a chair, knot the loose strings together, and hang the -violin on a nail above his meagre shelf of books. Upon -it he hung the bow. Then they saw him drive a nail in -the wall close to the other, take his flute from the table, -tie around it a piece of blue ribbon he had picked up -off the floor, and hang it also on the wall. After this he -went back to the table, threw himself in his chair, buried -his head in his arms, and remained motionless until the -candle burned out.</p> - -<p>"What's the meaning of all this?" said one of the -two women, as they separated below.</p> - -<p>"I'll find out if it's the last act of my life," said the -other.</p> - -<p>But find out she never did. For question the parson -directly she dared not; and neither to her nor any one -else did he ever vouchsafe an explanation. Whenever, -in the thousand ways a woman can, she would hint her -desire to fathom the mystery, he would baffle her by assuming -an air of complete unconsciousness, or repel her -by a look of warning so cold that she hurriedly changed -the subject.</p> - -<div class="figright"> -<img src="images/i_032.jpg" alt="Man standing on chair" /> -</div> - -<p>As time passed on it became evident that some grave -occurrence indeed had befallen him. Thenceforth, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span> -during the five remaining -years of his -life, he was never quite -the same. For months -his faculties, long used -to being soothed at -midnight by the music -of the flute, were like -children put to bed -hungry and refused to -be quieted, so that -sleep came to him -only after hours of -waiting and tossing, -and his health suffered -in consequence. -And then in all things -he lived like one who -was watching himself -closely as a person not -to be trusted.</p> - -<p>Certainly he was a -sadder man. Often -the two women would -see him lift his eyes -from his books at -night, and turn them -long and wistfully -towards the wall of the room where, gathering cobwebs -and dust, hung the flute and the violin.</p> - -<p>If any one should feel interested in having this whole -mystery cleared up, he may read the following tale of a -boy's violin.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span></p> - - - - -<h3><a name="III" id="III">III.</a></h3> - -<p class="center">A BOY'S VIOLIN.</p> - - -<p>On Friday, the 31st of August, 1809—that being the -day of the drawing of the lottery for finishing and furnishing -the new Episcopal church—at about ten o'clock -in the morning, there might have been seen hobbling -slowly along the streets, in the direction of the public -square, a little lad by the name of David. He was idle -and lonesome, not wholly through his fault. If there -had been white bootblacks in those days, he might now -have been busy around a tavern door polishing the noble -toes of some old Revolutionary soldier; or if there -had been newsboys, he might have been selling the -<cite>Gazette</cite> or the <cite>Reporter</cite>—the two papers which the town -afforded at that time. But there were enough negro -slaves to polish all the boots in the town for nothing -when the boots got polished at all, as was often not the -case; and if people wanted to buy a newspaper, they -went to the office of the editor and publisher, laid the -silver down on the counter, and received a copy from -the hands of that great man himself.</p> - -<p>The lad was not even out on a joyous summer vacation, -for as yet there was not a public school in the -town, and his mother was too poor to send him to a -private one, teaching him as best she could at home. -This home was one of the rudest of the log-cabins of -the town, built by his father, who had been killed a few -years before in a tavern brawl. His mother earned a -scant livelihood, sometimes by taking in coarse sewing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span> -for the hands of the hemp factory, sometimes by her -loom, on which with rare skill she wove the finest fabrics -of the time.</p> - -<p>As he hobbled on towards the public square, he came -to an elm-tree which cast a thick cooling shade on the -sidewalk, and sitting down, he laid his rickety crutch beside -him, and drew out of the pocket of his home-made -tow breeches a tangled mass of articles—pieces of violin -strings, all of which had plainly seen service under -the bow at many a dance; three old screws, belonging -in their times to different violin heads; two lumps of -resin, one a rather large lump of dark color and common -quality, the other a small lump of transparent amber -wrapped sacredly to itself in a little brown paper -bag labelled "Cucumber Seed;" a pair of epaulets, the -brass fringes of which were tarnished and torn; and -further miscellany.</p> - -<p>These treasures he laid out one by one, first brushing -the dirt off the sidewalk with the palm of one dirty -hand, and then putting his mouth close down to blow -away any loose particles that might remain to soil them; -and when they were all displayed, he propped himself -on one elbow, and stretched his figure caressingly beside -them.</p> - -<p>A pretty picture the lad made as he lay there dreaming -over his earthly possessions—a pretty picture in the -shade of the great elm, that sultry morning of August, -three-quarters of a century ago! The presence of the -crutch showed there was something sad about it; and -so there was; for if you had glanced at the little bare -brown foot, set toes upward on the curb-stone, you -would have discovered that the fellow to it was missing—cut -off about two inches above the ankle. And if this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -had caused you to throw a look of sympathy at his face, -something yet sadder must long have held your attention. -Set jauntily on the back of his head was a weather-beaten -dark blue cloth cap, the patent-leather frontlet -of which was gone; and beneath the ragged edge of -this there fell down over his forehead and temples and -ears a tangled mass of soft yellow hair, slightly curling. -His eyes were large, and of a blue to match the depths -of the calm sky above the tree-tops; the long lashes -which curtained them were brown; his lips were red, -his nose delicate and fine, and his cheeks tanned to the -color of ripe peaches. It was a singularly winning face, -intelligent, frank, not describable. On it now rested a -smile, half joyous, half sad, as though his mind was full -of bright hopes, the realization of which was far away. -From his neck fell the wide collar of a white cotton -shirt, clean but frayed at the elbows, and open and buttonless -down his bosom. Over this he wore an old-fashioned -satin waistcoat of a man, also frayed and buttonless. -His dress was completed by a pair of baggy -tow breeches, held up by a single tow suspender fastened -to big brown horn buttons.</p> - -<p>After a while he sat up, letting his foot hang down -over the curb-stone, and uncoiling the longest of the -treble strings, he put one end between his shining teeth, -and stretched it tight by holding the other end off between -his thumb and forefinger. Then, waving in the -air in his other hand an imaginary bow, with his head -resting a little on one side, his eyelids drooping, his -mind in a state of dreamy delight, the little musician began -to play—began to play the violin that he had long -been working for, and hoped would some day become -his own.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span></p> - -<p>It was nothing to him now that his whole performance -consisted of one broken string. It was nothing -to him, as his body rocked gently to and fro, that he -could not hear the music which ravished his soul. So -real was that music to him that at intervals, with a little -frown of vexation as though things were not going -perfectly, he would stop, take up the small lump of costly -resin, and pretend to rub it vigorously on the hair of -the fancied bow. Then he would awake that delicious -music again, playing more ecstatically, more passionately -than before.</p> - -<p>At that moment there appeared in the street, about a -hundred yards off, the Reverend James Moore, who was -also moving in the direction of the public square, his -face more cool and white than usual, although the morning -was never more sultry.</p> - -<p>He had arisen with an all but overwhelming sense of -the importance of that day. Fifteen years are an immense -period in a brief human life, especially fifteen -years of spiritual toil, hardships, and discouragements, -rebuffs, weaknesses, and burdens, and for fifteen such -years he had spent himself for his Episcopalians, some -of whom read too freely Tom Paine and Rousseau, -some loved too well the taverns of the town, some -wrangled too fiercely over their land suits. What wonder -if this day, which, despite all drawbacks, was to witness -the raising of money for equipping the first brick -church, was a proud and happy one to his meek but -victorious spirit! What wonder if, as he had gotten -out of bed that morning, he had prayed with unusual -fervor that for this day in especial his faculties, from -the least to the greatest, and from the weakest to -the strongest, might discharge their functions perfectly,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span> -and that the drawing of the lottery might come off decently -and in good order; and that—yes, this too was -in the parson's prayer—that if it were the will of Heaven -and just to the other holders of tickets, the right -one of the vestry-men might draw the thousand-dollar -prize; for he felt very sure that otherwise there would -be little peace in the church for many a day to come, -and that for him personally the path-way of life would -be more slippery and thorny.</p> - -<p>So that now as he hurried down the street he was -happy; but he was anxious; and being excited for both -reasons, the way was already prepared for him to lose -that many-handed self-control which he had prayed so -hard to retain.</p> - -<p>He passed within the shade of the great elm, and -then suddenly came to a full stop. A few yards in -front of him the boy was performing his imaginary violin -solo on a broken string, and the sight went straight -to the heart of that musical faculty whose shy divinity -was the flute. For a few moments he stood looking on -in silence, with all the sympathy of a musician for a -comrade in poverty and distress.</p> - -<p>Other ties also bound him to the boy. If the divine -voice had said to the Reverend James Moore: "Among -all the people of this town, it will be allowed you to -save but one soul. Choose you which that shall be," he -would have replied: "Lord, this is a hard saying, for I -wish to save them all. But if I must choose, let it be -the soul of this lad."</p> - -<p>The boy's father and he had been boyhood friends in -Virginia, room-mates and classmates in college, and together -they had come to Kentucky. Summoned to the -tavern on the night of the fatal brawl, he had reached<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span> -the scene only in time to lay his old playfellow's head -on his bosom, and hear his last words:</p> - -<p>"Be kind to my boy!... Be a better father to him -than I have been!... Watch over him and help him!... -Guard him from temptation!... -Be kind to him -in his little weaknesses!... -Win his heart, and -you can do everything -with him!... Promise me -this!"</p> - -<p>"So help me Heaven, -all that I can do for him -I will do!"</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_038.jpg" alt="Man kneeling at bedside" /> -</div> - - -<p>From that moment he had taken upon his conscience, -already toiling beneath its load of cares, the burden of -this sacred responsibility. During the three years of -his guardianship that had elapsed, this burden had not -grown lighter; for apparently he had failed to acquire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span> -any influence over the lad, or to establish the least friendship -with him. It was a difficult nature that had been -bequeathed him to master—sensitive, emotional, delicate, -wayward, gay, rebellious of restraint, loving freedom -like the poet and the artist. The Reverend James -Moore, sitting in the chair of logic, moral philosophy, -metaphysics, and belles-lettres; lecturing daily to young -men on all the powers and operations of the human -mind, taking it to pieces and putting it together and -understanding it so perfectly, knowing by name every -possible form of fallacy and root of evil—the Reverend -James Moore, when he came to study the living mind -of this boy, confessed to himself that he was as great a -dunce as the greatest in his classes. But he loved the -boy, nevertheless, with the lonely resources of his nature, -and he never lost hope that he would turn to him -in the end.</p> - -<p>How long he might have stood now looking on and -absorbed with the scene, it is impossible to say; for the -lad, happening to look up and see him, instantly, with a -sidelong scoop of his hand, the treasures on the sidewalk -disappeared in a cavernous pocket, and the next -moment he had seized his crutch, and was busy fumbling -at a loosened nail.</p> - -<p>"Why, good-morning, David," cried the parson, cheerily, -but with some embarrassment, stepping briskly forward, -and looking down upon the little figure now hanging -its head with guilt. "You've got the coolest seat -in town," he continued, "and I wish I had time to sit -down and enjoy it with you; but the drawing comes -off at the lottery this morning, and I must hurry down -to see who gets the capital prize." A shade of anxiety -settled on his face as he said this. "But here's the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span> -morning paper," he added, drawing out of his coat-pocket -the coveted sheet of the weekly <cite>Reporter</cite>, which he -was in the habit of sending to the lad's mother, knowing -that her silver was picked up with the point of her needle. -"Take it to your mother, and tell her she must be -sure to go to see the wax figures." What a persuasive -smile overspread his face as he said this! "And <em>you</em> -must be certain to go too! They'll be fine. Good-bye."</p> - -<p>He let one hand rest gently on the lad's blue cloth -cap, and looked down into the upturned face with an -expression that could scarcely have been more tender.</p> - -<p>"He looks feverish," he said to himself as he walked -away, and then his thoughts turned to the lottery.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," replied the boy, in a low voice, lifting his -dark blue eyes slowly to the patient gray ones. "I'm -glad he's gone!" he added to himself; but he nevertheless -gazed after the disappearing figure with shy -fondness. Then he also began to think of the lottery.</p> - -<p>If Mr. Leuba should draw the prize, he might give -Tom Leuba a new violin; and if he gave Tom a new -violin, then he had promised to give him Tom's old one. -It had been nearly a year since Mr. Leuba had said to -him, laughing, in his dry, hard little fashion:</p> - -<p>"Now, David, you must be smart and run my errands -while Tom's at school of mornings; and some of these -days, when I get rich enough, I'll give Tom a new violin -and I'll give you his old one."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Leuba!" David had cried, his voice quivering -with excitement, and his whole countenance beaming -with delight, "I'll wait on you forever, if you'll give -me Tom's old violin."</p> - -<p>Yes, nearly a whole year had passed since then—a -lifetime of waiting and disappointment. Many an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span> -errand he had run for Mr. Leuba. Many a bit of a thing -Mr. Leuba had given him: pieces of violin strings, odd -worn-out screws, bits of resin, old epaulets, and a few -fourpences; but the day had never come when he had -given him Tom's violin.</p> - -<p>Now if Mr. Leuba would only draw the prize! As -he lay on his back on the sidewalk, with the footless -stump of a leg crossed over the other, he held the newspaper -between his eyes and the green limbs of the elm -overhead, and eagerly read for the last time the advertisement -of the lottery. Then, as he finished reading it, -his eyes were suddenly riveted upon a remarkable notice -printed just beneath.</p> - -<p>This notice stated that Messrs. Ollendorf and Mason -respectfully acquainted the ladies and gentlemen of Lexington -that they had opened at the Kentucky Hotel a -new and elegant collection of wax figures, judged by -connoisseurs to be equal, if not superior, to any exhibited -in America. Among which are the following characters: -An excellent representation of General George -Washington giving orders to the Marquis de la Fayette, -his aid. In another scene the General is represented -as a fallen victim to death, and the tears of America, -represented by a beautiful female weeping over him—which -makes it a most interesting scene. His Excellency -Thomas Jefferson. General Buonaparte in marshal -action. General Hamilton and Colonel Burr. In -this interesting scene the Colonel is represented in -the attitude of firing, while the General stands at his -distance waiting the result of the first fire: both accurate -likenesses. The death of General Braddock, who -fell in Braddock's Defeat. An Indian is represented -as scalping the General, while one of his men, in an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span> -attempt to rescue him out of the hands of the Indians, -was overtaken by another Indian, who is ready to split -him with his tomahawk. Mrs. Jerome Buonaparte, formerly -Miss Patterson. The Sleeping Beauty. Eliza -Wharton, or the American coquette, with her favorite -gallant and her intimate friend Miss Julia Granby. The -Museum will be open from ten o'clock in the morning -'til nine in the evening. Admittance fifty cents for -grown persons; children half price. Profiles taken -with accuracy at the Museum.</p> - -<p>The greatest attraction of the whole Museum will be -a large magnificent painting of Christ in the Garden of -Gethsemane.</p> - -<p>All this for a quarter! The newspaper suddenly -dropped from his hands into the dirt of the street—he -had no quarter! For a moment he sat as immovable -as if the thought had turned him into stone; but the -next moment he had sprung from the sidewalk and was -speeding home to his mother. Never before had the -stub of the little crutch been plied so nimbly among the -stones of the rough sidewalk. Never before had he -made a prettier picture, with the blue cap pushed far -back from his forehead, his yellow hair blowing about -his face, the old black satin waistcoat flopping like a -pair of disjointed wings against his sides, the open newspaper -streaming backward from his hand, and his face -alive with hope.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">IV.</p> - -<p>Two hours later he issued from the house, and set his -face in the direction of the museum—a face full of excitement -still, but full also of pain, because he had no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -money, and saw no chance of getting any. It was a -dull time of the year for his mother's work. Only the -day before she had been paid a month's earnings, and -already the money had been laid out for the frugal expenses -of the household. It would be a long time before -any more would come in, and in the mean time the -exhibition of wax figures would have been moved to -some other town. When he had told her that the parson -had said that she must go to see them, she had -smiled fondly at him from beside her loom, and quietly -shaken her head with inward resignation; but when he -told her the parson had said <em>he</em> must be sure to go too, -the smile had faded into an expression of fixed sadness.</p> - -<p>On his way down town he passed the little music -store of Mr. Leuba, which was one block this side of the -Kentucky Hotel. He was all eagerness to reach the -museum, but his ear caught the sounds of the violin, -and he forgot everything else in his desire to go in and -speak with Tom, for Tom was his lord and master.</p> - -<p>"Tom, are you going to see the wax figures?" he cried, -with trembling haste, curling himself on top of the keg -of nails in his accustomed corner of the little lumber-room. -But Tom paid no attention to the question or -the questioner, being absorbed in executing an intricate -passage of "O Thou Fount of every Blessing!" For -the moment David forgot his question himself, absorbed -likewise in witnessing this envied performance.</p> - -<p>When Tom had finished, he laid the violin across his -knees and wiped his brow with his shirt-sleeves. "Don't -you know that you oughtn't to talk to me when I'm performing?" -he said, loftily, still not deigning to look at -his offending auditor. "Don't you know that it disturbs -a fiddler to be spoken to when he's performing?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_044.jpg" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">"EXECUTING AN INTRICATE PASSAGE."</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a><br /><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> - -<p>Tom was an overgrown, rawboned lad of some fifteen -years, with stubby red hair, no eyebrows, large watery -blue eyes, and a long neck with a big Adam's apple.</p> - -<p>"I didn't mean to interrupt you, Tom," said David, -in a tone of the deepest penitence. "You know that -I'd rather hear you play than anything."</p> - -<p>"Father got the thousand-dollar prize," said Tom -coldly, accepting the apology for the sake of the compliment.</p> - -<p>"Oh, <em>Tom</em>! I'm so glad! <em>Hurrah!</em>" shouted David, -waving his old blue cap around his head, his face transfigured -with joy, his heart leaping with a sudden hope, -and now at last he would get the violin.</p> - -<p>"What are <em>you</em> glad for?" said Tom, with dreadful -severity. "He's <em>my</em> father; he's not <em>your</em> father;" and -for the first time he bestowed a glance upon the little -figure curled up on the nail keg, and bending eagerly -towards him with clasped hands.</p> - -<p>"I <em>know</em> he's <em>your</em> father, Tom, but—"</p> - -<p>"Well, then, what are you <em>glad</em> for?" insisted Tom. -"You're not going to get any of the money."</p> - -<p>"I know <em>that</em>, Tom," said David, coloring deeply, -"but—"</p> - -<p>"Well, then, what <em>are</em> you glad for?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think I'm so <em>very</em> glad, Tom," replied David, -sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>But Tom had taken up the bow and was rubbing the -resin on it. He used a great deal of resin in his playing, -and would often proudly call David's attention to -how much of it would settle as a white dust under the -bridge. David was too well used to Tom's rebuffs to -mind them long, and as he now looked on at this resining -process, the sunlight came back into his face.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span></p> - -<p>"Please let me try it once, Tom—just <em>once</em>." Experience -had long ago taught him that this was asking too -much of Tom; but with the new hope that the violin -might now soon become his, his desire to handle it was -ungovernable.</p> - -<p>"Now look here, David," replied Tom, with a great -show of kindness in his manner, "I'd let you try it once, -but you'd spoil the tone. It's taken me a long time to -get a good tone into this fiddle, and you'd take it all -out the very first whack. As soon as you learn to get -a good tone out of it, I'll let you play on it. Don't you -<em>know</em> you'd spoil it, if I was to let you try it <em>now</em>?" he -added, suddenly wheeling with tremendous energy upon -his timid petitioner.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I would, Tom," replied David, with a -voice full of anguish.</p> - -<p>"But just listen to me," said Tom; and taking up -the violin, he rendered the opening passage of "O Thou -Fount of every Blessing!" Scarcely had he finished -when a customer entered the shop, and he hurried to -the front, leaving the violin and the bow on the chair -that he had quitted.</p> - -<p>No sooner was he gone than the little figure slipped -noiselessly from its perch, and hobbling quickly to the -chair on which the violin lay, stood beside it in silent -love. Touch it he durst not; but his sensitive, delicate -hands passed tremblingly over it, and his eyes dwelt -upon it with unspeakable longing. Then, with a sigh, -he turned away, and hastened to the front of the shop. -Tom had already dismissed his customer, and was -standing in the door, looking down the street in the -direction of the Kentucky Hotel, where a small crowd -had collected around the entrance of the museum.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span></p> - -<p>As David stepped out upon the sidewalk, it was the -sight of this crowd that recalled him to a new sorrow.</p> - -<p>"Tom," he cried, with longing, "are you going to see -the wax figures?"</p> - -<p>"Of course I'm going," he replied, carelessly. "We're -all going."</p> - -<p>"When, Tom?" asked David, with breathless interest.</p> - -<p>"Whenever we want to, of course," replied Tom. -"I'm not going just once; I'm going as often as I like."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you go now, Tom? It's so hot—they -might melt."</p> - -<p>This startling view of the case was not without its -effect on Tom, although a suggestion from such a source -was not to be respected. He merely threw his eyes -up towards the heavens and said, sturdily: "You ninny! -they'll not melt. Don't you see it's going to rain and -turn cooler?"</p> - -<p>"I'll bet you <em>I'd</em> not wait for it to turn cooler. I'll -bet you <em>I'd</em> be in there before you could say Jack Roberson, -if <em>I</em> had a quarter," said David, with resolution.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">V.</p> - -<p>All that long afternoon he hung in feverish excitement -around the door of the museum. There was -scarce a travelling show in Kentucky in those days. It -was not strange if to this idler of the streets, in whom -imagination was all-powerful, and in whose heart quivered -ungovernable yearnings for the heroic, the poetic, -and the beautiful, this day of the first exhibition of wax -figures was the most memorable of his life.</p> - -<p>It was so easy for everybody to go in who wished; so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span> -impossible for him. Groups of gay ladies slipped their -silver half-dollars through the variegated meshes of their -silken purses. The men came in jolly twos and threes, -and would sometimes draw out great rolls of bills. Now -a kind-faced farmer passed in, dropping into the hands -of the door-keeper a half-dollar for himself, and three -quarters for three sleek negroes that followed at his -heels; and now a manufacturer with a couple of apprentices—lads -of David's age and friends of his. -Poor little fellow! at many a shop of the town he had -begged to be taken as an apprentice himself, but no one -would have him because he was lame.</p> - -<p>And now the people were beginning to pour out, and -he hovered about them, hoping in this way to get some -idea of what was going on inside. Once, with the courage -of despair, he seized the arm of a lad as he came -out.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Bobby, <em>tell</em> me all about it!"</p> - -<p>But Bobby shook him off, and skipped away to tell -somebody else who didn't want to hear.</p> - -<p>After a while two sweet-faced ladies dressed in -mourning appeared. As they passed down the street -he was standing on the sidewalk, and there must have -been something in his face to attract the attention of -one of them, for she paused, and in the gentlest manner -said:</p> - -<p>"My little man, how did you like the wax figures and -the picture?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, madam," he replied, his eyes filling, "I have -not seen them!"</p> - -<p>"But you will see them, I hope," she said, moving -away, but bestowing on him the lingering smile of bereft -motherhood.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span></p> - -<p>The twilight fell, and still he lingered, until, with a -sudden remorseful thought of his mother, he turned -away and passed up the dark street. His tongue was -parched, there was a lump in his throat, and a numb -pain about his heart. Far up the street he paused and -looked back. A lantern had been swung out over the -entrance of the museum, and the people were still passing -in.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VI.</p> - -<p>A happy man was the Reverend James Moore the -next morning. The lottery had been a complete success, -and he would henceforth have a comfortable -church, in which the better to save the souls of his fellow-creatures. -The leading vestry-man had drawn the -capital prize, and while the other members who had -drawn blanks were not exactly satisfied, on the whole -the result seemed as good as providential. As he -walked down town at an early hour, he was conscious -of suffering from a dangerous elation of spirit; and -more than once his silent prayer had been: "Lord, let -me not be puffed up this day! Let me not be blinded -with happiness! Keep the eyes of my soul clear, that -I overlook no duty! What have I, unworthy servant, -done that I should be so fortunate?"</p> - -<p>Now and then, as he passed along, a church member -would wring his hand and offer congratulations. After -about fifteen years of a more or less stranded condition -a magnificent incoming tide of prosperity now seemed -to lift him off his very feet.</p> - -<p>From wandering rather blindly about the streets for -a while, he started for the new church, remembering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -that he had an engagement with a committee of ladies, -who had taken in charge the furnishing of it. But when -he reached there, no one had arrived but the widow -Babcock. She was very beautiful; and looking at womankind -from behind his veil of unfamiliarity, the parson, -despite his logic, had always felt a desire to lift that -veil when standing in her presence. The intoxication -of his mood was not now lessened by coming upon her -so unexpectedly alone.</p> - -<p>"My dear Mrs. Babcock," he said, offering her his -hand in his beautiful manner, "it seems peculiarly fitting -that you should be the first of the ladies to reach -the spot; for it would have pained me to think you less -zealous than the others. The vestry needs not only -your taste in furniture, but the influence of your presence."</p> - -<p>The widow dropped her eyes, the gallantry of the -speech being so unusual. "I came early on purpose," -she replied, in a voice singularly low and tremulous. "I -wanted to see you alone. Oh, Mr. Moore, the ladies of -this town owe you such a debt of gratitude! You have -been such a comfort to those who are sad, such a support -to those who needed strengthening! And who has -needed these things as much as I?"</p> - -<p>As she spoke, the parson, with a slight look of apprehension, -had put his back against the wall, as was apt -to be his way when talking with ladies.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_052.jpg" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">"THE WIDOW DROPPED HER EYES."</div> -</div> - -<p>"Who has needed these things as I have?" continued -the widow, taking a step forward, and with increasing -agitation. "Oh, Mr. Moore, I should be an ungrateful -woman if I did not mingle my congratulations with -the others. And I want to do this now with my whole -soul. May God bless you, and crown the labors of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a><br /><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a><br /><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> -your life with every desire of your heart!" And saying -this, the widow laid the soft tips of one hand on -one of the parson's shoulders, and raising herself slightly -on tiptoe, kissed him.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mrs. Babcock!" cried the dismayed logician, -"what have you done?" But the next moment, the logician -giving place to the man, he grasped one of her -hands, and murmuring, "May God bless <em>you</em> for <em>that</em>!" -seized his hat, and hurried out into the street.</p> - -<p>The most careless observer might have been interested -in watching his movements as he walked -away.</p> - -<p>He carried his hat in his hand, forgetting to put it -on. Several persons spoke to him on the street, but he -did not hear them. He strode a block or two in one -direction, and then a block or two in another.</p> - -<p>"If she does it again," he muttered to himself—"if -she does it again, I'll marry her!... Old?... I could -run a mile in a minute!"</p> - -<p>As he was passing the music-store, the dealer called -out to him:</p> - -<p>"Come in, parson. I've got a present for you."</p> - -<p>"A—present—for—<em>me</em>?" repeated the parson, blank -with amazement. In his life the little music-dealer had -never made him a present.</p> - -<p>"Yes, a present," repeated the fortunate vestry-man, -whose dry heart, like a small seed-pod, the wind of good-fortune -had opened, so that a few rattling germs of generosity -dropped out. Opening a drawer behind his -counter, he now took out a roll of music. "Here's some -new music for your flute," he said. "Accept it with my -compliments."</p> - -<p>New music for his flute! The parson turned it over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span> -dreamily, and it seemed that the last element of disorder -had come to derange his faculties.</p> - -<p>"And Mrs. Leuba sends her compliments, and would -like to have you to dinner," added the shopkeeper, -looking across the counter with some amusement at the -expression of the parson, who now appeared as much -shocked as though his whole nervous system had been -suddenly put in connection with a galvanic battery of -politeness.</p> - -<p>It was a very gay dinner, having been gotten up to -celebrate the drawing of the prize. The entire company -were to go in the afternoon to see the waxworks, and -some of the ladies wore especial toilets, with a view to -having their profiles taken.</p> - -<p>"Have you been to see the waxworks, Mr. Moore?" -inquired a spinster roguishly, wiping a drop of soup -from her underlip.</p> - -<p>The unusual dinner, the merriment, the sense of many -ladies present, mellowed the parson like old wine.</p> - -<p>"No, madam," he replied, giddily; "but I shall go -this very afternoon. I find it impossible any longer to -deny myself the pleasure of beholding the great American -Coquette and the Sleeping Beauty. I must take -my black sheep," he continued, with expanding warmth. -"I must drive my entire flock of soiled lambs into the -favored and refining presence of Miss Julia Granby."</p> - -<p>Keeping to this resolution, as soon as dinner was -over he made his excuses to the company, and set off -to collect a certain class of boys which he had scraped -together by hook and crook from the by-ways of the -town, and about an hour later he might have been seen -driving them before him towards the entrance of the -museum. There he shouldered his way cheerfully up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -to the door, and shoved each of the lads good-naturedly -in, finally passing in himself, with a general glance at -the by-standers, as if to say, "Was there ever another -man as happy in this world?"</p> - -<p>But he soon came out, leaving his wild lambs to -browse at will in those fresh pastures, and took his way -up street homeward. He seemed to be under some necessity -of shaking them off in order to enjoy the solitude -of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>"If she does it again!... If she does it again!... -<i>Whee! whee! whee!—whee! whee! whee!</i>" and he began -to whistle for his flute with a nameless longing.</p> - -<p>It was soon after this that the two women heard him -playing the reel, and watched him perform certain later -incredible evolutions. For whether one event, or all -events combined, had betrayed him into this outbreak, -henceforth he was quite beside himself.</p> - -<p>Is it possible that on this day the Reverend James -Moore had driven the ancient, rusty, creaky chariot of -his faculties too near the sun of love?</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VII.</p> - -<p>A sad day it had been meantime for the poor lad.</p> - -<p>He had gotten up in the morning listless and dull -and sick at the sight of his breakfast. But he had -feigned to be quite well that he might have permission -to set off down-town. There was no chance of his being -able to get into the museum, but he was drawn -irresistibly thither for the mere pleasure of standing -around and watching the people, and hoping that something—<em>something</em> -would turn up. He was still there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span> -when his dinner-hour came, but he never thought of -this. Once, when the door-keeper was at leisure, he had -hobbled up and said to him, with a desperate effort to -smile, "Sir, if I were rich, I'd live in your museum for -about five years."</p> - -<p>But the door-keeper had pushed him rudely back, -telling him to be off and not obstruct the sidewalk.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_057.jpg" alt="Boys walking through village" /> -</div> - -<p>He was still standing near the entrance -when the parson came down the street driving -his flock of boys. Ah, -if he had only joined that -class, as time -after time he -had been asked to do! -All at once his face lit -up with a fortunate inspiration, -and pushing -his way to the very -side of the door-keeper, he placed himself there that -the parson might see him and take him with the oth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span>ers; -for had he not said that <em>he</em> must be sure to go? -But when the parson came up, this purpose had failed -him, and he had apparently shrunk to half his size behind -the bulk of the door-keeper, fearing most of all -things that the parson would discover him and know -why he was there.</p> - -<p>He was still lingering outside when the parson reappeared -and started homeward; and he sat down and -watched him out of sight. He seemed cruelly hurt, and -his eyes filled with tears.</p> - -<p>"<em>I'd</em> have taken <em>him</em> in the very first one," he said, -choking down a sob; and then, as if he felt this to -be unjust, he murmured over and over: "Maybe he -forgot me; maybe he didn't mean it; maybe he forgot -me."</p> - -<p>Perhaps an hour later, slowly and with many pauses, -he drew near the door of the parson's home. There he -lifted his hand three times before he could knock.</p> - -<p>"The parson's not at home," the widow Spurlock had -called sharply down to him.</p> - -<p>With this the last hope had died out of his bosom; -for having dwelt long on the parson's kindness to him—upon -all the parson's tireless efforts to befriend him—he -had summoned the courage at last to go and ask -him to lend him a quarter.</p> - -<p>With little thought of whither he went, he now turned -back down-town, but some time later he was still standing -at the entrance of the museum.</p> - -<p>He looked up the street again. All the Leubas were -coming, Tom walking, with a very haughty air, a few -feet ahead.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you go in?" he said, loudly, walking up -to David and jingling the silver in his pockets. "What<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span> -are you standing out here for? If you <em>want</em> to go in, -why don't you <em>go</em> in?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tom!" cried David, in a whisper of eager confidence, -his utterance choked with a sob, "I haven't got -any money."</p> - -<p>"I'd hate to be as poor as <em>you</em> are," said Tom, contemptuously. -"I'm going this evening, and to-night, -and as often as I want," and he turned gayly away to -join the others.</p> - -<p>He was left alone again, and his cup of bitterness, -which had been filling drop by drop, now ran over.</p> - -<p>Several groups came up just at that moment. There -was a pressure and a jostling of the throng. As Mr. -Leuba, who had made his way up to the door-keeper, -drew a handful of silver from his pocket, some one accidentally -struck his elbow, and several pieces fell to -the pavement. Then there was laughter and a scrambling -as these were picked up and returned. But out -through the legs of the crowd one bright silver quarter -rolled unseen down the sloping sidewalk towards the -spot where David was standing.</p> - -<p>It was all done in an instant. He saw it coming; -the little crutch was set forward a pace, the little body -was swung silently forward, and as the quarter fell over -on its shining side, the dirty sole of a brown foot covered -it.</p> - -<p>The next minute, with a sense of triumph and bounding -joy, the poverty-tortured, friendless little thief had -crossed the threshold of the museum, and stood face to -face with the Redeemer of the world; for the picture -was so hung as to catch the eye upon entering, and it -arrested his quick, roving glance and held it in awe-stricken -fascination. Unconscious of his own move<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a><br /><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a><br /><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>ments, -he drew nearer and nearer, until he stood a few -feet in front of the arc of spectators, with his breathing -all but suspended, and one hand crushing the old blue -cloth cap against his naked bosom.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_060.jpg" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">BEFORE THE PICTURE.</div> -</div> - -<p>It was a strange meeting. The large rude painting -possessed no claim to art. But to him it was an overwhelming -revelation, for he had never seen any pictures, -and he was gifted with an untutored love of painting. -Over him, therefore, it exercised an inthralling influence, -and it was as though he stood in the visible presence -of One whom he knew that the parson preached -of and his mother worshipped.</p> - -<p>Forgetful of his surroundings, long he stood and -gazed. Whether it may have been the thought of the -stolen quarter that brought him to himself, at length he -drew a deep breath, and looked quickly around with a -frightened air. From across the room he saw Mr. Leuba -watching him gravely, as it seemed to his guilty conscience, -with fearful sternness. A burning flush dyed -his face, and he shrank back, concealing himself among -the crowd. The next moment, without ever having seen -or so much as thought of anything else in the museum, -he slipped out into the street.</p> - -<p>There the eyes of everybody seemed turned upon -him. Where should he go? Not home. Not to Mr. -Leuba's music-store. No; he could never look into -Mr. Leuba's face again. And Tom? He could hear -Tom crying out, wherever he should meet him, "You -stole a quarter from father."</p> - -<p>In utter terror and shame, he hurried away out to the -southern end of the town, where there was an abandoned -rope-walk.</p> - -<p>It was a neglected place, damp and unhealthy. In<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -the farthest corner of it he lay down and hid himself in -a clump of iron-weeds. Slowly the moments dragged -themselves along. Of what was he thinking? Of his -mother? Of the parson? Of the violin that would -now never be his? Of that wonderful sorrowful face -which he had seen in the painting? The few noises of -the little town grew very faint, the droning of the bumblebee -on the purple tufts of the weed overhead very -loud, and louder still the beating of his heart against -the green grass as he lay on his side, with his head on -his blue cap and his cheek in his hand. And then he -fell asleep.</p> - -<p>When he awoke he started up bewildered. The sun -had set, and the heavy dews of twilight were falling. A -chill ran through him; and then the recollection of -what had happened came over him with a feeling of -desolation. When it was quite dark he left his hiding-place -and started back up-town.</p> - -<p>He could reach home in several ways, but a certain -fear drew him into the street which led past the music-store. -If he could only see Mr. Leuba, he felt sure -that he could tell by the expression of his face whether -he had missed the quarter. At some distance off he -saw by the light of the windows Mr. Leuba standing in -front of his shop talking to a group of men. Noiselessly -he drew near, noiselessly he was passing without -the courage to look up.</p> - -<p>"Stop, David. Come in here a moment. I want to -talk to you."</p> - -<p>As Mr. Leuba spoke, he apologized to the gentlemen -for leaving, and turned back into the rear of the shop. -Faint, and trembling so that he could scarcely stand, -his face of a deadly whiteness, the boy followed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span></p> - -<p>"David," said Mr. Leuba—in his whole life he had -never spoken so kindly; perhaps his heart had been -touched by some belated feeling, as he had studied the -boy's face before the picture in the museum, and certainly -it had been singularly opened by his good-fortune—"David," -he said, "I promised when I got rich -enough I'd give Tom a new violin, and give you his -old one. Well, I gave him a new one to-day; so here's -yours," and going to a corner of the room, he took -up the box, brought it back, and would have laid it on -the boy's arm, only there was no arm extended to receive -it.</p> - -<p>"Take it! It's yours!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Leuba!"</p> - -<p>It was all he could say. He had expected to be -charged with stealing the quarter, and instead there -was held out to him the one treasure in the world—the -violin of which he had dreamed so long, for which -he had served so faithfully.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Leuba!"</p> - -<p>There was a pitiful note in the cry, but the dealer -was not the man to hear it, or to notice the look of angelic -contrition on the upturned face. He merely took -the lad's arm, bent it around the violin, patted the ragged -cap, and said, a little impatiently:</p> - -<p>"Come, come! they're waiting for me at the door. -To-morrow you can come down and run some more -errands for me," and he led the way to the front of the -shop and resumed his conversation.</p> - -<p>Slowly along the dark street the lad toiled homeward -with his treasure. At any other time he would have -sat down on the first curb-stone, opened the box, and -in ecstatic joy have lifted out that peerless instrument;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> -or he would have sped home with it to his mother, -flying along on his one crutch as if on the winds of -heaven. But now he could not look at it, and something -clogged his gait so that he loitered and faltered -and sometimes stood still irresolute.</p> - -<p>But at last he approached the log-cabin which was -his home. A rude fence enclosed the yard, and inside -this fence there grew a hedge of lilacs. When -he was within a few feet of the gate he paused, and -did what he had never done before—he put his face -close to the panels of the fence, and with a look of -guilt and sorrow peeped through the lilacs at the face -of his mother, who was sitting in the light of the open -door-way.</p> - -<p>She was thinking of him. He knew that by the -patient sweetness of her smile. All the heart went out -of him at the sight, and hurrying forward, he put the -violin down at her feet, and threw his arms around her -neck, and buried his head on her bosom.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VIII.</p> - -<p>After he had made his confession, a restless and -feverish night he had of it, often springing up from his -troubled dreams and calling to her in the darkness. -But the next morning he insisted upon getting up for a -while.</p> - -<p>Towards the afternoon he grew worse again, and -took to his bed, the yellow head tossing to and fro, -the eyes bright and restless, and his face burning. At -length he looked up and said to his mother, in the -manner of one who forms a difficult resolution: "Send<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -for the parson. Tell him I am sick and want to see -him."</p> - -<p>It was this summons that the widow Spurlock had -delivered on the Sunday afternoon when the parson -had quitted the house with such a cry of distress. He -had not so much as thought of the boy since the Friday -morning previous.</p> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_066.jpg" alt="Woman embracing child" /> -</div> - -<p>"How is it possible," he exclaimed, as he hurried<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span> -on—"how is it <em>possible</em> that I <em>could</em> have forgotten -<em>him?</em>"</p> - -<p>The boy's mother met him outside the house and -drew him into an adjoining room, silently, for her tears -were falling. He sank into the first chair.</p> - -<p>"Is he so ill?" he asked, under his trembling breath.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid he's going to be very ill. And to see -him in so much trouble—"</p> - -<p>"What is the matter? In God's name, has anything -happened to him?"</p> - -<p>She turned her face away to hide her grief. "He -said he would tell you himself. Oh, if I've been too -hard with him! But I did it for the best. I didn't -know until the doctor came that he was going to be ill, -or I would have waited. Do anything you can to quiet -him—anything he should ask you to do," she implored, -and pointed towards the door of the room in which the -boy lay.</p> - -<p>Conscience-stricken and speechless, the parson opened -it and entered.</p> - -<p>The small white bed stood against the wall beneath -an open window, and one bright-headed sunflower, -growing against the house outside, leaned in and fixed -its kind face anxiously upon the sufferer's.</p> - -<p>The figure of the boy was stretched along the edge -of the bed, his cheek on one hand and his eyes turned -steadfastly towards the middle of the room, where, on a -table, the violin lay exposed to view.</p> - -<p>He looked quickly towards the door as the parson -entered, and an expression of relief passed over his -face.</p> - -<p>"Why, David," said the parson, chidingly, and crossing -to the bed with a bright smile. "Sick? This will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> -never do;" and he sat down, imprisoning one of the -burning palms in his own.</p> - -<p>The boy said nothing, but looked at him searchingly, -as though needing to lay aside masks and disguises -and penetrate at once to the bottom truth. Then he -asked, "Are you mad at me?"</p> - -<p>"My poor boy!" said the parson, his lips trembling -a little as he tightened his pressure—"my poor boy! -why should <em>I</em> be mad at <em>you</em>?"</p> - -<p>"You never could do anything with me."</p> - -<p>"Never mind that now," said the parson, soothingly, -but adding, with bitterness, "it was all my fault—all -my fault."</p> - -<p>"It wasn't your fault," said the boy. "It was mine."</p> - -<p>A change had come over him in his treatment of the -parson. Shyness had disappeared, as is apt to be the -case with the sick.</p> - -<p>"I want to ask you something," he added, confidentially.</p> - -<p>"Anything—anything! Ask me anything!"</p> - -<p>"Do you remember the wax figures?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, I remember them very well," said the parson, -quickly, uneasily.</p> - -<p>"I wanted to see 'em, and I didn't have any money, -and I stole a quarter from Mr. Leuba."</p> - -<p>Despite himself a cry escaped the parson's lips, and -dropping the boy's hand, he started from his chair and -walked rapidly to and fro across the room, with the -fangs of remorse fixed deep in his conscience.</p> - -<p>"Why didn't you come to me?" he asked at length, -in a tone of helpless entreaty. "Why didn't you come -to me? Oh, if you had only come to me!"</p> - -<p>"I did come to you," replied the boy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span></p> - -<p>"When?" asked the parson, coming back to the bedside.</p> - -<p>"About three o'clock yesterday."</p> - -<p>About three o'clock yesterday! And what was he -doing at that time? He bent his head over to his very -knees, hiding his face in his hands.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_069.jpg" alt="Man sitting at bedside of sleeping child" /> -</div> - -<p>"But why didn't you let me know it? Why didn't -you come in?"</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Spurlock told me you were at work on a sermon."</p> - -<p>"God forgive me!" murmured the parson, with a -groan.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span></p> - -<p>"I thought you'd lend me a quarter," said the boy, -simply. "You took the other boys, and you told me <em>I</em> -must be certain to go. I thought you'd lend me a -quarter till I could pay you back."</p> - -<p>"Oh, David!" cried the parson, getting down on his -knees by the bedside, and putting his arms around the -boy's neck, "I would have lent you—I would have given -you—anything I have in this poor world!"</p> - -<p>The boy threw his arms around the parson's neck -and clasped him close. "Forgive me!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, boy! boy! can you forgive <em>me</em>?" Sobs stifled -the parson's utterance, and he went to a window on the -opposite side of the room.</p> - -<p>When he turned his face inward again, he saw the -boy's gaze fixed once more intently upon the violin.</p> - -<p>"There's something I want you to do for me," he -said. "Mr. Leuba gave me a violin last night, and -mamma says I ought to sell it and pay him back. -Mamma says it will be a good lesson for me." The -words seemed wrung from his heart's core. "I thought -I'd ask <em>you</em> to sell it for me. The doctor says I may -be sick a long time, and it worries me." He began to -grow excited, and tossed from side to side.</p> - -<p>"Don't worry," said the parson, "I'll sell it for you."</p> - -<p>The boy looked at the violin again. To him it was -priceless, and his eyes grew heavy with love for it. -Then he said, cautiously: "I thought <em>you'd</em> get a good -price for it. I don't think I could take less than a hundred -dollars. It's worth more than that, but if I have -to sell it, I don't think I <em>could</em> take less than a hundred -dollars," and he fixed his burning eyes on the -parson's.</p> - -<p>"Don't worry! I'll sell it for you. Oh yes, you can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> -easily get a hundred dollars for it. I'll bring you a -hundred dollars for it by to-morrow morning."</p> - -<p>As the parson was on the point of leaving the room, -with the violin under his arm, he paused with his hand -on the latch, an anxious look gathering in his face. -Then he came back, laid the violin on the table, and -going to the bedside, took the boy's hands in both of -his own.</p> - -<p>"David," said the moral philosopher, wrestling in his -consciousness with the problem of evil—"David, was it -the face of the Saviour that you wished to see? Was -it <em>this</em> that tempted you to—" and he bent over the -boy breathless.</p> - -<p>"I wanted to see the Sleeping Beauty."</p> - -<p>The parson turned away with a sigh of acute disappointment.</p> - -<p>It was on this night that he was seen to enter his -room with a boy's violin under his arm, and later to -hang it, and hang his beloved flute, tied with a blue -ribbon, above the meagre top shelf of books—Fuller's -<cite>Gospel</cite>, Petrarch, Volney's <cite>Ruins</cite>, Zollicoffer's <cite>Sermons</cite>, -and the <cite>Horrors of San Domingo</cite>. After that he remained -motionless at his table, with his head bowed on -his folded arms, until the candle went out, leaving him -in inner and outer darkness. Moralist, logician, philosopher, -he studied the transgression, laying it at last -solely to his own charge.</p> - -<p>At daybreak he stood outside the house with the -physician who had been with the boy during the night. -"Will he die?" he asked.</p> - -<p>The physician tapped his forehead with his forefinger. -"The chances are against him. The case has -peculiar complications. All night it has been nothing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span> -but the wax figures and the stolen quarter and the violin. -His mother has tried to persuade him not to sell -it. But he won't bear the sight of it now, although he -is wild at the thought of selling it."</p> - -<p>"David," said the parson, kneeling by the bedside, -and speaking in a tone pitiful enough to have recalled -a soul from the other world—"David, here's the money -for the violin; here's the hundred dollars," and he -pressed it into one of the boy's palms. The hand -closed upon it, but there was no recognition. It was -half a year's salary.</p> - -<p>The first sermon that the parson preached in the -new church was on the Sunday after the boy's death. -It was expected that he would rise to the occasion and -surpass himself, which, indeed, he did, drawing tears -even from the eyes of those who knew not that they -could shed them, and all through making the greatest -effort to keep back his own. The subject of the sermon -was "The Temptations of the Poor." The sermon -of the following fortnight was on the "Besetting -Sin," the drift of it going to show that the besetting sin -may be the one pure and exquisite pleasure of life, involving -only the exercise of the loftiest faculty. And -this was followed by a third sermon on "The Kiss that -Betrayeth," in which the parson ransacked history for -illustrations to show that every species of man—ancient, -mediæval, and modern—had been betrayed in this way. -During the delivery of this sermon the parson looked -so cold and even severe that it was not understood why -the emotions of any one should have been touched, or -why the widow Babcock should have lowered her veil -and wept bitterly.</p> - -<p>And thus being ever the more loved and revered as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span> -he grew ever the more lovable and saint-like, he passed -onward to the close. But not until the end came did -he once stretch forth a hand to touch his flute; and -it was only in imagination then that he grasped it, to -sound the final roll-call of his wandering faculties, and -to blow a last good-night to his tired spirit.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_073.jpg" alt="Man sitting at table, head on arms" /> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span></p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a><br /><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 class="invisible"><a name="KING_SOLOMON_OF_KENTUCKY" id="KING_SOLOMON_OF_KENTUCKY">King Solomon of Kentucky.</a></h2> -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/kingsol.jpg" alt="King Solomon of Kentucky." /> -</div> - -<p class="subtitle">I.</p> - -<p>It had been a year of strange disturbances—a desolating -drought, a hurly-burly of destructive tempests, killing -frosts in the tender valleys, mortal fevers in the tender -homes. Now came tidings that all day the wail of -myriads of locusts was heard in the green woods of Virginia -and Tennessee; now that Lake Erie was blocked -with ice on the very verge of summer, so that in the -Niagara new rocks and islands showed their startling -faces. In the Blue-grass Region of Kentucky countless -caterpillars were crawling over the ripening apple orchards -and leaving the trees as stark as when tossed in -the thin air of bitter February days.</p> - -<p>Then, flying low and heavily through drought and -tempest and frost and plague, like the royal presence -of disaster, that had been but heralded by its mournful -train, came nearer and nearer the dark angel of the -pestilence.</p> - -<p>M. Xaupi had given a great ball only the night before -in the dancing-rooms over the confectionery of M. Giron—that -M. Giron who made the tall pyramids of meringues -and macaroons for wedding-suppers, and spun -around them a cloud of candied webbing as white and -misty as the veil of the bride. It was the opening cotillon -party of the summer. The men came in blue<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span> -cloth coats with brass buttons, buff waistcoats, and -laced and ruffled shirts; the ladies came in white satins -with ethereal silk overdresses, embroidered in the -figure of a gold beetle or an oak leaf of green. The -walls of the ball-room were painted to represent landscapes -of blooming orange-trees, set here and there in -clustering tubs; and the chandeliers and sconces were -lighted with innumerable wax-candles, yellow and green -and rose.</p> - -<p>Only the day before, also, Clatterbuck had opened -for the summer a new villa-house, six miles out in the -country, with a dancing-pavilion in a grove of maples -and oaks, a pleasure-boat on a sheet of crystal water, -and a cellar stocked with old sherry, Sauterne, and -Château Margaux wines, with anisette, "Perfect Love," -and Guigholet cordials.</p> - -<p>Down on Water Street, near where now stands a railway -station, Hugh Lonney, urging that the fear of cholera -was not the only incentive to cleanliness, had just -fitted up a sumptuous bath-house, where cold and shower -baths might be had at twelve and a half cents each, or -hot ones at three for half a dollar.</p> - -<p>Yes, the summer of 1833 was at hand, and there must -be new pleasures, new luxuries; for Lexington was the -Athens of the West and the Kentucky Birmingham.</p> - -<p>Old Peter Leuba felt the truth of this, as he stepped -smiling out of his little music-store on Main Street, and, -rubbing his hands briskly together, surveyed once more -his newly-arranged windows, in which were displayed -gold and silver epaulets, bottles of Jamaica rum, garden -seeds from Philadelphia, drums and guitars and harps. -Dewees & Grant felt it in their drug-store on Cheapside, -as they sent off a large order for calomel and su<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span>perior -Maccoboy, rappee, and Lancaster snuff. Bluff -little Daukins Tegway felt it, as he hurried on the -morning of that day to the office of the <cite>Observer and -Reporter</cite>, and advertised that he would willingly exchange -his beautiful assortment of painted muslins and -Dunstable bonnets for flax and feathers. On the threshold -he met a florid farmer, who had just offered ten dollars' -reward for a likely runaway boy with a long fresh -scar across his face; and to-morrow the paper would -contain one more of those tragical little cuts, representing -an African slave scampering away at the top of his -speed, with a stick swung across his shoulder and a bundle -dangling down his back. In front of Postlethwaite's -Tavern, where now stands the PhÅ“nix Hotel, a company -of idlers, leaning back in Windsor chairs and -planting their feet against the opposite wall on a level -with their heads, smoked and chewed and yawned, as -they discussed the administration of Jackson and arranged -for the coming of Daniel Webster in June, when -they would give him a great barbecue, and roast in his -honor a buffalo bull taken from the herd emparked near -Ashland. They hailed a passing merchant, who, however, -would hear nothing of the bull, but fell to praising -his Rocky Mountain beaver and Goose Creek salt; -and another, who turned a deaf ear to Daniel Webster, -and invited them to drop in and examine his choice -essences of peppermint, bergamot, and lavender.</p> - -<p>But of all the scenes that might have been observed -in Lexington on that day, the most remarkable occurred -in front of the old court-house at the hour of high noon. -On the mellow stroke of the clock in the steeple above -the sheriff stepped briskly forth, closely followed by a -man of powerful frame, whom he commanded to station<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span> -himself on the pavement several feet off. A crowd of -men and boys had already collected in anticipation, and -others came quickly up as the clear voice of the sheriff -was heard across the open public square and old market-place.</p> - -<p>He stood on the topmost of the court-house steps, -and for a moment looked down on the crowd with the -usual air of official severity.</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen," he then cried out sharply, "by an ordah -of the cou't I now offah this man at public sale to -the highes' biddah. He is able-bodied but lazy, without -visible property or means of suppoht, an' of dissolute -habits. He is therefoh adjudged guilty of high -misdemeanahs, an' is to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. -How much, then, am I offahed foh the vagrant? -How much am I offahed foh ole King Sol'mon?"</p> - -<p>Nothing was offered for old King Solomon. The -spectators formed themselves into a ring around the -big vagrant and settled down to enjoy the performance.</p> - -<p>"Staht 'im, somebody."</p> - -<p>Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the -circle.</p> - -<p>The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed -severity, but catching the eye of an acquaintance -on the outskirts, he exchanged a lightning wink of secret -appreciation. Then he lifted off his tight beaver -hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of perspiration -which rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed -a degree to his theme.</p> - -<p>"Come, gentlemen," he said, more suasively, "it's too -hot to stan' heah all day. Make me an offah! You all -know ole King Sol'mon; don't wait to be interduced. -How much, then, to staht 'im? Say fifty dollahs!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span> -Twenty-five! Fifteen! Ten! Why, gentlemen! Not <em>ten</em> -dollahs? Remembah this is the Blue-grass Region of -Kentucky—the land of Boone an' Kenton, the home of -Henry Clay!" he added, in an oratorical <em>crescendo</em>.</p> - -<p>"He ain't wuth his victuals," said an oily little tavern-keeper, -folding his arms restfully over his own stomach -and cocking up one piggish eye into his neighbor's -face. "He ain't wuth his 'taters."</p> - -<p>"Buy 'im foh 'is rags!" cried a young law-student, -with a Blackstone under his arm, to the town rag-picker -opposite, who was unconsciously ogling the vagrant's -apparel.</p> - -<p>"I <em>might</em> buy 'im foh 'is <em>scalp</em>," drawled a farmer, who -had taken part in all kinds of scalp contests and was now -known to be busily engaged in collecting crow scalps -for a match soon to come off between two rival counties.</p> - -<p>"I think I'll buy 'im foh a hat-sign," said a manufacturer -of ten-dollar Castor and Rhorum hats. This -sally drew merry attention to the vagrant's hat, and the -merchant felt rewarded.</p> - -<p>"You'd bettah say the town ought to buy 'im an' put -'im up on top of the cou't-house as a scarecrow foh the -cholera," said some one else.</p> - -<p>"What news of the cholera did the stage-coach bring -this mohning?" quickly inquired his neighbor in his -ear; and the two immediately fell into low, grave talk, -forgot the auction, and turned away.</p> - -<p>"Stop, gentlemen, stop!" cried the sheriff, who had -watched the rising tide of good-humor, and now saw his -chance to float in on it with spreading sails. "You're -runnin' the price in the wrong direction—down, not -up. The law requires that he be sole to the highes' -biddah, not the lowes'. As loyal citizens, uphole the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span> -constitution of the commonwealth of Kentucky an' -make me an offah; the man is really a great bargain. -In the first place, he would cos' his ownah little or -nothin', because, as you see, he keeps himself in cigahs -an' clo'es; then, his main article of diet is whiskey—a -supply of which he always has on han'. He don't even -need a bed, foh you know he sleeps jus' as well on any -doohstep; noh a chair, foh he prefers to sit roun' on the -curb-stones. Remembah, too, gentlemen, that ole King -Sol'mon is a Virginian—from the same neighbohhood as -Mr. Clay. Remembah that he is well educated, that he is -an <em>awful</em> Whig, an' that he has smoked mo' of the stumps -of Mr. Clay's cigahs than any other man in existence. -If you don't b'lieve <em>me</em>, gentlemen, yondah goes Mr. -Clay now; call <em>him</em> ovah an' ask 'im foh yo'se'ves."</p> - -<p>He paused, and pointed with his right forefinger towards -Main street, along which the spectators, with a -sudden craning of necks, beheld the familiar figure of -the passing statesman.</p> - -<p>"But you don't need <em>any</em>body to tell you these fac's, -gentlemen," he continued. "You merely need to be reminded -that ole King Sol'mon is no ohdinary man. Mo'ovah -he has a kine heaht, he nevah spoke a rough wohd -to anybody in this worl', an' he is as proud as Tecumseh -of his good name an' charactah. An', gentlemen," he -added, bridling with an air of mock gallantry and laying -a hand on his heart, "if anythin' fu'thah is required in -the way of a puffect encomium, we all know that there -isn't anothah man among us who cuts as wide a swath -among the ladies. The'foh, if you have any appreciation -of virtue, any magnanimity of heaht; if you set a -propah valuation upon the descendants of Virginia, that -mothah of Presidents; if you believe in the pure laws<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span> -of Kentucky as the pioneer bride of the Union; if you -love America an' love the worl'—make me a gen'rous, -high-toned offah foh ole King Sol'mon!"</p> - -<p>He ended his peroration amid a shout of laughter -and applause, and, feeling satisfied that it was a good -time for returning to a more practical treatment of his -subject, proceeded in a sincere tone:</p> - -<p>"He can easily earn from one to two dollahs a day, -an' from three to six hundred a yeah. There's not anothah -white man in town capable of doin' as much work. -There's not a niggah han' in the hemp factories with -such muscles an' such a chest. <em>Look</em> at 'em! An', if -you don't b'lieve me, step fo'wahd and <em>feel</em> 'em. How -much, then, is bid foh 'im?"</p> - -<p>"One dollah!" said the owner of a hemp factory, -who had walked forward and felt the vagrant's arm, -laughing, but coloring up also as the eyes of all were -quickly turned upon him. In those days it was not an -unheard-of thing for the muscles of a human being to -be thus examined when being sold into servitude to a -new master.</p> - -<p>"Thank you!" cried the sheriff, cheerily. "One precinc' -heard from! One dollah! I am offahed one dollah -foh ole King Sol'mon. One dollah foh the king! Make -it a half. One dollah an' a half. Make it a half. One -dol-dol-dol-dollah!"</p> - -<p>Two medical students, returning from lectures at the -old Medical Hall, now joined the group, and the sheriff -explained:</p> - -<p>"One dollah is bid foh the vagrant ole King Sol'mon, -who is to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. Is -there any othah bid? Are you all done? One dollah, -once—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span></p> - -<p>"Dollah and a half," said one of the students, and -remarked half jestingly under his breath to his companion, -"I'll buy him on the chance of his dying. We'll -dissect him."</p> - -<p>"Would you own his body if he <em>should</em> die?"</p> - -<p>"If he dies while bound to me, I'll arrange <em>that</em>."</p> - -<p>"One dollah an' a half," resumed the sheriff; and -falling into the tone of a facile auctioneer he rattled on:</p> - -<p>"One dollah an' a half foh ole Sol'mon—sol, sol, sol,—do, -re, mi, fa, sol—do, re, mi, fa, sol! Why, gentlemen, -you can set the king to music!"</p> - -<p>All this time the vagrant had stood in the centre of -that close ring of jeering and humorous by-standers—a -baffling text from which to have preached a sermon -on the infirmities of our imperfect humanity. Some -years before, perhaps as a master-stroke of derision, -there had been given to him that title which could but -heighten the contrast of his personality and estate with -every suggestion of the ancient sacred magnificence; -and never had the mockery seemed so fine as at this -moment, when he was led forth into the streets to receive -the lowest sentence of the law upon his poverty -and dissolute idleness. He was apparently in the very -prime of life—a striking figure, for nature at least had -truly done some royal work on him. Over six feet in -height, erect, with limbs well shaped and sinewy, with -chest and neck full of the lines of great power, a large -head thickly covered with long reddish hair, eyes blue, -face beardless, complexion fair but discolored by low -passions and excesses—such was old King Solomon. -He wore a stiff, high, black Castor hat of the period, -with the crown smashed in and the torn rim hanging -down over one ear; a black cloth coat in the old style,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span> -ragged and buttonless; a white cotton shirt, with the -broad collar crumpled, wide open at the neck and down -his sunburnt bosom; blue jeans pantaloons, patched at -the seat and the knees; and ragged cotton socks that -fell down over the tops of his dusty shoes, which were -open at the heels.</p> - -<p>In one corner of his sensual mouth rested the stump -of a cigar. Once during the proceedings he had produced -another, lighted it, and continued quietly smoking. -If he took to himself any shame as the central -figure of this ignoble performance, no one knew it. -There was something almost royal in his unconcern. -The humor, the badinage, the open contempt, of which -he was the public target, fell thick and fast upon him, -but as harmlessly as would balls of pith upon a coat of -mail. In truth, there was that in his great, lazy, gentle, -good-humored bulk and bearing which made the gibes -seem all but despicable. He shuffled from one foot to -the other as though he found it a trial to stand up so -long, but all the while looking the spectators full in the -eyes without the least impatience. He suffered the -man of the factory to walk round him and push and -pinch his muscles as calmly as though he had been the -show bull at a country fair. Once only, when the sheriff -had pointed across the street at the figure of Mr. Clay, -he had looked quickly in that direction with a kindling -light in his eye and a passing flush on his face. For -the rest, he seemed like a man who has drained his cup -of human life and has nothing left him but to fill again -and drink without the least surprise or eagerness.</p> - -<p>The bidding between the man of the factory and the -student had gone slowly on. The price had reached -ten dollars. The heat was intense, the sheriff tired.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span> -Then something occurred to revivify the scene. Across -the market-place and towards the steps of the court-house -there suddenly came trundling along in breathless -haste a huge old negress, carrying on one arm a -large shallow basket containing apple crab-lanterns and -fresh gingerbread. With a series of half-articulate -grunts and snorts she approached the edge of the -crowd and tried to force her way through. She coaxed, -she begged, she elbowed and pushed and scolded, now -laughing, and now with the passion of tears in her thick, -excited voice. All at once, catching sight of the sheriff, -she lifted one ponderous brown arm, naked to the elbow, -and waved her hand to him above the heads of -those in front.</p> - -<p>"Hole on, marseter! Hole on!" she cried, in a tone -of humorous entreaty. "Don' knock 'im off till I -come! Gim <em>me</em> a bid at 'im!"</p> - -<p>The sheriff paused and smiled. The crowd made -way tumultuously, with broad laughter and comment.</p> - -<p>"Stan' aside theah an' let Aun' Charlotte in!"</p> - -<p>"<em>Now</em> you'll see biddin'!"</p> - -<p>"Get out of the way foh Aun' Charlotte!"</p> - -<p>"Up, my free niggah! Hurrah foh Kentucky!"</p> - -<p>A moment more and she stood inside the ring of -spectators, her basket on the pavement at her feet, her -hands plumped akimbo into her fathomless sides, her -head up, and her soft, motherly eyes turned eagerly -upon the sheriff. Of the crowd she seemed unconscious, -and on the vagrant before her she had not cast -a single glance.</p> - -<p>She was dressed with perfect neatness. A red and -yellow Madras kerchief was bound about her head in a -high coil, and another was crossed over the bosom of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span> -her stiffly starched and smoothly ironed blue cottonade -dress. Rivulets of perspiration ran down over her nose, -her temples, and around her ears, and disappeared mysteriously -in the creases of her brown neck. A single -drop accidentally hung glistening like a diamond on the -circlet of one of her large brass ear-rings.</p> - -<p>The sheriff looked at her a moment, smiling, but a -little disconcerted. The spectacle was unprecedented.</p> - -<p>"What do you want heah, Aun' Charlotte?" he asked, -kindly. "You can't sell yo' pies an' gingerbread heah."</p> - -<p>"I don' <em>wan'</em> sell no pies en gingerbread," she replied, -contemptuously. "I wan' bid on <em>him</em>," and she nodded -sidewise at the vagrant.</p> - -<p>"White folks allers sellin' niggahs to wuk fuh <em>dem</em>; -I gwine buy a white man to wuk fuh <em>me</em>. En he gwine -t' git a mighty hard mistiss, you heah <em>me</em>!"</p> - -<p>The eyes of the sheriff twinkled with delight.</p> - -<p>"Ten dollahs is offahed foh ole King Sol'mon. Is -theah any othah bid? Are you all done?"</p> - -<p>"'Leben," she said.</p> - -<p>Two young ragamuffins crawled among the legs of -the crowd up to her basket and filched pies and cake -beneath her very nose.</p> - -<p>"Twelve!" cried the student, laughing.</p> - -<p>"Thirteen!" she laughed too, but her eyes flashed.</p> - -<p>"<em>You are bidding against a niggah</em>," whispered the -student's companion in his ear.</p> - -<p>"So I am; let's be off," answered the other, with a -hot flush on his proud face.</p> - -<p>Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed. -In a distant corner of the court-yard the ragged -urchins were devouring their unexpected booty. The -old negress drew a red handkerchief out of her bosom,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -untied a knot in a corner of it, and counted out the -money to the sheriff. Only she and the vagrant were -now left on the spot.</p> - -<p>"You have bought me. What do you want me to -do?" he asked quietly.</p> - -<p>"Lohd, honey!" she answered, in a low tone of affectionate -chiding, "I don' wan' you to do <em>nothin'</em>! I wuzn' -gwine t' 'low dem white folks to buy you. Dey'd wuk -you till you dropped dead. You go 'long en do ez you -please."</p> - -<p>She gave a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting -at naught the ends of justice, and, in a voice rich -and musical with affection, she said, as she gave him a -little push:</p> - -<p>"You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on -home! I be 'long by-en-by."</p> - -<p>He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of -Water Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her -basket, shuffled across the market-place towards Cheapside, -muttering to herself the while:</p> - -<p>"I come mighty nigh gittin' dah too late, foolin' 'long -wid dese pies. Sellin' <em>him</em> 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! -If all de men in dis town dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk -up en sole, d' wouldn' be 'nough money in de town to -buy 'em! Don' I see 'em settin' 'roun' dese taverns -f'om mohnin' till night?"</p> - -<p>She snorted out her indignation and disgust, and -sitting down on the sidewalk, under a Lombardy poplar, -uncovered her wares and kept the flies away with a -locust bough, not discovering, in her alternating good -and ill humor, that half of them had been filched by her -old tormentors.</p> - -<p>This was the memorable scene enacted in Lexington<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span> -on that memorable day of the year 1833—a day that -passed so briskly. For whoever met and spoke together -asked the one question: Will the cholera come -to Lexington? And the answer always gave a nervous -haste to business—a keener thrill to pleasure. It was -of the cholera that the negro woman heard two sweet -passing ladies speak as she spread her wares on the -sidewalk. They were on their way to a little picture-gallery -just opened opposite M. Giron's ball-room, and -in one breath she heard them discussing their toilets for -the evening and in the next several portraits by Jouett.</p> - -<p>So the day passed, the night came on, and M. Xaupi -gave his brilliant ball. Poor old Xaupi—poor little -Frenchman! whirled as a gamin of Paris through the -mazes of the Revolution, and lately come all the way -to Lexington to teach the people how to dance. Hop -about blithely on thy dry legs, basking this night in -the waxen radiance of manners and melodies and -graces! Where will be thy tunes and airs to-morrow? -Ay, smile and prompt away! On and on! Swing corners, -ladies and gentlemen! Form the basket! Hands -all around!</p> - -<p>While the bows were still darting across the strings, -out of the low, red east there shot a long, tremulous -bow of light up towards the zenith. And then, could -human sight have beheld the invisible, it might have -seen hovering over the town, over the ball-room, over -M. Xaupi, the awful presence of the plague.</p> - -<p>But knowing nothing of this, the heated revellers went -merrily home in the chill air of the red and saffron -dawn. And knowing nothing of it also, a man awakened -on the door-step of a house opposite the ball-room, -where he had long since fallen asleep. His limbs were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> -cramped and a shiver ran through his frame. Staggering -to his feet, he made his way down to the house of -Free Charlotte, mounted to his room by means of a -stair-way opening on the street, threw off his outer garments, -kicked off his shoes, and taking a bottle from a -closet pressed it several times to his lips with long outward -breaths of satisfaction. Then, casting his great -white bulk upon the bed, in a minute more he had sunk -into a heavy sleep—the usual drunken sleep of old -King Solomon.</p> - -<p>He, too, had attended M. Xaupi's ball, in his own way -and in his proper character, being drawn to the place -for the pleasure of seeing the fine ladies arrive and float -in, like large white moths of the summer night; of looking -in through the open windows at the many-colored -waxen lights and the snowy arms and shoulders, of -having blown out to him the perfume and the music; -not worthy to go in, being the lowest of the low, but attending -from a door-step of the street opposite—with -a certain rich passion in his nature for splendor and -revelry and sensuous beauty.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">II.</p> - -<p>About 10 o'clock the sunlight entered through the -shutters and awoke him. He threw one arm up over -his eyes to intercept the burning rays. As he lay out-stretched -and stripped of grotesque rags, it could be -better seen in what a mould nature had cast his figure. -His breast, bare and tanned, was barred by full, arching -ribs and knotted by crossing muscles; and his -shirt-sleeve, falling away to the shoulder from his bent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span> -arm, revealed its crowded muscles in the high relief of -heroic bronze. For, although he had been sold as a -vagrant, old King Solomon had in earlier years followed -the trade of a digger of cellars, and the strenuous use -of mattock and spade had developed every sinew to the -utmost. His whole person, now half naked and in repose, -was full of the suggestions of unspent power. -Only his face, swollen and red, only his eyes, bloodshot -and dull, bore the impress of wasted vitality. There, -all too plainly stamped, were the passions long since -raging and still on fire.</p> - -<p>The sunlight had stirred him to but a low degree of -consciousness, and some minutes passed before he realized -that a stifling, resinous fume impregnated the air. -He sniffed it quickly; through the window seemed to -come the smell of burning tar. He sat up on the edge -of the bed and vainly tried to clear his thoughts.</p> - -<p>The room was a clean but poor habitation—uncarpeted, -whitewashed, with a piece or two of the cheapest -furniture, and a row of pegs on one wall, where usually -hung those tattered coats and pantaloons, miscellaneously -collected, that were his purple and fine linen. -He turned his eyes in this direction now and noticed -that his clothes were missing. The old shoes had disappeared -from their corner; the cigar stumps, picked -up here and there in the streets according to his wont, -were gone from the mantel-piece. Near the door was -a large bundle tied up in a sheet. In a state of bewilderment, -he asked himself what it all meant. Then a -sense of the silence in the street below possessed him. -At this hour he was used to hear noises enough—from -Hugh Lonney's new bath-house on one side, from Harry -Sikes's barber-shop on the other.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span></p> - -<p>A mysterious feeling of terror crept over and helped -to sober him. How long had he lain asleep? By degrees -he seemed to remember that two or three times -he had awakened far enough to drink from the bottle -under his pillow, only to sink again into heavier stupefaction. -By degrees, too, he seemed to remember that -other things had happened—a driving of vehicles this -way and that, a hurrying of people along the street. -He had thought it the breaking-up of M. Xaupi's ball. -More than once had not some one shaken and tried to -arouse him? Through the wall of Harry Sikes's barber-shop -had he not heard cries of pain—sobs of distress?</p> - -<p>He staggered to the window, threw open the shutters, -and, kneeling at the sill, looked out. The street was -deserted. The houses opposite were closed. Cats were -sleeping in the silent door-ways. But as he looked up -and down he caught sight of people hurrying along -cross-streets. From a distant lumber-yard came the -muffled sound of rapid hammerings. On the air was -the faint roll of vehicles—the hush and the vague noises -of a general terrifying commotion.</p> - -<p>In the middle of the street below him a keg was -burning, and, as he looked, the hoops gave way, the tar -spread out like a stream of black lava, and a cloud of -inky smoke and deep-red furious flame burst upward -through the sagging air. Just beneath the window a -common cart had been backed close up to the door of -the house. In it had been thrown a few small articles -of furniture, and on the bottom bedclothes had been -spread out as if for a pallet. While he looked old -Charlotte hurried out with a pillow.</p> - -<p>He called down to her in a strange, unsteady -voice:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span></p> - -<p>"What is the matter? What are you doing, Aunt -Charlotte?"</p> - -<p>She uttered a cry, dropped the pillow, and stared up -at him. Her face looked dry and wrinkled.</p> - -<p>"My God! De chol'ra's in town! I'm waitin' on -you! Dress, en come down en fetch de bun'le by de -dooh." And she hurried back into the house.</p> - -<p>But he continued leaning on his folded arms, his -brain stunned by the shock of the intelligence. Suddenly -he leaned far out and looked down at the closed -shutters of the barber-shop. Old Charlotte reappeared.</p> - -<p>"Where is Harry Sikes?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Dead en buried."</p> - -<p>"When did he die?"</p> - -<p>"Yestidd'y evenin'."</p> - -<p>"What day is this?"</p> - -<p>"Sadd'y."</p> - -<p>M. Xaupi's ball had been on Thursday evening. -That night the cholera had broken out. He had lain -in his drunken stupor ever since. Their talk had lasted -but a minute, but she looked up anxiously and urged -him.</p> - -<p>"D' ain' no time to was'e, honey! D' ain' no time -to was'e. I done got dis cyart to tek you 'way in, en I -be ready to start in a minute. Put yo' clo'es on en bring -de bun'le wid all yo' yudder things in it."</p> - -<p>With incredible activity she climbed into the cart and -began to roll up the bedclothes. In reality she had -made up her mind to put him into the cart, and the -pallet had been made for him to lie and finish his -drunken sleep on, while she drove him away to a place -of safety.</p> - -<p>Still he did not move from the window-sill. He was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span> -thinking of Harry Sikes, who had shaved him many a -time for nothing. Then he suddenly called down to -her:</p> - -<p>"Have many died of the cholera? Are there many -cases in town?"</p> - -<p>She went on with her preparations and took no notice -of him. He repeated the question. She got down -quickly from the cart and began to mount the staircase. -He went back to bed, pulled the sheet up over him, -and propped himself up among the pillows. Her soft, -heavy footsteps slurred on the stair-way as though her -strength were failing, and as soon as she entered the -room she sank into a chair, overcome with terror. He -looked at her with a sudden sense of pity.</p> - -<p>"Don't be frightened," he said, kindly. "It might -only make it the worse for you."</p> - -<p>"I can' he'p it, honey," she answered, wringing her -hands and rocking herself to and fro; "de ole niggah -can' he'p it. If de Lohd jes spah me to git out'n dis -town wid you! Honey, ain' you able to put on yo' -clo'es?"</p> - -<p>"You've tied them all up in the sheet."</p> - -<p>"De Lohd he'p de crazy ole niggah!"</p> - -<p>She started up and tugged at the bundle, and laid -out a suit of his clothes, if things so incongruous could -be called a suit.</p> - -<p>"Have many people died of the cholera?"</p> - -<p>"Dey been dyin' like sheep ev' since yestidd'y -mohnin'—all day, en all las' night, en dis mohnin'! -De man he done lock up de huss, en dey been buryin' -'em in cyarts. En de grave-diggah he done run away, -en hit look like d' ain' nobody to dig de graves."</p> - -<p>She bent over the bundle, tying again the four cor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span>ners -of the sheet. Through the window came the -sound of the quick hammers driving nails. She threw -up her arms into the air, and then seizing the bundle -dragged it rapidly to the door.</p> - -<p>"You heah dat? Dey nailin' up cawfins in de lumbah-yahd! -Put on yo' clo'es, honey, en come on."</p> - -<p>A resolution had suddenly taken shape in his mind.</p> - -<p>"Go on away and save your life. Don't wait for me; -I'm not going. And good-bye, Aunt Charlotte, in case -I don't see you any more. You've been very kind to -me—kinder than I deserved. Where have you put my -mattock and spade?"</p> - -<p>He said this very quietly, and sat up on the edge of -the bed, his feet hanging down, and his hand stretched -out towards her.</p> - -<p>"Honey," she explained, coaxingly, from where she -stood, "can't you sobah up a little en put on yo' clo'es? -I gwine to tek you 'way to de country. You don' wan' -no tools. You can' dig no cellahs now. De chol'ra's -in town en de people's dyin' like sheep."</p> - -<p>"I expect they will need me," he answered.</p> - -<p>She perceived now that he was sober. For an instant -her own fear was forgotten in an outburst of resentment -and indignation.</p> - -<p>"Dig graves fuh 'em, when dey put you up on de -block en sell you same ez you wuz a niggah! Dig -graves fuh 'em, when dey allers callin' you names on de -street en makin' fun o' you!"</p> - -<p>"They are not to blame. I have brought it on myself."</p> - -<p>"But we can' stay heah en die o' de chol'ra!"</p> - -<p>"You mustn't stay. You must go away at once."</p> - -<p>"But if I go, who gwine tek cyah o' <em>you</em>?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span></p> - -<p>"Nobody."</p> - -<p>She came quickly across the room to the bed, fell on -her knees, clasped his feet to her breast, and looked up -into his face with an expression of imploring tenderness. -Then, with incoherent cries and with sobs and -tears, she pleaded with him—pleaded for dear life; his -and her own.</p> - -<p>It was a strange scene. What historian of the heart -will ever be able to do justice to those peculiar ties -which bound the heart of the negro in years gone by to -a race of not always worthy masters? This old Virginia -nurse had known King Solomon when he was a boy -playing with her young master, till that young master -died on the way to Kentucky.</p> - -<p>At the death of her mistress she had become free -with a little property. By thrift and industry she had -greatly enlarged this. Years passed and she became -the only surviving member of the Virginian household, -which had emigrated early in the century to the Blue-grass -Region. The same wave of emigration had brought -in old King Solomon from the same neighborhood. As -she had risen in life, he had sunk. She sat on the -sidewalks selling her fruits and cakes; he sat on the -sidewalks more idle, more ragged and dissolute. On -no other basis than these facts she began to assume a -sort of maternal pitying care of him, patching his rags, -letting him have money for his vices, and when, a year -or two before, he had ceased working almost entirely, -giving him a room in her house and taking in payment -what he chose to pay.</p> - -<p>He brushed his hand quickly across his eyes as she -knelt before him now, clasping his feet to her bosom. -From coaxing him as an intractable child she had, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span> -the old servile fashion, fallen to imploring him, with -touching forgetfulness of their real relations:</p> - -<p>"O my marseter! O my marseter Solomon! Go 'way -en save yo' life, en tek yo' po' ole niggah wid you!"</p> - -<p>But his resolution was formed, and he refused to go. -A hurried footstep paused beneath the window and a -loud voice called up. The old nurse got up and went -to the window. A man was standing by the cart at her -door.</p> - -<p>"For God's sake let me have this cart to take my -wife and little children away to the country! There is -not a vehicle to be had in town. I will pay you—" -He stopped, seeing the distress on her face.</p> - -<p>"Is he dead?" he asked, for he knew of her care of -old King Solomon.</p> - -<p>"He <em>will</em> die!" she sobbed. "Tilt de t'ings out on -de pavement. I gwine t' stay wid 'im en tek cyah o' -'im."</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">III.</p> - -<p>A little later, dressed once more in grotesque rags -and carrying on his shoulder a rusty mattock and a -rusty spade, old King Solomon appeared in the street -below and stood looking up and down it with an air of -anxious indecision. Then shuffling along rapidly to the -corner of Mill Street, he turned up towards Main.</p> - -<p>Here a full sense of the terror came to him. A man, -hurrying along with his head down, ran full against him -and cursed him for the delay:</p> - -<p>"Get out of my way, you old beast!" he cried. "If -the cholera would carry you off it would be a blessing -to the town."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span></p> - -<p>Two or three little children, already orphaned and -hungry, wandered past, crying and wringing their hands. -A crowd of negro men with the muscles of athletes, -some with naked arms, some naked to the waist, their -eyes dilated, their mouths hanging open, sped along in -tumultuous disorder. The plague had broken out in -the hemp factory and scattered them beyond control.</p> - -<p>He grew suddenly faint and sick. His senses swam, -his heart seemed to cease beating, his tongue burned, -his throat was dry, his spine like ice. For a moment -the contagion of deadly fear overcame him, and, unable -to stand, he reeled to the edge of the sidewalk and sat -down.</p> - -<p>Before him along the street passed the flying people—men -on horseback with their wives behind and children -in front, families in carts and wagons, merchants -in two-wheeled gigs and sulkies. A huge red and yellow -stage-coach rolled ponderously by, filled within, on -top, in front, and behind with a company of riotous -students of law and of medicine. A rapid chorus of -voices shouted to him as they passed:</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Solomon!"</p> - -<p>"The cholera'll have you befoah sunset!"</p> - -<p>"Better be diggin' yoah grave, Solomon! That 'll be -yoah last cellah."</p> - -<p>"Dig us a big wine cellah undah the Medical Hall -while we are away."</p> - -<p>"And leave yo' body there! We want yo' skeleton."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, old Solomon!"</p> - -<p>A wretched carry-all passed with a household of more -wretched women; their tawdry and gay attire, their haggard -and painted and ghastly faces, looking horrible in -the blaze of the pitiless sunlight. They, too, simpered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -and hailed him and spent upon him their hardened and -degraded badinage. Then there rolled by a high-swung -carriage, with the most luxurious of cushions, upholstered -with morocco, with a coat-of-arms, a driver and a -footman in livery, and drawn by sparkling, prancing -horses. Lying back on the satin cushions a fine gentleman; -at the window of the carriage two rosy children, -who pointed their fingers at the vagrant and -turned and looked into their father's face, so that he -leaned forward, smiled, leaned back again, and was -whirled away to a place of safety.</p> - -<p>Thus they passed him, as he sat down on the sidewalk—even -physicians from their patients, pastors from -their stricken flocks. Why should not he flee? He -had no ties, except the faithful affection of an old negress. -Should he not at least save her life by going -away, seeing that she would not leave him?</p> - -<p>The orphaned children wandered past again, sobbing -more wearily. He called them to him.</p> - -<p>"Why do you not go home? Where is your mother?" -he asked.</p> - -<p>"She is dead in the house," they answered; "and no -one has come to bury her."</p> - -<p>Slowly down the street was coming a short funeral -train. It passed—a rude cortege: a common cart, in -the bottom of which rested a box of plain boards containing -the body of the old French dancing-master; -walking behind it, with a cambric handkerchief to his -eyes, the old French confectioner; at his side, wearing -the robes of his office and carrying an umbrella to ward -off the burning sun, the beloved Bishop Smith; and behind -them, two by two and with linked arms, perhaps a -dozen men, most of whom had been at the ball.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span></p> - -<p>No head was lifted or eye turned to notice the vagrant -seated on the sidewalk. But when the train had -passed he rose, laid his mattock and spade across his -shoulder, and, stepping out into the street, fell into line -at the end of the procession.</p> - -<p>They moved down Short Street to the old burying-ground, -where the Baptist church-yard is to-day. As -they entered it, two grave-diggers passed out and hurried -away. Those before them had fled. They had -been at work but a few hours. Overcome with horror -at the sight of the dead arriving more and more rapidly, -they, too, deserted that post of peril. No one was left. -Here and there in the church-yard could be seen bodies -awaiting interment. Old King Solomon stepped quietly -forward and, getting down into one of the half-finished -graves, began to dig.</p> - -<p>The vagrant had happened upon an avocation.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">IV.</p> - -<p>All summer long, Clatterbuck's dancing-pavilion was -as silent in its grove of oaks as a temple of the Druids, -and his pleasure-boat nestled in its moorings, with no -hand to feather an oar in the little lake. All summer -long, no athletic young Kentuckians came to bathe -their white bodies in Hugh Lonney's new bath-house -for twelve and a half cents, and no one read Daukins -Tegway's advertisement that he was willing to exchange -his Dunstable bonnets for flax and feathers. The likely -runaway boy, with a long, fresh scar across his face, -was never found, nor the buffalo bull roasted for Daniel -Webster, and Peter Leuba's guitars were never thrummed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span> -on any moonlit verandas. Only Dewees and Grant were -busy, dispensing, not snuff, but calomel.</p> - -<p>Grass grew in the deserted streets. Gardens became -little wildernesses of rank weeds and riotous creepers. -Around shut window-lattices roses clambered and shed -their perfume into the poisoned air, or dropped their -faded petals to strew the echoless thresholds. In darkened -rooms family portraits gazed on sad vacancy or -looked helplessly down on rigid sheeted forms.</p> - -<p>In the trees of poplar and locust along the streets -the unmolested birds built and brooded. The oriole -swung its hempen nest from a bough over the door of -the spider-tenanted factory, and in front of the old -Medical Hall the blue-jay shot up his angry crest and -screamed harshly down at the passing bier. In a cage -hung against the wall of a house in a retired street a -mocking-bird sung, beat its breast against the bars, -sung more passionately, grew silent and dropped dead -from its perch, never knowing that its mistress had long -since become a clod to its full-throated requiem.</p> - -<p>Famine lurked in the wake of the pestilence. Markets -were closed. A few shops were kept open to furnish -necessary supplies. Now and then some old negro -might have been seen, driving a meat-wagon in from the -country, his nostrils stuffed with white cotton saturated -with camphor. Oftener the only visible figure in the -streets was that of a faithful priest going about among -his perishing fold, or that of the bishop moving hither -and thither on his ceaseless ministrations.</p> - -<p>But over all the ravages of that terrible time there -towered highest the solitary figure of that powerful -grave-digger, who, nerved by the spectacle of the common -misfortune, by one heroic effort rose for the time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -above the wrecks of his own nature. In the thick of -the plague, in the very garden spot of the pestilence, he -ruled like an unterrified king. Through days unnaturally -chill with gray cloud and drizzling rain, or unnaturally -hot with the fierce sun and suffocating damps -that appeared to steam forth from subterranean caldrons, -he worked unfaltering, sometimes with a helper, -sometimes with none. There were times when, exhausted, -he would lie down in the half-dug graves and -there sleep until able to go on; and many a midnight -found him under the spectral moon, all but hidden by -the rank nightshade as he bent over to mark out the -lines of one of those narrow mortal cellars.</p> - -<p>What weaknesses he fought and conquered through -those days and nights! Out of what unforeseen depths -of nature did he draw the tough fibre of such a resolution! -To be alone with the pestilential dead at night—is -not that a test of imperial courage? To live for -weeks braving swift death itself—is not that the fierce -and ungovernable flaring up of the soul in heroism? -For all the mockery and derision of his name, had it not -some fitness? For had he not a royal heart?</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">V.</p> - -<p>Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and -strews our graves with flowers, not as memories, but for -other flowers when the spring returns.</p> - -<p>It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. -The air blew fresh and invigorating, as though -on the earth there were no corruption, no death. Far -southward had flown the plague. A spectator in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span> -open court-square might have seen many signs of life -returning to the town. Students hurried along, talking -eagerly. Merchants met for the first time and spoke of -the winter trade. An old negress, gayly and neatly -dressed, came into the market-place, and sitting down -on a sidewalk displayed her yellow and red apples and -fragrant gingerbread. She hummed to herself an old -cradle-song, and in her soft, motherly black eyes shone -a mild, happy radiance. A group of young ragamuffins -eyed her longingly from a distance. Court was to open -for the first time since the spring. The hour was early, -and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in. On the -steps of the court-house three men were standing: -Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had -just walked over from his music-store on Main Street; -and little M. Giron, the French confectioner. Each wore -mourning on his hat, and their voices were low and grave.</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen," the sheriff was saying, "it was on this -very spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I -sole 'im as a vagrant. An' I did the meanes' thing a -man can evah do. I hel' 'im up to public ridicule foh -his weaknesses an' made spoht of 'is infirmities. I -laughed at 'is povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I delivahed -on 'im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction as -I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness -an' with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, -if I only had that crowd heah now, an' ole King -Sol'mon standin' in the midst of it, that I might ask 'im -to accept a humble public apology, offahed from the -heaht of one who feels himself unworthy to shake 'is -han'! But, gentlemen, that crowd will nevah reassemble. -Neahly ev'ry man of them is dead, an' ole King -Sol'mon buried them."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span></p> - -<p>"He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi," said François -Giron, touching his eyes with his handkerchief.</p> - -<p>"There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him -whenever he comes for it," said old Leuba, clearing his -throat.</p> - -<p>"But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King -Sol'mon we ought not to fohget who it is that has supported -'im. Yondah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin' -'er apples an' gingerbread."</p> - -<p>The three men looked in the direction indicated.</p> - -<p>"Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now," exclaimed the -sheriff.</p> - -<p>Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking -slowly along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive -preoccupation. A minute more and he had come over -and passed into the court-house by a side door.</p> - -<p>"Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day?"</p> - -<p>"He is expected, I think."</p> - -<p>"Then let's go in; there will be a crowd."</p> - -<p>"I don't know; so many are dead."</p> - -<p>They turned and entered and found seats as quietly -as possible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded -over the court-room. Until the bar assembled, it had -not been realized how many were gone. The silence -was that of a common overwhelming disaster. No one -spoke with his neighbor, no one observed the vagrant -as he entered and made his way to a seat on one of -the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. -He had not sat there since the day of his indictment -for vagrancy. The judge took his seat and, making a -great effort to control himself, passed his eyes slowly -over the court-room. All at once he caught sight of -old King Solomon sitting against the wall in an obscure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -corner; and before any one could know what he was -doing, he hurried down and walked up to the vagrant -and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could -not. Old King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter—buried -them one clouded midnight, with no one -present but himself.</p> - -<p>Then the oldest member of the bar started up and -followed the example; and then the other members, -rising by a common impulse, filed slowly back and one -by one wrung that hard and powerful hand. After -them came the other persons in the court-room. The -vagrant, the grave-digger, had risen and stood against -the wall, at first with a white face and a dazed expression, -not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he -understood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and -his tears fell thick and hot upon the hands that he could -not see. And his were not the only tears. Not a man -in the long file but paid his tribute of emotion as he -stepped forward to honor that image of sadly eclipsed -but still effulgent humanity. It was not grief, it was not -gratitude, nor any sense of making reparation for the -past. It was the softening influence of an act of heroism, -which makes every man feel himself a brother hand -in hand with every other—such power has a single act -of moral greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting -up one, and bringing all others to do him homage.</p> - -<p>It was the coronation scene in the life of old King -Solomon of Kentucky.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a><br /><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a><br /><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 class="invisible"><a name="TWO_GENTLEMEN_OF_KENTUCKY" id="TWO_GENTLEMEN_OF_KENTUCKY">TWO GENTLEMEN OF KENTUCKY.</a></h2> -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/twogent.jpg" alt="Two Gentlemen of Kentucky." /> -</div> - - - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">"The woods are hushed, their music is no more:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The leaf is dead, the yearning passed away:</div> - <div class="verse">New leaf, new life—the days of frost are o'er:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">New life, new love, to suit the newer day."</div> -</div></div></div> - - -<p class="subtitle">THE WOODS ARE HUSHED.</p> - -<p>It was near the middle of the afternoon of an autumnal -day, on the wide, grassy plateau of Central Kentucky.</p> - -<p>The Eternal Power seemed to have quitted the universe -and left all nature folded in the calm of the Eternal -Peace. Around the pale blue dome of the heavens -a few pearl-colored clouds hung motionless, as though -the wind had been withdrawn to other skies. Not a -crimson leaf floated downward through the soft, silvery -light that filled the atmosphere and created the sense -of lonely, unimaginable spaces. This light overhung the -far-rolling landscape of field and meadow and wood, -crowning with faint radiance the remoter low-swelling -hill-tops and deepening into dreamy half-shadows on -their eastern slopes. Nearer, it fell in a white flake on -an unstirred sheet of water which lay along the edge of -a mass of sombre-hued woodland, and nearer still it -touched to spring-like brilliancy a level, green meadow -on the hither edge of the water, where a group of Durham -cattle stood with reversed flanks near the gleam<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span>ing -trunks of some leafless sycamores. Still nearer, it -caught the top of the brown foliage of a little bent oaktree -and burned it into a silvery flame. It lit on the back -and the wings of a crow flying heavily in the path of its -rays, and made his blackness as white as the breast of -a swan. In the immediate foreground, it sparkled in -minute gleams along the stalks of the coarse, dead -weeds that fell away from the legs and the flanks of a -white horse, and slanted across the face of the rider -and through the ends of his gray hair, which straggled -from beneath his soft black hat.</p> - -<p>The horse, old and patient and gentle, stood with -low-stretched neck and closed eyes half asleep in the -faint glow of the waning heat; and the rider, the sole -human presence in all the field, sat looking across the -silent autumnal landscape, sunk in reverie. Both horse -and rider seemed but harmonious elements in the panorama -of still-life, and completed the picture of a closing -scene.</p> - -<p>To the man it was a closing scene. From the rank, -fallow field through which he had been riding he was -now surveying, for the last time, the many features of a -landscape that had been familiar to him from the beginning -of memory. In the afternoon and the autumn -of his age he was about to rend the last ties that bound -him to his former life, and, like one who had survived -his own destiny, turn his face towards a future that was -void of everything he held significant or dear.</p> - -<p>The Civil War had only the year before reached its -ever-memorable close. From where he sat there was -not a home in sight, as there was not one beyond the -reach of his vision, but had felt its influence. Some of -his neighbors had come home from its camps and pris<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span>ons, -aged or altered as though by half a lifetime of -years. The bones of some lay whitening on its battle-fields. -Families, reassembled around their hearth-stones, -spoke in low tones unceasingly of defeat and victory, -heroism and death. Suspicion and distrust and estrangement -prevailed. Former friends met each other -on the turnpikes without speaking; brothers avoided -each other in the streets of the neighboring town. The -rich had grown poor; the poor had become rich. Many -of the latter were preparing to move West. The negroes -were drifting blindly hither and thither, deserting -the country and flocking to the towns. Even the once -united church of his neighborhood was jarred by the -unstrung and discordant spirit of the times. At affecting -passages in the sermons men grew pale and set -their teeth fiercely; women suddenly lowered their black -veils and rocked to and fro in their pews; for it is always -at the bar of Conscience and before the very altar -of God that the human heart is most wrung by a sense -of its losses and the memory of its wrongs. The war -had divided the people of Kentucky as the false mother -would have severed the child.</p> - -<p>It had not left the old man unscathed. His younger -brother had fallen early in the conflict, borne to the end -of his brief warfare by his impetuous valor; his aged -mother had sunk under the tidings of the death of her -latest-born; his sister was estranged from him by his -political differences with her husband; his old family -servants, men and women, had left him, and grass and -weeds had already grown over the door-steps of the -shut, noiseless cabins. Nay, the whole vast social system -of the old régime had fallen, and he was henceforth -but a useless fragment of the ruins.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span></p> - -<p>All at once his mind turned from the cracked and -smoky mirror of the times and dwelt fondly upon the -scenes of the past. The silent fields around him seemed -again alive with the negroes, singing as they followed the -ploughs down the corn-rows or swung the cradles through -the bearded wheat. Again, in a frenzy of merriment, -the strains of the old fiddles issued from crevices of -cabin-doors to the rhythmic beat of hands and feet that -shook the rafters and the roof. Now he was sitting on -his porch, and one little negro was blacking his shoes, -another leading his saddle-horse to the stiles, a third -bringing his hat, and a fourth handing him a glass of -ice-cold sangaree; or now he lay under the locust-trees -in his yard, falling asleep in the drowsy heat of the -summer afternoon, while one waved over him a bough -of pungent walnut leaves, until he lost consciousness -and by-and-by awoke to find that they both had fallen -asleep side by side on the grass and that the abandoned -fly-brush lay full across his face.</p> - -<p>From where he sat also were seen slopes on which -picnics were danced under the broad shade of maples -and elms in June by those whom death and war had -scattered like the transitory leaves that once had sheltered -them. In this direction lay the district schoolhouse -where on Friday evenings there were wont to be -speeches and debates; in that, lay the blacksmith's -shop where of old he and his neighbors had met on -horseback of Saturday afternoons to hear the news, -get the mails, discuss elections, and pitch quoits. In -the valley beyond stood the church at which all had -assembled on calm Sunday mornings like the members -of one united family. Along with these scenes went -many a chastened reminiscence of bridal and funeral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -and simpler events that had made up the annals of his -country life.</p> - -<p>The reader will have a clearer insight into the character -and past career of Colonel Romulus Fields by -remembering that he represented a fair type of that social -order which had existed in rank perfection over -the blue-grass plains of Kentucky during the final decades -of the old régime. Perhaps of all agriculturists -in the United States the inhabitants of that region had -spent the most nearly idyllic life, on account of the -beauty of the climate, the richness of the land, the -spacious comfort of their homes, the efficiency of their -negroes, and the characteristic contentedness of their -dispositions. Thus nature and history combined to -make them a peculiar class, a cross between the aristocratic -and the bucolic, being as simple as shepherds -and as proud as kings, and not seldom exhibiting among -both men and women types of character which were as -remarkable for pure, tender, noble states of feeling as -they were commonplace in powers and cultivation of -mind.</p> - -<p>It was upon this luxurious social growth that the war -naturally fell as a killing frost, and upon no single -specimen with more blighting power than upon Colonel -Fields. For destiny had quarried and chiselled him, to -serve as an ornament in the barbaric temple of human -bondage. There <em>were</em> ornaments in that temple, and he -was one. A slave-holder with Southern sympathies, a -man educated not beyond the ideas of his generation, -convinced that slavery was an evil, yet seeing no present -way of removing it, he had of all things been a model -master. As such he had gone on record in Kentucky, -and no doubt in a Higher Court; and as such his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> -efforts had been put forth to secure the passage of many -of those milder laws for which his State was distinguished. -Often, in those dark days, his face, anxious -and sad, was to be seen amid the throng that surrounded -the blocks on which slaves were sold at auction; -and more than one poor wretch he had bought to -save him from separation from his family or from being -sold into the Southern plantations—afterwards riding -far and near to find him a home on one of the neighboring -farms.</p> - -<p>But all those days were over. He had but to place -the whole picture of the present beside the whole picture -of the past to realize what the contrast meant for -him.</p> - -<p>At length he gathered the bridle reins from the neck -of his old horse and turned his head homeward. As -he rode slowly on, every spot gave up its memories. -He dismounted when he came to the cattle and walked -among them, stroking their soft flanks and feeling in -the palm of his hand the rasp of their salt-loving -tongues; on his sideboard at home was many a silver -cup which told of premiums on cattle at the great fairs. -It was in this very pond that as a boy he had learned -to swim on a cherry rail. When he entered the woods, -the sight of the walnut-trees and the hickory-nut trees, -loaded on the topmost branches, gave him a sudden -pang.</p> - -<p>Beyond the woods he came upon the garden, which -he had kept as his mother had left it—an old-fashioned -garden with an arbor in the centre, covered with Isabella -grape-vines on one side and Catawba on the -other; with walks branching thence in four directions, -and along them beds of jump-up-johnnies, sweet-will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span>iams, -daffodils, sweet-peas, larkspur, and thyme, flags -and the sensitive-plant, celestial and maiden's-blush -roses. He stopped and looked over the fence at the -very spot where he had found his mother on the day -when the news of the battle came.</p> - -<p>She had been kneeling, trowel in hand, driving away -vigorously at the loamy earth, and, as she saw him -coming, had risen and turned towards him her face -with the ancient pink bloom on her clear cheeks and -the light of a pure, strong soul in her gentle eyes. -Overcome by his emotions, he had blindly faltered out -the words, "Mother, John was among the killed!" For -a moment she had looked at him as though stunned by -a blow. Then a violent flush had overspread her features, -and then an ashen pallor; after which, with a -sudden proud dilating of her form as though with joy, -she had sunk down like the tenderest of her lily-stalks, -cut from its root.</p> - -<p>Beyond the garden he came to the empty cabin and -the great wood-pile. At this hour it used to be a scene -of hilarious activity—the little negroes sitting perched -in chattering groups on the topmost logs or playing -leap-frog in the dust, while some picked up baskets of -chips or dragged a back-log into the cabins.</p> - -<p>At last he drew near the wooden stiles and saw the -large house of which he was the solitary occupant. -What darkened rooms and noiseless halls! What beds, -all ready, that nobody now came to sleep in, and cushioned -old chairs that nobody rocked! The house and -the contents of its attic, presses, and drawers could -have told much of the history of Kentucky from almost -its beginning; for its foundations had been laid by his -father near the beginning of the century, and through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span> -its doors had passed a long train of forms, from the -veterans of the Revolution to the soldiers of the Civil -War. Old coats hung up in closets; old dresses folded -away in drawers; saddle-bags and buckskin-leggins; -hunting-jackets, powder-horns, and militiamen hats; -looms and knitting-needles; snuffboxes and reticules—what -a treasure-house of the past it was! And now -the only thing that had the springs of life within its -bosom was the great, sweet-voiced clock, whose faithful -face had kept unchanged amid all the swift pageantry -of changes.</p> - -<p>He dismounted at the stiles and handed the reins to -a gray-haired negro, who had hobbled up to receive -them with a smile and a gesture of the deepest respect.</p> - -<p>"Peter," he said, very simply, "I am going to sell the -place and move to town. I can't live here any longer."</p> - -<p>With these words he passed through the yard-gate, -walked slowly up the broad pavement, and entered the -house.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">MUSIC NO MORE.</p> - -<p>On the disappearing form of the colonel was fixed -an ancient pair of eyes that looked out at him from behind -a still more ancient pair of silver-rimmed spectacles -with an expression of indescribable solicitude and love.</p> - -<p>These eyes were set in the head of an old gentleman—for -such he was—named Peter Cotton, who was the -only one of the colonel's former slaves that had remained -inseparable from his person and his altered fortunes. -In early manhood Peter had been a wood-chopper; but -he had one day had his leg broken by the limb of a -falling tree, and afterwards, out of consideration for his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span> -limp, had been made supervisor of the wood-pile, gardener, -and a sort of nondescript servitor of his master's -luxurious needs.</p> - -<p>Nay, in larger and deeper characters must his history -be writ, he having been, in days gone by, one of those -ministers of the gospel whom conscientious Kentucky -masters often urged to the exercise of spiritual functions -in behalf of their benighted people. In course of preparation -for this august work, Peter had learned to read -and had come to possess a well-chosen library of three -several volumes—<cite>Webster's Spelling-Book</cite>, <cite>The Pilgrim's -Progress</cite>, and the Bible. But even these unusual -acquisitions he deemed not enough; for being -touched with a spark of poetic fire from heaven, and -fired by the African's fondness for all that is conspicuous -in dress, he had conceived for himself the creation -of a unique garment which should symbolize in -perfection the claims and consolations of his apostolic -office. This was nothing less than a sacred blue-jeans -coat that he had had his old mistress make him, with -very long and spacious tails, whereon, at his further -direction, she embroidered sundry texts of Scripture -which it pleased him to regard as the fit visible annunciations -of his holy calling. And inasmuch as his mistress, -who had had the coat woven on her own looms -from the wool of her finest sheep, was, like other gentlewomen -of her time, rarely skilled in the accomplishments -of the needle, and was moreover in full sympathy -with the piety of his intent, she wrought of these -passages a border enriched with such intricate curves, -marvellous flourishes, and harmonious letterings, that -Solomon never reflected the glory in which Peter was -arrayed whenever he put it on. For after much prayer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> -that the Almighty wisdom would aid his reason in the -difficult task of selecting the most appropriate texts, -Peter had chosen seven—one for each day in the week—with -such tact, and no doubt heavenly guidance, that -when braided together they did truly constitute an eloquent -epitome of Christian duty, hope, and pleading.</p> - -<p>From first to last they were as follows: "Woe is -unto me if I preach not the gospel;" "Servants, be -obedient to them that are your masters according to -the flesh;" "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are -heavy laden;" "Consider the lilies of the field, how -they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin;" "Now -abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the -greatest of these is charity;" "I would not have you -to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are -asleep;" "For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall -all be made alive." This concatenation of texts Peter -wished to have duly solemnized, and therefore, when the -work was finished, he further requested his mistress to -close the entire chain with the word "Amen," introduced -in some suitable place.</p> - -<p>But the only spot now left vacant was one of a few -square inches, located just where the coat-tails hung -over the end of Peter's spine; so that when any one -stood full in Peter's rear, he could but marvel at the -sight of so solemn a word emblazoned in so unusual a -locality.</p> - -<p>Panoplied in this robe of righteousness, and with a -worn leathern Bible in his hand, Peter used to go around -of Sundays, and during the week, by night, preaching -from cabin to cabin the gospel of his heavenly Master.</p> - -<p>The angriest lightnings of the sultriest skies often -played amid the darkness upon those sacred coat-tails<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span> -and around that girdle of everlasting texts, as though -the evil spirits of the air would fain have burned them -and scattered their ashes on the roaring winds. The -slow-sifting snows of winter whitened them as though -to chill their spiritual fires; but winter and summer, -year after year, in weariness of body, often in sore -distress of mind, for miles along this lonely road and -for miles across that rugged way, Peter trudged on -and on, withal perhaps as meek a spirit as ever grew -foot sore in the paths of its Master. Many a poor overburdened -slave took fresh heart and strength from the -sight of that celestial raiment; many a stubborn, rebellious -spirit, whose flesh but lately quivered under the -lash, was brought low by its humble teaching; many a -worn-out old frame, racked with pain in its last illness, -pressed a fevered lip to its hopeful hem; and many a -dying eye closed in death peacefully fixed on its immortal -pledges.</p> - -<p>When Peter started abroad, if a storm threatened, he -carried an old cotton umbrella of immense size; and as -the storm burst, he gathered the tails of his coat carefully -up under his armpits that they might be kept -dry. Or if caught by a tempest without his umbrella, he -would take his coat off and roll it up inside out, leaving -his body exposed to the fury of the elements. No care, -however, could keep it from growing old and worn and -faded; and when the slaves were set free and he was -called upon by the interposition of Providence to lay it -finally aside, it was covered by many a patch and stain -as proofs of its devoted usage.</p> - -<p>One after another the colonel's old servants, gathering -their children about them, had left him, to begin -their new life. He bade them all a kind good-bye, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span> -into the palm of each silently pressed some gift that he -knew would soon be needed. But no inducement could -make Peter or Phillis, his wife, budge from their cabin. -"Go, Peter! Go, Phillis!" the colonel had said time -and again. "No one is happier that you are free than -I am; and you can call on me for what you need to set -you up in business." But Peter and Phillis asked to -stay with him. Then suddenly, several months before -the time at which this sketch opens, Phillis had died, -leaving the colonel and Peter as the only relics of that -populous life which had once filled the house and the cabins. -The colonel had succeeded in hiring a woman to -do Phillis's work; but her presence was a strange note of -discord in the old domestic harmony, and only saddened -the recollections of its vanished peace.</p> - -<p>Peter had a short, stout figure, dark-brown skin, -smooth-shaven face, eyes round, deep-set and wide -apart, and a short, stub nose which dipped suddenly -into his head, making it easy for him to wear the silver-rimmed -spectacles left him by his old mistress. A peculiar -conformation of the muscles between the eyes -and the nose gave him the quizzical expression of one -who is about to sneeze, and this was heightened by a -twinkle in the eyes which seemed caught from the -shining of an inner sun upon his tranquil heart.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, however, his face grew sad enough. It -was sad on this afternoon while he watched the colonel -walk slowly up the pavement, well overgrown with -weeds, and enter the house, which the setting sun -touched with the last radiance of the finished day.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">NEW LIFE.</p> - -<p>About two years after the close of the war, therefore, -the colonel and Peter were to be found in Lexington, -ready to turn over a new leaf in the volumes of their -lives, which already had an old-fashioned binding, a -somewhat musty odor, and but few unwritten leaves -remaining.</p> - -<p>After a long, dry summer you may have seen two -gnarled old apple-trees, that stood with interlocked -arms on the western slope of some quiet hill-side, make -a melancholy show of blooming out again in the autumn -of the year and dallying with the idle buds that -mock their sapless branches. Much the same was -the belated, fruitless efflorescence of the colonel and -Peter.</p> - -<p>The colonel had no business habits, no political ambition, -no wish to grow richer. He was too old for society, -and without near family ties. For some time he -wandered through the streets like one lost—sick with -yearning for the fields and woods, for his cattle, for -familiar faces. He haunted Cheapside and the court-house -square, where the farmers always assembled when -they came to town; and if his eye lighted on one, he -would button-hole him on the street-corner and lead -him into a grocery and sit down for a quiet chat. Sometimes -he would meet an aimless, melancholy wanderer -like himself, and the two would go off and discuss over -and over again their departed days; and several times -he came unexpectedly upon some of his old servants -who had fallen into bitter want, and who more than repaid -him for the help he gave by contrasting the hard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span>ships -of a life of freedom with the ease of their shackled -years.</p> - -<p>In the course of time, he could but observe that human -life in the town was reshaping itself slowly and -painfully, but with resolute energy. The colossal structure -of slavery had fallen, scattering its ruins far and -wide over the State; but out of the very débris was being -taken the material to lay the deeper foundations of -the new social edifice. Men and women as old as he -were beginning life over and trying to fit themselves for -it by changing the whole attitude and habit of their -minds—by taking on a new heart and spirit. But when -a great building falls, there is always some rubbish, -and the colonel and others like him were part of this. -Henceforth they possessed only an antiquarian sort of -interest, like the stamped bricks of Nebuchadnezzar.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he made a show of doing something, -and in a year or two opened on Cheapside a store for -the sale of hardware and agricultural implements. He -knew more about the latter than anything else; and, -furthermore, he secretly felt that a business of this kind -would enable him to establish in town a kind of headquarters -for the farmers. His account-books were to -be kept on a system of twelve months' credit; and he -resolved that if one of his customers couldn't pay then, -it would make no difference.</p> - -<p>Business began slowly. The farmers dropped in and -found a good lounging-place. On county-court days, -which were great market-days for the sale of sheep, -horses, mules, and cattle in front of the colonel's door, -they swarmed in from the hot sun and sat around on -the counter and the ploughs and machines till the entrance -was blocked to other customers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span></p> - -<p>When a customer did come in, the colonel, who was -probably talking with some old acquaintance, would -tell him just to look around and pick out what he -wanted and the price would be all right. If one of -those acquaintances asked for a pound of nails, the -colonel would scoop up some ten pounds and say, -"I reckon that's about a pound, Tom." He had never -seen a pound of nails in his life; and if one had been -weighed on his scales, he would have said the scales -were wrong.</p> - -<p>He had no great idea of commercial despatch. One -morning a lady came in for some carpet-tacks, an article -that he had forgotten to lay in. But he at once sent -off an order for enough to have tacked a carpet pretty -well all over Kentucky; and when they came, two weeks -later, he told Peter to take her up a dozen papers with -his compliments. He had laid in, however, an ample -and especially fine assortment of pocket-knives, for that -instrument had always been to him one of gracious and -very winning qualities. Then when a friend dropped -in he would say, "General, don't you need a new pocket-knife?" -and, taking out one, would open all the blades -and commend the metal and the handle. The "general" -would inquire the price, and the colonel, having -shut the blades, would hand it to him, saying in a careless, -fond way, "I reckon I won't charge you anything -for that." His mind could not come down to the low -level of such ignoble barter, and he gave away the whole -case of knives.</p> - -<p>These were the pleasanter aspects of his business life -which did not lack as well its tedium and crosses. Thus -there were many dark stormy days when no one he -cared to see came in; and he then became rather a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span> -pathetic figure, wandering absently around amid the -symbols of his past activity, and stroking the ploughs, -like dumb companions. Or he would stand at the door -and look across at the old court-house, where he had -seen many a slave sold and had listened to the great -Kentucky orators.</p> - -<p>But what hurt him most was the talk of the new -farming and the abuse of the old which he was forced -to hear; and he generally refused to handle the improved -implements and mechanical devices by which -labor and waste were to be saved.</p> - -<p>Altogether he grew tired of "the thing," and sold out -at the end of the year with a loss of over a thousand -dollars, though he insisted he had done a good business.</p> - -<p>As he was then seen much on the streets again and -several times heard to make remarks in regard to the -sidewalks, gutters, and crossings, when they happened -to be in bad condition, the <cite>Daily Press</cite> one morning -published a card stating that if Colonel Romulus Fields -would consent to make the race for mayor he would -receive the support of many Democrats, adding a tribute -to his virtues and his influential past. It touched -the colonel, and he walked down-town with a rather -commanding figure the next morning. But it pained -him to see how many of his acquaintances returned -his salutations very coldly; and just as he was passing -the Northern Bank he met the young opposition candidate—a -little red-haired fellow, walking between two -ladies, with a rose-bud in his button-hole—who refused -to speak at all, but made the ladies laugh by some remark -he uttered as the colonel passed. The card had -been inserted humorously, but he took it seriously; and -when his friends found this out, they rallied round him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span> -The day of election drew near. They told him he must -buy votes. He said he wouldn't buy a vote to be mayor -of the New Jerusalem. They told him he must "mix" -and "treat." He refused. Foreseeing he had no chance, -they besought him to withdraw. He said he would not. -They told him he wouldn't poll twenty votes. He replied -that <em>one</em> would satisfy him, provided it was neither -begged nor bought. When his defeat was announced, -he accepted it as another evidence that he had no part -in the present—no chance of redeeming his idleness.</p> - -<p>A sense of this weighed heavily on him at times; but -it is not likely that he realized how pitifully he was undergoing -a moral shrinkage in consequence of mere disuse. -Actually, extinction had set in with him long -prior to dissolution, and he was dead years before his -heart ceased beating. The very basic virtues on which -had rested his once spacious and stately character were -now but the mouldy corner-stones of a crumbling ruin.</p> - -<p>It was a subtle evidence of deterioration in manliness -that he had taken to dress. When he had lived in the -country, he had never dressed up unless he came to -town. When he had moved to town, he thought he -must remain dressed up all the time; and this fact first -fixed his attention on a matter which afterwards began -to be loved for its own sake. Usually he wore a Derby -hat, a black diagonal coat, gray trousers, and a white -necktie. But the article of attire in which he took chief -pleasure was hose; and the better to show the gay colors -of these, he wore low-cut shoes of the finest calf-skin, -turned up at the toes. Thus his feet kept pace -with the present, however far his head may have lagged -in the past; and it may be that this stream of fresh -fashions, flowing perennially over his lower extremities<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span> -like water about the roots of a tree, kept him from drying -up altogether.</p> - -<p>Peter always polished his shoes with too much blacking, -perhaps thinking that the more the blacking the -greater the proof of love. He wore his clothes about a -season and a half—having several suits—and then -passed them on to Peter, who, foreseeing the joy of -such an inheritance, bought no new ones. In the act -of transferring them the colonel made no comment until -he came to the hose, from which he seemed unable -to part without a final tribute of esteem, as: "These -are fine, Peter;" or, "Peter, these are nearly as good -as new." Thus Peter, too, was dragged through the -whims of fashion. To have seen the colonel walking -about his grounds and garden followed by Peter, just a -year and a half behind in dress and a yard and a half -behind in space, one might well have taken the rear figure -for the colonel's double, slightly the worse for wear, -somewhat shrunken, and cast into a heavy shadow.</p> - -<p>Time hung so heavily on his hands at night that with -a happy inspiration he added a dress suit to his wardrobe, -and accepted the first invitation to an evening -party.</p> - -<p>He grew excited as the hour approached, and dressed -in a great fidget for fear he should be too late.</p> - -<p>"How do I look, Peter?" he inquired at length, surprised -at his own appearance.</p> - -<p>"Splendid, Marse Rom," replied Peter, bringing in -the shoes with more blacking on them than ever before.</p> - -<p>"I think," said the colonel, apologetically—"I think -I'd look better if I'd put a little powder on. I don't -know what makes me so red in the face."</p> - -<p>But his heart began to sink before he reached his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> -hostess's, and he had a fearful sense of being the observed -of all observers as he slipped through the hall -and passed rapidly up to the gentlemen's room. He -stayed there after the others had gone down, bewildered -and lonely, dreading to go down himself. By-and-by -the musicians struck up a waltz, and with a -little cracked laugh at his own performance he cut a -few shines of an unremembered pattern; but his ankles -snapped audibly, and he suddenly stopped with the -thought of what Peter would say if he should catch him -at these antics. Then he boldly went down-stairs.</p> - -<p>He had touched the new human life around him at -various points: as he now stretched out his arms -towards its society, for the first time he completely realized -how far removed it was from him. Here he saw -a younger generation—the flowers of the new social -order—sprung from the very soil of fraternal battle-fields, -but blooming together as the emblems of oblivious -peace. He saw fathers, who had fought madly on -opposite sides, talking quietly in corners as they watched -their children dancing, or heard them toasting their old -generals and their campaigns over their champagne in -the supper-room. He was glad of it; but it made him -feel, at the same time, that, instead of treading the -velvety floors, he ought to step up and take his place -among the canvases of old-time portraits that looked -down from the walls.</p> - -<p>The dancing he had done had been not under the -blinding glare of gaslight, but by the glimmer of tallow-dips -and star-candles and the ruddy glow of cavernous -firesides—not to the accompaniment of an orchestra of -wind-instruments and strings, but to a chorus of girls' -sweet voices, as they trod simpler measures, or to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span> -maddening sway of a gray-haired negro fiddler standing -on a chair in the chimney corner. Still, it is significant -to note that his saddest thought, long after leaving, -was that his shirt bosom had not lain down smooth, but -stuck out like a huge cracked egg-shell; and that when, -in imitation of the others, he had laid his white silk -handkerchief across his bosom inside his vest, it had -slipped out during the evening, and had been found by -him, on confronting a mirror, flapping over his stomach -like a little white masonic apron.</p> - -<p>"Did you have a nice time, Marse Rom?" inquired -Peter, as they drove home through the darkness.</p> - -<p>"Splendid time, Peter, splendid time," replied the -colonel, nervously.</p> - -<p>"Did you dance any, Marse Rom?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't <em>dance</em>. Oh, I <em>could</em> have danced if I'd <em>wanted</em> -to; but I didn't."</p> - -<p>Peter helped the colonel out of the carriage with pitying -gentleness when they reached home. It was the first -and only party.</p> - -<p>Peter also had been finding out that his occupation -was gone.</p> - -<p>Soon after moving to town, he had tendered his pastoral -services to one of the fashionable churches of the -city—not because it was fashionable, but because it -was made up of his brethren. In reply he was invited -to preach a trial sermon, which he did with gracious -unction.</p> - -<p>It was a strange scene, as one calm Sunday morning -he stood on the edge of the pulpit, dressed in a suit of -the colonel's old clothes, with one hand in his trousers-pocket, -and his lame leg set a little forward at an angle -familiar to those who know the statues of Henry Clay.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span></p> - -<p>How self-possessed he seemed, yet with what a rush -of memories did he pass his eyes slowly over that vast -assemblage of his emancipated people! With what -feelings must he have contrasted those silk hats, and -walking-canes, and broadcloths; those gloves and satins, -laces and feathers, jewelry and fans—that whole -many-colored panorama of life—with the weary, sad, -and sullen audiences that had often heard him of old -under the forest trees or by the banks of some turbulent -stream!</p> - -<p>In a voice husky, but heard beyond the flirtation of -the uttermost pew, he took his text: "Consider the -lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither -do they spin." From this he tried to preach a new sermon, -suited to the newer day. But several times the -thoughts of the past were too much for him, and he -broke down with emotion.</p> - -<p>The next day a grave committee waited on him and -reported that the sense of the congregation was to call -a colored gentleman from Louisville. Private objections -to Peter were that he had a broken leg, wore Colonel -Fields's second-hand clothes, which were too big for -him, preached in the old-fashioned way, and lacked -self-control and repose of manner.</p> - -<p>Peter accepted his rebuff as sweetly as Socrates -might have done. Humming the burden of an old hymn, -he took his righteous coat from a nail in the wall and -folded it away in a little brass-nailed deer-skin trunk, -laying over it the spelling-book and the <cite>Pilgrim's Progress</cite>, -which he had ceased to read. Thenceforth his -relations to his people were never intimate, and even -from the other servants of the colonel's household he -stood apart. But the colonel took Peter's rejection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span> -greatly to heart, and the next morning gave him the -new silk socks he had worn at the party. In paying his -servants the colonel would sometimes say, "Peter, I -reckon I'd better begin to pay you a salary; that's the -style now." But Peter would turn off, saying he didn't -"have no use fur no salary."</p> - -<p>Thus both of them dropped more and more out of -life, but as they did so drew more and more closely to -each other. The colonel had bought a home on the -edge of the town, with some ten acres of beautiful ground -surrounding. A high osage-orange hedge shut it in, -and forest trees, chiefly maples and elms, gave to the -lawn and house abundant shade. Wild-grape vines, the -Virginia-creeper, and the climbing-oak swung their long -festoons from summit to summit, while honeysuckles, -clematis, and the Mexican-vine clambered over arbors -and trellises, or along the chipped stone of the low, -old-fashioned house. Just outside the door of the colonel's -bedroom slept an ancient, broken sundial.</p> - -<p>The place seemed always in half-shadow, with hedgerows -of box, clumps of dark holly, darker firs half a century -old, and aged, crape-like cedars.</p> - -<p>It was in the seclusion of this retreat, which looked -almost like a wild bit of country set down on the edge -of the town, that the colonel and Peter spent more of -their time as they fell farther in the rear of onward -events. There were no such flower-gardens in the city, -and pretty much the whole town went thither for its -flowers, preferring them to those that were to be had -for a price at the nurseries.</p> - -<p>There was, perhaps, a suggestion of pathetic humor in -the fact that it should have called on the colonel and -Peter, themselves so nearly defunct, to furnish the flow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span>ers -for so many funerals; but, it is certain, almost weekly -the two old gentlemen received this chastening admonition -of their all-but-spent mortality. The colonel -cultivated the rarest fruits also, and had under glass -varieties that were not friendly to the climate; so that -by means of the fruits and flowers there was established -a pleasant social bond with many who otherwise would -never have sought them out.</p> - -<p>But others came for better reasons. To a few deep-seeing -eyes the colonel and Peter were ruined landmarks -on a fading historic landscape, and their devoted friendship -was the last steady burning-down of that pure -flame of love which can never again shine out in the -future of the two races. Hence a softened charm invested -the drowsy quietude of that shadowy paradise -in which the old master without a slave and the old -slave without a master still kept up a brave pantomime -of their obsolete relations. No one ever saw in their -intercourse ought but the finest courtesy, the most delicate -consideration. The very tones of their voices in -addressing each other were as good as sermons on gentleness, -their antiquated playfulness as melodious as -the babble of distant water. To be near them was to -be exorcised of evil passions.</p> - -<p>The sun of their day had indeed long since set; but -like twin clouds lifted high and motionless into some -far quarter of the gray twilight skies, they were still radiant -with the glow of the invisible orb.</p> - -<p>Henceforth the colonel's appearances in public were -few and regular. He went to church on Sundays, -where he sat on the edge of the choir in the centre of -the building, and sang an ancient bass of his own improvisation -to the older hymns, and glanced furtively<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span> -around to see whether any one noticed that he could not -sing the new ones. At the Sunday-school picnics the -committee of arrangements allowed him to carve the -mutton, and after dinner to swing the smallest children -gently beneath the trees. He was seen on Commencement -Day at Morrison Chapel, where he always -gave his bouquet to the valedictorian. It was the -speech of that young gentleman that always touched -him, consisting as it did of farewells.</p> - -<p>In the autumn he might sometimes be noticed sitting -high up in the amphitheatre at the fair, a little blue -around the nose, and looking absently over into the -ring where the judges were grouped around the music-stand. -Once he had strutted around as a judge himself, -with a blue ribbon in his button-hole, while the -band played "Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," and "Gentle -Annie." The ring seemed full of young men now, and -no one even thought of offering him the privileges of -the grounds. In his day the great feature of the exhibition -had been cattle; now everything was turned -into a horse-show. He was always glad to get home -again to Peter, his true yoke-fellow. For just as two -old oxen—one white and one black—that have long -toiled under the same yoke will, when turned out to -graze at last in the widest pasture, come and put themselves -horn to horn and flank to flank, so the colonel and -Peter were never so happy as when ruminating side by -side.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">NEW LOVE.</p> - -<p>In their eventless life the slightest incident acquired -the importance of a history. Thus, one day in June, -Peter discovered a young couple love-making in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span> -shrubbery, and with the deepest agitation reported the -fact to the colonel.</p> - -<p>Never before, probably, had the fluttering of the dear -god's wings brought more dismay than to these ancient -involuntary guardsmen of his hiding-place. The colonel -was at first for breaking up what he considered a piece -of underhand proceedings, but Peter reasoned stoutly -that if the pair were driven out they would simply go to -some other retreat; and without getting the approval of -his conscience to this view, the colonel contented himself -with merely repeating that they ought to go straight -and tell the girl's parents. Those parents lived just -across the street outside his grounds. The young lady -he knew very well himself, having a few years before -given her the privilege of making herself at home among -his flowers. It certainly looked hard to drive her out -now, just when she was making the best possible use of -his kindness and her opportunity. Moreover, Peter -walked down street and ascertained that the young fellow -was an energetic farmer living a few miles from -town, and son of one of the colonel's former friends; on -both of which accounts the latter's heart went out to -him. So when, a few days later, the colonel, followed -by Peter, crept up breathlessly and peeped through the -bushes at the pair strolling along the shady perfumed -walks, and so plainly happy in that happiness which -comes but once in a lifetime, they not only abandoned -the idea of betraying the secret, but afterwards kept -away from that part of the grounds, lest they should be -an interruption.</p> - -<p>"Peter," stammered the colonel, who had been trying -to get the words out for three days, "do you suppose -he has already—<em>asked</em> her?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span></p> - -<p>"Some's pow'ful quick on de trigger, en some's -mighty slow," replied Peter, neutrally. "En some," he -added, exhaustively, "don't use de trigger 't all!"</p> - -<p>"I always thought there had to be asking done by -<em>somebody</em>," remarked the colonel, a little vaguely.</p> - -<p>"I nuver axed Phillis!" exclaimed Peter, with a certain -air of triumph.</p> - -<p>"Did Phillis ask <em>you</em>, Peter?" inquired the colonel, -blushing and confidential.</p> - -<p>"No, no, Marse Rom! I couldn't er stood dat from -no 'oman!" replied Peter, laughing and shaking his -head.</p> - -<p>The colonel was sitting on the stone steps in front of -the house, and Peter stood below, leaning against a -Corinthian column, hat in hand, as he went on to tell -his love-story.</p> - -<p>"Hit all happ'n dis way, Marse Rom. We wuz gwine -have pra'r-meetin', en I 'lowed to walk home wid Phillis -en ax 'er on de road. I been 'lowin' to ax 'er heap o' -times befo', but I ain' jes nuver done so. So I says to -myse'f, says I, 'I jes mek my sermon to-night kiner lead -up to whut I gwine tell Phillis on de road home.' So I -tuk my tex' from de <em>lef'</em> tail o' my coat: 'De greates' o' -dese is charity;' caze I knowed charity wuz same ez -love. En all de time I wuz preachin' an' glorifyin' -charity en identifyin' charity wid love, I couldn' he'p -thinkin' 'bout what I gwine say to Phillis on de road -home. Dat mek me feel better; en de better I <em>feel</em>, de -better I <em>preach</em>, so hit boun' to mek my <em>heahehs</em> feel better -likewise—Phillis 'mong um. So Phillis she jes sot -dah listenin' en listenin' en lookin' like we wuz a'ready -on de road home, till I got so wuked up in my feelin's I -jes knowed de time wuz come. By-en-by, I had n' mo'<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span> -'n done preachin' en wuz lookin' roun' to git my Bible -en my hat, 'fo' up popped dat big Charity Green, who -been settin' 'longside o' Phillis en tekin' ev'y las' thing I -said to <em>her</em>se'f. En she tuk hole o' my han' en squeeze -it, en say she felt mos' like shoutin'. En 'fo' I knowed -it, I jes see Phillis wrap 'er shawl roun' 'er head en tu'n -'er nose up at me right quick en flip out de dooh. De -dogs howl mighty mou'nful when I walk home by myse'f -<em>dat</em> night," added Peter, laughing to himself, "en I -ain' preach dat sermon no mo' tell atter me en Phillis -wuz married.</p> - -<p>"Hit wuz long time," he continued, "'fo' Phillis come -to heah me preach any mo'. But 'long 'bout de nex' -fall we had big meetin', en heap mo' um j'ined. But -Phillis, she ain't nuver j'ined yit. I preached mighty -nigh all roun' my coat-tails till I say to myse'f, D' ain't -but one tex' lef', en I jes got to fetch 'er wid dat! De -tex' wuz on de <em>right</em> tail o' my coat: 'Come unto me, -all ye dat labor en is heavy laden.' Hit wuz a ve'y momentous -sermon, en all 'long I jes see Phillis wras'lin' -wid 'erse'f, en I say, 'She <em>got</em> to come <em>dis</em> night, de -Lohd he'pin' me.' En I had n' mo' 'n said de word, 'fo' -she jes walked down en guv me 'er han'.</p> - -<p>"Den we had de baptizin' in Elkhorn Creek, en de -watter wuz deep en de curren' tol'ble swif'. Hit look to -me like dere wuz five hundred uv um on de creek side. -By-en-by I stood on de edge o' de watter, en Phillis she -come down to let me baptize 'er. En me en 'er j'ined -han's en waded out in the creek, mighty slow, caze -Phillis didn' have no shot roun' de bottom uv 'er dress, -en it kep' bobbin' on top de watter till I pushed it down. -But by-en-by we got 'way out in de creek, en bof uv us -wuz tremblin'. En I says to 'er ve'y kin'ly, 'When I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span> -put you un'er de watter, Phillis, you mus' try en hole -yo'se'f stiff, so I can lif' you up easy.' But I hadn't -mo' 'n jes got 'er laid back over de watter ready to -souze 'er un'er when 'er feet flew up off de bottom uv -de creek, en when I retched out to fetch 'er up, I stepped -in a hole; en 'fo' I knowed it, we wuz flounderin' roun' -in de watter, en de hymn dey was singin' on de -bank sounded mighty confused-like. En Phillis she -swallowed some watter, en all 't oncet she jes grap -me right tight roun' de neck, en say mighty quick, -says she, 'I gwine marry whoever gits me out'n dis yere -watter!'</p> - -<p>"En by-en-by, when me en 'er wuz walkin' up de -bank o' de creek, drippin' all over, I says to 'er, says I:</p> - -<p>"'Does you 'member what you said back yon'er in -de watter, Phillis?'</p> - -<p>"'I ain' out'n no watter yit,' says she, ve'y contemptuous.</p> - -<p>"'When does, you consider yo'se'f out'n de watter?' -says I, ve'y humble.</p> - -<p>"'When I git dese soakin' clo'es off'n my back,' -says she.</p> - -<p>"Hit wuz good dark when we got home, en atter a -while I crope up to de dooh o' Phillis's cabin en put -my eye down to de key-hole, en see Phillis jes settin' -'fo' dem blazin' walnut logs dressed up in 'er new red -linsey dress, en 'er eyes shinin'. En I shuk so I 'mos' -faint. Den I tap easy on de dooh, en say in a mighty -tremblin' tone, says I:</p> - -<p>"'Is you out'n de watter yit, Phillis?'</p> - -<p>"'I got on dry dress,' says she.</p> - -<p>"'Does you 'member what you said back yon'er in -de watter, Phillis?' says I.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span></p> - -<p>"'De latch-string on de outside de dooh,' says she, -mighty sof'.</p> - -<p>"En I walked in."</p> - -<p>As Peter drew near the end of this reminiscence, his -voice sank to a key of inimitable tenderness; and when -it was ended he stood a few minutes, scraping the gravel -with the toe of his boot, his head dropped forward. -Then he added, huskily:</p> - -<p>"Phillis been dead heap o' years now;" and turned -away.</p> - -<p>This recalling of the scenes of a time long gone by -may have awakened in the breast of the colonel some -gentle memory; for after Peter was gone he continued -to sit a while in silent musing. Then getting up, he -walked in the falling twilight across the yard and -through the gardens until he came to a secluded spot -in the most distant corner. There he stooped or rather -knelt down and passed his hands, as though with -mute benediction, over a little bed of old-fashioned -China pinks. When he had moved in from the country -he had brought nothing away from his mother's garden -but these, and in all the years since no one had ever -pulled them, as Peter well knew; for one day the -colonel had said, with his face turned away:</p> - -<p>"Let them have all the flowers they want; but leave -the pinks."</p> - -<p>He continued kneeling over them now, touching them -softly with his fingers, as though they were the fragrant, -never-changing symbols of voiceless communion with -his past. Still it may have been only the early dew of -the evening that glistened on them when he rose and -slowly walked away, leaving the pale moonbeams to -haunt the spot.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span></p> - -<p>Certainly after this day he showed increasing concern -in the young lovers who were holding clandestine -meetings in his grounds.</p> - -<p>"Peter," he would say, "why, if they love each other, -don't they get married? Something may happen."</p> - -<p>"I been spectin' some'n' to happ'n fur some time, ez -dey been quar'lin' right smart lately," replied Peter, -laughing.</p> - -<p>Whether or not he was justified in this prediction, -before the end of another week the colonel read a notice -of their elopement and marriage; and several days -later he came up from down-town and told Peter that -everything had been forgiven the young pair, who had -gone to house-keeping in the country. It gave him -pleasure to think he had helped to perpetuate the race -of blue-grass farmers.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">THE YEARNING PASSED AWAY.</p> - -<p>It was in the twilight of a late autumn day in the -same year that nature gave the colonel the first direct -intimation to prepare for the last summons. They had -been passing along the garden walks, where a few pale -flowers were trying to flourish up to the very winter's -edge, and where the dry leaves had gathered unswept -and rustled beneath their feet. All at once the colonel -turned to Peter, who was a yard and a half behind, as -usual, and said:</p> - -<p>"Give me your arm, Peter, I feel tired;" and thus the -two, for the first time in all their lifetime walking -abreast, passed slowly on.</p> - -<p>"Peter," said the colonel, gravely, a minute or two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span> -later, "we are like two dried-up stalks of fodder. I -wonder the Lord lets us live any longer."</p> - -<p>"I reck'n He's managin' to use us <em>some</em> way, or we -wouldn' be heah," said Peter.</p> - -<p>"Well, all I have to say is, that if He's using me, He -can't be in much of a hurry for his work," replied the -colonel.</p> - -<p>"He uses snails, en I <em>know</em> we ain' ez slow ez <em>dem</em>," -argued Peter, composedly.</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I think a snail must have made -more progress since the war than I have."</p> - -<p>The idea of his uselessness seemed to weigh on him, -for a little later he remarked, with a sort of mortified -smile:</p> - -<p>"Do you think, Peter, that we would pass for what -they call representative men of the New South?"</p> - -<p>"We done <em>had</em> ou' day, Marse Rom," replied Peter. -"We got to pass fur what we <em>wuz</em>. Mebbe de <em>Lohd's</em> -got mo' use fur us yit 'n <em>people</em> has," he added, after a -pause.</p> - -<p>From this time on the colonel's strength gradually -failed him; but it was not until the following spring -that the end came.</p> - -<p>A night or two before his death his mind wandered -backward, after the familiar manner of the dying, and -his delirious dreams showed the shifting, faded pictures -that renewed themselves for the last time on his wasting -memory. It must have been that he was once more -amid the scenes of his active farm life, for his broken -snatches of talk ran thus:</p> - -<p>"Come, boys, get your cradles! Look where the sun -is! You are late getting to work this morning. That -is the finest field of wheat in the county. Be careful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span> -about the bundles! Make them the same size and tie -them tight. That swath is too wide, and you don't hold -your cradle right, Tom....</p> - -<p>"Sell <em>Peter</em>! <em>Sell Peter Cotton!</em> No, sir! You might -buy <em>me</em> some day and work <em>me</em> in your cotton-field; -but as long as he's mine, you can't buy Peter, and you -can't buy any of <em>my</em> negroes....</p> - -<p>"Boys! boys! If you don't work faster, you won't -finish this field to-day.... You'd better go in the shade -and rest now. The sun's very hot. Don't drink too -much ice-water. There's a jug of whisky in the fence-corner. -Give them a good dram around, and tell them -to work slow till the sun gets lower." ...</p> - -<p>Once during the night a sweet smile played over his -features as he repeated a few words that were part of -an old rustic song and dance. Arranged, not as they -came broken and incoherent from his lips, but as he -once had sung them, they were as follows:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">"O Sister PhÅ“be! How merry were we</div> - <div class="verse">When we sat under the juniper-tree,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">The juniper-tree, heigho!</div> - <div class="verse">Put this hat on your head! Keep your head warm;</div> - <div class="verse">Take a sweet kiss! It will do you no harm,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Do you no harm, I know!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>After this he sank into a quieter sleep, but soon stirred -with a look of intense pain.</p> - -<p>"Helen! Helen!" he murmured. "Will you break -your promise? Have you changed in your feelings -towards me? I have brought you the pinks. Won't -you take the pinks, Helen?"</p> - -<p>Then he sighed as he added, "It wasn't her fault. -If she had only known—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span></p> - -<p>Who was the Helen of that far-away time? Was this -the colonel's love-story?</p> - -<p>But during all the night, whithersoever his mind wandered, -at intervals it returned to the burden of a single -strain—the harvesting. Towards daybreak he took it -up again for the last time:</p> - -<p>"O boys, boys, <em>boys</em>! If you don't work faster you -won't finish the field to-day. Look how low the sun -is!... I am going to the house. They can't finish the -field to-day. Let them do what they can, but don't let -them work late. I want Peter to go to the house with -me. Tell him to come on." ...</p> - -<p>In the faint gray of the morning, Peter, who had been -watching by the bedside all night, stole out of the room, -and going into the garden pulled a handful of pinks—a -thing he had never done before—and, re-entering the -colonel's bedroom, put them in a vase near his sleeping -face. Soon afterwards the colonel opened his eyes and -looked around him. At the foot of the bed stood Peter, -and on one side sat the physician and a friend. The -night-lamp burned low, and through the folds of the -curtains came the white light of early day.</p> - -<p>"Put out the lamp and open the curtains," he said, -feebly. "It's day." When they had drawn the curtains -aside, his eyes fell on the pinks, sweet and fresh -with the dew on them. He stretched out his hand and -touched them caressingly, and his eyes sought Peter's -with a look of grateful understanding.</p> - -<p>"I want to be alone with Peter for a while," he said, -turning his face towards the others.</p> - -<p>When they were left alone, it was some minutes before -anything was said. Peter, not knowing what he did, -but knowing what was coming, had gone to the win<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span>dow -and hid himself behind the curtains, drawing them -tightly around his form as though to shroud himself -from sorrow.</p> - -<p>At length the colonel said, "Come here!"</p> - -<p>Peter, almost staggering forward, fell at the foot of -the bed, and, clasping the colonel's feet with one arm, -pressed his cheek against them.</p> - -<p>"Come closer!"</p> - -<p>Peter crept on his knees and buried his head on the -colonel's thigh.</p> - -<p>"Come up here—<em>closer</em>;" and putting one arm around -Peter's neck he laid the other hand softly on his head, -and looked long and tenderly into his eyes. "I've got -to leave you, Peter. Don't you feel sorry for me?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Marse Rom!" cried Peter, hiding his face, his -whole form shaken by sobs.</p> - -<p>"Peter," added, the colonel with ineffable gentleness, -"if I had served my Master as faithfully as you have -served yours, I should not feel ashamed to stand in his -presence."</p> - -<p>"If my Marseter is ez mussiful to me ez you have -been—"</p> - -<p>"I have fixed things so that you will be comfortable -after I am gone. When your time comes, I should like -you to be laid close to me. We can take the long sleep -together. Are you willing?"</p> - -<p>"That's whar I want to be laid."</p> - -<p>The colonel stretched out his hand to the vase, and -taking the bunch of pinks, said very calmly:</p> - -<p>"Leave these in my hand; I'll carry them with me." -A moment more, and he added:</p> - -<p>"If I shouldn't wake up any more, good-bye, Peter!"</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Marse Rom!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span></p> - -<p>And they shook hands a long time. After this the -colonel lay back on the pillows. His soft, silvery hair -contrasted strongly with his child-like, unspoiled, open -face. To the day of his death, as is apt to be true of -those who have lived pure lives but never married, he -had a boyish strain in him—a softness of nature, showing -itself even now in the gentle expression of his -mouth. His brown eyes had in them the same boyish -look when, just as he was falling asleep, he scarcely -opened them to say:</p> - -<p>"Pray, Peter."</p> - -<p>Peter, on his knees, and looking across the colonel's -face towards the open door, through which the rays of -the rising sun streamed in upon his hoary head, prayed, -while the colonel fell asleep, adding a few words for -himself now left alone.</p> - -<p>Several hours later, memory led the colonel back -again through the dim gate-way of the past, and out of -that gate-way his spirit finally took flight into the future.</p> - -<p>Peter lingered a year. The place went to the colonel's -sister, but he was allowed to remain in his quarters. -With much thinking of the past, his mind fell into a -lightness and a weakness. Sometimes he would be -heard crooning the burden of old hymns, or sometimes -seen sitting beside the old brass-nailed trunk, fumbling -with the spelling-book and <cite>The Pilgrim's Progress</cite>. Often, -too, he walked out to the cemetery on the edge of -the town, and each time could hardly find the colonel's -grave amid the multitude of the dead.</p> - -<p>One gusty day in spring, the Scotch sexton, busy with -the blades of blue-grass springing from the animated -mould, saw his familiar figure standing motionless beside -the colonel's resting-place. He had taken off his hat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span> -—one of the colonel's last bequests—and laid it on the -colonel's head-stone. On his body he wore a strange -coat of faded blue, patched and weather-stained, and so -moth-eaten that parts of the curious tails had dropped -entirely away. In one hand he held an open Bible, and -on a much-soiled page he was pointing with his finger to -the following words:</p> - -<p>"I would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning -them which are asleep."</p> - -<p>It would seem that, impelled by love and faith, and -guided by his wandering reason, he had come forth to -preach his last sermon on the immortality of the soul -over the dust of his dead master.</p> - -<p>The sexton led him home, and soon afterwards a -friend, who had loved them both, laid him beside the -colonel.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps fitting that his winding-sheet should -be the vestment in which, years agone, he had preached -to his fellow-slaves in bondage; for if it so be that the -dead of this planet shall come forth from their graves -clad in the trappings of mortality, then Peter should -arise on the Resurrection Day wearing his old jeans -coat.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span></p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a><br /><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 class="invisible"><a name="THE_WHITE_COWL" id="THE_WHITE_COWL">THE WHITE COWL.</a></h2> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/white.jpg" alt="The White Cowl." /> -</div> - - -<p class="subtitle">I.</p> - -<p>In a shadowy solitary valley of Southern Kentucky -and beside a noiseless stream there stands to-day a -great French abbey of white-cowled Trappist monks. -It is the loneliest of human habitations. Though not -a ruin, an atmosphere of gray antiquity hangs about -and forever haunts it. The pale-gleaming cross on the -spire looks as though it would fall to the earth, weary -of its aged unchangeableness. The long Gothic windows; -the rudely carven wooden crucifixes, suggesting -the very infancy of holy art; the partly encompassing -wall, seemingly built to resist a siege; the iron gate of -the porter's lodge, locked against profane intrusion—all -are the voiceless but eloquent emblems of a past -that still enchains the memory by its associations as it -once enthralled the reason by its power.</p> - -<p>Over the placid stream and across the fields to the -woody crests around float only the sounds of the same -sweet monastery bells that in the quiet evening air ages -ago summoned a ruder world to nightly rest and pious -thoughts of heaven. Within the abbey at midnight are -heard the voices of monks chanting the self-same -masses that ages ago were sung by others, who all night -long from icy chapel floors lifted up piteous hands with -intercession for poor souls suffering in purgatory. One<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> -almost expects to see coming along the dusty Kentucky -road which winds through the valley meek brown palmers -returning from the Holy Sepulchre, or through an -upper window of the abbey to descry lance and visor and -battle-axe flashing in the sunlight as they wind up a distant -hill-side to the storming of some perilous citadel.</p> - -<p>Ineffable influences, too, seem to bless the spot. Here, -forsooth, some saint, retiring to the wilderness to subdue -the devil in his flesh, lived and struggled and suffered -and died, leaving his life as an heroic pattern for -others who in the same hard way should wish to win the -fullest grace of Christlike character. Perhaps even one -of the old monks, long since halting towards the close -of his pilgrimage, will reverently lead you down the aisle -to the dim sepulchre of some martyr, whose relics repose -under the altar while his virtues perpetually exhale -heavenward like gracious incense.</p> - -<p>The beauty of the region, and especially of the grounds -surrounding the abbey, thus seems but a touching mockery. -What have these inward-gazing, heavenward-gazing -souls to do with the loveliness of Nature, with change -of season, or flight of years, with green pastures and -waving harvest-fields outside the wall, with flowers and -orchards and vineyards within?</p> - -<p>It was in a remote corner of the beautiful gardens of -the monastery that a young monk, Father Palemon, was -humbly at work one morning some years ago amid the -lettuces and onions and fast-growing potatoes. The sun -smote the earth with the fierce heat of departing June; -and pausing to wipe the thick bead of perspiration from -his forehead, he rested a moment, breathing heavily. -His powerful legs were astride a row of the succulent -shoots, and his hands clasped the handle of the hoe that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span> -gave him a staff-like support in front. He was dressed -in the sacred garb of his order. His heavy sabots crushed -the clods in the furrows. His cream-colored serge -cowl, the long skirt of which would have touched the -ground, had been folded up to his knees and tied with -hempen cords. The wide sleeves, falling away, showed -up to the elbows the superb muscles of his bronzed -arms; and the calotte, pushed far back from his head, -revealed the outlines of his neck, full, round, like a column. -Nearly a month had passed since the convent -barber had sheared his poll, and his yellow hair was -just beginning to enrich his temples with a fillet of thick -curling locks. Had Father Palemon's hair been permitted -to grow, it would have fallen down on each side -in masses shining like flax and making the ideal head -of a saint. But his face was not the face of a saint. It -had in it no touch of the saint's agony—none of those -fine subtle lines that are the material net-work of intense -spirituality brooding within. Scant vegetarian diet and -the deep shadows of cloistral life had preserved in his -complexion the delicate hues of youth, noticeable still -beneath the tan of recent exposure to the summer sun. -His calm, steady blue eyes, also, had the open look -peculiar to self-unconscious childhood; so that as he -stood thus, tall, sinewy, supple, grave, bareheaded under -the open sky, clad in spotless white, a singular -union of strength, manliness, and unawakened innocence, -he was a figure startling to come upon.</p> - -<p>As he rested, he looked down and discovered that the -hempen cords fastening the hem of his cowl were becoming -untied, and walking to the border of grass which -ran round the garden just inside the monastery wall, he -sat down to secure the loosened threads. He was very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span> -tired. He had come forth to work before the first gray -of dawn. His lips were parched with thirst. Save the -little cup of cider and a slice of black bread with which -he had broken his fast after matins, he had not tasted -food since the frugal meal of the previous noon. Both -weary and faint, therefore, he had hardly sat down before, -in the weakness of his flesh, a sudden powerful impulse -came upon him to indulge in a moment's repose. -His fingers fell away from the untied cords, his body -sank backward against the trunk of the gnarled apple-tree -by which he was shaded, and closing his eyes, he drank -in eagerly all the sweet influences of the perfect day.</p> - -<p>For Nature was in an ecstasy. The sunlight never -fell more joyous upon the unlifting shadows of human -life. The breeze that cooled his sweating face was -heavy with the odor of the wonderful monastery roses. -In the dark green canopy overhead two piping flame-colored -orioles drained the last bright dew-drop from -the chalice of a leaf. All the liquid air was slumbrous -with the minute music of insect life, and from the honeysuckles -clambering over the wall at his back came -the murmur of the happy, happy bees.</p> - -<p>But what power have hunger and thirst and momentary -weariness over the young? Father Palemon was -himself part of the pure and beautiful nature around -him. His heart was like some great secluded crimson -flower that is ready to burst open in a passionate seeking -of the sun. As he sat thus in the midst of Nature's -joyousness and irrepressible unfoldings, and peaceful -consummations, he forgot hunger and thirst and weariness -in a feeling of delicious languor. But beneath -even this, and more subtle still, was the stir of restlessness -and the low fever of vague desire for something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span> -wholly beyond his experience. He sighed and opened -his eyes. Right before them, on the spire beyond the -gardens, was the ancient cross to which he was consecrated. -On his shoulders were the penitential wounds -he had that morning inflicted with the knotted scourge. -In his ears was the faint general chorus of saints and -martyrs, echoing backward ever more solemnly to the -very passion of Christ. While Nature was everywhere -clothing itself with living greenness, around his gaunt -body and muscular limbs—over his young head and his -coursing hot blood—he had wrapped the dead white -cowl of centuries gone as the winding-sheet of his humanity. -These were not clear thoughts in his mind, -but the vaguest suggestions of feeling, which of late had -come to him at times, and now made him sigh more -deeply as he sat up and bent over again to tie the hempen -cords. As he did so, his attention was arrested by the -sound of voices just outside the monastery wall, which -was low here, so that in the general stillness they became -entirely audible.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">II.</p> - -<p>Outside the wall was a long strip of woodland which -rose gently to the summit of a ridge half a mile away. -This woodland was but little used. Into it occasionally -a lay-brother drove the gentle monastery cows to pasture, -or here a flock sheltered itself beneath forest oaks -against the noontide summer heat. Beyond the summit -lay the homestead of a gentleman farmer. As one -descended this slope towards the abbey, he beheld it -from the most picturesque side, and visitors at the homestead -usually came to see it by this secluded approach.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span></p> - -<p>If Father Palemon could have seen beyond the wall, -he would have discovered that the voices were those of -a young man and a young woman—the former a slight, -dark cripple, and invalid. He led the way along a foot-path -up quite close to the wall, and the two sat down -beneath the shade of a great tree. Father Palemon, -listening eagerly, unconsciously, overheard the following -conversation:</p> - -<p>"I should like to take you inside the abbey wall, but, -of course, that is impossible, as no woman is allowed to -enter the grounds. So we shall rest here a while. I -find that the walk tires me more than it once did, and -this tree has become a sort of outside shrine to me on -my pilgrimages."</p> - -<p>"Do you come often?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes. When we have visitors, I am appointed -their guide, probably because I feel more interest in the -place than any one else. If they are men, I take them -over the grounds inside; and if they are women, I -bring them thus far and try to describe the rest."</p> - -<p>"As you will do for me now?"</p> - -<p>"No; I am not in the mood for describing. Even -when I am, my description always disappoints me. How -is one to describe such human beings as these monks? -Sometimes, during the long summer days, I walk over -here alone and lie for hours under this tree, until the influences -of the place have completely possessed me and I -feel wrought up to the point of description. The sensation -of a chill comes over me. Look up at these Kentucky -skies! You have never seen them before. Are there -any more delicate and tender? Well, at such times, -where they bend over this abbey, they look as hard and -cold as a sky of Landseer's. The sun seems no longer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> -to warm the pale cross on the spire yonder, the great -drifting white clouds send a shiver through me as though -uplifted snow-banks were passing over my head. I fancy -that if I were to go inside I should see the white butterflies -dropping down dead from the petals of the white -roses, finding them stiff with frost, and that the white -rabbits would be limping trembling through the frozen -grass, like the hare in 'The Eve of St. Agnes.' Everything -becomes cold to me—cold, cold, cold! The bleak -and rugged old monks themselves, in their hoary cowls, -turn to personifications of perpetual winter; and if I -were in the chapel, I should expect to meet in one of -them Keats's very beadsman—patient, holy man, meagre, -wan—whose fingers were numb while he told his -rosary, and his breath frosted as it took flight for -heaven. Ugh! I am cold now. My blood must be -getting very thin."</p> - -<p>"No; you make <em>me</em> shiver also."</p> - -<p>"At least the impression is a powerful one. I have -watched these old monks closely. Whether it is from -the weakness of vigils and fasts or from positive cold, -they all tremble—perpetually tremble. I fancy that -their souls ache as well. Are not their cowls the grave-clothes -of a death in life?"</p> - -<p>"You seem to forget, Austin, that faith warms them."</p> - -<p>"By extinguishing the fires of nature! Why should -not faith and nature grow strong together? I have spent -my life on the hill-side back yonder, as you know, and -I have had leisure enough for studying these monks. I -have tried to do them justice. At different times I have -almost lived with St. Benedict at Subiaco, and St. Patrick -on the mountain, and St. Anthony in the desert, -and St. Thomas in the cell. I understand and value<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span> -the elements of truth and beauty in the lives of the -ancient solitaries. But they belong so inalienably to -the past. We have outgrown the ideals of antiquity. -How can a man now look upon his body as his evil tenement -of flesh? How can he believe that he approaches -sainthood by destroying his manhood? The highest -type of personal holiness is said to be attained in the -cloister. That is not true. The highest type of personal -holiness is to be attained in the thick of the -world's temptations. Then it becomes sublime. It -seems to me that the heroisms worth speaking of nowadays -are active, not meditative. But why should I -say this to you, who as much as any one else have -taught me to think thus—I who myself am able to do -nothing? But though I can do nothing, I can at least -look upon the monastic ideal of life as an empty, dead, -husk, into which no man with the largest ideas of duty -will ever compress his powers. Even granting that it -develops personal holiness, this itself is but one element -in the perfect character, and not even the greatest -one."</p> - -<p>"But do you suppose that these monks have deliberately -and freely chosen their vocation? You know -perfectly well that often there are almost overwhelming -motives impelling men and women to hide themselves -away from the world—from, its sorrows, its dangers, -its temptations."</p> - -<p>"You are at least orthodox. I know that such motives -exist, but are they sufficient? Of course there was -a time when the cloister was a refuge from dangers. -Certainly that is not true in this country now. And as -for the sorrows and temptations, I say that they must -be met in the world. There is no sorrow <em>befalling</em> a man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> -in the world that he should not <em>bear</em> in the world—bear -it as well for the sake of his own character as for the -sake of helping others who suffer like him. This way -lie moral heroism and martyrdom. This way, even, lies -the utmost self-sacrifice, if one will only try to see it. -No, I have but little sympathy with such cases. The -only kind of monk who has all my sympathy is the -one that is produced by early training and education. -Take a boy whose nature has nothing in common with -the scourge and the cell. Immure him. Never let him -get from beneath the shadow of convent walls or away -from the sound of masses and the waving of crucifixes. -Bend him, train him, break him, until he turns monk despite -nature's purposes, and ceases to be a man without -becoming a saint. I have sympathy for <em>him</em>. Sympathy! -I do not know of any violation of the law of personal -liberty that gives me so much positive suffering."</p> - -<p>"But why suffer over imaginary cases? Such constraint -belongs to the past."</p> - -<p>"On the contrary, it is just such an instance of constraint -that has colored my thoughts of this abbey. It -is this that has led me to haunt the place for years -from a sort of sad fascination. Men find their way to -this valley from the remotest parts of the world. No -one knows from what inward or outward stress they -come. They are hidden away here and their secret histories -are buried with them. But the history of one of -these fathers is known, for he has grown up here under -the shadow of these monastery walls. You may think -the story one of mediæval flavor, but I believe its counterpart -will here and there be found as long as monasteries -rise and human beings fall.</p> - -<p>"He was an illegitimate child. Who his father was,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> -no one ever so much as suspected. When his mother -died he was left a homeless waif in one of the Kentucky -towns. But some invisible eye was upon him. He was -soon afterwards brought to the boarding-school for poor -boys which is taught by the Trappist fathers here. Perhaps -this was done by his father, who wished to get -him safely out of the world. Well, he has never left -this valley since then. The fathers have been his only -friends and advisers. He has never looked on the face -of a woman since he looked into his mother's when a -child. He knows no more of the modern world—except -what the various establishments connected with the -abbey have taught him—than the most ancient hermit. -While he was in the Trappist school, during afternoons -and vacations he worked in the monastery fields with -the lay-brothers. With them he ate and slept. When -his education was finished he became a lay-brother -himself. But amid such influences the rest of the -story is foreseen; in a few years he put on the brown -robe and leathern girdle of a brother of the order, and -last year he took final vows, and now wears the white -cowl and black scapular of a priest."</p> - -<p>"But if he has never known any other life, he, most -of all, should be contented with this. It seems to me -that it would be much harder to have known human -life and then renounce it."</p> - -<p>"That is because you are used to dwell upon the -good, and strive to better the evil. No; I do not believe -that he is happy. I do not believe nature is ever -thwarted without suffering, and nature in him never -cried out for the monkish life, but against it. His first -experience with the rigors of its discipline proved nearly -fatal. He was prostrated with long illness. Only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span> -by special indulgence in food and drink was his health -restored. His system even now is not inured to the -cruel exactions of his order. You see, I have known -him for years. I was first attracted to him as a lonely -little fellow with the sad lay-brothers in the fields. As I -would pass sometimes, he would eye me with a boy's -unconscious appeal for the young and for companionship. -I have often gone into the abbey since then, to -watch and study him. He works with a terrible pent-up -energy. I know his type among the young Kentuckians. -They make poor monks. Time and again -they have come here to join the order. But all have -soon fallen away. Only Father Palemon has ever persevered -to the taking of the vows that bind him until -death. My father knew his mother and says that he is -much like her—an impulsive, passionate, trustful, beautiful -creature, with the voice of a seraph. Father Palemon -himself has the richest voice in the monks' choir. -Ah, to hear him, in the dark chapel, sing the <i lang="la">Salve Regina</i>! -The others seem to moderate their own voices, -that his may rise clear and uncommingled to the vaulted -roof. But I believe that it is only the music he feels. -He puts passion and an outcry for human sympathy into -every note. Do you wonder that I am so strongly -drawn towards him? I can give you no idea of his appearance. -I shall show you his photograph, but that -will not do it. I have often imagined you two together -by the very law of contrast. I think of you at home in -New York City, with your charities, your missions, your -energetic, untiring beneficence. You stand at one extreme. -Then I think of him at the other—doing nothing, -shut up in this valley, spending his magnificent -manhood in a never-changing, never-ending routine of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span> -sterile vigils and fasts and prayers. Oh, we should -change places, he and I! I should be in there and he -out here. He should be lying here by your side, looking -up into your face, loving you as I have loved you, -and winning you as I never can. Oh, Madeline, Madeline, -Madeline!"</p> - -<p>The rapid, broken utterance suddenly ceased.</p> - -<p>In the deep stillness that followed, Father Palemon -heard the sound of a low sob and a groan.</p> - -<p>He had sat all this time rivetted to the spot, and as -though turned into stone. He had hardly breathed. -A bright lizard gliding from out a crevice in the -wall had sunned itself in a little rift of sunshine -between his feet. A bee from the honeysuckles had -alighted unnoticed upon his hand. Others sounds had -died away from his ears, which were strained to catch -the last echoes of these strange voices from another -world.</p> - -<p>Now all at once across the gardens came the stroke -of a bell summoning to instant prayer. Why had it -suddenly grown so loud and terrible? He started up. -He forgot priestly gravity and ran—fairly ran, headlong -and in a straight course, heedless of the tender -plants that were being crushed beneath his feet. -From another part of the garden an aged brother, his -eye attracted by the sunlight glancing on a bright moving -object, paused while training a grape-vine and -watched with amazement the disorderly figure as it fled. -As he ran on, the skirts of his cowl, which he had forgotten -to tie up, came down. When at last he reached -the door of the chapel and stooped to unroll them, he -discovered that they had been draggled over the dirt -and stained against the bruised weeds until they were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span> -hardly recognizable as having once been spotless white. -A pang of shame and alarm went through him. It was -the first stain.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">III.</p> - -<p>Every morning the entire Trappist brotherhood meet -in a large room for public confession and accusation. -High at one end sits the venerable abbot; beside him, -but lower, the prior; while the fathers in white and the -brothers in brown range themselves on benches placed -against the wall on each side.</p> - -<p>It was near the close of this impressive ceremony -that Father Palemon arose, and, pushing the hood far -back from his face, looked sorrowfully around upon the -amazed company. A thrill of the tenderest sympathy -shot through them. He was the youngest by far of -their number and likeliest therefore to go astray; but -never had any one found cause to accuse him, and never -had he condemned himself. Many a head wearing -its winter of age and worldly scars had been lifted in -that sacred audience-chamber of the soul confessing to -secret sin. But not he. So awful a thing is it for a -father to accuse himself, that in utter self-abasement his -brethren throw themselves prone to the floor when he -rises. It was over the prostrate forms of his brethren -that Father Palemon now stood up erect, alone. Unearthly -spectacle! He began his confession. In the -hushed silence of the great bare chamber his voice -awoke such echoes as might have terrified the soul had -one gone into a vast vault and harangued the shrouded -dead. But he went on, sparing not himself and laying -bare his whole sin—the yielding to weariness in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span> -garden; the listening to the conversation; most of all, -the harboring of strange doubts and desires since then. -Never before had the word "woman" been breathed at -this confessional of devoted celibates. More than one -hooded, faded cheek blushed secret crimson at the -sound. The circumstances attending Father Palemon's -temptation invested it with an ancient horror. The -scene, a garden; the tempter, a woman. It was like -some modern Adam confessing his fall.</p> - -<p>His penance was severe. For a week he was not to -leave his cell, except at brief seasons. Every morning -he must scourge himself on his naked back until the -blood came. Every noon he must go about the refectory -on his knees, begging his portion of daily bread, -morsel by morsel, from his brethren, and must eat it -sitting before them on the floor. This repast was reduced -in quantity one half. An aged deaf monk took -his place in the garden.</p> - -<p>His week of penance over, Father Palemon came -forth too much weakened to do heavy work, and was -sent to relieve one of the fathers in the school. Educated -there himself, he had often before this taught its -round of familiar duties.</p> - -<p>The school is situated outside the abbey wall on a -hill-side several hundred yards away. Between it and -the abbey winds the road which enters the valley above -and goes out below, connecting two country highways. -Where it passes the abbey it offers slippery, unsafe -footing on account of a shelving bed of rock which rises -on each side as a steep embankment, and is kept moist -by overhanging trees and by a small stream that issues -from the road-side and spreads out over the whole pass. -The fathers are commanded to cross this road at a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span> -quick gait, the hood drawn completely over the face, -and the eyes bent on the ground.</p> - -<p>One sultry afternoon, a few days later, Father Palemon -had sent away his little group of pious pupils, and -seated himself to finish his work. The look of unawakened -innocence had vanished from his eyes. They -were full of thought and sorrow. A little while and, -as though weighed down with heaviness, his head sank -upon his arms, which were crossed over the desk. But -he soon lifted it with alarm. One of the violent storms -which gather and pass so quickly in the Kentucky skies -was rushing on from the south. The shock of distant -thunder sent a tremor through the building. He walked -to the window and stood for a moment watching the -rolling edge of the low storm-cloud with its plumes of -white and gray and ominous dun-green colors. Suddenly -his eyes were drawn to the road below. Around -a bend a horse came running at full speed, uncontrolled -by the rider. He clasped his hands and breathed -a prayer. Just ahead was the slippery, dangerous footing. -Another moment and horse and rider disappeared -behind the embankment. Then the horse reappeared -on the other side, without saddle or rider, rushing away -like a forerunner of the tempest.</p> - -<p>He ran down. When he reached the spot he saw lying -on the road-side the form of a woman—the creature -whom his priestly vows forbade him ever to approach. -Her face was upturned, but hidden under a great wave -of her long, loosened, brown hair. He knelt down and, -lifting the hair aside, gazed down into it.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="la">Ave Maria!</i>—Mother of God!" The disjointed exclamations -were instinctive. The first sight of beautiful -womanhood had instantly lifted his thought to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span> -utmost height of holy associations. Indeed, no sweet -face had he ever looked on but the Virgin's picture. -Many a time in the last few years had he, in moments -of restlessness, drawn near and studied it with a sudden -rush of indefinable tenderness and longing. But -beauty, such as this seemed to him, he had never dreamed -of. He bent over it, reverential, awe-stricken. Then, -as naturally as the disciple John might have succored -Mary, finding her wounded and fainting by the wayside, -he took the unconscious sufferer in his arms and -bore her to the school-room for refuge from the bursting -storm. There he quickly stripped himself of his -great soft cowl, and, spreading it on the bare floor, laid -her on it, and with cold water and his coarse monk's -handkerchief bathed away the blood that flowed from -a little wound on her temple.</p> - -<p>A few moments and she opened her eyes. He was -bending close over her, and his voice sounded as sweet -and sorrowful as a vesper bell:</p> - -<p>"Do you suffer? Are you much hurt? Your horse -must have fallen among the rocks. The girth was -broken."</p> - -<p>She sat up bewildered, and replied slowly:</p> - -<p>"I think I am only stunned. Yes, my horse fell. I -was hurrying home out of the storm. He took fright at -something and I lost control of him. What place is -this?"</p> - -<p>"This is the school of the abbey. The road passes -just below. I was standing at the window when your -horse ran past, and I brought you here."</p> - -<p>"I must go home at once. They will be anxious -about me. I am visiting at a place not more than a -mile away."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span></p> - -<p>He shook his head and pointed to the window. A -sudden gray blur of rain had effaced the landscape. -The wind shook the building.</p> - -<p>"You must remain here until the storm is over. It -will last but a little while."</p> - -<p>During this conversation she had been sitting on the -white cowl, and he, with the frankness of a wondering, -innocent child, had been kneeling quite close -beside her. Now she got up and walked to one of -the windows, looking out upon the storm, while he -retired to another window at the opposite end of the -room.</p> - -<p>What was the tempest-swept hill outside to the wild, -swift play of emotions in him? A complete revulsion -of feeling quickly succeeded his first mood. What if -she was more beautiful—far more beautiful—than the -sweet Virgin's picture in the abbey? She was a devil, -a beautiful devil. Her eyes, her hair, which had blown -against his face and around his neck, were the Devil's -implements; her form, which he had clasped in his -arms, was the Devil's subtlest hiding-place. She had -brought sin into the world. She had been the curse of -man ever since. She had tempted St. Anthony. She -had ruined many a saint, sent many a soul to purgatory, -many a soul to bell. Perhaps she was trying to send -<em>his</em> soul to hell now—now while he was alone with her -and under her influence. It was this same woman who -had broken into the peace of his life two weeks before, -for he had instantly recognized the voice as the one -that he had heard in the garden and that had been the -cause of his severe penance. Amid all his scourgings, -fasts, and prayers that voice had never left him. It -made him ache to think of what penance he must now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span> -do again on her account; and with a sudden impulse -he walked across the room, and, standing before her -with arms folded across his breast, said in a voice of -the simplest sorrow:</p> - -<p>"Why have you crossed my path-way, thus to tempt -me?"</p> - -<p>She looked at him with eyes that were calm but full -of natural surprise.</p> - -<p>"I do not understand how I have tempted you."</p> - -<p>"You tempt me to believe that woman is not the -devil she is."</p> - -<p>She was silent with confusion. The whole train of -his thought was unknown to her. It was difficult, bewildering. -A trivial answer was out of the question, -for he hung upon her expected reply with a look of -pitiable eagerness. She took refuge in the didactic.</p> - -<p>"I have nothing to say about the nature of woman. -It is vague, contradictory; it is anything, everything. -But I <em>can</em> speak to you of the lives of women; that is a -definite subject. Some women may be what you call -devils. But some are not. I thought that you recognized -the existence of saintly women within the memories -and the present pale of your church."</p> - -<p>"True. It is the women of the world who are the -devils."</p> - -<p>"You know so well the women of the world?"</p> - -<p>"I have been taught. I have been taught that if -Satan were to appear to me on my right hand and a -beautiful woman of the world on my left, I should flee -to Satan from the arms of my greater enemy. You -tempt me to believe that this is not true—to believe -that the fathers have lied to me. You tempt me to believe -that Satan would not dare to appear in your pres<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span>ence. -Is it because you are yourself a devil that you -tempt me thus?"</p> - -<p>"Should you ask me? I am a woman of the world. -I live in a city of more than a million souls—in the -company of thousands of these women-devils. I see -hundreds of them daily. I may be one myself. If you -think I am a devil, you ought not to ask me to tell you -the truth. You should not listen to me or believe me."</p> - -<p>She felt the cruelty of this. It was like replying -logically to a child who had earnestly asked to be told -something that might wreck its faith and happiness.</p> - -<p>The storm was passing. In a few minutes this -strange interview would end: he back to his cell again: -she back to the world. Already it had its deep influence -over them both. She, more than he, felt its almost -tragical gravity, and was touched by its pathos. -These two young human souls, true and pure, crossing -each other's path-way in life thus strangely, now looked -into each other's eyes, as two travellers from opposite -sides of the world meet and salute and pass in the -midst of the desert.</p> - -<p>"I shall believe whatever you tell me," he said, with -tremulous eagerness.</p> - -<p>The occasion lifted her ever-serious nature to the extraordinary; -and trying to cast the truth that she wished -to teach into the mould which would be most familiar to -him, she replied:</p> - -<p>"Do you know who are most like you monks in consecration -of life? It is the women—the good women -of the world. What are your great vows? Are they -not poverty, labor, self-denial, chastity, prayer? Well, -there is not one of these but is kept in the hearts of -good women. Only, you monks keep your vows for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span> -your own sakes, while women keep them as well for the -sakes of others. For the sake of others they live and -die poor. Sometimes they even starve. You never do -that. They work for others as you have never worked; -they pray for others as you have never prayed. In -sickness and weariness, day and night, they deny themselves -and sacrifice themselves for others as you have -never done—never can do. You keep yourselves pure. -They keep themselves pure and make others pure. If -you are the best examples of personal holiness that -may be found in the world apart from temptation, they -are the higher types of it maintained amid temptations -that never cease. You are content to pray for the -world, they also work for it. If you wish to see, in the -most nearly perfect form that is ever attained in this -world, love and sympathy and forgiveness, if you wish -to find vigils and patience and charity—go to the good -women of the world. They are all through the world, -of which you know nothing—in homes, and schools, -and hospitals; with the old, the suffering, the dying. -Sometimes they are clinging to the thankless, the dissolute, -the cruel; sometimes they are ministering to the -weary, the heart-broken, the deserted. No, no! Some -women may be what you call them, devils—"</p> - -<p>She blushed all at once with recollection of her earnestness. -It was the almost elemental simplicity of -her listener that had betrayed her into it. Meantime, -as she had spoken, his quickly changing mood had regained -its first pitch. She seemed to rise higher—to be -arraigning him and his ideals of duty. In his own sight -he seemed to grow smaller, shrink up, become despicable; -and when she suddenly ceased speaking, he lifted his -eyes to her, alas! too plainly now betraying his heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span></p> - -<p>"And you are one of these good women?"</p> - -<p>"I have nothing to say of myself; I spoke of others. -I may be a devil."</p> - -<p>For an instant through the scattering clouds the sunlight -had fallen in through the window, lighting up her -head as with a halo. It fell upon the cowl also, which -lay on the floor like a luminous heap. She went to it, -and, lifting it, said to him:</p> - -<p>"Will you leave me now? They must pass here soon -looking for me. I shall see them from the window. I -do not know what should have happened to me but for -your kindness. And I can only thank you very gratefully."</p> - -<p>He took the hand that she gave him in both of his, -and held it closely a while as his eyes rested long and -intently upon her face. Then, quickly muffling up his -own in the folds of his cowl, he turned away and left -the room. She watched him disappear behind the embankment -below and then reappear on the opposite -side, striding rapidly towards the abbey.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">IV.</p> - -<p>All that night the two aged monks whose cells were -one on each side of Father Palemon's heard him tossing -in his sleep. At the open confessional next morning he -did not accuse himself. The events of the day before -were known to none. There were in that room but -two who could have testified against him. One was -Father Palemon himself; the other was a small dark-red -spot on the white bosom of his cowl, just by his -heart. It was a blood-stain from the wounded head<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> -that had lain on his breast. Through the dread examination -and the confessions Father Palemon sat -motionless, his face shadowed by his hood, his arms -crossed over his bosom, hiding this scarlet stain. What -nameless foreboding had blanched his cheek when he -first beheld it? It seemed to be a dead weight over -his heart, as those earth-stains on the hem had begun -to clog his feet.</p> - -<p>That day he went the round of his familiar duties faultlessly -but absently. Without heeding his own voice, he -sang the difficult ancient offices of the Church in a full -volume of tone, that was heard above the rich unison of -the unerring choir. When, at twilight, he lay down on -his hard, narrow bed, with the leathern cincture about -his gaunt waist, he seemed girt for some lonely spiritual -conflict of the midnight hours. Once, in the sad tumult -of his dreams, his out-stretched arms struck sharply -against some object and he awoke; it was the crucifix -that hung against the bare wall at his head.</p> - -<p>He sat up. The bell of the monastery tolled twelve. -A new day was beginning. A new day for him? In -two hours he would set his feet, as evermore, in the -small circle of ancient monastic exactions. Already -the westering moon poured its light through the long -windows of the abbey and flooded his cell. He arose -softly and walked to the open casement, looking out -upon the southern summer midnight. Beneath the -window lay the garden of flowers. Countless white -roses, as though censers swung by unseen hands, -waved up to him their sweet incense. Some dreaming -bird awoke its happy mate with a note prophetic -of the coming dawn. From the bosom of the -stream below, white trailing shapes rose ethereal through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span> -the moonlit air, and floated down the valley as if journeying -outward to some mysterious bourn. On the dim -horizon stood the domes of the forest trees, marking the -limits of the valley—the boundary of his life. He pressed -his hot head against the cold casement and groaned -aloud, seeming to himself, in his tumultuous state, the -only thing that did not belong to the calm and holy -beauty of the scene. Disturbed by the sound, an old -monk sleeping a few feet distant turned in his cell and -prayed aloud:</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr">Seigneur! Seigneur! Oubliez la faiblesse de ma jeunesse! -Vive Jésus! Vive sa Croix!</i>"</p> - -<p>The prayer smote him like a warning. Conscience -was still torturing this old man—torturing him even -in his dreams on account of the sinful fevers that -had burned up within him half a century ago. On -the very verge of the grave he was uplifting his hands -to implore forgiveness for the errors of his youth. -Ah! and those other graves in the quiet cemetery -garth below—the white-cowled dust of his brethren, -mouldering till the resurrection morn. They, too, had -been sorely tempted—had struggled and prevailed, -and now reigned as saints in heaven, whence they -looked sorrowfully and reproachfully down upon him, -and upon their sinful heaps of mortal dust, which had -so foiled the immortal spirit.</p> - -<p>Miserably, piteously, he wrestled with himself. Even -conscience was divided in twain and fought madly on -both sides. His whole training had left him obedient -to ideas of duty. To be told what to do always had -been for him to do it. But hitherto his teachers had -been the fathers. Lately two others had appeared—a -man and a woman of the world, who had spoken of life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span> -and of duty as he had never thought of them. The -pale, dark hunchback, whom he had often seen haunting -the monastery grounds and hovering around him at his -work, had unconsciously drawn aside for him the curtains -of the world and a man's nobler part in it. The -woman, whom he had addressed as a devil, had come -in his eyes to be an angel. Both had made him blush -for his barren life, his inactivity. Both had shown him -which way duty lay.</p> - -<p>Duty? Ah! it was not duty. It was the woman, the -woman! The old tempter! It was the sinful passion of -love that he was responding to; it was the recollection -of that sweet face against which his heart had beat—of -the helpless form that he had borne in his arms. Duty -or love, he could not separate them. The great world, -on the boundaries of which he wished to set his feet, -was a dark, formless, unimaginable thing, and only the -light from the woman's face streamed across to him and -beckoned him on. It was she who made his priestly -life wretched—made even the wearing of his cowl an -act of hypocrisy that was the last insult to Heaven. -Better anything than this. Better the renunciation of -his sacred calling, though it should bring him the loss -of earthly peace and eternal pardon.</p> - -<p>The clock struck half-past one. He turned back to -his cell. The ghastly beams of the setting moon suffused -it with the pallor of a death-scene. God in -heaven! The death-scene was there—the crucifixion! -The sight pierced him afresh with the sharpest sorrow, -and taking the crucifix down, he fell upon his knees -and covered it with his kisses and his tears. There -was the wound in the side, there were the drops of -blood and the thorns on the brow, and the divine face<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span> -still serene and victorious in the last agony of self-renunciation. -Self-renunciation!</p> - -<p>"Lord, is it true that I cannot live to Thee alone? -And Thou didst sacrifice Thyself to the utmost for -me! Consider me, how I am made! Have mercy, -have mercy! If I sin, be Thou my witness that I do -not know it!—Thou, too, didst love her well enough to -die for her!"</p> - -<p>In that hour, when he touched the highest point that -nature ever enabled him to attain, Father Palemon, -looking into his conscience and into the divine face, -took his final resolution. He was still kneeling in -steadfast contemplation of the cross when the moon -withdrew its last ray and over it there rushed a sudden -chill and darkness. He was still immovable before it -when, at the resounding clangor of the bell, all the -spectral figures of his brethren started up from their -couches like ghosts from their graves, and in a long, -shadowy line wound noiselessly downward into the -gloom of the chapel, to begin the service of matins and -lauds.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">V.</p> - -<p>He did not return with them when at the close of -day they wound upward again to their solemn sleep. -He slipped unseen into the windings of a secret passage-way, -and hastening to the reception-room of the -abbey sent for the abbot.</p> - -<p>It was a great bare room. A rough table and two -plain chairs in the middle were the only furniture. Over -the table there swung from the high ceiling a single -low, lurid point of light, that failed to reach the shad<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span>ows -of the recesses. The few poor pictures of saints -and martyrs on the walls were muffled in gloom. The -air was dank and noisome, and the silence was that of -a vault.</p> - -<p>Standing half in light and half in darkness, Father -Palemon awaited the coming of his august superior. It -was an awful scene. His face grew whiter than his -cowl, and he trembled till he was ready to sink to the -floor. A few moments, and through the dim door-way -there softly glided in the figure of the aged abbot, like -a presence rather felt than seen. He advanced to the -little zone of light, the iron keys clanking at his girdle, -his delicate fingers interlaced across his breast, his gray -eyes filled with a look of mild surprise and displeasure.</p> - -<p>"You have disturbed me in my rest and meditations. -The occasion must be extraordinary. Speak! -Be brief!"</p> - -<p>"The occasion <em>is</em> extraordinary. I shall be brief. -Father Abbot, I made a great mistake in ever becoming -a monk. Nature has not fitted me for such a life. -I do not any longer believe that it is my duty to live it. -I have disturbed your repose only to ask you to receive -the renunciation of my priestly vows and to take back -my cowl: I will never put it on again."</p> - -<p>As he spoke he took off his cowl and laid it on the -table between them, showing that he wore beneath the -ordinary dress of a working-man.</p> - -<p>Under the flickering spark the face of the abbot had -at first flushed with anger and then grown ashen with -vague, formless terror. He pushed the hood back from -his head and pressed his fingers together until the jewelled -ring cut into the flesh.</p> - -<p>"You are a priest of God, consecrated for life. Con<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span>sider -the sin and folly of what you say. You have made -no mistake. It would be too late to correct it, if you -had."</p> - -<p>"I shall do what I can to correct it as soon as possible. -I shall leave the monastery to-night."</p> - -<p>"To-night you confess what has led you to harbor -this suggestion of Satan. To-night I forgive you. To-night -you sleep once more at peace with the world and -your own soul. Begin! Tell me everything that has -happened—everything!"</p> - -<p>"It were better untold. It could only pain—only -shock you."</p> - -<p>"Ha! You say this to me, who stand to you in -God's stead?"</p> - -<p>"Father Abbot, it is enough that Heaven should -know my recent struggles and my present purposes. -It does know them."</p> - -<p>"And it has not smitten you? It is merciful."</p> - -<p>"It is also just."</p> - -<p>"Then do not deny the justice you receive. Did you -not give yourself up to my guidance as a sheep to a -shepherd? Am I not to watch near you in danger and -lead you back when astray? Do you not realize that I -may not make light of the souls committed to my -charge, as my own soul shall be called into judgment -at the last day? Am I to be pushed aside—made -naught of—at such a moment as this?"</p> - -<p>Thus urged, Father Palemon told what had recently -befallen him, adding these words:</p> - -<p>"Therefore I am going—going now. I cannot expect -your approval: that pains me. But have I not a -claim upon your sympathy? You are an old man, Father -Abbot. You are nearer heaven than this earth.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span> -But you have been young; and I ask you, is there not -in the past of your own buried life the memory of some -one for whom you would have risked even the peace -and pardon of your own soul?"</p> - -<p>The abbot threw up his hands with a gesture of sudden -anguish, and turned away into the shadowy distances -of the room.</p> - -<p>When he emerged again, he came up close to Father -Palemon in the deepest agitation.</p> - -<p>"I tell you this purpose of yours is a suggestion of -the Evil Spirit. Break it against the true rock of the -Church. You should have spoken sooner. Duty, honor, -gratitude, should have made you speak. Then I -could have made this burden lighter for you. But, -heavy as it is, it will pass. You suffer now, but it will -pass, and you will be at peace again—at perfect peace -again."</p> - -<p>"Never! Never again at peace here! My place is -in the world. Conscience tells me that. Besides, have -I not told you, Father Abbot, that I love her, that I -think of her day and night? Then I am no priest. -There is nothing left for me but to go out into the -world."</p> - -<p>"The world! What do you know of the world? If -I could sum up human life to you in an instant of time, -I might make you understand into what sorrow this caprice -of restlessness and passion is hurrying you."</p> - -<p>Sweetness had forsaken the countenance of the aged -shepherd. His tones rung hoarse and hollow, and -the muscles of his face twitched and quivered as he -went on:</p> - -<p>"Reflect upon the tranquil life that you have spent -here, preparing your soul for immortality. All your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span> -training has been for the solitude of the cloister. All -your enemies have been only the spiritual foes of your -own nature. You say that you are not fitted for this -life. Are you then prepared for a life in the world? -Foolish, foolish boy! You exchange the terrestrial solitude -of heaven for the battle-field of hell. Its coarse, -foul atmosphere will stifle and contaminate you. It has -problems that you have not been taught to solve. It -has shocks that you would never withstand. I see you -in the world? Never, never! See you in the midst of -its din and sweat of weariness, its lying and dishonor? -You say that you love this woman. Heaven forgive -you this sin! You would follow her. Do you not know -that you may be deluded, trifled with, disappointed? -She may love another. Ah! you are a child—a simple -child!"</p> - -<p>"Father Abbot, it is time that I were becoming a man."</p> - -<p>But the abbot did not hear or pause, borne on now -by a torrent of ungovernable feelings:</p> - -<p>"Your parents committed a great sin." He suddenly -lifted the cross from his bosom to his lips, which -moved rapidly for an instant in silent prayer. "It has -never been counted against you here, as it will never -be laid to your charge in heaven. But the world will -count it against you. It will make you feel its jeers -and scorn. You have no father," again he bent over -and passionately kissed his cross, "you have no name. -You are an illegitimate child. There is no place for -you in the world—in the world that takes no note of -sin unless it is discovered. I warn you—I warn you -by all the years of my own experience, and by all the -sacred obligations of your holy order, against this fatal -step."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span></p> - -<p>"Though it be fatal, I must and will take it."</p> - -<p>"I implore you! God in heaven, dost thou punish -me thus? See! I am an old man. I have but a few -years to live. You are the only tie of human tenderness -that binds me to my race. My heart is buried in -yours. I have watched over you since you were brought -here, a little child. I have nursed you through months -of sickness. I have hastened the final assumption of -your vows, that you might be safe within the fold. I -have stayed my last days on earth with the hope that -when I am dead, as I soon shall be, you would perpetuate -my spirit among your brethren, and in time come -to be a shepherd among them, as I have been. Do not -take this solace from me. The Church needs you—most -of all needs you in this age and in this country. -I have reared you within it that you might be glorified -at last among the saints and martyrs. No, no! You -will not go away!"</p> - -<p>"Father Abbot, what better can I do than heed the -will of Heaven in my own conscience?"</p> - -<p>"I implore you!"</p> - -<p>"I must go."</p> - -<p>"I warn you, I say."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my father! You only make more terrible the -anguish of this moment. Bless me, and let me go in -peace."</p> - -<p>"<em>Bless</em> you?" almost shrieked the abbot, starting back -with horror, his features strangely drawn, his uplifted -arms trembling, his whole body swaying. "<em>Bless</em> you? -Do this, and I will hurl upon you the awful curse of the -everlasting Church!"</p> - -<p>As though stricken by the thunderbolt of his own imprecation, -he fell into one of the chairs and buried his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span> -head in his arms upon the table. Father Palemon had -staggered backward, as though the curse had struck -him in the forehead. These final words he had never -thought of—never foreseen. For a moment the silence -of the great chamber was broken only by his own quick -breathing and by the convulsive agitation of the abbot. -Then with a rapid movement Father Palemon came -forward, knelt, and kissed the hem of the abbot's cowl, -and, turning away, went out.</p> - -<p>Love—duty—the world; in those three words lie all -the human, all the divine, tragedy.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VI.</p> - -<p>Years soon pass away in the life of a Trappist priest.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">For shade to shade will come too drowsily,</div> - <div class="verse">And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Another June came quickly into the lonely valley of -the Abbey of Gethsemane. Again the same sweet -monastery bells in the purple twilights, and the same -midnight masses. Monks again at work in the gardens, -their cowls well tied up with hempen cords. -Monks once more teaching the pious pupils in the -school across the lane. The gorgeous summer came -and passed beyond the southern horizon, like a mortal -vision of beauty never to return. There were few -changes to note. Only the abbot seemed to have grown -much feebler. His hand trembled visibly now as he lifted -the crosier, and he walked less than of yore among his -brethren while they busied themselves with the duties of -the waning autumn. But he was oftener seen pacing to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span> -and fro where the leaves fell sadly from the moaning -choir of English elms. Or at times he would take a little -foot-path that led across the brown November fields, -and, having gained a crest on the boundary of the valley, -would stand looking far over the outward landscape -into imaginary spaces, limitless and unexplored.</p> - -<p>But Father Palemon, where was he? Amid what -splendors of the great metropolis was he bursting Joy's -grape against his palate fine? What of his dreams of -love and duty, and a larger, more modern stature of -manhood?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Late one chill, cloud-hung afternoon in November -there came into the valley of Gethsemane the figure of -a young man. He walked slowly along the road towards -the abbey, with the air of one who is weary and forgetful -of his surroundings. His head dropped heavily forward -on his breast, and his empty hands hung listlessly -down. At the iron gate of the porter's lodge entrance -was refused him; the abbey was locked in repose for -the night. Urging the importance of his seeing the abbot, -he was admitted. He erased a name from a card -and on it wrote another, and waited for the interview.</p> - -<p>Again the same great dark room, lighted by a flickering -spark. He did not stand half in light and half in -shadow, but hid himself away in one of the darkest -recesses. In a few moments the abbot entered, holding -the card in his hand and speaking with tremulous -haste:</p> - -<p>"'Father Palemon?'—who wrote this name, 'Father -Palemon?'"</p> - -<p>Out of the darkness came a low reply:</p> - -<p>"I wrote it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span></p> - -<p>"I do not know you."</p> - -<p>"I am Father Palemon."</p> - -<p>The calm of a great sadness was in the abbot's voice, -as he replied, musingly:</p> - -<p>"There—<em>is</em>—no—Father Palemon: he died long -ago."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my father! Is this the way you receive me?"</p> - -<p>He started forward and came into the light. Alas! -No; it was not Father Palemon. His long hair was unkempt -and matted over his forehead, his face pinched -and old with suffering, and ashen gray except for the -red spots on his cheeks. Deep shadows lay under his -hollow eyes, which were bloodshot and restless and -burning.</p> - -<p>"I have come back to lead the life of a monk. Will -you receive me?"</p> - -<p>"Twice a monk, no monk. Receive you for what -time? Until next June?"</p> - -<p>"Until death."</p> - -<p>"I have received you once already until death. How -many times am I to receive you until death?"</p> - -<p>"I beseech you do not contest in words with me. It -is too much. I am ill. I am in trouble."</p> - -<p>He suddenly checked his passionate utterance, speaking -slowly and with painful self-control:</p> - -<p>"I cannot endure how to tell you all that has befallen -me since I went away. The new life that I had begun -in the world has come to an end. Father Abbot, she -is dead. I have just buried her and my child in one -grave. Since then the one desire I have had has been -to return to this place. God forgive me! I have no -heart now for the duties I had undertaken. I had not -measured my strength against this calamity. It has left<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span> -me powerless for good to any human creature. My -plans were wrecked when she died. My purposes have -gone to pieces. There is no desire in me but for peace -and solitude and prayer. All that I can do now is to -hide my poor, broken, ineffectual life here, until by -God's will, sooner or later, it is ended."</p> - -<p>"You speak in the extremity of present suffering. -You are young. Nearly all your life lies yet before you. -In time Nature heals nearly all the wounds that she inflicts. -In a few years this grief which now unmans you—which -you think incurable—will wear itself out. You -do not believe this. You think me cruel. But I speak -the truth. Then you may be happy again—happier than -you have ever been. Then the world will resume its hold -upon you. If the duties of a man's life have appealed -to your conscience, as I believe they have, they will -then appeal to it with greater power and draw you with -a greater sense of their obligations. Moreover, you may -love again—ah! Hush! Hear me through! You think -this is more unfeeling still. But I must speak, and speak -now. It is impossible to seclude you here against all -temptation. Some day you may see another woman's -face—hear another woman's voice. You may find your -priestly vows intolerable again. Men who once break -their holiest pledges for the sake of love will break them -again, if they love again. No, no! If you were unfit -for the life of a monk once, much more are you unfit -now. Now that you are in the world, better to remain -there."</p> - -<p>"In Heaven's name, will you deny me? I tell you -that this is the only desire left to me. The world is as -dead to me as though it never existed, because my -heart is broken. You misunderstood me then. You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span> -misunderstand me now. Does experience count for -nothing in preparing a man for the cloister?"</p> - -<p>"I did misunderstand you once; I thought that you -were fitted for the life of a monk. I understand you -now: I do not make the same mistake twice."</p> - -<p>"This is the home of my childhood, and you turn me -away?"</p> - -<p>"You went away yourself, in the name of conscience -and of your own passion."</p> - -<p>"This is the house of God, and you close its doors -against me?"</p> - -<p>"You burst them open of your own self-will."</p> - -<p>Hitherto the abbot had spoken for duty, for his -church, for the inviolable sanctity of his order. Against -these high claims the pent-up tenderness of his heart -had weighed as nothing. But now as the young man, -having fixed a long look upon his face, turned silently -away towards the door, with out-stretched arms -he tottered after him, and cried out in broken tones: -"Stop! Stop, I pray you! You are ill. You are free -to remain here a guest. No one was ever refused shelter. -Oh, my God! what have I done?"</p> - -<p>Father Palemon had reeled and fallen fainting in the -door-way.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In this life, from earliest childhood, we are trained by -merciful degrees to brave its many sorrows. We begin -with those of infancy, which, Heaven knows, at the -time seem grievous enough to be borne. As we grow -older we somehow also grow stronger, until through the -discipline of many little sufferings we are enabled to -bear up under those final avalanches of disaster that -rush down upon us in maturer years. Even thus forti<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span>fied, -there are some of us on whom these fall only to -overwhelm.</p> - -<p>But Father Palemon. Unnaturally shielded by the -cloister up to that period of young manhood when feeling -is deepest and fortitude least, he had suddenly appeared -upon the world's stage only to enact one of the -greatest scenes in the human tragedy—that scene wherein -the perfect ecstasy of love by one swift, mortal transition -becomes the perfect agony of loss. What wonder -if he had staggered blindly, and if, trailing the habiliments -of his sorrow, he had sought to return to the only -place that was embalmed in his memory as a peaceful -haven for the shipwrecked? But even this quiet port -was denied him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Into the awful death-chamber of the abbey they bore -him one midnight some weeks later. The tension of -physical powers during the days of his suspense and -suffering, followed by the shock of his rejection, had -touched those former well-nigh fatal ravages that had -prostrated him during the period of his austere novitiate. -He was dying. The delirium of his fever had passed -away, and with a clear, dark, sorrowful eye he watched -them prepare for the last agony.</p> - -<p>On the bare floor of the death-chamber they sprinkled -consecrated ashes in the form of a cross. Over these -they scattered straw, and over the straw they drew a -coarse serge cloth. This was his death-bed—a sign -that in the last hour he was admitted once more to the -fellowship of his order. From the low couch on which -he lay he looked at it. Then he made a sign to the -abbot, in the mute language of the brotherhood. The -abbot repeated it to one of the attendant fathers, who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> -withdrew and soon returned, bringing a white cowl. -Lifting aside the serge cloth, he spread the cowl over -the blessed cinders and straw. Father Palemon's request -had been that he might die upon his cowl, and on -this they now stretched his poor emaciated body, his cold -feet just touching the old earth-stains upon its hem. -He lay for a little while quite still, with closed eyes. -Then he turned them upon the abbot and the monks, -who were kneeling in prayer around him, and said, in a -voice of great and gentle dignity:</p> - -<p>"My father—my brethren, have I your full forgiveness?"</p> - -<p>With sobs they bowed themselves around him. After -this he received the crucifix, tenderly embracing it, and -then lay still again, as if awaiting death. But finally he -turned over on one side, and raising himself on one -forearm, sought with the hand of the other among the -folds of his cowl until he found a small blood-stain now -faint upon its bosom. Then he lay down again, pressing -his cheek against it; and thus the second time a -monk, but even in death a lover, he breathed out his -spirit with a faint whisper—"Madeline!"</p> - -<p>And as he lay on the floor, so now he lies in the dim -cemetery garth outside, wrapped from head to foot in -his cowl, with its stains on the hem and the bosom.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a><br /><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> - - - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a><br /><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 class="invisible"><a name="SISTER_DOLOROSA" id="SISTER_DOLOROSA">SISTER DOLOROSA.</a></h2> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/sister.jpg" alt="Sister Dolorosa." /> -</div> - - -<p class="subtitle">I.</p> - -<p>When Sister Dolorosa had reached the summit of a -low hill on her way to the convent she turned and -stood for a while looking backward. The landscape -stretched away in a rude, unlovely expanse of gray -fields, shaded in places by brown stubble, and in others -lightened by pale, thin corn—the stunted reward of necessitous -husbandry. This way and that ran wavering -lines of low fences, some worm-eaten, others rotting beneath -over-clambering wild rose and blackberry. About -the horizon masses of dense and rugged woods burned -with sombre fires as the westering sun smote them from -top to underbrush. Forth from the edge of one a few -long-horned cattle, with lowered heads, wound meekly -homeward to the scant milking. The path they followed -led towards the middle background of the picture, -where the weather-stained and sagging roof of a farm-house -rose above the tops of aged cedars. Some of the -branches, broken by the sleet and snow of winters, trailed -their burdens from the thinned and desolated crests—as -sometimes the highest hopes of the mind, after being -beaten down by the tempests of the world, droop -around it as memories of once transcendent aspirations.</p> - -<p>Where she stood in the dead autumn fields few sounds -broke in upon the pervasive hush of the declining day.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span> -Only a cricket, under the warm clod near by, shrilled -sturdily with cheerful forethought of drowsy hearth-stones; -only a lamb, timid of separation from the fold, -called anxiously in the valley beyond the crest of the -opposite hill; only the summoning whistle of a quail -came sweet and clear from the depths of a neighboring -thicket. Through all the air floated that spirit of vast -loneliness which at seasons seems to steal like a human -mood over the breast of the great earth and leave her -estranged from her transitory children. At such an -hour the heart takes wing for home, if any home it have; -or when, if homeless, it feels the quick stir of that yearning -for the evening fireside with its half-circle of trusted -faces young and old, and its bonds of love and marriage, -those deepest, most enchanting realities to the -earthly imagination. The very landscape, barren and -dead, but framing the simple picture of a home, spoke -to the beholder the everlasting poetry of the race.</p> - -<p>But Sister Dolorosa, standing on the brow of the hill -whence the whole picture could be seen, yet saw nothing -of it. Out of the western sky there streamed an indescribable -splendor of many-hued light, and far into the -depths of this celestial splendor her steadfast eyes were -gazing.</p> - -<p>She seemed caught up to some august height of holy -meditation. Her motionless figure was so lightly poised -that her feet, just visible beneath the hem of her heavy -black dress, appeared all but rising from the dust of the -path-way; her pure and gentle face was upturned, so -that the dark veil fell away from her neck and shoulders; -her lips were slightly parted; her breath came -and went so imperceptibly that her hands did not appear -to rise and fall as they clasped the cross to her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> -bosom. Exquisite hands they were—most exquisite—gleaming -as white as lilies against the raven blackness -of her dress; and with startling fitness of posture, the -longest finger of the right hand pointed like a marble -index straight towards a richly embroidered symbol -over her left breast—the mournful symbol of a crimson -heart pierced by a crimson spear. Whether attracted -by the lily-white hands or by the red symbol, a butterfly, -which had been flitting hither and thither in search -of the gay races of the summer gone, now began to -hover nearer, and finally lighted unseen upon the glowing -spot. Then, as if disappointed not to find it the -bosom of some rose, or lacking hope and strength for -further quest—there it rested, slowly fanning with its -white wings the tortured emblem of the divine despair.</p> - -<p>Lower sank the sun, deeper and more wide-spread the -splendor of the sky, more rapt and radiant the expression -of her face. A painter of the angelic school, seeing -her standing thus, might have named the scene the -transfiguration of angelic womanhood. What but heavenly -images should she be gazing on; or where was -she in spirit but flown out of the earthly autumn fields -and gone away to sainted vespers in the cloud-built -realm of her own fantasies? Perhaps she was now entering -yon vast cathedral of the skies, whose white -spires touched blue eternity; or toiling devoutly up yon -gray mount of Calvary, with its blackened crucifix falling -from the summit.</p> - -<p>Standing thus towards the close of the day, Sister -Dolorosa had not yet passed out of that ideal time -which is the clear white dawn of life. She was still -within the dim, half-awakened region of womanhood,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span> -whose changing mists are beautiful illusions, whose -shadows about the horizon are the mysteries of poetic -feeling, whose purpling east is the palette of the imagination, -and whose upspringing skylark is blithe aspiration -that has not yet felt the weight of the clod it soars -within. Before her still was the full morning of reality -and the burden of the mid-day hours.</p> - -<p>But if the history of any human soul could be perfectly -known, who would wish to describe this passage -from the dawn of the ideal to the morning of the real—this -transition from life as it is imagined through hopes -and dreams to life as it is known through action and -submission? It is then that within the country of the -soul occur events too vast, melancholy, and irreversible -to be compared to anything less than the downfall of -splendid dynasties, or the decay of an august religion. -It is then that there leave us forever bright, aerial spirits -of the fancy, separation from whom is like grief for -the death of the beloved.</p> - -<p>The moment of this transition had come in the life -of Sister Dolorosa, and unconsciously she was taking -her last look at the gorgeous western clouds from the -hill-tops of her chaste life of dreams.</p> - -<p>A flock of frightened doves sped hurtling low over -her head, and put an end to her reverie. Pressing the rosary -to her lips, she turned and walked on towards the -convent, not far away. The little foot-path across the -fields was well trodden and familiar, running as it did -between the convent and the farm-house behind her -in which lived old Ezra and Martha Cross; and as she -followed its windings, her thoughts, as is likely to be -true of the thoughts of nuns, came home from the -clouds to the humblest concerns of the earth, and she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> -began to recall certain incidents of the visit from which -she was returning.</p> - -<p>The aged pair were well known to the Sisters. Their -daughters had been educated at the convent; and, although -these were married and scattered now, the tie -then formed had since become more close through -their age and loneliness. Of late word had come to the -Mother Superior that old Martha was especially ailing, -and Sister Dolorosa had several times been sent on visits -of sympathy. For reasons better to be understood -later on, these visits had had upon her the effect of an -April shower on a thirsting rose. Her missions of mercy -to the aged couple over, for a while the white taper -of ideal consecration to the Church always burned in her -bosom with clearer, steadier lustre, as though lit afresh -from the Light eternal. But to-day she could not escape -the conviction that these visits were becoming a -source of disquietude; for the old couple, forgetting the -restrictions which her vows put upon her very thoughts, -had spoken of things which it was trying for her to -hear—love-making, marriage, and children. In vain -had she tried to turn away from the proffered share in -such parental confidences. The old mother had even -read aloud a letter from her eldest son, telling them of -his approaching marriage and detailing the hope and -despair of his wooing. With burning cheeks and downcast -eyes Sister Dolorosa had listened till the close and -then risen and quickly left the house.</p> - -<p>The recollection of this returned to her now as she -pursued her way along the foot-path which descended -into the valley; and there came to her, she knew not -whence or why, a piercing sense of her own separation -from all but the divine love. The cold beauty of un<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span>fallen -spirituality which had made her august as she -stood on the hill-top died away, and her face assumed a -tenderer, more appealing loveliness, as there crept over -it, like a shadow over snow, that shy melancholy under -which those women dwell who have renounced the great -drama of the heart. She resolved to lay her trouble -before the Mother Superior to-night, and ask that some -other Sister be sent hereafter in her stead. And yet -this resolution gave her no peace, but a throb of painful -renunciation; and since she was used to the most -scrupulous examination of her conscience, to detect the -least presence of evil, she grew so disturbed by this -state of her heart that she quite forgot the windings of -the path-way along the edge of a field of corn, and was -painfully startled when a wounded bird, lying on the -ground a few feet in front of her, flapped its wings in a -struggle to rise. Love and sympathy were the strongest -principles of her nature, and with a little outcry she -bent over and took it up; but scarce had she done so, -when, with a final struggle, it died in her hand. A single -drop of blood oozed out and stood on its burnished -breast.</p> - -<p>She studied it—delicate throat, silken wings, wounded -bosom—in the helpless way of a woman, unwilling -to put it down and leave it, yet more unwilling to -take it away. Many a time, perhaps, she had watched -this very one flying to and fro among its fellows in the -convent elms. Strange that any one should be hunting -in these fields, and she looked quickly this way and -that. Then, with a surprised movement of the hands -that caused her to drop the bird at her feet, Sister Dolorosa -discovered, standing half hidden in the edge of -the pale-yellow corn a few yards ahead, wearing a hunt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span>ing-dress, -and leaning on the muzzle of his gun, a young -man who was steadfastly regarding her. For an instant -they stood looking each into the other's face, taken so -unprepared as to lose all sense of convention. Their -meeting was as unforeseen as another far overhead, -where two white clouds, long shepherded aimlessly and -from opposite directions across the boundless pastures -by the unreasoning winds, touched and melted into one. -Then Sister Dolorosa, the first to regain self-possession, -gathered her black veil closely about her face, and advancing -with an easy, rapid step, bowed low with downcast -eyes as she passed him, and hurried on towards -the convent.</p> - -<p>She had not gone far before she resolved to say -nothing about the gossip to which she had listened. -Of late the Mother Superior had seemed worn with secret -care and touched with solicitude regarding her. -Would it be kind to make this greater by complaining -like a weak child of a trivial annoyance? She took -her conscience proudly to task for ever having been -disturbed by anything so unworthy. And as for this -meeting in the field, even to mention that would be to -give it a certain significance, whereas it had none whatever. -A stranger had merely crossed her path a moment -and then gone his way. She would forget the -occurrence herself as soon as she could recover from -her physical agitation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">II.</p> - -<p>The Convent of the Stricken Heart is situated in -that region of Kentucky which early became the great -field of Catholic immigration. It was established in -the first years of the present century, when mild Dominicans, -starving Trappists, and fiery Jesuits hastened -into the green wildernesses of the West with the hope -of turning them into religious vineyards. Then, accordingly, -derived from such sources as the impassioned -fervor of Italy, the cold, monotonous endurance of -Flanders, and the dying sorrows of ecclesiastical France, -there sprang up this new flower of faith, unlike any -that ever bloomed in pious Christendom. From the -meagrest beginning, the order has slowly grown rich -and powerful, so that it now has branches in many -States, as far as the shores of the Pacific Ocean.</p> - -<p>The convent is situated in a retired region of country, -remote from any village or rural highway. The -very peace of the blue skies seems to descend upon it. -Around the walls great elms stand like tranquil sentinels, -or at a greater distance drop their shadows on -the velvet verdure of the artificial lawns. Here, when -the sun is hot, some white veiled novice may be seen -pacing soft-footed and slow, while she fixes her sad -eyes upon pictures drawn from the literature of the -Dark Ages, or fights the first battle with her young -heart, which would beguile her to heaven by more jocund -path-ways. Drawn by the tranquillity of this retreat—its -trees and flowers and dews—all singing-birds -of the region come here to build and brood. No other -sounds than their pure cadences disturb the echoless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span> -air except the simple hymns around the altar, the vesper -bell, the roll of the organ, the deep chords of the -piano, or the thrum of the harp. It may happen, indeed, -that some one of the Sisters, climbing to the observatory -to scan the horizon of her secluded world, -will catch the faint echoes of a young ploughman in a -distant field lustily singing of the honest passion in his -heart, or hear the shouts of happy harvesters as they -move across the yellow plains. The population scattered -around the convent domain are largely of the -Catholic faith, and from all directions the country is -threaded by foot-paths that lead to the church as a -common shrine. It was along one of these that Sister -Dolorosa, as has been said, hastened homeward through -the falling twilight.</p> - -<p>When she reached the convent, instead of seeking -the Mother Superior as heretofore with news from old -Martha, she stole into the shadowy church and knelt -for a long time in wordless prayer—wordless, because -no petition that she could frame appeared inborn and -quieting. An unaccountable remorse gnawed the heart -out of language. Her spirit seemed parched, her will -was deadened as by a blow. Trained to the most rigorous -introspection, she entered within herself and penetrated -to the deepest recesses of her mind to ascertain -the cause. The bright flame of her conscience thus -employed was like the turning of a sunbeam into a -darkened chamber to reveal the presence of a floating -grain of dust. But nothing could be discovered. It -was the undiscovered that rebuked her as it often rebukes -us all—the undiscovered evil that has not yet -linked itself to conscious transgression. At last she -rose with a sigh and, dejected, left the church.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span></p> - -<p>Later, the Mother Superior, noiselessly entering her -room, found her sitting at the open window, her hands -crossed on the sill, her eyes turned outward into the -darkness.</p> - -<p>"Child, child," she said, hurriedly, "how uneasy you -have made me! Why are you so late returning?"</p> - -<p>"I went to the church when I came back, Mother," -replied Sister Dolorosa, in a voice singularly low and -composed. "I must have returned nearly an hour -ago."</p> - -<p>"But even then it was late."</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mother; I stopped on the way back to look -at the sunset. The clouds looked like cathedrals. -And then old Martha kept me. You know it is difficult -to get away from old Martha."</p> - -<p>The Mother Superior laughed slightly, as though her -anxiety had been removed. She was a woman of commanding -presence, with a face full of dignity and sweetness, -but furrowed by lines of difficult resignation.</p> - -<p>"Yes; I know," she answered. "Old Martha's tongue -is like a terrestrial globe; the whole world is mapped -out on it, and a little movement of it will show you a -continent. How is her rheumatism?"</p> - -<p>"She said it was no worse," replied Sister Dolorosa, -absently.</p> - -<p>The Mother Superior laughed again. "Then it must -be better. Rheumatism is always either better or -worse."</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mother."</p> - -<p>This time the tone caught the Mother Superior's ear.</p> - -<p>"You seem tired. Was the walk too long?"</p> - -<p>"I enjoyed the walk, Mother. I do not feel tired."</p> - -<p>They had been sitting on opposite sides of the room.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span> -The Mother Superior now crossed, and, laying her -hand softly on Sister Dolorosa's head, pressed it backward -and looked fondly down into the upturned eyes.</p> - -<p>"Something troubles you. What has happened?"</p> - -<p>There is a tone that goes straight to the hearts of -women in trouble. If there are tears hidden, they -gather in the eyes. If there is any confidence to give, -it is given then.</p> - -<p>A tremor, like that of a child with an unspent sob, -passed across Sister Dolorosa's lips, but her eyes were -tearless.</p> - -<p>"Nothing has happened, Mother. I do not know -why, but I feel disturbed and unhappy." This was the -only confidence that she had to give.</p> - -<p>The Mother Superior passed her hand slowly across -the brow, white and smooth like satin. Then she sat -down, and as Sister Dolorosa slipped to the floor beside -her she drew the young head to her lap and folded -her aged hands upon it. What passionate, barren loves -haunt the hearts of women in convents! Between these -two there existed a tenderness more touching than the -natural love of mother and child.</p> - -<p>"You must not expect to know at all times," she -said, with grave gentleness. "To be troubled without -any visible cause is one of the mysteries of our nature. -As you grow older you will understand this better. We -are forced to live in conscious possession of all faculties, -all feelings, whether or not there are outward events to -match them. Therefore you must expect to have anxiety -within when your life is really at peace without; -to have moments of despair when no failure threatens; -to have your heart wrung with sympathy when no object -of sorrow is nigh; to be spent with the need of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> -loving when there is no earthly thing to receive your -love. This is part of woman's life, and of all women, -especially those who, like you, must live not to stifle the -tender, beautiful forces of nature, but to ennoble and -unite them into one divine passion. Do not think, -therefore, to escape these hours of heaviness and pain. -No saint ever walked this earth without them. Perhaps -the lesson to be gained is this: that we may feel -things before they happen, so that if they do happen -we shall be disciplined to bear them."</p> - -<p>The voice of the Mother Superior had become low -and meditative; and, though resting on the bowed -head, her eyes seemed fixed on events long past. After -the silence of a few moments she continued in a -brighter tone:</p> - -<p>"But, my child, I know the reason of <em>your</em> unhappiness. -I have warned you that excessive ardor would -leave you overwrought and nervous; that you were being -carried too far by your ideals. You live too much -in your sympathies and your imagination. Patience, -my little St. Theresa! No saint was ever made in a -day, and it has taken all the centuries of the Church to -produce its martyrs. Only think that your life is but -begun; there will be time enough to accomplish everything. -I have been watching, and I know. This is -why I send <em>you</em> to old Martha. I want you to have the -rest, the exercise, the air of the fields. Go again to-morrow, -and take her the ointment. I found it while -you were gone to-day. It has been in the Church for -centuries, and you know this bottle came from blessed -Loretto in Italy. It may do her some good. And, -for the next few days, less reading and study."</p> - -<p>"Mother!" Sister Dolorosa spoke as though she had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span> -not been listening. "What would become of me if I -should ever—if any evil should ever befall me?"</p> - -<p>The Mother Superior stretched her hands out over -the head on her knees as some great, fierce, old, gray -eagle, scarred and strong with the storms of life, might -make a movement to shield its imperilled young. The -tone in which Sister Dolorosa had spoken startled her -as the discovered edge of a precipice. It was so quiet, -so abrupt, so terrifying with its suggestion of an abyss. -For a moment she prayed silently and intensely.</p> - -<p>"Heaven mercifully shield you from harm!" she then -said, in an awe-stricken whisper. "But, timid lamb, -what harm can come to you?"</p> - -<p>Sister Dolorosa suddenly rose and stood before the -Mother Superior.</p> - -<p>"I mean," she said, with her eyes on the floor and -her voice scarcely audible—"I mean—if I should ever -fail, would you cast me out?"</p> - -<p>"My child!—Sister!—Sister Dolorosa!—Cast you -out!"</p> - -<p>The Mother Superior started up and folded her arms -about the slight, dark figure, which at once seemed to -be standing aloof with infinite loneliness. For some -time she sought to overcome this difficult, singular -mood.</p> - -<p>"And now, my daughter," she murmured at last, "go -to sleep and forget these foolish fears. I am near -you!" There seemed to be a fortress of sacred protection -and defiance in these words; but the next instant -her head was bowed, her upward-pointing finger -raised in the air, and in a tone of humble self-correction -she added: "Nay, not I; the Sleepless guards you! -Good-night."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span></p> - -<p>Sister Dolorosa lifted her head from the strong -shoulder and turned her eyes, now luminous, upon the -troubled face.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me, Mother!" she said, in a voice of scornful -resolution. "Never—never again will I disturb you -with such weakness as I have shown to-night. I <em>know</em> -that no evil can befall me! Forgive me, Mother. -Good-night."</p> - -<p>While she sleeps learn her history. Pauline Cambron -was descended from one of those sixty Catholic -families of Maryland that formed a league in 1785 for -the purpose of emigrating to Kentucky without the -rending of social ties or separation from the rites of -their ancestral faith. Since then the Kentucky branch -of the Cambrons has always maintained friendly relations -with the Maryland branch, which is now represented -by one of the wealthy and cultivated families of -Baltimore. On one side the descent is French; and, -as far back as this can be traced, there runs a tradition -that some of the most beautiful of its women became -barefoot Carmelite nuns in the various monasteries -of France or on some storm-swept island of the -Mediterranean Sea.</p> - -<p>The first of the Kentucky Cambrons settled in that -part of the State in which nearly a hundred years later -lived the last generation of them—the parents of Pauline. -Of these she was the only child, so that upon her -marriage depended the perpetuation of the Kentucky -family. It gives to the Protestant mind a startling insight -into the possibilities of a woman's life and destiny -in Kentucky to learn the nature of the literature -by which her sensitive and imaginative character was -from the first impressed. This literature covers a field<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> -wholly unknown to the ordinary student of Kentucky -history. It is not to be found in well-known works, but -in the letters, reminiscences, and lives of foreign priests, -and in the kindling and heroic accounts of the establishment -of Catholic missions. It abounds in such -stories as those of a black friar fatally thrown from a -wild horse in the pathless wilderness; of a gray friar -torn to pieces by a saw-mill; of a starving white friar -stretched out to die under the green canopy of an oak; -of priests swimming half-frozen rivers with the sacred -vestments in their teeth; of priests hewing logs for a -hut in which to celebrate the mass; of priests crossing -and recrossing the Atlantic and traversing Italy and -Belgium and France for money and pictures and books; -of devoted women laying the foundation of powerful -convents in half-ruined log-cabins, shivering on beds -of straw sprinkled on the ground, driven by poverty to -search in the wild woods for dyes with which to give to -their motley worldly apparel the hue of the cloister, and -dying at last, to be laid away in pitiless burial without -coffin or shroud.</p> - -<p>Such incidents were to her the more impressive since -happening in part in the region where lay the Cambron -estate; and while very young she was herself repeatedly -taken to visit the scenes of early religious tragedies. -Often, too, around the fireside there was proud reference -to the convent life of old France and to the saintly zeal -of the Carmelites; and once she went with her parents -to Baltimore and witnessed the taking of the veil by a -cousin of hers—a scene that afterwards burned before -her conscience as a lamp before a shrine.</p> - -<p>Is it strange if under such influences, living in a -country place with few associates, reading in her father's<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span> -library books that were to be had on the legends of the -monastic orders and the lives of the saints—is it strange -if to the young Pauline Cambron this world before long -seemed little else than the battle-field of the Church, -the ideal man in it a monk, the ideal woman a nun, the -human heart a solemn sacrifice to Heaven, and human -life a vast, sad pilgrimage to the shrine eternal?</p> - -<p>Among the places which had always appealed to her -imagination as one of the heroic sites of Kentucky history -was the Convent of the Stricken Heart, not far -away. Whenever she came hither she seemed to be -treading on sacred ground. Happening to visit it one -summer day before her education was completed, she -asked to be sent hither for the years that remained. -When these were past, here, with the difficult consent -of her parents, who saw thus perish the last hope of the -perpetuation of the family, she took the white veil. -Here at last she hid herself beneath the black. Her -whole character at this stage of its unfolding may be -understood from the name she assumed—Sister Dolorosa. -With this name she wished not merely to extinguish -her worldly personality, but to clothe herself with -a life-long expression of her sympathy with the sorrows -of the world. By this act she believed that she would -attain a change of nature so complete that the black -veil of Sister Dolorosa would cover as in a funeral urn -the ashes which had once been the heart of Pauline -Cambron. And thus her conventual life began.</p> - -<p>But for those beings to whom the span on the summer-evening -cloud is as nothing compared with that -fond arch of beauty which it is a necessity of their nature -to hang as a bow of promise above every beloved -hope—for such dreamers the sadness of life lies in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> -dissipation of mystery and the disillusion of truth. -When she had been a member of the order long enough -to see things as they were, Sister Dolorosa found herself -living in a large, plain, comfortable brick convent, -situated in a retired and homely region of Southern -Kentucky. Around her were plain nuns with the invincible -contrariety of feminine temperament. Before -her were plain duties. Built up around her were plain -restrictions. She had rushed with out-stretched arms -towards poetic mysteries, and clasped prosaic reality.</p> - -<p>As soon as the lambent flame of her spirit had burned -over this new life, as a fire before a strong wind rushes -across a plain, she one day surveyed it with that sense -of reality which sometimes visits the imaginative with -such appalling vividness. Was it upon this dreary -waste that her soul was to play out its drama of ideal -womanhood?</p> - -<p>She answered the question in the only way possible -to such a nature as hers. She divided her life in -twain. Half, with perfect loyalty, she gave out to duty; -the other, with equal loyalty, she stifled within. But -perhaps this is no uncommon lot—this unmating of -the forces of the mind, as though one of two singing-birds -should be released to fly forth under the sky, -while the other—the nobler singer—is kept voiceless in -a darkened chamber.</p> - -<p>But the Sisters of the Stricken Heart are not cloistered -nuns. Their chief vow is to go forth into the -world to teach. Scarcely had Sister Dolorosa been intrusted -with work of this kind before she conceived an -aspiration to become a great teacher of history or literature, -and obtained permission to spend extra hours in -the convent library on a wider range of sacred reading.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span> -Here began a second era in her life. Books became -the avenues along which she escaped from her present -into an illimitable world. Her imagination, beginning -to pine, now took wing and soared back to the remote, -the splendid, the imperial, the august. Her sympathies, -finding nothing around her to fix upon, were borne afar -like winged seed and rooted on the colossal ruins of the -centuries. Her passion for beauty fed on holy art. She -lived at the full flood of life again.</p> - -<p>If in time revulsion came, she would live a shy, exquisite, -hidden life of poetry in which she herself played -the historic roles. Now she would become a powerful -abbess of old, ruling over a hundred nuns in an impregnable -cloister. To the gates, stretched on a litter, -wounded to death, they bore a young knight of the -Cross. She had the gates opened. She went forth -and bent over him; heard his dying message; at his -request drew the plighted ring from his finger to send -to another land. How beautiful he was! How many -masses—how many, many masses—had she not ordered -for the peace of his soul! Now she was St. Agatha, -tortured by the proconsul; now she lay faint and cold -in an underground cell, and was visited by Thomas à -Kempis, who read to her long passages from the <cite>Imitation</cite>. -Or she would tire of the past, and making -herself an actor in her own future, in a brief hour live -out the fancied drama of all her crowded years.</p> - -<p>But whatever part she took in this dream existence -and beautiful passion-play of the soul, nothing attracted -her but the perfect. For the commonplace she felt -a guileless scorn.</p> - -<p>Thus for some time these unmated lives went on—the -fixed outward life of duty, and the ever-wandering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span> -inner life of love. In mid-winter, walking across the -shining fields, you have come to some little frost-locked -stream. How mute and motionless! You set foot -upon it, the ice is broken, and beneath is musical running -water. Thus under the chaste, rigid numbness of -convent existence the heart of Sister Dolorosa murmured -unheard and hurried away unseen to plains -made warm and green by her imagination. But the old -may survive upon memories; the young cannot thrive -upon hope. Love, long reaching outward in vain, returns -to the heart as self-pity. Sympathies, if not supported -by close realities, fall in upon themselves like -the walls of a ruined house. At last, therefore, even -the hidden life of Sister Dolorosa grew weary of the -future and the past, and came home to the present.</p> - -<p>The ardor of her studies and the rigor of her duties -combined—but more than either that wearing away of -the body by a restless mind—had begun to affect her -health. Both were relaxed, and she was required to -spend as much time as possible in the garden of the -convent It was like lifting a child that has become -worn out with artificial playthings to an open window -to see the flowers. With inexpressible relief she turned -from mediæval books to living nature; and her beautiful -imagination, that last of all faculties to fail a human -being in an unhappy lot, now began to bind nature to -her with fellowships which quieted the need of human -association. She had long been used to feign correspondences -with the fathers of the Church; she now established -intimacies with dumb companions, and poured -out her heart to them in confidence.</p> - -<p>The distant woods slowly clothing themselves in -green; the faint perfume of the wild rose, running riot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span> -over some rotting fence; the majestical clouds about -the sunset; the moon dying in the spectral skies; the -silken rustling of doves' wings parting the soft foliage -of the sentinel elms; landscapes of frost on her window-pane; -crumbs in winter for the sparrows on the -sill; violets under the leaves in the convent garden; -myrtle on the graves of the nuns—such objects as these -became the means by which her imprisoned life was released. -On the sensuous beauty of the world she spent -the chaste ravishments of her virginal heart. Her love -descended on all things as in the night the dew fills -and bends down the cups of the flowers.</p> - -<p>A few of these confidences—written on slips of paper, -and no sooner written than cast aside—are given -here. They are addressed severally to a white violet, -an English sparrow, and a butterfly.</p> - -<p>"I have taken the black veil, but thou wearest the -white, and thou dwellest in dim cloisters of green leaves—in -the domed and many-pillared little shrines that -line the dusty road-side, or seem more fitly built in the -depths of holy woodlands. How often have I drawn -near with timid steps, and, opening the doors of thy tiny -oratories, found thee bending at thy silent prayers—bending -so low that thy lips touched the earth, while -the slow wind rang thine Angelus! Wast thou blooming -anywhere near when He came into the wood of the -thorn and the olive? Didst thou press thy cool face -against his bruised feet? Had I been thou, I would -have bloomed at the foot of the cross, and fed his failing -lungs with my last breath. Time never destroys -thee, little Sister, or stains thy whiteness; and thou wilt -be bending at thy prayers among the green graves on -the twilight hill-side ages after I who lie below have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span> -finished mine. Pray for me then, pray for thine erring -sister, thou pure-souled violet!"</p> - -<p>"How cold thou art! Shall I take thee in and warm -thee on my bosom? Ah, no! For I know who thou art! -Not a bird, but a little brown mendicant friar, begging -barefoot in the snow. And thou livest in a cell under -the convent eaves opposite my window. What ugly -feet thou hast, little Father! And the thorns are on -thy toes instead of about thy brow. That is a bad sign -for a saint. I saw thee in a brawl the other day with a -mendicant brother of thine order, and thou drovest him -from roof to roof and from icy twig to twig, screaming -and wrangling in a way to bring reproach upon the -Church. Thou shouldst learn to defend a thesis more -gently. Who is it that visits thy cell so often? A penitent -to confess? And dost thou shrive her freely? I'd -never confess to thee, thou cross little Father! Thou'dst -have no mercy on me if I sinned, as sin I must since -human I am. The good God is very good to thee that -he keeps thee from sinning while he leaves me to do -wrong. Ah, if it were but natural for me to be perfect! -But that, little Father, is my idea of heaven. In -heaven it will be natural for me to be perfect. I'll feed -thee no longer than the winter lasts, for then thou'lt be -a monk no longer, but a bird again. And canst thou -tell me why? Because, when the winter is gone, thou'lt -find a mate, and wert thou a monk thou'dst have none. -For thou knowest perfectly well, little Father, that monks -do not wed."</p> - -<p>"No fitting emblem of my soul art thou, fragile -Psyche, mute and perishable lover of the gorgeous -earth. For my soul has no summer, and there is no -earthly object of beauty that it may fly to and rest upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span> -as thou upon the beckoning buds. It is winter where I -live. All things are cold and white, and my soul flies -only above fresh fields of flowerless snow. But no blast -can chill its wings, no mire bedraggle, or rude touch -fray. I often wonder whether thou art mute, or the divine -framework of winged melodies. Thy very wings -are shaped like harps for the winds to play upon. So, -too, my soul is silent never, though none can hear its -music. Dost thou know that I am held in exile in this -world that I inhabit? And dost thou know the flower -that I fly ever towards and cannot reach? It is the white -flower of eternal perfection that blooms and waits for -the soul in Paradise. Upon that flower I shall some -day rest my wings as thou foldest thine on a faultless -rose."</p> - -<p>Harmonizing with this growing passion for the beauty -of the world—a passion that marked her approach to -riper womanhood—was the care she took of her person. -The coarse, flowing habit of the order gave no hint of -the curves and symmetry of the snow-white figure throbbing -with eager life within; but it could not conceal an -air of refinement and movements of the most delicate -grace. There was likewise a suggestion of artistic study -in the arrangement of her veil, and the sacred symbol -on her bosom was embroidered with touches of elaboration.</p> - -<p>It was when she had grown weary of books, of the -imaginary drama of her life, and the loveliness of Nature, -that Sister Dolorosa was sent by the Mother Superior -on those visits of sympathy to old Martha Cross; -and it was during her return from one of them that -there befell her that adventure which she had deemed -too slight to mention.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">III.</p> - -<p>Her outward history was that night made known to -Gordon Helm by old Martha Cross. When Sister -Dolorosa passed him he followed her at a distance until -she entered the convent gates. It caused him subtle -pain to think what harm might be lurking to insnare -her innocence. But subtler pain shot through him as -he turned away, leaving her housed within that inaccessible -fold.</p> - -<p>Who was she, and from what mission returning alone -at such an hour across those darkening fields? He had -just come to the edge of the corn and started to follow -up the path in quest of shelter for the night, when he -had caught sight of her on the near hill-top, outlined -with startling distinctness against the jasper sky and -bathed in a tremulous sea of lovely light. He had held -his breath as she advanced towards him. He had -watched the play of emotions in her face as she paused -a few yards off, and her surprise at the discovery of him—the -timid start; the rounding of the fawn-like eyes; -the vermeil tint overspreading the transparent purity of -her skin: her whole nature disturbed like a wind-shaken -anemone. All this he now remembered as he -returned along the foot-path. It brought him to the -door of the farm-house, where he arranged to pass the -night.</p> - -<p>"You are a stranger in this part of the country," said -the old housewife an hour later.</p> - -<p>When he came in she had excused herself from rising -from her chair by the chimney-side; but from that moment -her eyes had followed him—those eyes of the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span> -which follow the forms of the young with such despairing -memories. By the chimney-side sat old Ezra, powerful, -stupid, tired, silently smoking, and taking little notice -of the others. Hardly a chill was in the air, but -for her sake a log blazed in the cavernous fireplace -and threw its flickering light over the guest who sat in -front.</p> - -<p>He possessed unusual physical beauty—of the type -sometimes found in the men of those Kentucky families -that have descended with little admixture from English -stock; body and limbs less than athletic, but formed for -strength and symmetry; hair brown, thick, and slightly -curling over the forehead and above the ears; complexion -blond, but mellowed into rich tints from sun -and open air; eyes of dark gray-blue, beneath brows -low and firm; a mustache golden-brown, thick, and -curling above lips red and sensuous; a neck round and -full, and bearing aloft a head well poised and moulded. -The irresistible effect of his appearance was an impression -of simple joyousness in life. There seemed to -be stored up in him the warmth of the sunshine of his -land; the gentleness of its fields; the kindness of its -landscapes. And he was young—so young! To study -him was to see that he was ripe to throw himself heedless -into tragedy; and that for him, not once but nightly, -Endymion fell asleep to be kissed in his dreams by -encircling love.</p> - -<p>"You are a stranger in this part of the country," -said the old housewife, observing the elegance of his -hunting-dress and his manner of high breeding.</p> - -<p>"Yes; I have never been in this part of Kentucky -before." He paused; but seeing that some account of -himself was silently waited for, and as though wishing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span> -at once to despatch the subject, he added: "I am from -the blue-grass region, about a hundred miles northward -of here. A party of us were on our way farther -south to hunt. On the train we fell in with a gentleman -who told us he thought there were a good many -birds around here, and I was chosen to stop over to ascertain. -We might like to try this neighborhood as we -return, so I left my things at the station and struck out -across the country this afternoon. I have heard birds -in several directions, but had no dog. However, I shot -a few doves in a cornfield."</p> - -<p>"There are plenty of birds close around here, but -most of them stay on the land that is owned by the -Sisters, and they don't like to have it hunted over. All -the land between here and the convent belongs to them -except the little that's mine." This was said somewhat -dryly by the old man, who knocked the ashes off his -pipe without looking up.</p> - -<p>"I am sorry to have trespassed; but I was not expecting -to find a convent out in the country, although -I believe I have heard that there is an abbey of Trappist -monks somewhere down here."</p> - -<p>"Yes; the abbey is not far from here."</p> - -<p>"It seems strange to me. I can hardly believe I -am in Kentucky," he said, musingly, and a solemn look -came over his face as his thoughts went back to the -sunset scene.</p> - -<p>The old housewife's keen eyes pierced to his secret -mood.</p> - -<p>"You ought to go there."</p> - -<p>"Do they receive visitors at the convent?" he asked, -quickly.</p> - -<p>"Certainly; the Sisters are very glad to have stran<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span>gers -visit the place. It's a pity you hadn't come sooner. -One of the Sisters was here this afternoon, and you -might have spoken to her about it."</p> - -<p>This intelligence threw him into silence, and again -her eyes fed upon his firelit face with inappeasable -hunger. She was one of those women, to be met with -the world over and in any station, who are remarkable -for a love of youth and the world, which age, sickness, -and isolation but deepen rather than subdue; and his -sudden presence at her fireside was more than grateful. -Not satisfied with what he had told, she led the talk -back to the blue-grass country, and got from him other -facts of his life, asking questions in regard to the features -of that more fertile and beautiful land. In return -she sketched the history of her own region, and dwelt -upon its differences of soil, people, and religion—chiefly -the last. It was while she spoke of the Order of the -Stricken Heart that he asked a question he had long -reserved.</p> - -<p>"Do you know the history of any of these Sisters?"</p> - -<p>"I know the history of all of them who are from -Kentucky. I have known Sister Dolorosa since she -was a child."</p> - -<p>"Sister Dolorosa!" The name pierced him like a -spear.</p> - -<p>"The nun who was here to-day is called Sister Dolorosa. -Her real name was Pauline Cambron."</p> - -<p>The fire died away. The old man left the room on -some pretext and did not return. The story that followed -was told with many details not given here—traced -up from parentage and childhood with that fine tracery -of the feminine mind which is like intricate embroidery, -and which leaves the finished story wrought out on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span> -mind like a complete design, with every point fastened -to the sympathies.</p> - -<p>As soon as she had finished he rose quickly from a -desire to be alone. So well had the story been knit to -his mind that he felt it an irritation, a binding pain. -He was bidding her good-night when she caught his -hand. Something in his mere temperament drew women -towards him.</p> - -<p>"Are you married?" she asked, looking into his eyes -in the way with which those who are married sometimes -exchange confidences.</p> - -<p>He looked quickly away, and his face flushed a little -fiercely.</p> - -<p>"I am not married," he replied, withdrawing his -hand.</p> - -<p>She threw it from her with a gesture of mock, pleased -impatience; and when he had left the room, she sat -for a while over the ashes.</p> - -<p>"If she were not a nun"—then she laughed and -made her difficult way to her bed. But in the room -above he sat down to think.</p> - -<p>Was this, then, not romance, but life in his own -State? Vaguely he had always known that farther -south in Kentucky a different element of population -had settled, and extended into the New World that -mighty cord of ecclesiastical influence which of old had -braided every European civilization into an iron tissue -of faith. But this knowledge had never touched his -imagination. In his own land there were no rural -Catholic churches, much less convents, and even among -the Catholic congregations of the neighboring towns -he had not many acquaintances and fewer friends.</p> - -<p>To descend as a gay bird of passage, therefore, upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span> -these secluded, sombre fields, and find himself in the -neighborhood of a powerful Order—to learn that a girl, -beautiful, accomplished, of wealth and high social position, -had of her own choice buried herself for life within -its bosom—gave him a startling insight into Kentucky -history as it was forming in his own time. Moreover—and -this touched him especially—it gave him a deeper -insight into the possibilities of woman's nature; for -a certain narrowness of view regarding the true mission -of woman in the world belonged to him as a result of -education. In the conservative Kentucky society by -which he had been largely moulded the opinion prevailed -that woman fulfilled her destiny when she married well -and adorned a home. All beauty, all accomplishments, -all virtues and graces, were but means for attaining this -end.</p> - -<p>As for himself he came of a stock which throughout -the generations of Kentucky life, and back of these along -the English ancestry, had stood for the home; a race -of men with the fireside traits: sweet-tempered, patient, -and brave; well-formed and handsome; cherishing towards -women a sense of chivalry; protecting them fiercely -and tenderly; loving them romantically and quickly -for the sake of beauty; marrying early, and sometimes -at least holding towards their wives such faith, that -these had no more to fear from all other women in the -world than from all other men.</p> - -<p>Descended from such a stock and moulded by the social -ideals of his region, Helm naturally stood for the -home himself. And yet there was a difference. In a -sense he was a product of the new Kentucky. His infancy -had been rocked on the chasm of the Civil War; -his childhood spent amid its ruins; his youth ruled by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span> -two contending spirits—discord and peace: and earliest -manhood had come to him only in the morning of -the new era. It was because the path of his life had -thus run between light and shade that his nature was -joyous and grave; only joy claimed him entirely as yet, -while gravity asserted itself merely in the form of sympathy -with anything that suffered, and a certain seriousness -touching his own responsibility in life.</p> - -<p>Reflecting on this responsibility while his manhood -was yet forming, he felt the need of his becoming a -better, broader type of man, matching the better, broader -age. His father was about his model of a gentleman; -but he should be false to the admitted progress -of the times were he not an improvement on his father. -And since his father had, as judged by the ideals of the -old social order, been a blameless gentleman of the -rural blue-grass kind, with farm, spacious homestead, -slaves, leisure, and a library—to all of which, except -the slaves, he would himself succeed upon his father's -death—his dream of duty took the form of becoming a -rural blue-grass gentleman of the newer type, reviving -the best traditions of the past, but putting into his relations -with his fellow-creatures an added sense of helpfulness, -a broader sense of justice, and a certain energy -of leadership in all things that made for a purer, higher -human life. It will thus be seen that he took seriously -not only himself, but the reputation of his State; for he -loved it, people and land, with broad, sensitive tenderness, -and never sought or planned for his future apart -from civil and social ends.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps a characteristic of him as a product -of the period that he had a mind for looking at his life -somewhat abstractedly and with a certain thought-out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span> -plan; for this disposition of mind naturally belongs to -an era when society is trembling upon the brink of new -activities and forced to the discovery of new ideals. But -he cherished no religious passion, being committed by -inheritance to a mild, unquestioning, undeviating Protestantism. -His religion was more in his conduct than -in his prayers, and he tried to live its precepts instead -of following them from afar. Still, his make was far -from heroic. He had many faults; but it is less important -to learn what these were than to know that, as far -as he was aware of their existence, he was ashamed of -them, and tried to overcome them.</p> - -<p>Such, in brief, were Pauline Cambron and Gordon -Helm: coming from separate regions of Kentucky, descended -from unlike pasts, moulded by different influences, -striving towards ends in life far apart and hostile. -And being thus, at last they slept that night.</p> - -<p>When she had been left alone, and had begun to prepare -herself for bed, across her mind passed and repassed -certain words of the Mother Superior, stilling -her spirit like the waving of a wand of peace: "To be -troubled without any visible cause is one of the mysteries -of our nature." True, before she fell asleep there -rose all at once a singularly clear recollection of that -silent meeting in the fields; but her prayers fell thick -and fast upon it like flakes of snow, until it was chastely -buried from the eye of conscience; and when she -slept, two tears, slowly loosened from her brain by some -repentant dream, could alone have told that there had -been trouble behind her peaceful eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">IV.</p> - -<p>Sister Dolorosa was returning from her visit to old -Martha on the following afternoon. When she awoke -that morning she resolutely put away all thought of -what had happened the evening before. She prayed -oftener than usual that day. She went about all duties -with unwonted fervor. When she set out in the afternoon, -and reached the spot in the fields where the -meeting had taken place, it was inevitable that a nature -sensitive and secluded like hers should be visited by -some question touching who he was and whither he -had gone; for it did not even occur to her that he -would ever cross her path again. Soon she reached -old Martha's; and then—a crippled toad with a subtile -tongue had squatted for an hour at the ear of Eve, and -Eve, beguiled, had listened. And now she was again -returning across the fields homeward. Homeward?</p> - -<p>Early that afternoon Helm had walked across the -country to the station, some two miles off, to change his -dress, with the view of going to the convent the next -day. As he came back, he followed the course which -he had taken the day before, and this brought him into -the same foot-path across the fields.</p> - -<p>Thus they met the second time. When she saw him, -had she been a bird, with one sudden bound she would -have beaten the air down beneath her frightened wings -and darted high over his head straight to the convent. -But his step grew slower and his look expectant. When -they were a few yards apart he stepped out of the path -into the low, gray weeds of the field, and seemed ready<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span> -to pause; but she had instinctively drawn her veil close, -and was passing on. Then he spoke quickly.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon, but are strangers allowed to visit -the convent?"</p> - -<p>There was no mistaking the courtesy of the tone. -But she did not lift her face towards him. She merely -paused, though seeming to shrink away. He saw the -fingers of one hand lace themselves around the cross. -Then a moment later, in a voice very low and gentle, -she replied, "The Mother Superior is glad to receive -visitors at the convent," and, bowing, moved away.</p> - -<p>He stood watching her with a quick flush of disappointment. -Her voice, even more than her garb, had -at once waved off approach. In his mind he had -crossed the distance from himself to her so often that -he had forgotten the actual abyss of sacred separation. -Very thoughtfully he turned at last and took his way -along the foot-path.</p> - -<p>As he was leaving the farm-house the next day to go -to the convent, Ezra joined him, merely saying that he -was going also. The old man had few thoughts; but -with that shrewd secretiveness which is sometimes found -in the dull mind he kept his counsels to himself. Their -walk was finished in silence, and soon the convent stood -before them.</p> - -<p>Through a clear sky the wan light fell upon it as lifeless -as though sent from a dead sun. The air hung -motionless. The birds were gone. Not a sound fell -upon the strained ear. Not a living thing relieved the -eye. And yet within what tragedies and conflicts, what -wounds and thorns of womanhood! Here, then, she -lived and struggled and soared. An unearthly quietude -came over him as he walked up the long avenue of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span> -elms, painfully jarred on by the noise of Ezra's shuffling -feet among the dry leaves. Joyous life had retired to -infinite remoteness; and over him, like a preternatural -chill in the faint sunlight, crept the horror of this death -in life. Strangely enough he felt at one and the same -time a repugnance to his own nature of flesh and a -triumphant delight in the possession of bodily health, -liberty—the liberty of the world—and a mind unfettered -by tradition.</p> - -<p>A few feet from the entrance an aged nun stepped -from behind a hedge-row of shrubbery and confronted -them.</p> - -<p>"Will you state your business?" she said, coldly, -glancing at Helm and fixing her eyes on Ezra, who for -reply merely nodded to Helm.</p> - -<p>"I am a stranger in this part of the country, and -heard that I would be allowed to visit the convent."</p> - -<p>"Are you a Catholic?"</p> - -<p>"No; I am a Protestant."</p> - -<p>"Are you acquainted with any of the young ladies in -the convent?"</p> - -<p>"I am not."</p> - -<p>She looked him through and through. He met her -scrutiny with frank unconsciousness.</p> - -<p>"Will you come in? I will take your name to the -Mother Superior."</p> - -<p>They followed her into a small reception-room, and -sat for a long time waiting. Then an inner door opened, -and another aged nun, sweet-faced and gentle, entered -and greeted them pleasantly, recognizing Ezra as an -acquaintance.</p> - -<p>"Another Sister will be sent to accompany us," she -said, and sat down to wait, talking naturally the while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span> -to the old man. Then the door opened again, and the -heart of Helm beat violently; there was no mistaking -the form, the grace. She crossed to the Sister, and -spoke in an undertone.</p> - -<p>"Sister Generose is engaged. Mother sent me in her -place, Sister." Then she greeted Ezra and bowed to -Helm, lifting to him an instant, but without recognition, -her tremulous eyes. Her face had the whiteness of alabaster.</p> - -<p>"We will go to the church first," said the Sister, addressing -Helm, who placed himself beside her, the others -following.</p> - -<p>When they entered the church he moved slowly -around the walls, trying to listen to his guide and to fix -his thoughts upon the pictures and the architecture. -Presently he became aware that Ezra had joined them, -and as soon as pretext offered he looked back. In a -pew near the door through which they had entered he -could just see the kneeling form and bowed head of -Sister Dolorosa. There she remained while they made -the circuit of the building, and not until they were quitting -it did she rise and again place herself by the side -of Ezra. Was it her last prayer before her temptation?</p> - -<p>They walked across the grounds towards the old-fashioned -flower-garden of the convent. The Sister opened -the little latticed gate, and the others passed in. The -temptation was to begin in the very spot where Love -had long been wandering amid dumb companions.</p> - -<p>"Ezra!" called the aged Sister, pausing just inside -the gate and looking down at some recently dug bulbs, -"has Martha taken up her tender bulbs? The frost -will soon be falling." The old man sometimes helped -at the convent in garden work.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span></p> - -<p>"Who is this young man?" she inquired carelessly a -few moments later.</p> - -<p>But Ezra was one of those persons who cherish a faint -dislike of all present company. Moreover, he knew the -good Sister's love of news. So he began to resist her -with the more pleasure that he could at least evade her -questions.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," he replied, with a mysterious shake -of the head.</p> - -<p>"Come this way," she said beguilingly, turning aside -into another walk, "and look at the chrysanthemums. -How did you happen to meet him?"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When Sister Dolorosa and Helm found themselves -walking slowly side by side down the garden-path—this -being what he most had hoped for and she most had -feared—there fell upon each a momentary silence of -preparation. Speak she must; if only in speaking she -might not err. Speak he could; if only in speaking he -might draw from her more knowledge of her life, and in -some becoming way cause her to perceive his interest -in it.</p> - -<p>Then she, as his guide, keeping her face turned towards -the border of flowers, but sometimes lifting it shyly -to his, began with great sweetness and a little hurriedly, -as if fearing to pause:</p> - -<p>"The garden is not pretty now. It is full of flowers, -but only a few are blooming. These are daffodils. -They bloomed in March, long ago. And here were -spring beauties. They grow wild, and do not last long. -The Mother Superior wished some cultivated in the -garden, but they are better if let alone to grow wild. -And here are violets, which come in April. And here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span> -is Adam and Eve, and tulips. They are gay flowers, and -bloom together for company. You can see Adam and -Eve a long way off, and they look better at a distance. -These were the white lilies, but one of the Sisters died, -and we made a cross. That was in June. Jump-up-Johnnies -were planted in this bed, but they did not do -well. It has been a bad year. A storm blew the hollyhocks -down, and there were canker-worms in the roses. -That is the way with the flowers: they fail one year, and -they succeed the next. They would never fail if they -were let alone. It is pleasant to see them starting out -in the Spring to be perfect each in its own way. It is -pleasant to water them and to help. But some will be -perfect, and some will be imperfect, and no one can alter -that. They are like the children in the school; only -the flowers would all be perfect if they had their way, -and the children would all be wrong if they had theirs—the -poor, good children! This is touch-me-not. Perhaps -you have never heard of any such flower. And -there, next to it, is love-lies-bleeding. We have not -much of that; only this one little plant." And she -bent over and stroked it.</p> - -<p>His whole heart melted under the white radiance of -her innocence. He had thought her older; now his -feeling took the form of the purest delight in some exquisite -child nature. And therefore, feeling thus towards -her, and seeing the poor, dead garden with only -common flowers, which nevertheless she separately -loved, oblivious of their commonness, he said with sudden -warmth, holding her eyes with his:</p> - -<p>"I wish you could see my mother's garden and the -flowers that bloom in it." And as he spoke there came -to him a vision of her as she might look in a certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span> -secluded corner of it, where ran a trellised walk; over-clambering -roses pale-golden, full-blown or budding, and -bent with dew; the May sun golden in the heavens; -far and near birds singing and soaring in ecstasy; the -air lulling the sense with perfume, quickening the blood -with freshness; and there, within that frame of roses, -her head bare and shining, her funereal garb forever -laid aside for one that matched the loveliest hue of living -nature around, a flower at her throat, flowers in her -hand, sadness gone from her face, there the pure and -radiant incarnation of a too-happy world, this exquisite -child-nature, advancing towards him with eyes of love.</p> - -<p>Having formed this picture, he could not afterwards -destroy it; and as they resumed their walk he began -very simply to describe his mother's garden, she listening -closely because of her love for flowers, which had -become companions to her, and merely saying dreamily, -half to herself and with guarded courtesy half to him, -"It must be beautiful."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"The Mother Superior intends to make the garden -larger next year, and to have fine flowers in it, Ezra. It -has been a prosperous year in the school, and there -will be money to spare. This row of lilacs is to be dug -up, and the fence set back so as to take in the onion -patch over there. When does he expect to go away?" -The aged Sister had not made rapid progress.</p> - -<p>"I haven't heard him say," replied the old man.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps Martha has heard him say."</p> - -<p>Ezra only struck the toe of his stout boot with his -staff.</p> - -<p>"The Mother Superior will want <em>you</em> to dig up the -lilacs, Ezra. You can do it better than any one else."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span></p> - -<p>The old man shook his head threateningly at the -bushes. "I can settle them," he said.</p> - -<p>"Better than any one else. Has Martha heard him -say when he is going away?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow," he replied, conceding something in -return for the lilacs.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"These are the chrysanthemums. They are white, -but some are perfect and some are imperfect, you see. -Those that are perfect are the ones to feel proud of, -but the others are the ones to love."</p> - -<p>"If all were perfect would you no longer love them?" -he said gently, thinking how perfect she was and how -easy it would be to love her.</p> - -<p>"If all were perfect, I could love all alike, because -none would need to be loved more than others."</p> - -<p>"And when the flowers in the garden are dead, what -do you find to love then?" he asked, laughing a little -and trying to follow her mood.</p> - -<p>"It would not be fair to forget them because they -are dead. But they are not dead; they go away for a -season, and it would not be fair to forget them because -they have gone away." This she said simply and -seriously as though her conscience were dealing with -human virtues and duties.</p> - -<p>"And are you satisfied to love things that are not -present?" he asked, looking at her with sudden earnestness.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"The Mother Superior will wish him to take away a -favorable impression of the convent," said the Sister. -"Young ladies are sometimes sent to us from that region." -And now, having gotten from Ezra the informa<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span>tion -she desired and turned their steps towards the -others, she looked at Helm with greater interest.</p> - -<p>"Should you like to go upon the observatory?" she -meekly asked, pointing to the top of the adjacent building. -"From there you can see how far the convent -lands extend. Besides, it is the only point that commands -a view of the whole country."</p> - -<p>The scene of the temptation was to be transferred to -the pinnacle of the temple.</p> - -<p>"It is not asking too much of you to climb so far for -my pleasure?"</p> - -<p>"It is our mission to climb," she replied, wearily; -"and if our strength fails, we rest by the way."</p> - -<p>Of herself she spoke literally; for when they came to -the topmost story of the building, from which the observatory -was reached by a short flight of steps, she -sank into a seat placed near as a resting-place.</p> - -<p>"Will you go above, Sister?" she said feebly. "I -will wait here."</p> - -<p>On the way up, also, the old man had been shaking -his head with a stupid look of alarm and muttering his -disapproval.</p> - -<p>"There is a high railing, Ezra," she now said to him. -"You could not fall." But he refused to go farther; -he suffered from vertigo.</p> - -<p>The young pair went up alone.</p> - -<p>For miles in all directions the landscape lay shimmering -in the autumnal sunlight—a poor, rough, homely -land, with a few farm houses of the plainest kind. -Briefly she traced for him the boundary of the convent -domain. And then he, thinking proudly of his own region, -now lying heavy in varied autumnal ripeness and -teeming with noble, gentle animal life; with rolling past<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span>ures -as green as May under great trees of crimson and -gold; with flashing streams and placid sheets of water, -and great secluded homesteads—he, in turn, briefly described -it; and she, loving the sensuous beauty of the -world, listened more dreamily, merely repeating over -and over, half to herself, and with more guarded courtesy -half to him, "It must be very beautiful."</p> - -<p>But whether she suddenly felt that she had yielded -herself too far to the influence of his words and wished -to counteract this, or whether she was aroused to offset -his description by another of unlike interest, scarcely -had he finished when she pointed towards a long -stretch of woodland that lay like a mere wavering band -of brown upon the western horizon.</p> - -<p>"It was through those woods," she said, her voice -trembling slightly, "that the procession of Trappists -marched behind the cross when they fled to this country -from France. Beyond that range of hills is the -home of the Silent Brotherhood. In this direction," -she continued, pointing southward, "is the creek which -used to be so deep in winter that the priests had to -swim it as they walked from one distant mission to another -in the wilderness, holding above the waves the -crucifix and the sacrament. Under that tree down -there the Father who founded this convent built with -his own hands the cabin that was the first church, and -hewed out of logs the first altar. It was from those -trees that the first nuns got the dyes for their vestments. -On the floor of that cabin they sometimes slept in mid-winter -with no other covering than an armful of straw. -Those were heroic days."</p> - -<p>If she had indeed felt some secret need to recover -herself by reciting the heroisms of local history, she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span> -seemed to have succeeded. Her face kindled with -emotion; and as he watched it he forgot even her -creed in this revelation of her nature, which touched in -him also something serious and exalted. But as she -ceased he asked, with peculiar interest:</p> - -<p>"Are there any Kentuckians among the Trappist -Fathers?"</p> - -<p>"No," she replied, after a momentary silence, and in -a voice lowered to great sadness. "There was one a -few years ago. His death was a great blow to the Fathers. -They had hoped that he might some day become -the head of the order in Kentucky. He was -called Father Palemon."</p> - -<p>For another moment nothing was said. They were -standing side by side, looking towards that quarter of -the horizon which she had pointed out as the site of -the abbey. Then he spoke meditatively, as though his -mind had gone back unawares to some idea that was -very dear to him:</p> - -<p>"No, this does not seem much like Kentucky; but, -after all, every landscape is essentially the same to me -if there are homes on it. Poor as this country is, -still it is history; it is human life. Here are the eternal -ties and relations. Here are the eternal needs and -duties; everything that keeps the world young and the -heart at peace. Here is the unchanging expression of -our common destiny, as creatures who must share all -things, and bear all things, and be bound together in -life and death."</p> - -<p>"Sister!" called up the nun waiting below, "is not -the wind blowing? Will you not take cold?"</p> - -<p>"The wind is not blowing, Sister, but I am coming."</p> - -<p>They turned their faces outward upon the landscape<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span> -once more. Across it wound the little foot-path towards -the farm-house in the distance. By a common -impulse their eyes rested upon the place of their first -meeting. He pointed to it.</p> - -<p>"I shall never forget that spot," he said, impulsively.</p> - -<p>"Nor I!"</p> - -<p>Her words were not spoken. They were not uttered -within. As unexpectedly and silently as in the remotest -profound of the heavens at midnight some palest little -star is loosened from its orbit, shoots a brief span, and -disappears, this confession of hers traced its course -across the depths of her secret consciousness; but, -having made it to herself, she kept her eyes veiled, and -did not look at him again that day.</p> - -<p>"I think you have now seen everything that could be -of any interest," the aged Sister said, doubtfully, when -they stood in the yard below.</p> - -<p>"The place is very interesting to me," he answered, -looking around that he might discover some way of prolonging -his visit.</p> - -<p>"The graveyard, Sister. We might go there." The -barely audible words were Sister Dolorosa's. The scene -of the temptation was to be transferred for the third -time.</p> - -<p>They walked some distance down a sloping hill-side, -and stepped softly within the sacred enclosure. A -graveyard of nuns! O Mother Earth, all-bearing, passion-hearted -mother! Thou that sendest love one for -another into thy children, from the least to the greatest, -as thou givest them life! Thou that livest by their -loves and their myriad plightings of troth and myriad -marriages! With what inconsolable sorrow must thou -receive back upon thy bosom the chaste dust of lorn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span> -virgins, whose bosoms thou didst mould for a lover's -arms and a babe's slumbers! As marble vestals of the -ancient world, buried and lost, they lie, chiselled into a -fixed attitude of prayer through the silent centuries.</p> - -<p>The aspect and spirit of the place: the simple graves -placed side by side like those of the nameless poor or -of soldiers fallen in an unfriendly land; the rude wooden -cross at the head of each, bearing the sacred name -of her who was dust below; the once chirruping nests -of birds here and there in the grass above the songless -lips; the sad desolation of this unfinished end—all -were the last thing needed to wring the heart of Helm -with dumb pity and an ungovernable anguish of rebellion. -This, then, was to be her portion. His whole -nature cried aloud against it. His ideas of human life, -civilization, his age, his country, his State, rose up in -protest. He did not heed the words of the Sister beside -him. His thoughts were with Sister Dolorosa, -who followed with Ezra in a silence which she had but -once broken since her last words to him. He could -have caught her up and escaped back with her into the -liberty of life, into the happiness of the world.</p> - -<p>Unable to endure the place longer, he himself led -the way out. At the gate the Sister fell behind with -Ezra.</p> - -<p>"He seems deeply impressed by his visit," she said, -in an undertone, "and should bear with him a good account -of the convent. Note what he says, Ezra. The -order wants friends in Kentucky, where it was born -and has flourished;" and looking at Sister Dolorosa -and Helm, who were a short distance in front, she added -to herself:</p> - -<p>"In her, more than in any other one of us, he will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span> -behold the perfect spiritual type of the convent. By -her he will be made to feel the power of the order to -consecrate women, in America, in Kentucky, to the -service of the everlasting Church."</p> - -<p>Meantime, Sister Dolorosa and Helm walked side by -side in a silence that neither could break. He was -thinking of her as a woman of Kentucky—of his own -generation—and trying to understand the motive that -had led her to consecrate herself to such a life. His -own ideal of duty was so different.</p> - -<p>"I have never thought," he said, at length, in a voice -lowered so as to reach her ear alone—"I have never -thought that my life would not be full of happiness. I -have never supposed I could help being happy if I did -my duty."</p> - -<p>She made no reply, and again they walked on in silence -and drew near the convent building. There was -so much that he wished to say, but scarcely one of his -thoughts that he dared utter. At length he said, with -irrepressible feeling:</p> - -<p>"I wish your life did not seem to me so sad. I wish, -when I go away to-morrow, that I could carry away, -with my thoughts of this place, the thought that you -are happy. As long as I remember it I wish I could -remember you as being happy."</p> - -<p>"You have no right to remember me at all," she said, -quickly, speaking for the nun and betraying the woman.</p> - -<p>"But I cannot help it," he said.</p> - -<p>"Remember me, then, not as desiring to be happy, -but as living to become blessed."</p> - -<p>This she said, breaking the long silence which had -followed upon his too eager exclamation. Her voice -had become hushed into unison with her meek and pa<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span>tient -words. And then she paused, and, turning, waited -for the Sister to come up beside them. Nor did she -even speak to him again, merely bowing without lifting -her eyes when, a little later, he thanked them and took -his leave.</p> - -<p>In silence he and the old man returned to the farm-house, -for his thoughts were with her. In the garden -she had seemed to him almost as a child, talking artlessly -of her sympathies and ties with mute playthings; -then on the heights she had suddenly revealed herself -as the youthful transcendent devotee; and finally, amid -the scenes of death, she had appeared a woman too -quickly aged and too early touched with resignation. -He did not know that the effect of convent life is to -force certain faculties into maturity while others are repressed -into unalterable unripeness; so that in such -instances as Sister Dolorosa's the whole nature resembles -some long, sloping mountain-side, with an upper -zone of ever-lingering snow for childhood, below this a -green vernal belt for maidenhood, and near the foot -fierce summer heats and summer storms for womanhood. -Gradually his plan of joining his friends the next day -wavered for reasons that he could hardly have named.</p> - -<p>And Sister Dolorosa—what of her when the day was -over? Standing that night in a whitewashed, cell-like -room, she took off the heavy black veil and hood which -shrouded her head from all human vision, and then unfastening -at waist and throat the heavier black vestment -of the order, allowed it to slip to the floor, revealing -a white under-habit of the utmost simplicity of -design. It was like the magical transformation of a -sorrow-shrouded woman back into the shape of her -own earliest maidenhood.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span></p> - -<p>Her hair, of the palest gold, would, if unshorn, have -covered her figure in a soft, thick golden cloud; but -shorn, it lay about her neck and ears in large, lustrous -waves that left defined the contour of her beautiful -head, and gave to it the aerial charm that belongs to -the joyousness of youth. Her whole figure was relaxed -into a posture slightly drooping; her bare arms, white -as the necks of swans, hung in forgotten grace at her -sides; her eyes, large, dark, poetic, and spiritual, were -bent upon the floor, so that the lashes left their shadows -on her cheeks, while the delicate, overcircling brows -were arched high with melancholy. As the nun's funereal -robes had slipped from her person had her mind -slipped back into the past, that she stood thus, all the -pure oval of her sensitive face stilled to an expression -of brooding pensiveness? On the urn which held the -ashes of her heart had some legend of happy shapes -summoned her fondly to return?—some garden? some -radiant playfellow of childhood summers, already dim -but never to grow dimmer?</p> - -<p>Sighing deeply, she stepped across the dark circle on -the floor which was the boundary of her womanhood. -As she did so her eyes rested on a small table where -lay a rich veil of white that she had long been embroidering -for a shrine of the Virgin. Slowly, still absently, -she walked to it, and, taking it up, threw it over her -head, so that the soft fabric enveloped her head and -neck and fell in misty folds about her person; she -thinking the while only of the shrine; she looking down -on this side and on that, and wishing only to judge -how well this design and that design, patiently and -prayerfully wrought out, might adorn the image of the -Divine Mother in the church of the convent.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span></p> - -<p>But happening to be standing quite close to the white -wall of the room with the lamp behind her, when she -raised her eyes she caught sight of her shadow, and -with a low cry clasped her hands, and for an instant, -breathless, surveyed it. No mirrors are allowed in the -convent. Since entering it Sister Dolorosa had not -seen a reflection of herself, except perhaps her shadow -in the sun or her face in a troubled basin of water. -Now, with one overwhelming flood of womanly self-consciousness, -she bent forward, noting the outline of her -uncovered head, of her bared neck and shoulders and -arms. Did this accidental adorning of herself in the -veil of a bride, after she had laid aside the veil of the -Church, typify her complete relapse of nature? And was -this the lonely marriage-moment of her betrayed heart?</p> - -<p>For a moment, trembling, not before the image on the -wall, but before that vivid mirror which memory and -fancy set before every woman when no real mirror is -nigh, she indulged her self-surrender to thoughts that -covered her, on face and neck, with a rosy cloud more -maidenly than the white mist of the veil. Then, as if -recalled by some lightning stroke of conscience, with -fearful fingers she lifted off the veil, extinguished the -lamp, and, groping her way on tiptoe to the bedside, -stood beside it, afraid to lie down, afraid to pray, her -eyes wide open in the darkness.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">V.</p> - -<p>Sleep gathers up the soft threads of passion that -have been spun by us during the day, and weaves them -into a tapestry of dreams on which we see the history -of our own characters. We awake to find our wills<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span> -more inextricably caught in the tissues of their own -past; we stir, and discover that we are the heirs to our -dead selves of yesterday, with a larger inheritance of -transmitted purpose.</p> - -<p>When Gordon awoke the next morning among his -first thoughts was the idea of going on to join his -friends that day, and this thought now caused him unexpected -depression. Had he been older, he might -have accepted this unwillingness to go away as the best -reason for leaving; but, young, and habitually self-indulgent -towards his desires when they were not connected -with vice, he did not trouble himself with any -forecast of consequences.</p> - -<p>"You ought not to go away to-day," the old housewife -said to him in the morning, wishing to detain him -through love of his company. "To-morrow will be Sunday, -and you ought to go to vespers and hear Sister -Dolorosa sing. There is not such another voice in any -convent in Kentucky."</p> - -<p>"I will stay," he replied, quickly; and the next afternoon -he was seated in the rear of the convent church, -surrounded by rural Catholic worshippers who had assembled -from the neighborhood. The entire front of -the nave on one side was filled with the black-veiled -Sisters of the order; that on the other with the white-veiled -novices—two far-journeying companies of consecrated -souls who reminded him in the most solemn way -how remote, how inaccessible, was that young pilgrim -among them of whom for a long time now he had been -solely thinking. With these two companies of sacrificial -souls before him he understood her character in a -new light.</p> - -<p>He beheld her much as a brave, beautiful boy volun<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span>teer, -who, suddenly waving a bright, last adieu to gay -companions in some gay-streeted town, from motives of -the loftiest heroism, takes his place in the rear of passing -soldiery, marching to misguided death; who, from -the rear, glowing with too impetuous ardor, makes his -way from rank to rank ever towards the front; and -who, at last, bearing the heavy arms and wearing the -battle-stained uniform of a veteran, steps forward to the -van at the commander's side and sets his fresh, pure -face undaunted towards destruction. As he thought of -her thus, deeper forces stirred within his nature than -had ever been aroused by any other woman. In comparison -every one that he had known became for the -moment commonplace, human life as he was used to it -gross and uninspiring, and his own ideal of duty a -dwarfish mixture of selfishness and luxurious triviality. -Impulsive in his recognition of nobleness of nature -wherever he perceived it, for this devotedness of purpose -he began to feel the emotion which of all that ever -visit the human heart is at once the most humbling, the -most uplifting, and the most enthralling—the hero-worship -of a strong man for a fragile woman.</p> - -<p>The service began. As it went on he noticed here -and there among those near him such evidences of -restlessness as betray in a seated throng high-wrought -expectancy of some pleasure too long deferred. But at -last these were succeeded by a breathless hush, as, -from the concealed organ-loft above, a low, minor prelude -was heard, groping and striving nearer and nearer -towards the concealed motive, as a little wave creeps -farther and farther along a melancholy shore. Suddenly, -beautiful and clear, more tender than love, more -sorrowful than death, there floated out upon the still<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span> -air of the church the cry of a woman's soul that has -offended, and that, shrinking from every prayer of -speech, pours forth its more intense, inarticulate, and -suffering need through the diviner faculty of song.</p> - -<p>At the sound every ear was strained to listen. Hitherto -the wont had been to hear that voice bear aloft -the common petition as calmly as the incense rose past -the altar to the roof; but now it quivered over troubled -depths of feeling, it rose freighted with the burden of -self-accusal. Still higher and higher it rose, borne triumphantly -upward by love and aspiration, until the -powers of the singer's frame seemed spending themselves -in one superhuman effort of the soul to make its -prayer understood to the divine forgiveness. Then, all -at once, at the highest note, as a bird soaring towards -the sun has its wings broken by a shot from below, it -too broke, faltered, and there was a silence. But only -for a moment: another voice, poor and cold, promptly -finished the song; the service ended; the people poured -out of the church.</p> - -<p>When Gordon came out there were a few groups -standing near the door talking; others were already -moving homeward across the grounds. Not far off he -observed a lusty young countryman, with a frank, winning -face, who appeared to be waiting, while he held a -child that had laid its bright head against his tanned, -athletic neck. Gordon approached him, and said with -forced calmness:</p> - -<p>"Do you know what was the matter in the church?"</p> - -<p>"My wife has gone to see," he replied, warmly. -"Wait; she'll be here in a minute. Here she is now."</p> - -<p>The comely, Sunday-dressed young wife came up and -took the child, who held out its arms, fondly smiling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span></p> - -<p>"She hadn't been well, and they didn't want her to -sing to-day; but she begged to sing, and broke down." -Saying this, the young mother kissed her child, and -slipping one hand into the great brown hand of her -husband, which closed upon it, turned away with them -across the lawn homeward.</p> - -<p>When Sister Dolorosa, who had passed a sleepless, -prayerless night, stood in the organ-loft and looked -across the church at the scene of the Passion, at the -shrine of the Virgin, at the white throng of novices -and the dark throng of the Sisters, the common prayer -of whom was to be borne upward by her voice, there -came upon her like a burying wave a consciousness of -how changed she was since she had stood there last. -Thus at the moment when Gordon, sitting below, reverently -set her far above him, as one looks up to a -statue whose feet are above the level of his head, she, -thinking of what she had been and had now become, -seemed to herself as though fallen from a white pedestal -to the miry earth. But when, to a nature like -hers, absolute loyalty to a sinless standard of character -is the only law of happiness itself, every lapse into -transgression is followed by an act of passionate self-chastisement -and by a more passionate outburst of -love for the wronged ideal; and therefore scarce had -she begun to sing, and in music to lift up the prayer -she had denied herself in words, before the powers of -her body succumbed, as the strings of an instrument -snap under too strenuous a touch of the musician.</p> - -<p>Gordon walked out of the grounds beside the rustic -young husband and wife, who plainly were lovers still.</p> - -<p>"The Sister who sang has a beautiful voice," he -said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span></p> - -<p>"None of them can sing like her," replied the wife. -"I love her better than any of the others."</p> - -<p>"I tin sing!" cried the little girl, looking at Gordon, -resentfully, as though he had denied her that accomplishment.</p> - -<p>"But you'll never sing in a convent, missy," cried -the father, snatching her from her mother. "You'll -sing for some man till he marries you as your mother -did me. I was going to join the Trappist monks, but -my wife said I was too good a sweetheart to spoil, and -she had made up her mind to have me herself," he -added, turning to Gordon with a laugh.</p> - -<p>"I'd have been a Sister long ago if you hadn't -begged and begged me not," was the reply, with the -coquettish toss of a pretty head.</p> - -<p>"I doin' be Tap monk," cried the little girl, looking -at Gordon still more assertively, but joining in the laugh -that followed with a scream of delight at the wisdom of -her decision.</p> - -<p>Their paths here diverged, and Gordon walked slowly -on alone, but not without turning to watch the retreating -figures, his meeting with whom at such a moment -formed an episode in the history of that passion -under the influence of which he was now rapidly passing. -For as he had sat in the church his nature, which -was always generous in its responsiveness, had lent itself -wholly to the solicitations of the service; and for a -time the stillness, the paintings portraying the divine -sorrow, the slow procession of nameless women, the tapers, -the incense, the hoary antiquity of the ceremonial, -had carried him into a little known region of his religious -feeling. But from this he had been sharply recalled -by the suggestion of a veiled personal tragedy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span> -close at hand in that unfinished song. His mood again -became one of vast pity for her; and issuing from the -church with this feeling, there, near the very entrance, -he had come upon a rustic picture of husband, wife, -and child, with a sharpness of transition that had -seemed the return of his spirit to its own world of flesh -and blood. There to him was the poetry and the religion -of life—the linked hands of lovers; the twining -arms of childhood; health and joyousness; and a quiet -walk over familiar fields in the evening air from peaceful -church to peaceful home. And so, thinking of this -as he walked on alone and thinking also of her, the -two thoughts blended, and her image stood always before -him in the path-way of his ideal future.</p> - -<p>The history of the next several days may soon be -told. He wrote to his friends, stating that there was -no game in the neighborhood, and that he had given -up the idea of joining them and would return home. -He took the letter to the station, and waited for the -train to pass southward, watching it rush away with a -subtle pleasure at being left on the platform, as though -the bridges were now burned behind him. Then he -returned to the farm-house, where Ezra met him with -that look of stupid alarm which was natural to him -whenever his few thoughts were agitated by a new situation -of affairs.</p> - -<p>Word had come from the convent that he was wanted -there to move a fence and make changes in the garden, -and, proud of the charge, he wished to go; but certain -autumnal work in his own orchard and garden claimed -his time, and hence the trouble. But Gordon, who -henceforth had no reason for tarrying with the old -couple, threw himself eagerly upon this opportunity to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span> -do so, and offered his aid in despatching the tasks. -So that thus a few days passed, during which he unconsciously -made his way as far as any one had ever -done into the tortuous nature of the old man, who began -to regard him with blind trustfulness.</p> - -<p>But they were restless, serious days. One after another -passed, and he heard nothing of Sister Dolorosa. -He asked himself whether she were ill, whether her -visits to old Martha had been made to cease; and he -shrank from the thought of bearing away into his life -the haunting pain of such uncertainty. But some inner -change constrained him no longer to call her name. As -he sat with the old couple at night the housewife renewed -her talks with him, speaking sometimes of the -convent and of Sister Dolorosa, the cessation of whose -visits plainly gave her secret concern; but he listened -in silence, preferring the privacy of his own thoughts. -Sometimes, under feint of hunting, he would take his -gun in the afternoon and stroll out over the country; -but always the presence of the convent made itself felt -over the landscape, dominating it, solitary and impregnable, -like a fortress. It began to draw his eyes with -a species of fascination. He chafed against its assertion -of barriers, and could have wished that his own -will might be brought into conflict with it. It appeared -to watch him; to have an eye at every window; to -see in him a lurking danger. At other times, borne -to him across the darkening fields would come the -sweet vesper bell, and in imagination he would see -her entering the church amid the long procession -of novices and nuns, her hands folded across her -breast, her face full of the soft glories of the lights -that streamed in through the pictured windows. Over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span> -the fancied details of her life more and more fondly he -lingered.</p> - -<p>And thus, although at first he had been interested in -her wholly upon general grounds, believing her secretly -unhappy, thus by thinking always of her, and watching -for her, and walking often beside her in his dreams, -with the folly of the young, with the romantic ardor of -his race, and as part of the never-ending blind tragedy -of the world, he came at last to feel for her, among -women, that passionate pain of yearning to know which -is to know the sadness of love.</p> - -<p>Sleepless one night, he left the house after the old -couple were asleep. The moon was shining, and unconsciously -following the bent of his thoughts, he took -the foot-path that led across the fields. He passed the -spot where he had first met her, and absorbed in recollection -of the scene, he walked on until before him the -convent towered high in light and shadow. He had -reached the entrance to the long avenue of elms. He -traversed it, turned aside into the garden, and, following -with many pauses around its borders, lived over -again the day when she had led him through it. The -mere sense of his greater physical nearness to her inthralled -him. All her words came back: "These are -daffodils. They bloomed in March, long ago.... And -here are violets, which come in April." After awhile, -leaving the garden, he walked across the lawn to the -church and sat upon the steps, trying to look calmly at -this whole episode in his life, and to summon resolution -to bring it to an end. He dwelt particularly upon -the hopelessness of his passion; he made himself believe -that if he could but learn that she were not ill and -suffering—if he could but see her once more, and be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span> -very sure—he would go away, as every dictate of reason -urged.</p> - -<p>Across the lawn stood the convent building. There -caught his eye the faint glimmer of a light through a -half-opened window, and while he looked he saw two -of the nuns moving about within. Was some one dying? -Was this light the taper of the dead? He tried to -throw off a sudden weight of gloomy apprehension, and -resolutely got up and walked away; but his purpose -was formed not to leave until he had intelligence of her.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, a few days days later, happening to -come to an elevated point of the landscape, he saw her -figure moving across the fields in the distance below -him. Between the convent and the farm-house, in one -of the fields, there is a circular, basin-like depression; -and it was here, hidden from distant observation, with -only the azure of the heavens above them, that their -meeting took place.</p> - -<p>On the day when she had been his guide he had told -her that he was going away on the morrow, and as she -walked along now it might have been seen that she -thought herself safe from intrusion. Her eyes were -bent on the dust of the path-way. One hand was passing -bead by bead upward along her rosary. Her veil -was pushed back, so that between its black border and -the glistening whiteness of her forehead there ran, like -a rippling band of gold, the exposed edges of her shining -hair. In the other hand she bore a large cluster -of chrysanthemums, whose snow-white petals and green -leaves formed a strong contrast with the crimson symbol -that they partly framed against her sable bosom.</p> - -<p>He had come up close before the noise of his feet -in the stubble drew her attention. Then she turned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span> -and saw him. But certain instincts of self-preservation -act in women with lightning quickness. She did not -recognize him, or give him time to recognize her. She -merely turned again and walked onward at the same -pace. But the chrysanthemums were trembling with -the beating of her heart, and her eyes had in them that -listening look with which one awaits the oncoming of -danger from behind.</p> - -<p>But he had stopped. His nature was simple and -trustful, and he had expected to renew his acquaintanceship -at the point where it had ceased. When, -therefore, she thus reminded him, as indeed she must, -that there was no acquaintanceship between them, and -that she regarded herself as much alone as though he -were nowhere in sight, his feelings were arrested as if -frozen by her coldness. Still, it was for this chance -that he had waited all these days. Another would not -come; and whatever he wished to say to her must be -said now. A sensitiveness wholly novel to his nature -held him back, but a moment more and he was walking -beside her.</p> - -<p>"I hope I do not intrude so very far," he said, in a -tone of apology, but also of wounded self-respect.</p> - -<p>It was a difficult choice thus left to her. She could -not say "Yes" without seeming unpardonably rude; -she could not say "No" without seeming to invite his -presence. She walked on for a moment, and then, -pausing, turned towards him.</p> - -<p>"Is there anything that you wished to ask me in regard -to the convent?" This she said in the sweetest -tone of apologetic courtesy, as though in having thought -only of herself at first she had neglected some larger -duty.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span></p> - -<p>If he had feared that he would see traces of physical -suffering on her face, he was mistaken. She had forgotten -to draw her veil close, and the sunlight fell upon -its loveliness. Never had she been to him half so beautiful. -Whatever the expression her eyes had worn before -he had come up, in them now rested only inscrutable -calmness.</p> - -<p>"There is one thing I have wished very much to -know," he answered, slowly, his eyes resting on hers. -"I was at the church of the convent last Sunday and -heard you sing. They said you were not well. I have -hoped every day to hear that you were better. I have -not cared to go away until I knew this."</p> - -<p>Scarcely had he begun when a flush dyed her face, -her eyes fell, and she stood betrayed by the self-consciousness -of what her own thoughts had that day been. -One hand absently tore to pieces the blooms of the -chrysanthemums, so that the petals fell down over her -dark habit like snowflakes. But when he finished, she -lifted her eyes again.</p> - -<p>"I am well now, thank you," she said; and the first -smile that he had ever seen came forth from her soul -to her face. But what a smile! It wrung his heart -more than the sight of her tears could have done.</p> - -<p>"Then I shall hope to hear you sing again to-morrow," -he said, quickly, for she seemed on the point of moving -away.</p> - -<p>"I shall not sing to-morrow," she replied a little -hurriedly, with averted face, and again she started on. -But he walked beside her.</p> - -<p>"In that case I have still to thank you for the pleasure -I have had. I imagine that one would never do -wrong if he could hear you sing whenever he is tempted,"<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span> -he said, looking sidewise at her with a quiet, tentative -smile.</p> - -<p>"It is not my voice," she replied more hurriedly. -"It is the music of the service. Do not thank me. -Thank God."</p> - -<p>"I have heard the service before. It was your voice -that touched me."</p> - -<p>She drew her veil about her face and walked on in -silence.</p> - -<p>"But I have no wish to say anything against your -religion," he continued, his voice deepening and trembling. -"If it has such power over the natures of women, -if it lifts them to such ideals of duty, if it develops in -them such characters, that merely to look into their -faces, to be near them, to hear their voices, is to make -a man think of a better world, I do not know why I -should say anything against it."</p> - -<p>How often, without meaning it, our words are like a -flight of arrows into another's heart. What he said but -reminded her of her unfaithfulness. And therefore -while she revolved how with perfect gentleness she -might ask him to allow her to continue her way alone, -she did what she could: she spoke reverently, though -all but inaudibly, in behalf of her order.</p> - -<p>"Our vows are perfect and divine. If they ever -seem less, it is the fault of those of us who dishonor -them."</p> - -<p>The acute self-reproach in her tone at once changed -his mood.</p> - -<p>"On the other hand, I have also asked myself this -question: Is it the creed that makes the natures of -you women so beautiful, or it is the nature of woman -that gives the beauty to the creed? It is not so with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span> -any other idea that women espouse? with any other -cause that they undertake? Is it not so with anything -that they spend their hearts upon, toil for, and sacrifice -themselves for? Do I see any beauty in your vows except -such as your life gives to them? I can believe it. -I can believe that if you had never taken those vows -your life would still be beautiful. I can believe that -you could change them for others and find yourself -more nearly the woman that you strive to be—that you -were meant to be!" He spoke in the subdued voice -with which one takes leave of some hope that brightens -while it disappears.</p> - -<p>"I must ask you," she said, pausing—"I must ask -you to allow me to continue my walk alone;" and her -voice quivered.</p> - -<p>He paused, too, and stood looking into her eyes in -silence with the thought that he should never see her -again. The color had died out of his face.</p> - -<p>"I can never forgive your vows," he said, speaking -very slowly and making an effort to appear unmoved. -"I can never forgive your vows that they make it a sin -for me to speak to you. I can never forgive them that -they put between us a gulf that I cannot pass. Remember, -I owe you a great deal. I owe you higher -ideas of a woman's nature and clearer resolutions regarding -my own life. Your vows perhaps make it even -a sin that I should tell you this. But by what right? -By what right am I forbidden to say that I shall remember -you always, and that I shall carry away with -me into my life—"</p> - -<p>"Will you force me to turn back?" she asked in -greater agitation; and though he could not see her face, -he saw her tears fall upon her hands.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span></p> - -<p>"No," he answered sadly; "I shall not force you to -turn back. I know that I have intruded. But it seemed -that I could not go away without seeing you again, to -be quite sure that you were well. And when I saw -you, it seemed impossible not to speak of other things. -Of course this must seem strange to you—stranger, perhaps, -than I may imagine, since we look at human relationships -so differently. My life in this world can be -of no interest to you. You cannot, therefore, understand -why yours should have any interest for me. Still, -I hope you can forgive me," he added abruptly, turning -his face away as it flushed and his voice faltered.</p> - -<p>She lifted her eyes quickly, although they were dim. -"Do not ask me to forgive anything. There is nothing -to be forgiven. It is I who must ask—only leave me!"</p> - -<p>"Will you say good-bye to me?" And he held out -his hand.</p> - -<p>She drew back, but, overborne by emotion, he stepped -forward, gently took her hand from the rosary, and held -it in both his own.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye! But, despite the cruel barriers that they -have raised between us, I shall always—"</p> - -<p>She foresaw what was coming. His manner told her -that. She had not withdrawn her hand. But at this -point she dropped the flowers that were in her other -hand, laid it on her breast so that the longest finger -pointed towards the symbol of the transfixed heart, and -looked quickly at him with indescribable warning and -distress. Then he released her, and she turned back -towards the convent.</p> - -<p>"Mother," she said, with a frightened face, when she -reached it, "I did not go to old Martha's. Some one -was hunting in the fields, and I came back. Do not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span> -send me again, Mother, unless one of the Sisters goes -with me." And with this half-truth on her lips and full -remorse for it in her heart, she passed into that deepening -imperfection of nature which for the most of us -makes up the inner world of reality.</p> - -<p>Gordon wrote to her that night. He had not foreseen -his confession. It had been drawn from him under the -influences of the moment; but since it was made, a -sense of honor would not have allowed him to stop -there, even had feeling carried him no further. Moreover, -some hope had been born in him at the moment -of separation, since she had not rebuked him, but only -reminded him of her vows.</p> - -<p>His letter was full of the confidence and enthusiasm -of youth, and its contents may be understood by their -likeness to others. He unfolded the plan of his life—the -life which he was asking her to share. He dwelt -upon its possibilities, he pointed out the field of its -aspirations. But he kept his letter for some days, unable -to conceive a way by which it might be sent to its -destination. At length the chance came in the simplest -of disguises.</p> - -<p>Ezra was starting one morning to the convent. As -he was leaving the room, old Martha called to him. -She sat by the hearth-stone, with her head tied up in red -flannel, and her large, watery face flushed with pain, -and pointed towards a basket of apples on the window -sill.</p> - -<p>"Take them to Sister Dolorosa, Ezra," she said -"Mind that you see <em>her</em>, and give them to her with your -own hands. And ask her why she hasn't been to see -me, and when she is coming." On this point her mind -seemed more and more troubled. "But what's the use<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span> -of asking <em>you</em> to find out for me?" she added, flashing -out at him with heroic anger.</p> - -<p>The old man stood in the middle of the room, dry -and gnarled, his small eyes kindling into a dull rage at -a taunt made in the presence of a guest whose good -opinion he desired. But he took the apples in silence -and left the room.</p> - -<p>As Gordon followed him beyond the garden, noting -how his mind was absorbed in petty anger, a simple -resolution came to him.</p> - -<p>"Ezra," he said, handing him the letter, "when you -give the Sister the apples, deliver this. And we do not -talk about business, you know, Ezra."</p> - -<p>The old man took the letter and put it furtively into -his pocket, with a backward shake of his head towards -the house.</p> - -<p>"Whatever risks I may have to run from other -quarters, he will never tell <em>her</em>," Gordon said to himself.</p> - -<p>When Ezra returned in the evening he was absorbed, -and Gordon noted with relief that he was also unsuspicious. -He walked some distance to meet the old -man the next two days, and his suspense became almost -unendurable, but he asked no questions. The third -day Ezra drew from his pocket a letter, which he delivered, -merely saying:</p> - -<p>"The Sister told me to give you this."</p> - -<p>Gordon, soon turned aside across the fields, and having -reached a point, screened from observation he -opened the letter and read as follows:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I have received your letter. I have read it. But -how could I listen to your proposal without becoming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span> -false to my vows? And if you knew that I had proved -false to what I held most dear and binding, how could -you ever believe that I would be true to anything else? -Ah, no! Should you unite yourself to one who for your -sake had been faithless to the ideal of womanhood which -she regarded as supreme, you would soon withdraw -from her the very love that she had sacrificed even her -hopes of Heaven to enjoy.</p> - -<p>"But it seems possible that in writing to me you believe -my vows no longer precious to my heart and -sacred to my conscience. You are wrong. They are -more dear to me at this moment than ever before, because -at this moment, as never before, they give me a -mournful admonition of my failure to exhibit to the -world in my own life the beauty of their ineffable holiness. -For had there not been something within me to -lead you on—had I shown to you the sinless nature -which it is their office to create—you would never have -felt towards me as you do. You would no more have -thought of loving me than of loving an angel of God.</p> - -<p>"The least reparation I can make for my offense is to -tell you that in offering me your love you offer me the -cup of sacred humiliation, and that I thank you for reminding -me of my duty, while I drain it to the dregs.</p> - -<p>"After long deliberation I have written to tell you -this; and if it be allowed me to make one request, I -would entreat that you will never lay this sin of mine to -the charge of my religion and my order.</p> - -<p>"We shall never meet again. Although I may not -listen to your proposal, it is allowed me to love you as -one of the works of God. And since there are exalted -women in the world who do not consecrate themselves -to the Church, I shall pray that you may find one of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span> -these to walk by your side through life. I shall pray -that she may be worthy of you; and perhaps you will -teach her sometimes to pray for one who will always -need her prayers.</p> - -<p>"I only know that God orders our lives according to -his goodness. My feet he set in one path of duty, yours -in another, and he had separated us forever long before -he allowed us to meet. If, therefore, having thus -separated us, he yet brought us together only that we -should thus know each other and then be parted, I cannot -believe that there was not in it some needed lesson -for us both. At least, if he will deign to hear the ceaseless, -fervent petition of one so erring, he will not leave -you unhappy on account of that love for me, which in -this world it will never be allowed me to return. Farewell!"</p></blockquote> - -<p>The first part of this letter awakened in Gordon keen -remorse and a faltering of purpose, but the latter filled -him with a joy that excluded every other feeling.</p> - -<p>"She loves me!" he exclaimed; and, as though -registering a vow, he added aloud, "And nothing—God -help me!—nothing shall keep us apart."</p> - -<p>Walking to a point of the landscape that commanded -a view of the convent, he remained there while the twilight -fell, revolving how he was to surmount the remaining -barriers between them, for these now seemed -hardly more than cobwebs to be brushed aside by his -hand; and often, meanwhile, he looked towards the -convent, as one might look longingly towards some forbidden -shrine, which the coming night would enable -him to approach.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VI.</p> - -<p>A night for love it was. The great sun at setting -had looked with steadfast eye at the convent standing -lonely on its wide landscape, and had then thrown his -final glance across the world towards the east; and the -moon had quickly risen and hung about it the long silvery -twilight of her heavenly watchfulness. The summer, -too, which had been moving southward, now came -slowly back, borne on warm airs that fanned the convent -walls and sighed to its chaste lattices with the poetry -of dead flowers and vanished songsters. But sighed -in vain. With many a prayer, with many a cross on -pure brow and shoulder and breast, with many a pious -kiss of crucifix, the convent slept. Only some little -novice, lying like a flushed figure of Sleep on a couch -of snow, may have stirred to draw one sigh, as those -zephyrs, toying with her warm hair, broke some earthly -dream of too much tenderness. Or they may merely -have cooled the feverish feet of a withered nun, who -clasped her dry hands in ecstasy, as on her cavernous -eyes there dawned a vision of the glories and rewards -of Paradise. But no, not all slept. At an open window -on the eastern side of the convent stood the sleepless -one, looking out into the largeness of the night -like one who is lost in the largeness of her sorrow.</p> - -<p>Across the lawn, a little distance off, stood the church -of the convent. The moonlight rested on it like a -smile of peace, the elms blessed it with tireless arms, -and from the zenith of the sky down to the horizon -there rested on out-stretched wings, rank above rank<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span> -and pinion brushing pinion, a host of white, angelic -cloud-shapes, as though guarding the sacred portal.</p> - -<p>But she looked at it with timid yearning. Greater -and greater had become the need to pour into some -ear a confession and a prayer for pardon. Her peace -was gone. She had been concealing her heart from -the Mother Superior. She had sinned against her -vows. She had impiously offended the Divine Mother. -And to-day, after answering his letter in order that she -might defend her religion, she had acknowledged to -her heart that she loved him. But they would never -meet again. To-morrow she would make a full confession -of what had taken place. Beyond that miserable -ordeal she dared not gaze into her own future.</p> - -<p>Lost in the fears and sorrows of such thoughts, long -she stood looking out into the night, stricken with a -sense of alienation from human sympathy. She felt -that she stood henceforth estranged from the entire -convent—Mother Superior, novice, and nun—as an object -of reproach, and of suffering into which no one of -them could enter.</p> - -<p>Sorer yet grew her need, and a little way across the -lawn stood the church, peaceful in the moonlight. Ah, -the divine pity! If only she might steal first alone to the -shrine of her whom most she had offended, and to an ear -gracious to sorrow make confession of her frailty. At -length, overcome with this desire and gliding noiselessly -out of the room, she passed down the moonlit hall, -on each side of which the nuns were sleeping. She -descended the stair-way, took from the wall the key of -the church, and then softly opening the door, stepped -out into the night. For a moment she paused, icy and -faint with physical fear; then, passing like a swift<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span> -shadow across the silvered lawn, she went round to the -side entrance of the church, unlocked the door, and, -entering quickly, locked herself inside. There she -stood for some time with hands pressed tightly to her -fluttering heart, until bodily agitation died away before -the recollection of her mission; and there came -upon her that calmness with which the soul enacts -great tragedies. Then slowly, very slowly, hidden now, -and now visible where the moonlight entered the long, -gothic windows, she passed across the chancel towards -the shrine of one whom ancestral faith had taught her -to believe divine; and before the image of a Jewish -woman—who herself in full humanity loved and married -a carpenter nearly two thousand years ago, living -beside him as blameless wife and becoming blameless -mother to his children—this poor child, whose nature -was unstained as snow on the mountain-peaks, poured -out her prayer to be forgiven the sin of her love.</p> - -<p>To the woman of the world, the approaches of whose -nature are defended by the intricacies of willfulness -and the barriers of deliberate reserve; to the woman -of the world, who curbs and conceals that feeling to -which she intends to yield herself in the end, it may -seem incredible that there should have rooted itself so -easily in the breast of one of her sex this flower of a -fatal passion. But it should be remembered how unbefriended -that bosom had been by any outpost of feminine -self-consciousness; how exposed it was through -very belief in its unearthly consecration; how like some -unwatched vase that had long been collecting the sweet -dews and rains of heaven, it had been silently filling -with those unbidden intimations that are shed from -above as the best gifts of womanhood. Moreover, her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span> -life was unspeakably isolate. In the monotony of its -routine a trifling event became an epoch; a fresh impression -stirred within the mind material for a chapter -of history. Lifted far above commonplace psychology of -the passions, however, was the planting and the growth -of an emotion in a heart like hers.</p> - -<p>Her prayer began. It began with the scene of her -first meeting with him in the fields, for from that moment -she fixed the origin of her unfaithfulness. Of -the entire hidden life of poetic reverie and unsatisfied -desires which she had been living before, her innocent -soul took no account. Therefore, beginning with that -afternoon, she passed in review the history of her -thoughts and feelings. The moon outside, flooding the -heavens with its beams, was not so intense a lamp as -memory, now turned upon the recesses of her mind. -Nothing escaped detection. His words, the scenes with -him in the garden, in the field—his voice, looks, gestures—his -anxiety and sympathy—his passionate letter—all -were now vividly recalled, that they might be forgotten; -and their influence confessed, that it might forever -be renounced. Her conscience stood beside her love as -though it were some great fast-growing deadly plant -in her heart, with deep-twisted roots and strangling -tendrils, each of which to the smallest fibre must be -uptorn so that not a germ should be left.</p> - -<p>But who can describe the prayer of such a soul! It -is easy to ask to be rid of ignoble passions. They -come upon us as momentary temptations and are abhorrent -to our better selves; but of all tragedies enacted -within the theatre of the human mind what one is so -pitiable as that in which a pure being prays to be forgiven -the one feeling of nature that is the revelation of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span> -beauty, the secret of perfection, the solace of the world, -and the condition of immortality?</p> - -<p>The passing of such a tragedy scars the nature of the -penitent like the passing of an age across a mountain -rock. If there had lingered thus long on Sister Dolorosa's -nature any upland of childhood snows, these -vanished in that hour; if any vernal belt of maidenhood, -it felt the hot breath of that experience of the world -and of the human destiny which quickly ages whatever -it does not destroy. So that while she prayed there -seemed to rise from within her and take flight forever -that spotless image of herself as she once had been, -and in its place to stand the form of a woman, older, -altered, and set apart by sorrow.</p> - -<p>At length her prayer ended and she rose. It had -not brought her the peace that prayer brings to women; -for the confession of her love before the very altar—the -mere coming into audience with the Eternal to renounce -it—had set upon it the seal of irrevocable truth. -It is when the victim is led to the altar of sacrifice that -it turns its piteous eyes upon the sacrificing hand and -utters its poor dumb cry for life; and it was when Sister -Dolorosa bared the breast of her humanity that it might -be stabbed by the hand of her religion, that she, too, -though attempting to bless the stroke, felt the last pangs -of that deep thrust.</p> - -<p>With such a wound she turned from the altar, walked -with bowed head once more across the church, unlocked -the door, stepped forth and locked it. The night had -grown more tender. The host of seraphic cloud-forms -had fled across the sky; and as she turned her eyes -upward to the heavens, there looked down upon her -from their serene, untroubled heights only the stars,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span> -that never falter or digress from their forewritten courses. -The thought came to her that never henceforth should -she look up to them without being reminded of how -her own will had wandered from its orbit. The moon -rained its steady beams upon the symbol of the sacred -heart on her bosom, until it seemed to throb again -with the agony of the crucifixion. Never again should -she see it without the remembrance that <em>her</em> sin also -had pierced it afresh.</p> - -<p>With what loneliness that sin had surrounded her! -As she had issued from the damp, chill atmosphere of -the church, the warm airs of the south quickened within -her long-sleeping memories; and with the yearning of -stricken childhood she thought of her mother, to whom -she had turned of yore for sympathy; but that mother's -bosom was now a mound of dust. She looked across -the lawn towards the convent where the Mother Superior -and the nuns were sleeping. To-morrow she would -stand among them a greater alien than any stranger. -No; she was alone; among the millions of human beings -on the earth of God there was not one on whose -heart she could have rested her own. Not one save -him—him—whose love had broken down all barriers -that it might reach and infold her. And him she had -repelled. A joy, new and indescribable, leaped within -her that for him and not for another she suffered and -was bound in this tragedy of her fall.</p> - -<p>Slowly she took her way along the side of the church -towards the front entrance, from which a paved walk -led to the convent building. She reached the corner, -she turned, and then she paused as one might pause -who had come upon the beloved dead, returned to life.</p> - -<p>For he was sitting on the steps of the church, leaning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span> -against one of the pillars, his face lifted upward so that -the moonlight fell upon it. She had no time to turn -back before he saw her. With a low cry of surprise -and joy he sprang up and followed along the side of -the church; for she had begun to retrace her steps to -the door, to lock herself inside. When he came up beside -her, she paused. Both were trembling; but when -he saw the look of suffering on her face, acting upon -the impulse which had always impelled him to stand -between her and unhappiness, he now took both of her -hands.</p> - -<p>"Pauline!"</p> - -<p>He spoke with all the pleading love, all the depth of -nature, that was in him.</p> - -<p>She had attempted to withdraw her hands; but at the -sound of that once-familiar name, she suddenly bowed -her head as the wave of memories and emotions passed -over her; then he quickly put his arms around her, -drew her to him, and bent down and kissed her.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VII.</p> - -<p>For hours there lasted an interview, during which he, -with the delirium of hope, she with the delirium of despair, -drained at their young lips that cup of life which -is full of the first confession of love.</p> - -<p>In recollections so overwhelming did this meeting -leave Gordon on the next morning, that he was unmindful -of everything beside; and among the consequences -of absent-mindedness was the wound that he -gave himself by the careless handling of his gun.</p> - -<p>When Ezra had set out for the convent that morning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> -he had walked with him, saying that he would go to -the station for a daily paper, but chiefly wishing to escape -the house and be alone. They had reached in -the fields a rotting fence, on each side of which grew -briers and underwood. He had expected to climb this -fence, and as he stood beside it speaking a few parting -words to Ezra he absently thrust his gun between two -of the lower rails, not noticing that the lock was -sprung. Caught in the brush on the other side, it was -discharged, making a wound in his left leg a little below -the thigh. He turned to a deadly paleness, looked -at Ezra with that stunned, bewildered expression seen -in the faces of those who receive a wound, and fell.</p> - -<p>By main strength the old man lifted and bore him to -the house and hurried off to the station, near which the -neighborhood physician and surgeon lived. But the -latter was away from home; several hours passed before -he came; the means taken to stop the hemorrhage -had been ineffectual; the loss of blood had been very -great; certain foreign matter had been carried into the -wound; the professional treatment was unskilful; and -septic fever followed, so that for many days his life -hung upon a little chance. But convalescence came -at last, and with it days of clear, calm thinking. For -he had not allowed news of his accident to be sent -home or to his friends; and except the old couple, the -doctor, and the nurse whom the latter had secured, he -had no company but his thoughts.</p> - -<p>No tidings had come to him of Sister Dolorosa since -his accident; and nothing had intervened to remove -that sad image of her which had haunted him through -fever and phantasy and dream since the night of their -final interview. For it was then that he had first real<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span>ized -in how pitiless a tragedy her life had become entangled, -and how conscience may fail to govern a woman's -heart in denying her the right to love, but may still -govern her actions in forbidding her to marry. To -plead with her had been to wound only the more deeply -a nature that accepted even this pleading as a further -proof of its own disloyalty, and was forced by it -into a state of more poignant humiliation. What wonder, -therefore, if there had been opened in his mind -from that hour a certain wound which grew deeper and -deeper, until, by comparison, his real wound seemed -painless and insignificant.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, it is true that during this interview he -had not been able to accept her decision as irreversible. -The spell of her presence over him was too complete; -even his wish to rescue her from a lot, henceforth -unhappier still, too urgent; so that in parting he -had clung to the secret hope that little by little he -might change her conscience, which now interposed -the only obstacle between them.</p> - -<p>Even the next day, when he had been wounded and -life was rapidly flowing from him, and earthly ties -seemed soon to be snapped, he had thought only of -this tie, new and sacred, and had written to her. Poor -boy!—he had written, as with his heart's blood, his -brief, pathetic appeal that she would come and be -united to him before he died. In all ages of the world -there have been persons, simple in nature and simple -in their faith in another life, who have forgotten everything -else in the last hour but the supreme wish to -grapple to them those they love, for eternity, and at -whatever cost. Such simplicity of nature and faith belonged -to him; for although in Kentucky the unrest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span> -of the century touching belief in the supernatural, and -the many phases by which this expresses itself, are not, -unknown, they had never affected him. He believed -as his fathers had believed, that to be united in this -world in any relation is to be united in that relation, -mysteriously changed yet mysteriously the same, in another.</p> - -<p>But this letter had never been sent. There had been -no one to take it at the time; and when Ezra returned -with the physician he had fainted away from loss of -blood.</p> - -<p>Then had followed the dressing of the wound, days -of fever and unconsciousness, and then the assurance -that he would get well. Thus, nearly a month had -passed, and for him a great change had come over the -face of nature and the light of the world. With that -preternatural calm of mind which only an invalid or a -passionless philosopher ever obtains, he now looked -back upon an episode which thus acquired fictitious -remoteness. So weak that he could scarcely lift his -head from his pillow, there left his heart the keen, joyous -sense of human ties and pursuits. He lost the key -to the motives and forces of his own character. But it -is often the natural result of such illness that while the -springs of feeling seem to dry up, the conscience remains -sensitive, or even burns more brightly, as a star -through a rarer atmosphere. So that, lying thus in the -poor farm-house during dreary days, with his life half-gone -out of him and with only the sad image of her always -before his eyes, he could think of nothing but his -cruel folly in having broken in upon her peace; for -perfect peace of some sort she must have had in comparison -with what was now left her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span></p> - -<p>Beneath his pillow he kept her letter, and as he often -read it over he asked himself how he could ever have -hoped to change the conscience which had inspired -such a letter as that. If her heart belonged to him, -did not her soul belong to her religion; and if one or -the other must give way, could it be doubtful with such -a nature as hers which would come out victorious? -Thus he said to himself that any further attempt to see -her could but result in greater suffering to them both, -and that nothing was left him but what she herself had -urged—to go away and resign her to a life, from which -he had too late found out that she could never be divorced.</p> - -<p>As soon as he had come to this decision, he began -to think of her as belonging only to his past. The entire -episode became a thing of memory and irreparable -incompleteness; and with the conviction that she was -lost to him her image passed into that serene, reverential -sanctuary of our common nature, where all the -highest that we have grasped at and missed, and all -the beauty that we have loved and lost, take the forms -of statues around dim walls and look down upon us in -mournful, never-changing perfection.</p> - -<p>As he lay one morning revolving his altered purpose, -Ezra came quietly into the room and took from a table -near the foot of the bed a waiter on which were a jelly-glass -and a napkin.</p> - -<p>"<em>She</em> said I'd better take these back this morning," -he observed, looking at Gordon for his approval, and -motioning with his head towards that quarter of the -house where Martha was supposed to be.</p> - -<p>"Wait awhile, will you, Ezra?" he replied, looking at -the old man with the dark, quiet eye of an invalid. "I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span> -think I ought to write a few lines this morning to thank -them for their kindness. Come back in an hour, will -you?"</p> - -<p>The things had been sent from the convent; for, -from the time that news had reached the Mother Superior -of the accident of the young stranger who had visited -the convent some days before, there had regularly -come to him delicate attentions which could not have -been supplied at the farm-house. He often asked himself -whether they were not inspired by <em>her</em>; and he -thought that when the time came for him to write his -thanks, he would put into the expression of them something -that would be understood by her alone—something -that would stand for gratitude and a farewell.</p> - -<p>When Ezra left the room, with the thought of now -doing this another thought came unexpectedly to him. -By the side of the bed there stood a small table on -which were writing materials and a few books that had -been taken from his valise. He stretched out his hand -and opening one of them took from it a letter which -bore the address, "Sister Dolorosa." It contained -those appealing lines that he had written her on the -day of his accident; and with calm, curious sadness he -now read them over and over, as though they had never -come from him. From the mere monotony of this exercise -sleep overtook him, and he had scarcely restored -the letter to the envelope and laid it back on the table -before his eyelids closed.</p> - -<p>While he still lay asleep, Ezra came quietly into the -room again, and took up the waiter with the jelly-glass -and the napkin. Then he looked around for the letter -that he was to take. He was accustomed to carry Gordon's -letters to the station, and his eye now rested on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span> -the table where they were always to be found. Seeing -one on it, he walked across, took it up and read the -address, "Sister Dolorosa," hesitated, glanced at Gordon's -closed eyes, and then, with an intelligent nod to -signify that he could understand without further instruction, -he left the room and set out briskly for the -convent.</p> - -<p>Sister Dolorosa was at the cistern filling a bucket -with water when he came up and, handing her the letter, -passed on to the convent kitchen. She looked at -it with indifference; then she opened and read it; and -then in an instant everything whirled before her eyes, -and in her ears the water sounded loud as it dropped -from the chain back into the cistern. And then she -was gone—gone with a light, rapid step, down the avenue -of elms, through the gate, across the meadows, out -into the fields—bucket and cistern, Mother Superior -and sisterhood, vows and martyrs, zeal of Carmelite, -passion of Christ, all forgotten.</p> - -<p>When, nearly a month before, news had reached the -Mother Superior of the young stranger's accident, in -accordance with the rule which excludes from the convent -worldly affairs, she had not made it known except -to those who were to aid in carrying out her kindly -plans for him. To Sister Dolorosa, therefore, the accident -had just occurred, and now—now as she hastened -to him—he was dying.</p> - -<p>During the intervening weeks she had undergone by -insensible degrees a deterioration of nature. Prayer -had not passed her lips. She believed that she had no -right to pray. Nor had she confessed. From such a -confession as she had now to make, certain new-born -instincts of womanhood bade her shrink more deeply<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span> -into the privacy of her own being. And therefore she -had become more scrupulous, if possible, of outward -duties, that no one might be led to discover the paralysis -of her spiritual life. But there was that change -in her which soon drew attention; and thenceforth, in -order to hide her heart, she began to practice with the -Mother Superior little acts of self-concealment and evasion, -and by-and-by other little acts of pretense and -feigning, until—God pity her!—being most sorely -pressed by questions, when sometimes she would be -found in tears or sitting listless with her hands in her -lap like one who is under the spell of mournful phantasies, -these became other little acts of positive deception. -But for each of them remorse preyed upon her -the more ruthlessly, so that she grew thin and faded, -with a shadow of fear darkening always her evasive -eyes.</p> - -<p>What most held her apart, and most she deemed put -upon her the angry ban of Heaven, was the consciousness -that she still loved him, and that she was even -bound to him the more inseparably since the night of -their last meeting. For it was then that emotions had -been awakened which drew her to him in ways that love -alone could not have done. These emotions had their -source in the belief that she owed him reparation for -the disappointment which she had brought upon his -life. The recollection of his face when she had denied -him hope rose in constant reproach before her; and -since she held herself blamable that he had loved her, -she took the whole responsibility of his unhappiness.</p> - -<p>It was this sense of having wronged him that cleft -even conscience in her and left her struggling. But -how to undo the wrong—this she vainly pondered; for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span> -he was gone, bearing away into his life the burden of -enticed and baffled hope.</p> - -<p>On the morning when she was at the cistern—for the -Sisters of the Order have among them such interchange -of manual offices—if, as she read the letter that Ezra -gave her, any one motive stood out clear in the stress -of that terrible moment, it was, that having been false -to other duties she might at least be true to this. She -felt but one desire—to atone to him by any sacrifice of -herself that would make his death more peaceful. Beyond -this everything was void and dark within her as -she hurried on, except the consciousness that by this -act she separated herself from her Order and terminated -her religious life in utter failure and disgrace.</p> - -<p>The light, rapid step with which she had started soon -brought her across the fields. As she drew near the -house, Martha, who had caught sight of her figure -through the window, made haste to the door and stood -awaiting her. Sister Dolorosa merely approached and -said:</p> - -<p>"Where is he?"</p> - -<p>For a moment the old woman did not answer. Then -she pointed to a door at the opposite end of the porch, -and with a sparkle of peculiar pleasure in her eyes she -saw Sister Dolorosa cross and enter it. A little while -longer she stood, watching the key-hole furtively, but -then went back to the fireside, where she sat upright -and motionless with the red flannel pushed back from -her listening ears.</p> - -<p>The room was dimly lighted through half-closed shutters. -Gordon lay asleep near the edge of the bed, with -his face turned towards the door. It might well have -been thought the face of one dying. Her eyes rested<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span> -on it a moment, and then with a stifled sob and moan -she glided across the room and sank on her knees at -the bedside. In the utter self-forgetfulness of her remorse, -pity, and love, she put one arm around his neck, -she buried her face close beside his.</p> - -<p>He had awaked, bewildered, as he saw her coming -towards him. He now took her arm from around his -neck, pressed her hand again and again to his lips, and -then laying it on his heart crossed his arms over it, -letting one of his hands rest on her head. For a little -while he could not trust himself to speak; his love -threatened to overmaster his self-renunciation. But -then, not knowing why she had come unless from some -great sympathy for his sufferings, or perhaps to see him -once more since he was now soon to go away, and not -understanding any cause for her distress but the tragedy -in which he had entangled her life—feeling only -sorrow for her sorrow and wishing only by means of -his last words to help her back to such peace as she -still might win, he said to her with immeasurable gentleness:</p> - -<p>"I thought you would never come! I thought I -should have to go away without seeing you again! -They tell me it is not yet a month since the accident, -but it seems to me so <em>long</em>—a lifetime! I have lain -here day after day thinking it over, and I see things -differently now—so differently! That is why I wanted -to see you once more. I wanted you to understand -that I felt you had done right in refusing—in refusing -to marry me. I wanted to ask you never to blame -yourself for what has happened—never to let any -thought of having made <em>me</em> unhappy add to the sorrow -of your life. It is my fault, not yours. But I meant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span> -it—God <em>knows</em>, I meant it!—for the happiness of us -both! I believed that your life was not suited to you. -I meant to make you happy! But since you <em>cannot</em> -give up your life, I have only been unkind. And since -you think it wrong to give it up, I am glad that you are -so true to it! If you <em>must</em> live it, Heaven only knows -how glad I am that you will live it heroically. And -Heaven keep me equally true to the duty in mine, that -I also shall not fail in it! If we never meet again, we -can always think of each other as living true to ourselves -and to one another. Don't deny me this! Let -me believe that your thoughts and prayers will always -follow me. Even your vows will not deny me this! It -will always keep us near each other, and it will bring -us together where they cannot separate us."</p> - -<p>He had spoken with entire repression of himself, in -the slow voice of an invalid, and on the stillness of the -room each word had fallen with hard distinctness. -But now, with the thought of losing her, by a painful -effort he moved closer to the edge of the bed, put his -arms around her neck, drew her face against his own, -and continued:</p> - -<p>"But do not think it is easy to tell you this! Do -not think it is easy to give you up! Do not think that -I do not love you! Oh Pauline—not in <em>another</em> life, -but in <em>this—in this</em>!" He could say no more; and out -of his physical weakness tears rose to his eyes and fell -drop by drop upon her veil.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">VIII.</p> - -<p>Sister Dolorosa had been missed from the convent. -There had been inquiry growing ever more anxious, -and search growing ever more hurried. They found -her bucket overturned at the cistern, and near it the -print of her feet in the moist earth. But she was gone. -They sought her in every hidden closet, they climbed -to the observatory and scanned the surrounding fields. -Work was left unfinished, prayer unended, as the news -spread through the vast building; and as time went by -and nothing was heard of her, uneasiness became alarm, -and alarm became a vague, immeasurable foreboding of -ill. Each now remembered how strange of late had been -Sister Dolorosa's life and actions, and no one had the -heart to name her own particular fears to any other or -to read them in any other's eyes. Time passed on and -discipline in the convent was forgotten. They began -to pour out into the long corridors, and in tumultuous -groups passed this way and that, seeking the Mother -Superior. But the Mother Superior had gone to the -church with the same impulse that in all ages has -brought the human heart to the altar of God when -stricken by peril or disaster; and into the church they -also gathered. Into the church likewise came the -white flock of the novices, who had burst from their -isolated quarter of the convent with a sudden contagion -of fear. When, therefore, the Mother Superior rose -from where she had been kneeling, turned, and in the -dark church saw them assembled close around her, -pallid, anxious, disordered, and looking with helpless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span> -dependence to her for that assurance for which she -had herself in helpless dependence looked to God, so -unnerved was she by the spectacle that strength failed -her and she sank upon the steps of the altar, stretching -out her arms once more in voiceless supplication -towards the altar of the Infinite helpfulness.</p> - -<p>But at that moment a little novice, whom Sister Dolorosa -loved and whom she had taught the music of the -harp, came running into the church, wringing her hands -and crying. When she was half-way down the aisle, -in a voice that rang through the building, she called -out:</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mother, she is coming! Something has happened -to her! Her veil is gone!" and, turning again, -she ran out of the church.</p> - -<p>They were hurrying after her when a note of command, -inarticulate but imperious, from the Mother -Superior arrested every foot and drew every eye in that -direction. Voice had failed her, but with a gesture -full of dignity and reproach she waved them back, and -supporting her great form between two of the nuns, -she advanced slowly down the aisle of the church and -passed out by the front entrance. But they forgot to -obey her and followed; and when she descended the -steps to the bottom and made a sign that she would -wait there, on the steps behind they stood grouped -and crowded back to the sacred doors.</p> - -<p>Yes, she was coming—coming up the avenue of elms—coming -slowly, as though her strength were almost -gone. As she passed under the trees on one side of the -avenue she touched their trunks one by one for support. -She walked with her eyes on the ground and with the -abstraction of one who has lost the purpose of walking.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span> -When she was perhaps half-way up the avenue, as she -paused by one of the trees and supported herself against -it, she raised her eyes and saw them all waiting to receive -her on the steps of the church. For a little while -she stood and surveyed the scene; the Mother Superior -standing in front, her sinking form supported between -two Sisters, her hands clasping the crucifix to -her bosom; behind her the others, step above step, -back to the doors; some looking at her with frightened -faces; others with their heads buried on each other's -shoulders; and hiding somewhere in the throng, the -little novice, only the sound of whose sobbing revealed -her presence. Then she took her hand from the tree, -walked on quite steadily until she was several yards -away, and paused again.</p> - -<p>She had torn off her veil and her head was bare and -shining. She had torn the sacred symbol from her -bosom, and through the black rent they could see the -glistening whiteness of her naked breast. Comprehending -them in one glance, as though she wished -them all to listen, she looked into the face of the Mother -Superior, and began to speak in a voice utterly forlorn, -as of one who has passed the limits of suffering.</p> - -<p>"Mother!—"</p> - -<p>"Mother!—"</p> - -<p>She passed one hand slowly across her forehead, to -brush away some cloud from her brain, and for the -third time she began to speak:</p> - -<p>"Mother!—"</p> - -<p>Then she paused, pressed both palms quickly to -her temples, and turned her eyes in bewildered appeal -towards the Mother Superior. But she did not fall. -With a cry that might have come from the heart of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span> -boundless pity the Mother Superior broke away from -the restraining arms of the nuns and rushed forward -and caught her to her bosom.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">IX.</p> - -<p>The day had come when Gordon was well enough to -go home. As he sat giving directions to Ezra, who -was awkwardly packing his valise, he looked over the -books, papers, and letters that lay on the table near -the bed.</p> - -<p>"There is one letter missing," he said, with a troubled -expression, as he finished his search. Then he -added quickly, in a tone of helpless entreaty:</p> - -<p>"You couldn't have taken it to the station and mailed -it with the others, could you, Ezra? It was not to -go to the station. It was to have gone to the convent."</p> - -<p>The last sentence he uttered rather to his own -thought than for the ear of his listener.</p> - -<p>"I <em>took</em> it to the convent," said Ezra, stoutly, raising -himself from over the valise in the middle of the floor. -"I didn't <em>take</em> it to the station!"</p> - -<p>Gordon wheeled on him, giving a wrench to his -wound which may have caused the groan that burst -from him, and left him white and trembling.</p> - -<p>"You took it <em>to the convent</em>! Great God, Ezra! -When?"</p> - -<p>"The day you <em>told</em> me to take it," replied Ezra, simply. -"The day the Sister came to see you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, <em>Ezra</em>!" he cried piteously, looking into the -rugged, faithful countenance of the old man, and feeling -that he had not the right to censure him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span></p> - -<p>Now for the first time he comprehended the whole -significance of what had happened. He had never -certainly known what motive had brought her to him -that day. He had never been able to understand why, -having come, she had gone away with such abruptness. -Scarcely had he begun to speak to her when she had -strangely shrunk from him; and scarcely had he ceased -speaking when she had left the room without a word, -and without his having so much as seen her face.</p> - -<p>Slowly now the sad truth forced itself upon his mind -that she had come in answer to his entreaty. She must -have thought his letter just written, himself just wounded -and dying. It was as if he had betrayed her into -the utmost expression of her love for him and in that -moment had coldly admonished her of her duty. For -him she had broken what was the most sacred obligation -of her life, and in return he had given her an exhortation -to be faithful to her vows.</p> - -<p>He went home to one of the older secluded country-places -of the Blue-grass Region not far from Lexington. -His illness served to account for a strange gravity and -sadness of nature in him. When the winter had passed -and spring had come, bringing perfect health again, -this sadness only deepened. For health had brought -back the ardor of life. The glowing colors of the -world returned; and with these there flowed back into -his heart, as waters flow back into a well that has -gone dry, the perfect love of youth and strength with -which he had loved her and tried to win her at first. -And with this love of her came back the first complete -realization that he had lost her; and with this pain, -that keenest pain of having been most unkind to her -when he had striven to be kindest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span></p> - -<p>He now looked back upon his illness, as one who -has gained some clear headland looks down upon a -valley so dark and overhung with mist that he cannot -trace his own course across it. He was no longer in -sympathy with that mood of self-renunciation which -had influenced him in their last interview. He charged -himself with having given up too easily; for might he -not, after all, have won her? Might he not, little by -little, have changed her conscience, as little by little he -had gained her love? Would it have been possible, he -asked himself again and again, for her ever to have -come to him as she had done that day, had not her -conscience approved? Of all his torturing thoughts, -none cost him greater suffering than living over in imagination -what must have happened to her since then—the -humiliation, perhaps public exposure; followed by -penalties and sorrows of which he durst not think, and -certainly a life more unrelieved in gloom and desolation.</p> - -<p>In the summer his father's health began to fail and -in the autumn he died. The winter was passed in settling -the business of the estate, and before the spring -passed again Gordon found himself at the head of affairs, -and stretching out before him, calm and clear, -the complete independence of his new-found manhood. -His life was his own to make it what he would. As -fortunes go in Kentucky he was wealthy, his farm being -among the most beautiful of the beautiful ones which -make up that land, and his homestead being dear -through family ties and those intimations of fireside -peace which lay closest the heart of his ideal life. -But amid all his happiness, that one lack which made -the rest appear lacking—that vacancy within which -nothing would fill! The beauty of the rich land hence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span> -forth brought him the dream-like recollection of a rough, -poor country a hundred miles away. Its quiet homesteads, -with the impression they create of sweet and -simple lives, reminded him only of a convent standing -lonely and forbidding on its wide landscape. The calm -liberty of woods and fields, the bounding liberty of life, -the enlightened liberty of conscience and religion, which -were to him the best gifts of his State, his country, and -his time, forced on him perpetual contrast with the ancient -confinement in which she languished.</p> - -<p>Still he threw himself resolutely into his duties. In -all that he did or planned he felt a certain sacred, uplifting -force added to his life by that high bond through -which he had sought to link their sundered path-ways. -But, on the other hand, the haunting thought of what -might have befallen her since became a corrosive care, -and began to eat out the heart of his resolute purposes.</p> - -<p>So that when the long, calm summer had passed and -autumn had come, bringing him lonelier days in the -brown fields, lonelier rides on horseback through the -gorgeous woods, and lonelier evenings beside his rekindled -hearth-stones, he could bear the suspense no -longer, and made up his mind to go back, if but to hear -tidings whether she yet were living in the convent. He -realized, of course, that under no circumstances could -he ever again speak to her of his love. He had put -himself on the side of her conscience against his own -cause; but he felt that he owed it to himself to dissipate -uncertainty regarding her fate. This done, he -could return, however sadly, and take up the duties of -his life with better heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span></p> - - -<p class="subtitle">X.</p> - -<p>One Sunday afternoon he got off at the little station. -From one of the rustic loungers on the platform he -learned that old Ezra and Martha had gone the year -before to live with a son in a distant State, and that -their scant acres had been absorbed in the convent -domain.</p> - -<p>Slowly he took his way across the sombre fields. -Once more he reached the brown foot-path and the -edge of the pale, thin corn. Once more the summoning -whistle of the quail came sweet and clear from the -depths of a neighboring thicket. Silently in the reddening -west were rising the white cathedrals of the sky. -It was on yonder hill-top he had first seen her, standing -as though transfigured in the evening light. Overwhelmed -by the memories which the place evoked, he -passed on towards the convent. The first sight of it -in the distance smote him with a pain so sharp that a -groan escaped his lips as from a reopened wound.</p> - -<p>It was the hour of the vesper service. Entering the -church he sat where he had sat before. How still it -was, how faint the autumnal sunlight stealing in through -the sainted windows, how motionless the dark company -of nuns seated on one side of the nave, how rigid the -white rows of novices on the other!</p> - -<p>With sad fascination of search his eyes roved among -the black-shrouded devotees. She was not there. In -the organ-loft above, a voice, poor and thin, began to -pour out its wavering little tide of song. She was not -there, then. Was her soul already gone home to Heaven?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span></p> - -<p>Noiselessly from behind the altar the sacristine had -come forth and begun to light the candles. With eyes -strained and the heart gone out of him he hung upon -the movements of her figure. A slight, youthful figure -it was—slighter, as though worn and wasted; and the -hands which so firmly bore the long taper looked too -white and fragile to have upheld aught heavier than the -stalk of a lily.</p> - -<p>With infinite meekness and reverence she moved -hither and thither about the shrine, as though each -footfall were a step nearer the glorious Presence, each -breath a prayer. One by one there sprang into being, -beneath her touch of love, the silvery spires of sacred -flame. No angel of the night ever more softly lit the -stars of heaven. And it was thus that he saw her for -the last time—folded back to the bosom of that faith -from which it was left him to believe that he had all -but rescued her to love and happiness, and set, as a -chastening admonition, to tend the mortal fires on the -altar of eternal service.</p> - -<p>Looking at her across the vast estranging gulf of -destiny, heart-broken, he asked himself in his poor -yearning way whether she longer had any thought of -him or longer loved him. For answer he had only the -assurance given in her words, which now rose as a -benediction in his memory:</p> - -<p>"If He will deign to hear the ceaseless, fervent petition -of one so erring, He will not leave you unhappy on -account of that love for me which in this world it will -never be allowed me to return."</p> - -<p>One highest star of adoration she kindled last, and -then turned and advanced down the aisle. He was sitting -close to it, and as she came towards him, with irre<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span>sistible -impulse he bent forward to meet her, his lips -parted as though to speak, his eyes implored her for -recognition, his hands were instinctively moved to attract -her notice. But she passed him with unuplifted -eyes. The hem of her dress swept across his foot. In -that intense moment, which compressed within itself -the joy of another meeting and the despair of an eternal -farewell—in that moment he may have tried to read -through her face and beyond it in her very soul the -story of what she must have suffered. To any one else, -on her face rested only that beauty, transcending all description, -which is born of the sorrow of earth and the -peace of God.</p> - -<p>Mournful as was this last sight of her, and touched -with remorse, he could yet bear it away in his heart -for long remembrance not untempered by consolation. -He saw her well; he saw her faithful; he saw her bearing -the sorrows of her lot with angelic sweetness. -Through years to come the beauty of this scene might -abide with him, lifted above the realm of mortal changes -by the serenitude of her immovable devotion.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">XI.</p> - -<p>There was thus spared him knowledge of the great -change that had taken place regarding her within the -counsels of the Order; nor, perhaps, was he ever to -learn of the other changes, more eventful still, that were -now fast closing in upon her destiny.</p> - -<p>When the Creator wishes to create a woman, the -beauty of whose nature is to prefigure the types of an -immortal world, he endows her more plenteously with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span> -the faculty of innocent love. The contravention of this -faculty has time after time resulted in the most memorable -tragedies that have ever saddened the history of -the race. He had given to the nature of Pauline Cambron -two strong, unwearying wings: the pinion of faith -and the pinion of love. It was his will that she should -soar by the use of both. But they had denied her the -use of one; and the vain and bewildered struggles which -marked her life thenceforth were as those of a bird -that should try to rise into the air with one of its -wings bound tight against its bosom.</p> - -<p>After the illness which followed upon the events of -that terrible day, she took towards her own conduct the -penitential attitude enjoined by her religion. There is -little need to lay bare all that followed. She had passed -out of her soft world of heroic dreams into the hard -world of unheroic reality. She had chosen a name to -express her sympathy with the sorrows of the world, -and the sorrows of the world had broken in upon her. -Out of the white dawn of the imagination she had stepped -into the heat and burden of the day.</p> - -<p>Long after penances and prayers were over, and by -others she might have felt herself forgiven, she was as -far as ever from that forgiveness which comes from -within. It is not characteristic of a nature such as -hers to win pardon so easily for such an offence -of her being seemed concentred more and more in -one impassioned desire to expiate her sin; for, as time -passed on, despite penances and prayers, she realized -that she still loved him.</p> - -<p>As she pondered this she said to herself that peace -would never come unless she should go elsewhere and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span> -begin life over in some place that was free from the -memories of her fall, there was so much to remind her -of him. She could not go into the garden without recalling -the day when they had walked through it side -by side. She could not cross the threshold of the -church without being reminded that it was the scene -of her unfaithfulness and of her exposure. The graveyard, -the foot-path across the fields, the observatory—all -were full of disturbing images. And therefore she -besought the Mother Superior to send her away to -some one of the missions of the Order, thinking that -thus she would win forgetfulness of him and singleness -of heart.</p> - -<p>But while the plan of doing this was yet being considered -by the Mother Superior, there happened one of -those events which seem to fit into the crises of our -lives as though determined by the very laws of fate. -The attention of the civilized world had not yet been -fixed upon the heroic labors of the Belgian priest, Father -Damien, among the lepers of the island of Molokai. -But it has been stated that near the convent are -the monks of La Trappe. Among these monks were -friends of the American priest, Brother Joseph, who for -years was one of Father Damien's assistants; and to -these friends this priest from time to time wrote letters, -in which he described at great length the life of the -leper settlement and the work of the small band of -men and women who had gone to labor in that remote -and awful vineyard. The contents of these letters -were made known to the ecclesiastical superior of the -convent; and one evening he made them the subject -of a lecture to the assembled nuns and novices, dwelling -with peculiar eloquence upon the devotion of the three<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span> -Franciscan Sisters who had become outcasts from human -society that they might nurse and teach leprous -girls, until inevitable death should overtake them also.</p> - -<p>Among that breathless audience of women there was -one soul on whom his words fell with the force of a -message from the Eternal. Here, then, at last, was offered -her a path-way by following meekly to the end of -which she might perhaps find blessedness. The real -Man of Sorrows appeared to stand in it and beckon -her on to the abodes of those abandoned creatures -whose sufferings he had with peculiar pity so often -stretched forth his hand to heal. When she laid before -the Mother Superior her petition to be allowed to -go, it was at first refused, being regarded as a momentary -impulse; but months passed, and at intervals, always -more earnestly, she renewed her request. It was -pointed out to her that when one has gone among the -lepers there is no return; the alternatives are either -life-long banishment, or death from leprosy, usually at -the end of a few years. But always her reply was:</p> - -<p>"In the name of Christ, Mother, let me go!"</p> - -<p>Meantime it had become clear to the Mother Superior -that some change of scene must be made. The -days of Sister Dolorosa's usefulness in the convent -were too plainly over.</p> - -<p>It had not been possible in that large household of -women to conceal the fact of her unfaithfulness to her -vows. As one black veil whispered to another—as one -white veil communed with its attentive neighbor—little -by little events were gathered and pieced together, until, -in different forms of error and rumor, the story became -known to all. Some from behind window lattices -had watched her in the garden with the young stranger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span> -on the day of his visiting the convent. Others had -heard of his lying wounded at the farm-house. Still -others were sure that under pretext of visiting old -Martha she had often met him in the fields. And then -the scene on the steps of the church, when she had returned -soiled and torn and fainting.</p> - -<p>So that from the day on which she arose from her -illness and began to go about the convent, she was -singled out as a target for those small arrows which -the feminine eye directs with such faultless skill at one -of its own sex. With scarcely perceptible movements -they would draw aside when passing her, as though to -escape corrupting contact. Certain ones of the younger -Sisters, who were jealous of her beauty, did not fail -to drop innuendoes for her to overhear. And upon -some of the novices, whose minds were still wavering -between the Church and the world, it was thought that -her example might have a dangerous influence.</p> - -<p>It is always wrong to judge motives; but it is possible -that the head of the Order may have thought it -best that this ruined life should take on the halo of -martyrdom, from which fresh lustre would be reflected -upon the annals of the Church. However this may be, -after about eighteen months of waiting, during which -correspondence was held with the Sandwich Islands, it -was determined that Sister Dolorosa should be allowed -to go thither and join the labors of the Franciscan -Sisters.</p> - -<p>From the day when consent was given she passed -into that peace with which one ascends the scaffold or -awaits the stake. It was this look of peace that Gordon -had seen on her face as she moved hither and -thither about the shrine.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span></p> - -<p>Only a few weeks after he had thus seen her the -day came for her to go. Of those who took part in the -scene of farewell she was the most unmoved. A month -later she sailed from San Francisco for Honolulu; and -in due time there came from Honolulu to the Mother -Superior the following letter. It contains all that remains -of the earthly history of Pauline Cambron:</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">XII.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p> -"<span class="smcap">Kalawao, Molokai, Hawaiian Islands</span>,<br /> -<br /> -"<i>January 1, 188—</i>.<br /> -</p> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mother</span>,—I entreat you not to let the sight of -this strange handwriting, instead of one that must be -so familiar, fill you with too much alarm. I hasten to -assure you that before my letter closes you will understand -why Sister Dolorosa has not written herself.</p> - -<p>"Since the hour when the vessel sailed from the American -port, bearing to us that young life as a consecrated -helper in our work among these suffering outcasts of -the human race, I know that your thoughts and prayers -have followed her with unceasing anxiety; so that first -I should give you tidings that the vessel reached Honolulu -in safety. I should tell you also that she had a -prosperous voyage, and that she is now happy—far happier -than when she left you. I know, likewise, that -your imagination has constantly hovered about this -island, and that you have pictured it to yourself as the -gloomiest of all spots in the universe of God; so that -in the next place I should try to remove this impression -by giving you some description of the island itself, -which has now become her unchanging home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span></p> - -<p>"The island of Molokai, then, on which the leper settlement -has been located by the Government, is long, -and shaped much like the leaf of the willow-tree. The -Sandwich Islands, as you well know, are a group of volcanoes -out of which the fires have for the most part long -since died. Molokai, therefore, is really but a mountain -of cooled lava, half of which perhaps is beneath the -level of the sea. The two leper villages are actually -situated in the cup of an ancient crater. The island -is very low along the southern coast, and slopes gradually -to its greatest altitude on the northern ridge, from -which the descent to the sea is in places all but perpendicular. -It is between the bases of these northern -cliffs and the sea that the villages are built. In the -rear of them is a long succession of towering precipices -and wild ravines, that are solemn and terrible to behold; -and in front of them there is a coast line so -rough with pointed rocks that as the waves rush in -upon them spray is often thrown to the height of fifty -or a hundred feet. It is this that makes the landing at -times so dangerous; and at other times, when a storm -has burst, so fatal. So that shipwrecks are not unknown, -dear Mother, and sometimes add to the sadness -of life in this place.</p> - -<p>"But from this description you would get only a mistaken -idea of the aspect of the island. It is sunny and -full of tropical loveliness. The lapse of centuries has -in places covered the lava with exquisite verdure. Soft -breezes blow here, about the dark cliffs hang purple -atmospheres, and above them drift pink and white -clouds. Sometimes the whole island is veiled in golden -mist. Beautiful streams fall down its green precipices -into the sea, and the sea itself is of the most brill<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">273</span>iant -blue. In its depths are growths of pure white -corals, which are the homes of fishes of gorgeous colors.</p> - -<p>"If I should speak no longer of the island, but of the -people, I could perhaps do something further still to -dissipate the dread with which you and other strangers -must regard us. The inhabitants are a simple, generous, -happy race; and there are many spots in this -world—many in Europe and Asia, perhaps some in -your own land—where the scenes of suffering and -death are more poignant and appalling. The lepers -live for the most part in decent white cottages. Many -are the happy faces that are seen among them; so that, -strange as it may seem, healthy people would sometimes -come here to live if the laws did not forbid. So -much has Christianity done that one may now be buried -in consecrated ground.</p> - -<p>"If all this appears worldly and frivolous, dear Mother, -forgive me! If I have chosen to withhold from you -news of her, of whom alone I know you are thinking, -it is because I have wished to give you as bright a picture -as possible. Perhaps you will thus become the -better prepared for what is to follow.</p> - -<p>"So that before I go further, I shall pause again to -describe to you one spot which is the loveliest on the -island. About a mile and a half from the village of -Kalawao there is a rocky point which is used as an irregular -landing-place when the sea is wild. Just beyond -this point there is an inward curve of the coast, making -an inlet of the sea; and from the water's edge there -slopes backward into the bosom of the island a deep -ravine. Down this ravine there falls and winds a -gleaming white cataract, and here the tropical vegetation -grows most beautiful. The trees are wreathed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">274</span> -with moist creepers; the edges and crevices of the lava -blocks are fringed with ferns and moss. Here the -wild ginger blooms and the crimson lehua. Here grow -trees of orange and palm and punhala groves. Here -one sees the rare honey-bird with its plumage of scarlet -velvet, the golden plover, and the beautiful white bos'un-bird, -wheeling about the black cliff heights. The spot is -as beautiful as a scene in some fairy tale. When storms -roll in from the sea the surf flows far back into this ravine, -and sometimes—after the waters have subsided—a -piece of wreckage from the ocean is left behind.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me once more, O dear Mother! if again I -seem to you so idle and unmeaning in my words. But -I have found it almost impossible to go on; and, besides, -I think you will thank me, after you have read -my letter through, for telling you first of this place.</p> - -<p>"From the day of our first learning that there was a -young spirit among you who had elected, for Christ's -sake, to come here and labor with us, we had counted -the days till she should arrive. The news had spread -throughout the leper settlement. Father Damien had -made it known to the lepers in Kalawao, Father Wendolen -had likewise told it among the lepers in Kalapaupa, -and the Protestant ministers spoke of it to their -flocks. Thus her name had already become familiar -to hundreds of them, and many a prayer had been offered -up for her safety.</p> - -<p>"Once a week there comes to Molokai from Honolulu -a little steamer called <i>Mokolii</i>. When it reached here last -Saturday morning it brought the news that just before -it sailed from Honolulu the vessel bearing Sister Dolorosa -had come into port. She had been taken in charge -by the Sisters until the <i>Mokolii</i> should return and make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">275</span> -the next trip. I should add that the steamer leaves at -about five o'clock in the afternoon, and that it usually -reaches here at about dawn of the following morning in -ordinary weather.</p> - -<p>"And now, dear Mother, I beseech you to lay my letter -aside! Do not read further now. Lay it aside, and -do not take it up again until you have sought in prayer -the consolation of our divine religion for the sorrows -of our lives.</p> - -<p>"I shall believe that you have done this, and that, as -you now go on with the reading of my letter, you have -gained the fortitude to hear what I have scarcely the -power to write. Heaven knows that in my poor way I -have sought to prepare you!</p> - -<p>"As it was expected that the steamer would reach the -island about dawn on Saturday morning, as usual, it -had been arranged that many of us should be at the -landing-place to give her welcome. But about midnight -one of the terrific storms which visit this region -suddenly descended, enveloping the heavens, that had -been full of the light of the stars, in impenetrable darkness. -We were sleepless with apprehension that the -vessel would be driven upon the rocks—such was the -direction of the storm—long before it could come opposite -the villages: and a few hours before day Father -Damien, accompanied by Father Conradi, Brother James, -and Brother Joseph, went down to the coast. Through -the remaining hours of the night they watched and waited, -now at one point, and now at another, knowing that -the vessel could never land in such a storm. As the -dawn broke they followed up the coast until they came -opposite that rocky point of which I have already spoken -as being an irregular landing-place.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">276</span></p> - -<p>"Here they were met by two or three men who were -drenched with the sea, and just starting towards the villages, -and from them they learned that, an hour or two -before, the steamer had been driven upon the hidden -rocks of the point. It had been feared that it would -soon be sunk or dashed to pieces, and as quickly as -possible a boat had been put off, in which were the -leper girls that were being brought from Honolulu. -There was little hope that it would ever reach the shore, -but it was the last chance of life. In this boat, dear -Mother, Sister Dolorosa also was placed. Immediately -afterwards a second boat was put off, containing the -others that were on board.</p> - -<p>"Of the fate of the first boat they had learned nothing. -Their own had been almost immediately capsized, and, -so far as they knew, they were the sole survivors. The -Hawaiians are the most expert of swimmers, being almost -native to the sea; and since the distance was short, -and only these survived, you will realize how little chance -there was for any other.</p> - -<p>"During the early hours of the morning, which broke -dark and inexpressibly sad for us, a few bodies were -found washed ashore, among them those of two leper -girls of Honolulu. But our search for her long proved -unavailing. At length Father Damien suggested that -we follow up the ravine which I have described, and it -was thither that he and Brother Joseph and I accordingly -went. Father Damien thought it well that I -should go with them.</p> - -<p>"It was far inland, dear Mother, that at last we found -her. She lay out-stretched on a bare, black rock of lava, -which sloped upward from the sea. Her naked white -feet rested on the green moss that fringed its lower<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">277</span> -edge, and her head was sheltered from the burning sun -by branches of ferns. Almost over her eyes—the lids -of which were stiff with the salt of the ocean—there -hung a spray of white poppies. It was as though nature -would be kind to her in death.</p> - -<p>"At the sight of her face, so young, and having in -it the purity and the peace of Heaven, we knelt down -around her without a word, and for a while we could do -nothing but weep. Surely nothing so spotless was ever -washed ashore on this polluted island! If I sinned, I -pray to be forgiven; but I found a strange joy in thinking -that the corruption of this terrible disease had never -been laid upon her. Heaven had accepted in advance -her faithful spirit, and had spared her the long years of -bodily suffering.</p> - -<p>"At Father Damien's direction Brother Joseph returned -to the village for a bier and for four lepers who -should be strong enough to bear it. When they came -we laid her on it, and bore her back to the village, -where Mother Marianne took the body in charge and -prepared it for burial.</p> - -<p>"How shall I describe her funeral? The lepers were -her pall-bearers. The news of the shipwreck had quickly -spread throughout the settlement, and these simple, -generous people yield themselves so readily to the emotion -of the hour. When the time arrived, it seemed -that all who could walk had come to follow her to the -church-yard. It was a moving sight—the long, wavering -train of that death-stricken throng, whose sufferings -had so touched the pity of our Lord when he was on -earth, and the desolation of whose fate she had come -to lessen. There were the young and the old alike, -Protestants and Catholics without distinction, children<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">278</span> -with their faces so strangely aged with ravages of the -leprosy, those advanced in years with theirs so mutilated -and marred. Others, upon whom the leprosy had -made such advances that they were too weak to walk, -sat in their cottage doors and lifted their husky voices -in singing that wailing native hymn in which they bemoan -their hopeless fate. Some of the women, after a -fashion of their own, wore large wreaths of blue blossoms -and green leaves about their withered faces.</p> - -<p>"And it was thus that we lepers—I say we lepers -because I am one of them, since I cannot expect long -to escape the disease—it was thus that we lepers followed -her to the graveyard in the rock by the blue sea, -where Father Damien with his own hands had helped -to dig her grave. And there, dear Mother, all that is -mortal of her now rests. But we know that ere this she -has heard the words: 'I was sick and ye visited me.'</p> - -<p>"Mother Marianne would herself have written, but -she was called away to the Leproserie.</p> - -<p> -"<span class="smcap">Sister Agatha.</span>"<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">279</span></p> - - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a><br /><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 class="invisible"><a name="POSTHUMOUS_FAME_OR_A_LEGEND" id="POSTHUMOUS_FAME_OR_A_LEGEND">POSTHUMOUS FAME; OR, A LEGEND -OF THE BEAUTIFUL.</a></h2> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/fame.jpg" alt="Posthumous Fame; or, a Legend of the -Beautiful." /> -</div> - -<p class="subtitle">I.</p> - -<p>There once lived in a great city, where the dead were -all but innumerable, a young man by the name of Nicholas -Vane, who possessed a singular genius for the -making of tombstones. So beautiful they were, and so -fitly designed to express the shadowy pain of mortal -memory or the bright forecasting of eternal hope, that -all persons were held fortunate who could secure them -for the calm resting-places of their beloved sleepers. -Indeed, the curious tale was whispered round that the -bereft were not his only patrons, but that certain personages -who were peculiarly ambitious of posthumous -fame—seeing they had not long to live, and unwilling -to intrust others with the grave responsibility of having -them commemorated—had gone to his shop and secretly -advised with him respecting such monuments as -might preserve their memories from too swift oblivion.</p> - -<p>However this may fall out, certain it is that his calling -had its secrets; and once he was known to observe -that no man could ever understand the human heart -until he had become a maker of tombstones. Whether -the knowledge thus derived should make of one a -laughing or a weeping philosopher, Nicholas himself -remained a joyous type of youthful manhood—so joy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">282</span>ous, -in fact, that a friend of his who wrought in color, -strolling one day into the workshop where Nicholas -stood surrounded by the exquisite shapes of memorial -marbles, had asked to paint the scene as a representation -of Life chiselling to its beautiful purposes the rugged -symbols of Death, and smiling as it wove the words -of love and faith across the stony proofs of the universal -tragedy. Afterwards, it is true, a great change was -wrought in the young artisan.</p> - -<p>He had just come in one morning and paused to look -around at the various finished and unfinished mortuary -designs.</p> - -<p>"Truly," he said to himself all at once, "if I were a -wise man, I'd begin this day's business by chiselling my -own head-stone. For who knows but that before sunset -my brother the grave-digger may be told to build me -one of the houses that last till doomsday! And what -man could then make the monument to stop the door -of <em>my</em> house with? But why should I have a monument? -If I lie beneath it, I shall not know I lie there. -If I lie not there, then it will not stand over me. So, -whether I lie there, or lie not there, what will it matter -to me then? Aye; but what if, being dead only to this -world and living in another, I should yet look on the -monument erected to my memory and therefore be the -happier? I know not; nor to what end we are vexed -with this desire to be remembered after death. The -prospect of vanishing from a poor, toilsome life fills us -with such consternation and pain! It is therefore we -strive to impress ourselves ineffaceably on the race, so -that, after we have gone hence, or ceased to be, we may -still have incorporeal habitation among all coming generations."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">283</span></p> - -<p>Here he was interrupted by a low knock at the door. -Bidden to come in, there entered a man of delicate -physiognomy, who threw a hurried glance around and -inquired in an anxious tone:</p> - -<p>"Sir, are you alone?"</p> - -<p>"I am never alone," replied Nicholas in a ringing -voice; "for I dwell hard by the gate-way of life and -death, through which a multitude is always passing."</p> - -<p>"Not so loud, I beseech you," said the visitor, stretching -forth his thin, white hands with eager deprecation. -"I would not, for the world, have any one discover that -I have been here."</p> - -<p>"Are you, then, a personage of such importance to the -world?" said Nicholas, smiling, for the stranger's appearance -argued no worldly consideration whatsoever. -The suit of black, which his frail figure seemed to shrink -away from with very sensitiveness, was glossy and pathetic -with more than one covert patch. His shoes -were dust-covered and worn. His long hair went round -his head in a swirl, and he bore himself with an air of -damaged, apologetic, self-appreciation.</p> - -<p>"I am a poet," he murmured with a flush of pain, -dropping his large mournful eyes beneath the scrutiny -of one who might be an unsympathetic listener. "I am -a poet, and I have come to speak with you privately of -my—of the—of a monument. I am afraid I shall be -forgotten. It is a terrible thought."</p> - -<p>"Can you not trust your poems to keep you remembered?" -asked Nicholas, with more kindliness.</p> - -<p>"I could if they were as widely read as they should -be." He appeared emboldened by his hearer's gentleness. -"But, to confess the truth, I have not been accepted -by my age. That, indeed, should give me no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">284</span> -pain, since I have not written for it, but for the great -future to which alone I look for my fame."</p> - -<p>"Then why not look to it for your monument also?"</p> - -<p>"Ah, sir!" he cried, "there are so many poets in the -world that I might be entirely overlooked by posterity, -did there not descend to it some sign that I was held -in honor by my own generation."</p> - -<p>"Have you never noticed," he continued, with more -earnestness, "that when strangers visit a cemetery they -pay no attention to the thousands of little head-stones -that lie scattered close to the ground, but hunt out the -highest monuments, to learn in whose honor they were -erected? Have you never heard them exclaim: 'Yonder -is a great monument! A great man must be buried -there. Let us go and find out who he was and what he -did to be so celebrated.' Oh, sir, you and I know that -this is a poor way of reasoning, since the greatest monuments -are not always set over the greatest men. Still -the custom has wrought its good effects, and splendid -memorials do serve to make known in years to come -those whom they commemorate, by inciting posterity to -search for their actions or revive their thoughts. I warrant -you the mere bust of Homer—"</p> - -<p>"You are not mentioning yourself in the same breath -with Homer, I hope," said Nicholas, with great good-humor.</p> - -<p>"My poems are as dear to me as Homer's were to -him," replied the poet, his eyes filling.</p> - -<p>"What if you <em>are</em> forgotten? Is it not enough for -the poet to have lived for the sake of beauty?"</p> - -<p>"No!" he cried, passionately. "What you say is a -miserable error. For the very proof of the poet's vocation -is in creating the beautiful. But how know he has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">285</span> -created it? By his own mind? Alas, the poet's mind -tells him only what is beautiful to <em>him</em>! It is by fame -that he knows it—fame, the gratitude of men for the -beauty he has revealed to them! What is so sweet, -then, as the knowledge that fame has come to him already, -or surely awaits him after he is dead?"</p> - -<p>"We labor under some confusion of ideas, I fear," -said Nicholas, "and, besides, are losing time. What -kind of mon—"</p> - -<p>"That I leave to you," interrupted the poet. "Only, -I should like my monument to be beautiful. Ah, if you -but knew how all through this poor life of mine I have -loved the beautiful! Never, never have I drawn near -it in any visible form without almost holding my breath -as though I were looking deep, deep into God's opened -eyes. But it was of the epitaph I wished to speak."</p> - -<p>Hereupon, with a deeper flush, he drew from a large -inside breast-pocket, that seemed to have been made -for the purpose, a worn duodecimo volume, and fell to -turning the much-fingered pages.</p> - -<p>"This," he murmured fondly, without looking up, "is -the complete collection of my poems."</p> - -<p>"Indeed!" exclaimed Nicholas, with deep compassion.</p> - -<p>"Yes, my complete collection. I have written a great -deal more, and should have liked to publish all that I -have written. But it was necessary to select, and I have -included here only what it was intolerable to see wasted. -There is nothing I value more than a group of elegiac -poems, which every single member of my large family—who -are fine critics—and all my friends, pronounce -very beautiful. I think it would be a good idea to inscribe -a selection from one on my monument, since<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">286</span> -those who read the selection would wish to read the -entire poem, and those who read the entire poem would -wish to read the entire collection. I shall now favor -you with these elegies."</p> - -<p>"I should be happy to hear them; but my time!" -said Nicholas, courteously. "The living are too impatient -to wait on me; the dead too patient to be defrauded."</p> - -<p>"Surely you would not refuse to hear one of them," -exclaimed the poet, his eyes flashing.</p> - -<p>"Read <em>one</em>, by all means." Nicholas seated himself -on a monumental lamb.</p> - -<p>The poet passed one hand gently across his forehead, -as though to brush away the stroke of rudeness; then, -fixing upon Nicholas a look of infinite remoteness, he -read as follows:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">"He suffered, but he murmured not;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To every storm he bared his breast;</div> - <div class="verse">He asked but for the common lot—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To be a man among the rest.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">"Here lies he now—"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>"If you ask but for the common lot," interrupted -Nicholas, "you should rest content to be forgotten."</p> - -<p>But before the poet could reply, a loud knock caused -him to flap the leaves of the "Complete Collection" together -with one hand, while with the other he gathered -the tails of his long coat about him, as though preparing -to pass through some difficult aperture. The exaltation -of his mood, however, still showed itself in the look and -tone of proud condescension with which he said to -Nicholas:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">287</span></p> - -<p>"Permit me to retire at once by some private pass-way."</p> - -<p>Nicholas led him to a door in the rear of the shop, -and there, with a smile and a tear, stood for a moment -watching the precipitate figure of the retreating bard, -who suddenly paused when disappearing and tore open -the breast of his coat to assure himself that his beloved -elegies were resting safe across his heart.</p> - -<p>The second visitor was of another sort. He hobbled -on a cork leg, but inexorably disciplined the fleshly one -into old-time firmness and precision. A faded military -cloak draped his stalwart figure. Part of one bushy -gray eyebrow had been chipped away by the same -sword-cut that left its scar across his battle-beaten face.</p> - -<p>"I have come to speak with you about my monument," -he said in a gruff voice that seemed to issue -from the mouth of a rusty cannon. "Those of my old -comrades that did not fall at my side are dead. My -wife died long ago, and my little children. I am old -and forgotten. It is a time of peace. There's not a -boy who will now listen to me while I tell of my campaigns. -I live alone. Were I to die to-morrow my -grave might not have so much as a head-stone. It -might be taken for that of a coward. Make me a monument -for a true soldier."</p> - -<p>"Your grateful country will do that," said Nicholas.</p> - -<p>"Ha?" exclaimed the veteran, whom the shock of -battle had made deaf long ago.</p> - -<p>"Your country," shouted Nicholas, close to his ear, -"your country—will erect a monument—to your memory."</p> - -<p>"My country!" The words were shot out with a -reverberating, melancholy boom. "My country will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">288</span> -do no such a thing. How many millions of soldiers -have fallen on her battle-fields! Where are their monuments? -They would make her one vast cemetery."</p> - -<p>"But is it not enough for you to have been a true soldier? -Why wish to be known and remembered for it?"</p> - -<p>"I know I do not wish to be forgotten," he replied, -simply. "I know I take pleasure in the thought that -long after I am forgotten there will be a tongue in my -monument to cry out to every passing stranger, 'Here -lies the body of a true soldier.' It is a great thing to -be brave!"</p> - -<p>"Is, then, this monument to be erected in honor of -bravery, or of yourself?"</p> - -<p>"There is no difference," said the veteran, bluntly. -"Bravery <em>is</em> myself."</p> - -<p>"It is bravery," he continued, in husky tones, and -with a mist gathering in his eyes that made him wink -as though he were trying to see through the smoke of -battle—"it is bravery that I see most clearly in the -character of God. What would become of us if he -were a coward? I serve him as my brave commander; -and though I am stationed far from him and may be -faint and sorely wounded, I know that he is somewhere -on the battle-field, and that I shall see him at last, approaching -me as he moves up and down among the -ranks."</p> - -<p>"But you say that your country does not notice you—that -you have no friends; do you, then, feel no resentment?"</p> - -<p>"None, none," he answered quickly, though his head -dropped on his bosom.</p> - -<p>"And you wish to be remembered by a world that is -willing to forget you?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">289</span></p> - -<p>He lifted his head proudly. "There are many true -men in the world," he said, "and it has much to think -of. I owe it all I can give, all I can bequeath; and I -can bequeath it nothing but the memory of a true man."</p> - -<p>One day, not long after this, there came into the -workshop of Nicholas a venerable man of the gravest, -sweetest, and most scholarly aspect, who spoke not a -word until he had led Nicholas to the front window -and pointed a trembling finger at a distant church-spire.</p> - -<p>"You see yon spire?" he said. "It almost pierces -the clouds. In the church beneath I have preached to -men and women for nearly fifty years. Many that I -have christened at the font I have married at the altar; -many of these I have sprinkled with dust. What have I -not done for them in sorrow and want! How have I not -toiled to set them in the way of purer pleasures and to -anchor their tempest-tossed hopes! And yet how soon -they will forget me! Already many say I am too old -to preach. Too old! I preach better than I ever did -in my life. Yet it may be my lot to wander down into -the deep valley, an idle shepherd with an idle crook. -I have just come from the writing of my next sermon, -in which I exhort my people to strive that their names -be not written on earthly monuments or human hearts, -but in the Book of Life. It is my sublimest theme. -If I am ever eloquent, if I am ever persuasive, if I ever -for one moment draw aside to spiritual eyes the veil -that discloses the calm, enrapturing vistas of eternity, it -is when I measure my finite strength against this -mighty task. But why? Because they are the sermons -of my own aspiration. I preach them to my own -soul. Face to face with that naked soul I pen those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">290</span> -sermons—pen them when all are asleep save the sleepless -Eye that is upon me. Even in the light of that -Eye do I recoil from the thought of being forgotten. -How clearly I foresee it! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! -Where then will be my doctrines, my prayers, my sermons?"</p> - -<p>"Is it not enough for you to have scattered your -handful of good broadcast, to ripen as endlessly as the -grass? What if they that gather know naught of him -that sowed?"</p> - -<p>"It is not enough. I should like the memory of <em>me</em> -to live on and on in the world, inseparable from the -good I may have done. What am I but the good that -is in me? 'Tis this that links me to the infinite and -the perfect. Does not the Perfect One wish his goodness -to be associated with his name? No! No! I -do not wish to be forgotten!"</p> - -<p>"It is mere vanity."</p> - -<p>"Not vanity," said the aged servitor, meekly. "Wait -until you are old, till the grave is at your helpless feet: -it is the love of life."</p> - -<p>But some years later there befell Nicholas an event -that transcended all past experiences, and left its impress -on his whole subsequent life.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">II.</p> - -<p>The hour had passed when any one was likely to -enter his shop. A few rays of pale sunlight, straggling -in through crevices of the door, rested like a dying halo -on the heads of the monumental figures grouped around. -Shadows, creeping upward from the ground, shrouded -all else in thin, penetrable half-gloom, through which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">291</span> -the stark gray emblems of mortality sent forth more -solemn suggestions. A sudden sense of the earthly -tragedy overwhelmed him. The chisel and the hammer -dropped from his hands and, resting his head on the -block he had been carving, he gave himself up to that -mood of dim, distant reverie in which the soul seems to -soar and float far above the shock and din of the world's -disturbing nearness. On his all but oblivious ear, like -the faint washings of some remote sea, beat the waves -of the city's tide-driven life in the streets outside. The -room itself seemed hushed to the awful stillness of the -high aerial spaces. Then all at once this stillness was -broken by a voice, low, clear, and tremuluous, saying -close to his ear:</p> - -<p>"Are you the maker of gravestones?"</p> - -<p>"That is my sad calling," he cried, bitterly, starting -up with instinctive forebodings.</p> - -<p>He saw before him a veiled figure. To support herself, -she rested one hand on the block he had been -carving, while she pressed the other against her heart, -as though to stifle pain.</p> - -<p>"Whose monument is this?"</p> - -<p>"A neglected poet's who died not long ago. Soon, -perhaps, I shall be making one for an old soldier, and -one for a holy man, whose soul, I hear, is about to be -dismissed."</p> - -<p>"Are not some monuments sadder to make than -others?"</p> - -<p>"Aye, truly."</p> - -<p>"What is the saddest you ever made?"</p> - -<p>"The saddest monument I ever made was one for a -poor mother who had lost her only son. One day a -woman came in who had no sooner entered than she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">292</span> -sat down and gave way to a passionate outburst of -grief."</p> - -<p>"'My good woman,' I said, 'why do you weep so -bitterly?'</p> - -<p>"'Do not call me good,' she moaned, and hid her -face.</p> - -<p>"I then perceived her fallen character. When she -recovered self-control she drew from her sinful bosom -an old purse filled with coins of different values.</p> - -<p>"'Why do you give me this?' I asked.</p> - -<p>"'It is to pay for a monument for my son,' she said, -and the storm of her grief swept over her again.</p> - -<p>"I learned that for years she had toiled and starved -to hoard up a sum with which to build a monument to -his memory, for he had never failed of his duty to her -after all others had cast her out. Certainly he had his -reward, not in the monument, but in the repentance -which came to her after his death. I have never seen -such sorrow for evil as the memory of his love wrought -in her. For herself she desired only that the spot -where she should be buried might be unknown. This -longing to be forgotten has led me to believe that none -desire to be remembered for the evil that is in them, but -only for some truth, or beauty, or goodness by which -they have linked their individual lives to the general -life of the race. Even the lying epitaphs in cemeteries -prove how we would fain have the dead arrayed on the -side of right in the thoughts of their survivors. This -wretched mother and human outcast, believing herself -to have lost everything that makes it well to be remembered, -craved only the mercy of forgetfulness."</p> - -<p>"And yet I think she died a Christian soul."</p> - -<p>"You knew her, then?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">293</span></p> - -<p>"I was with her in her last hours. She told me her -story. She told me also of you, and that you would -accept nothing for the monument you were at such care -to make. It is perhaps for this reason that I have felt -some desire to see you, and that I am here now to -speak with you of—"</p> - -<p>A shudder passed over her.</p> - -<p>"After all, that was not a sad, but a joyous monument -to fashion," she added, abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Aye, it was joyous. But to me the joyous and the -sad are much allied in the things of this life."</p> - -<p>"And yet there might be one monument wholly sad, -might there not?"</p> - -<p>"There might be, but I know not whose it would be."</p> - -<p>"If she you love should die, would not hers be so?"</p> - -<p>"Until I love, and she I love is dead, I cannot -know," said Nicholas, smiling.</p> - -<p>"What builds the most monuments?" she asked, -quickly, as though to retreat from her levity.</p> - -<p>"Pride builds many—splendid ones. Gratitude -builds some, forgiveness some, and pity some. But -faith builds more than these, though often poor, humble -ones; and love!—love builds more than all things -else together."</p> - -<p>"And what, of all things that monuments are built -in memory of, is most loved and soonest forgotten?" -she asked, with intensity.</p> - -<p>"Nay, I cannot tell that."</p> - -<p>"Is it not a beautiful woman? This, you say, is the -monument of a poet. After the poet grows old, men -love him for the songs he sang; they love the old soldier -for the battles he fought, and the preacher for his -remembered prayers. But a woman! Who loves her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">294</span> -for the beauty she once possessed, or rather regards -her not with the more distaste? Is there in history -a figure so lonely and despised as that of the woman -who, once the most beautiful in the world, crept back -into her native land a withered hag? Or, if a woman -die while she is yet beautiful, how long is she remembered? -Her beauty is like heat and light—powerful -only for those who feel and see it."</p> - -<p>But Nicholas had scarcely heard her. His eyes had -become riveted upon her hand, which rested on the -marble, as white as though grown out of it under the -labors of his chisel.</p> - -<p>"My lady," he said, with the deepest respect, "will -you permit me to look at your hand? I have carved -many a one in marble, and studied many a one in life; -but never have I seen anything so beautiful as yours."</p> - -<p>He took it with an artist's impetuosity and bent over -it, laying its palm against one of his own and stroking -it softly with the other. The blood leaped through his -heart, and he suddenly lifted it to his lips.</p> - -<p>"God only can make the hand beautiful," he said.</p> - -<p>Displaced by her arm which he had upraised, the -light fabric that had concealed her figure parted on her -bosom and slipped to the ground. His eyes swept over -the perfect shape that stood revealed. The veil still -concealed her face. The strangely mingled emotions -that had been deepening within him all this time now -blended themselves in one irrepressible wish.</p> - -<p>"Will you permit me to see your face?"</p> - -<p>She drew quickly back. A subtle pain was in his -voice as he cried:</p> - -<p>"Oh, my lady? I ask it as one who has pure eyes for -the beautiful."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">295</span></p> - -<p>"My face belongs to my past. It has been my sorrow; -it is nothing now."</p> - -<p>"Only permit me to see it!"</p> - -<p>"Is there no other face you would rather see?"</p> - -<p>Who can fathom the motive of a woman's questions?</p> - -<p>"None, none!"</p> - -<p>She drew aside her veil, and her eyes rested quietly -on his like a revelation. So young she was as hardly -yet to be a woman, and her beauty had in it that seraphic -purity and mysterious pathos which is never seen -in a woman's face until the touch of another world has -chastened her spirit into the resignation of a saint. -The heart of Nicholas was wrung by the sight of it -with a sudden sense of inconsolable loss and longing.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my lady!" he cried, sinking on one knee and -touching his lips to her hand with greater gentleness. -"Do you indeed think the beauty of a woman so soon -forgotten? As long as I live, yours will be as fresh in -my memory as it was the moment after I first saw it in -its perfection and felt its power."</p> - -<p>"Do not recall to me the sorrow of such thoughts." -She touched her heart. "My heart is a tired hour-glass. -Already the sands are well-nigh run through. Any -hour it may stop, and then—out like a light! Shapeless -ashes! I have loved life well, but not so well that -I have not been able to prepare to leave it."</p> - -<p>She spoke with the utmost simplicity and calmness, -yet her eyes were turned with unspeakable sadness -towards the shadowy recesses of the room, where from -their pedestals the monumental figures looked down -upon her as though they would have opened their marble -lips and said, "Poor child! Poor child!"</p> - -<p>"I have had my wish to see you and to see this place.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">296</span> -Before long some one will come here to have you carve -a monument to the most perishable of all things. Like -the poor mother who had no wish to be remembered—"</p> - -<p>Nicholas was moved to the deepest.</p> - -<p>"I have but little skill," he said. "The great God -did not bestow on me the genius of his favorite children -of sculpture. But if so sad and sacred a charge -should ever become mine, with his help I will rear such -a monument to your memory that as long as it stands -none who see it will ever be able to forget you. Year -after year your memory shall grow as a legend of the -beautiful."</p> - -<p>When she was gone he sat self-forgetful until the -darkness grew impenetrable. As he groped his way -out at last along the thick guide-posts of death, her -voice seemed to float towards him from every head-stone, -her name to be written in every epitaph.</p> - -<p>The next day a shadow brooded over the place. Day -by day it deepened. He went out to seek intelligence -of her. In the quarter of the city where she lived he -discovered that her name had already become a nucleus -around which were beginning to cluster many -little legends of the beautiful. He had but to hear recitals -of her deeds of kindness and mercy. For the -chance of seeing her again he began to haunt the neighborhood; -then, having seen her, he would return to his -shop the victim of more unavailing desire. All things -combined to awake in him that passion of love whose -roots are nourished in the soul's finest soil of pity and -hopelessness. Once or twice, under some pretext, he -made bold to accost her; and once, under the stress of -his passion, he mutely lifted his eyes, confessing his -love; but hers were turned aside.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">297</span></p> - -<p>Meantime he began to dream of the monument he -chose to consider she had committed to his making. -It should be the triumph of his art; but more, it would -represent in stone the indissoluble union of his love -with her memory. Through him alone would she enter -upon her long after-life of saint-like reminiscence.</p> - -<p>When the tidings of her death came, he soon sprang -up from the prostration of his grief with a burning desire -to consummate his beloved work.</p> - -<p>"Year after year your memory shall grow as a legend -of the beautiful."</p> - -<p>These words now became the inspiration of his masterpiece. -Day and night it took shape in the rolling -chaos of his sorrow. What sculptor in the world ever -espoused the execution of a work that lured more irresistibly -from their hiding-places the shy and tender -ministers of his genius? What one ever explored with -greater boldness the utmost limits of artistic expression, -or wrought in sterner defiance of the laws of our -common forgetfulness?</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">III.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, when people thronged the great cemetery -of the city, a strolling group were held fascinated -by the unique loveliness of a newly erected monument.</p> - -<p>"Never," they exclaimed, "have we seen so exquisite -a masterpiece. In whose honor is it erected?"</p> - -<p>But when they drew nearer, they found carved on it -simply a woman's name.</p> - -<p>"Who was she?" they asked, puzzled and disappointed. -"Is there no epitaph?"</p> - -<p>"Aye," spoke up a young man lying on the grass<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">298</span> -and eagerly watching the spectators. "Aye, a very fitting -epitaph."</p> - -<p>"Where is it?"</p> - -<p>"Carved on the heart of the monument!" he cried, -in a tone of triumph.</p> - -<p>"On the heart of the monument? Then we cannot -see it."</p> - -<p>"It is not meant to be seen."</p> - -<p>"How do <em>you</em> know of it?"</p> - -<p>"I made the monument."</p> - -<p>"Then tell us what it is."</p> - -<p>"It cannot be told. It is there only because it is -unknown."</p> - -<p>"Out on you! You play your pranks with the living -and the dead."</p> - -<p>"You will live to regret this day," said a thoughtful -by-stander. "You have tampered with the memory of -the dead."</p> - -<p>"Why, look you, good people," cried Nicholas, springing -up and approaching his beautiful master-work. He -rested one hand lovingly against it and glanced around -him pale with repressed excitement, as though a long-looked-for -moment had at length arrived. "I play no -pranks with the living or the dead. Young as I am, I -have fashioned many monuments, as this cemetery will -testify. But I make no more. This is my last; and as -it is the last, so it is the greatest. For I have fashioned -it in such love and sorrow for her who lies beneath it -as you can never know. If it is beautiful, it is yet an -unworthy emblem of that brief and transporting beauty -which was hers; and I have planted it here beside her -grave, that as a delicate white flower it may exhale the -perfume of her memory for centuries to come.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">299</span></p> - -<p>"Tell me," he went on, his lips trembling, his voice -faltering with the burden of oppressive hope—"tell -me, you who behold it now, do you not wed her memory -deathlessly to it? To its fair shape, its native and -unchanging purity?"</p> - -<p>"Aye," they interrupted, impatiently. "But the epitaph?"</p> - -<p>"Ah!" he cried, with tenderer feeling, "beautiful as -the monument is to the eye, it would be no fit emblem -of her had it not something sacred hidden within. For -she was not lovely to the sense alone, but had a perfect -heart. So I have placed within the monument -that which is its heart, and typifies hers. And, mark -you!" he cried, in a voice of such awful warning that -those standing nearest him instinctively shrank back, -"the one is as inviolable as the other. No more could -you rend the heart from the human bosom than this -epitaph from the monument. My deep and lasting -curse on him who attempts it! For I have so fitted -the parts of the work together, that to disunite would -be to break them in pieces; and the inscription is so -fragile and delicately poised within, that so much as -rudely to jar the monument would shiver it to atoms. -It is put there to be inviolable. Seek to know it, you -destroy it. This I but create after the plan of the Great -Artist, who shows you only the fair outside of his masterpieces. -What human eye ever looked into the mysterious -heart of his beautiful—that heart which holds -the secret of inexhaustible freshness and eternal power? -Could this epitaph have been carved on the outside, -you would have read it and forgotten it with natural -satiety. But uncomprehended, what a spell I mark it -exercises! You will—nay, you <em>must</em>—remember it for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">300</span>ever! -You will speak of it to others. They will come. -And thus in ever-widening circle will be borne afar -the memory of her whose name is on it, the emblem of -whose heart is hidden within. And what more fitting -memorial could a man rear to a woman, the pure shell -of whose beauty all can see, the secret of whose beautiful -being no one ever comprehends?"</p> - -<p>He walked rapidly away, then, some distance off, -turned and looked back. More spectators had come -up. Some were earnestly talking, pointing now to the -monument, now towards him. Others stood in rapt -contemplation of his master-work.</p> - -<p>Tears rose to his eyes. A look of ineffable joy overspread -his face.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my love!" he murmured, "I have triumphed. -Death has claimed your body, heaven your spirit; but -the earth claims the saintly memory of each. This day -about your name begins to grow the Legend of the -Beautiful."</p> - -<p>The sun had just set. The ethereal white shape of -the monument stood outlined against a soft background -of rose-colored sky. To his transfiguring imagination -it seemed lifted far into the cloud-based heavens, and -the evening star, resting above its apex, was a celestial -lamp lowered to guide the eye to it through the darkness -of the descending night.</p> - - -<p class="subtitle">IV.</p> - -<p>Mysterious complexity of our mortal nature and estate -that we should so desire to be remembered after -death, though born to be forgotten! Our words and -deeds, the influences of our silent personalities, do in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">301</span>deed -pass from us into the long history of the race and -abide for the rest of time: so that an earthly immortality -is the heritage, nay, the inalienable necessity, of -even the commonest lives; only it is an immortality -not of self, but of its good and evil. For Nature sows -us and reaps us, that she may gather a harvest, not of -us, but from us. It is God alone that gathers the harvest -of us. And well for us that our destiny should be -that general forgetfulness we so strangely shrink from. -For no sooner are we gone hence than, even for such -brief times as our memories may endure, we are apt to -grow by processes of accumulative transformation into -what we never were. Thou kind, kind fate, therefore—never -enough named and celebrated—that biddest the -sun of memory rise on our finished but imperfect lives, -and then lengthenest or shortenest the little day of -posthumous reminiscence, according as thou seest there -is need of early twilight or of deeper shadows!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Years passed. City and cemetery were each grown -vaster. It was again an afternoon when the people -strolled among the graves and monuments. An old -man had courteously attached himself to a group that -stood around a crumbling memorial. He had reached -a great age; but his figure was erect, his face animated -by strong emotions, and his eyes burned beneath his -brows.</p> - -<p>"Sirs," said he, interposing in the conversation, which -turned wholly on the monument, "you say nothing of -him in whose honor it was erected."</p> - -<p>"We say nothing because we know nothing."</p> - -<p>"Is he then wholly forgotten?"</p> - -<p>"We are not aware that he is at all remembered."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">302</span></p> - -<p>"The inscription reads: 'He was a poet.' Know -you none of his poems?"</p> - -<p>"We have never so much as heard of his poems."</p> - -<p>"My eyes are dim; is there nothing carved beneath -his name?"</p> - -<p>One of the by-standers went up and knelt down close -to the base.</p> - -<p>"There <em>was</em> something here, but it is effaced by time—Wait!" -And tracing his finger slowly along, he read -like a child:</p> - -<p> -"He—asked—but—for—the—common—lot.<br /> -</p> - -<p>"That is all," he cried, springing lightly up. "Oh, the -dust on my knees!" he added with vexation.</p> - -<p>"He may have sung very sweetly," pursued the old -man.</p> - -<p>"He may, indeed!" they answered, carelessly.</p> - -<p>"But, sirs," continued he, with a sad smile, "perhaps -you are the very generation that he looked to -for the fame which his own denied him; perhaps he -died believing that <em>you</em> would fully appreciate his -poems."</p> - -<p>"If so, it was a comfortable faith to die in," they -said, laughing, in return. "He will never know that we -did not. A few great poets have posthumous fame: -we know <em>them</em> well enough." And they passed on.</p> - -<p>"This," said the old man, as they paused elsewhere, -"seems to be the monument of a true soldier: know -you aught of the victories he helped to win?"</p> - -<p>"He may not have helped to win any victories. He -may have been a coward. How should <em>we</em> know? Epitaphs -often lie. The dust is peopled with soldiers." -And again they moved on.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">303</span></p> - -<p>"Does any one read his sermons now, know you?" -asked the old man as they paused before a third monument.</p> - -<p>"Read his sermons!" they exclaimed, laughing more -heartily. "Are sermons so much read in the country -you come from? See how long he has been dead! -What should the world be thinking of, to be reading -his musty sermons?"</p> - -<p>"At least does it give you no pleasure to read 'He -was a good man?'" inquired he, plaintively.</p> - -<p>"Aye; but if he was good, was not his goodness its -own reward?"</p> - -<p>"He may have also wished long to be remembered -for it."</p> - -<p>"Naturally; but we have not heard that his wish was -gratified."</p> - -<p>"Is it not sad that the memory of so much beauty -and truth and goodness in our common human life -should perish? But, sirs,"—and here the old man -spoke with sudden energy—"if there should be one -who combined perfect beauty and truth and goodness -in one form and character, do you not think such a rare -being would escape the common fate and be long and -widely remembered?"</p> - -<p>"Doubtless."</p> - -<p>"Sirs," said he, quickly stepping in front of them with -flashing eyes, "is there in all this vast cemetery not a -single monument that has kept green the memory of -the being in whose honor it was erected?"</p> - -<p>"Aye, aye," they answered, readily. "Have you not -heard of it?"</p> - -<p>"I am but come from distant countries. Many years -ago I was here, and have journeyed hither with much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">304</span> -desire to see the place once more. Would you kindly -show me this monument?"</p> - -<p>"Come!" they answered, eagerly, starting off. "It -is the best known of all the thousands in the cemetery. -None who see it can ever forget it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man. "That is why -I have—I foresaw—Is it not a beautiful monument? -Does it not lie—in what direction does it lie?"</p> - -<p>A feverish eagerness seized him. He walked now beside, -now before, his companions. Once he wheeled on -them.</p> - -<p>"Sirs, did you not say it perpetuates the memory of -her—of the one—who lies beneath it?"</p> - -<p>"Both are famous. The story of this woman and -her monument will never be forgotten. It is impossible -to forget it."</p> - -<p>"Year after year—" muttered he, brushing his hand -across his eyes.</p> - -<p>They soon came to a spot where the aged branches -of memorial evergreens interwove a sunless canopy, and -spread far around a drapery of gloom through which -the wind passed with an unending sigh. Brushing aside -the lowest boughs, they stepped in awe-stricken silence -within the dank, chill cone of shade. Before them rose -the shape of a gray monument, at sight of which the -aged traveller, who had fallen behind, dropped his staff -and held out his arms as though he would have embraced -it. But, controlling himself, he stepped forward, -and said, in tones of thrilling sweetness:</p> - -<p>"Sirs, you have not told me what story is connected -with this monument that it should be so famous. I -conceive it must be some very touching one of her -whose name I read—some beautiful legend—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">305</span></p> - -<p>"Judge you of that!" interrupted one of the group, -with a voice of stern sadness and not without a certain -look of mysterious horror. "They say this monument -was reared to a woman by the man who once loved her. -She was very beautiful, and so he made her a very beautiful -monument. But she had a heart so hideous in its -falsity that he carved in stone an enduring curse on her -evil memory, and hung it in the heart of the monument -because it was too awful for any eye to see. But others -tell the story differently. They say the woman not -only had a heart false beyond description, but was in -person the ugliest of her sex. So that while the hidden -curse is a lasting execration of her nature, the beautiful -exterior is a masterpiece of mockery which her nature, -and not her ugliness, maddened his sensitive genius to -perpetrate. There can be no doubt that this is the true -story, as hundreds tell it now, and that the woman will -be remembered so long as the monument stands—aye, -and longer—not only for her loathsome—Help the -old man!"</p> - -<p>He had fallen backward to the ground. They tried -in vain to set him on his feet. Stunned, speechless, he -could only raise himself on one elbow and turn his eyes -towards the monument with a look of preternatural horror, -as though the lie had issued from its treacherous -shape. At length he looked up to them, as they bent -kindly over him, and spoke with much difficulty:</p> - -<p>"Sirs, I am an old man—a very old man, and very -feeble. Forgive this weakness. And I have come a -long way, and must be faint. While you were speaking -my strength failed me. You were telling me a story—were -you not?—the story—the legend of a most beautiful -woman, when all at once my senses grew confused<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">306</span> -and I failed to hear you rightly. Then my ears played -me such a trick! Oh, sirs! if you but knew what a -damnable trick my ears played me, you would pity me -greatly, very, very greatly. This story touches me. It -is much like one I seemed to have heard for many years, -and that I have been repeating over and over to myself -until I love it better than my life. If you would but go -over it again—carefully—very carefully."</p> - -<p>"My God, sirs!" he exclaimed, springing up with the -energy of youth when he had heard the recital a second -time, "tell me <em>who</em> started this story! Tell me <em>how</em> and -<em>where</em> it began!"</p> - -<p>"We cannot. We have heard many tell it, and not -all alike."</p> - -<p>"And do they—do you—believe—it is—true?" he -asked, helplessly.</p> - -<p>"We all <em>know</em> it is true; do not <em>you</em> believe it?"</p> - -<p>"I can never forget it!" he said, in tones quickly -grown harsh and husky. "Let us go away from so pitiful -a place."</p> - -<p>It was near nightfall when he returned, unobserved, -and sat down beside the monument as one who had -ended a pilgrimage.</p> - -<p>"They all tell me the same story," he murmured, -wearily. "Ah, it was the hidden epitaph that wrought -the error! But for it, the sun of her memory would -have had its brief, befitting day and tender setting. -Presumptuous folly, to suppose they would understand -my masterpiece, when they so often misconceive the -hidden heart of His beautiful works, and convert the -uncomprehended good and true into a curse of evil!"</p> - -<p>The night fell. He was awaiting it. Nearer and -nearer rolled the dark, suffering heart of a storm;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">307</span> -nearer towards the calm, white breasts of the dead. -Over the billowy graves the many-footed winds suddenly -fled away in a wild, tumultuous cohort. Overhead, -great black bulks swung heavily at one another across -the tremulous stars.</p> - -<p>Of all earthly spots, where does the awful discord of -the elements seem so futile and theatric as in a vast -cemetery? Blow, then, winds, till you uproot the trees! -Pour, floods, pour, till the water trickles down into the -face of the pale sleeper below! Rumble and flash, ye -clouds, till the earth trembles and seems to be aflame! -But not a lock of hair, so carefully put back over the -brows, is tossed or disordered. The sleeper has not -stretched forth an arm and drawn the shroud closer -about his face, to keep out the wet. Not an ear has -heard the riving thunderbolt, nor so much as an eyelid -trembled on the still eyes for all the lightning's fury.</p> - -<p>But had there been another human presence on the -midnight scene, some lightning flash would have revealed -the old man, a grand, a terrible figure, in sympathy -with its wild, sad violence. He stood beside his masterpiece, -towering to his utmost height in a posture of -all but superhuman majesty and strength. His long -white hair and longer white beard streamed outward on -the roaring winds. His arms, bared to the shoulder, -swung aloft a ponderous hammer. His face, ashen-gray -as the marble before him, was set with an expression -of stern despair. Then, as the thunder crashed, -his hammer fell on the monument. Bolt after bolt, -blow after blow. Once more he might have been seen -kneeling beside the ruin, his eyes strained close to its -heart, awaiting another flash to tell him that the inviolable -epitaph had shared in the destruction.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">308</span></p> - -<p>For days following many curious eyes came to peer -into the opened heart of the shattered structure, but in -vain.</p> - -<p>Thus the masterpiece of Nicholas failed of its end, -though it served another. For no one could have heard -the story of it, before it was destroyed, without being -made to realize how melancholy that a man should rear -a monument of execration to the false heart of the woman -he once had loved; and how terrible for mankind to -celebrate the dead for the evil that was in them instead -of the good.</p> - - -<p class="center">THE END.</p> - -<div class="transnote"> - -<h3>Transcriber's Notes</h3> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, and -hyphenation has been standardised. Variations in spelling and -punctuation have been retained.</p> - -<p>The repetition of Story Titles on consecutive pages has been -removed.</p> - -<p>At the beginning of section III of the first story, Friday, the -31st of August, 1809 was in fact a Thursday. This has not been corrected.</p> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Flute and Violin and other Kentucky -Tales and Romances, by James Lane Allen - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLUTE, VIOLIN, OTHER KENTUCKY TALES *** - -***** This file should be named 50597-h.htm or 50597-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/9/50597/ - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Les Galloway and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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