A ROUND TABLE
OF THE

REPRESENTATIVE
AMERICAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS,
AT WHICH IS SERVED A FEAST OF EXCELLENT STORIES

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY,
ANNA HANSON DORSEY,
ELLA LORAINE DORSEY,
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN,
FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J.,
CHARLES WARREN

With

Tortraits,

biographical

FOURTH

WALTER LECKY,
CHRISTIAN REID,
ANNA T. SADLIER,
MARY A. SADLIER,
JOHN TALBOT SMITH,
STODDARD.

Sketches,

and

^Bibliography.

EDITION,

NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO:

B K N ^ I Q E R
Printers

B R O T H E R S ,

to the Holy Apostolic

See,

Copyright, 1896,

by BENZIGER BROTHERS.

Contents.

PAGE

A L O S T PRIMA DONNA,

.

.

.

Eleanor C. Donnelly

.

Anna Hanson Dorsey

53

Ella Loraine Dorsey

T H E M A D PENITENT OF T O D I ,

.

99

SPECULUM JUSTITI^E,

9

H o w PERSEUS BECAME A STAR,

.

Maurice Francis Egan 123

M Y STRANGE F R I E N D ,

.

Francis J. Finn,

.

.

.

GILLIMAN O G L E Y ,

S.J. 153

Walter Lecky 177

I N T H E QUEBRADA

Christian Reid 211

SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY,

Mary A. Sadlier
T. Sadlier

241

MISTRESS ROSAMOND T R E V O R , .

.

.

. Anna

275

T H E BARON OF CHERUBUSCO, .

.

.

John Talbot Smith 307

JOE O F LAHAINA,

Charles Warren Stoddard 339

E L E A N O R C. D O N N E L L Y .
ELEANOR CECILIA DONNELLY is a native of Philadelphia,

where her father, Dr. Philip Carroll Donnelly, died when
she

was a

mere infant.

Dr. Donnelly was of Irish

birth, but his wife, Catharine Gavin Donnelly, was born in
Philadelphia, and when her husband early fell a martyr to
his profession, upon her devolved the exclusive rearing and
training of her seven fatherless children. Her natural abilities
peculiarly fitted her for this labor of love ; and she lived to
reap the harvest of her toils in the varied and carefully cultivated talents of her offspring.

Her daughter Eleanor

began to write and publish poetry before she was out of her
pinafores; and her life has been devoted to the elevation
and extension of the cause of Catholic literature.
Besides being a constant contributor to current literature,
Miss Donnelly has published some dozen volumes of poems.
Her " Life of Father Barbelin, S.J.," won from the press
most flattering comment; and she has excelled in religious
compilations, such as " Liguori Leaflets," " Pearls from the
Casket of the Sacred Heart," "Our Birthday Bouquet."
and " Little Compliments of the Season." Her latest
works have been: "Poems," "Petronilla and other Stories,"
"A Tuscan Magdalen and other Legends and Poems,"
"Amy's Music Box," and "The Lost Christmas Tree."
It is claimed that one of Eleanor Donnelly's poems,
"The Vision of the Monk Gabriel," furnished Mr. Longfellow with the theme of his " Legend Beautiful," written
eight years later.
Miss Donnelly has represented Catholic literature on ail
occasions of national interest wherein women have figured
during the past ten years. She was selected to compose
the " Odes" for the Golden Jubilee of both the Priesthood
and Episcopacy of His Holiness Pope Leo XIII., receiving
in return the Papal benediction. It was her pen that was
selected by the American Catholic Historical Society, of
which she is a valued member, tp prepare an " Ode " for
the Philadelphia commemoration of the adoption of our
National Constitution, as also the Columbian •k Ode'' for her
native city's celebration of. the quadri-centennial of the
discovery of America.

H %o$t prtma Donna*
BY E L E A N O R

C.

DONNELLY.

I.
" ONCE again," said the Italian maestro; and the
clear, flexible young voice ran up one of Rossini's
most difficult cadenzas (around which clustered
curious combinations of notes, like bunches of roses
around a healthy stalk), trilled, like a lark, upon
high Do, and came down the scale with a clean and
elegant finish refreshing to hear.
" Good! "• said the sententious master; " that
will do for to-day."
His English was excellent, but he might have
said " for this evening," for the twilight had fallen
an hour before, and the lights were burning red
against the windows that shut out the dark night.
Quite a cheery contrast to the outside gloom was
that warm, bright spot, small as it was, and up
three pair of stairs. The open fire was reflected in
the polished floor, as in a mirror; there were pretty
rosewood desks scattered around, filled with valuable music; and a vase of heliotrope on the grand
9

10

A LOST

PRIMA

DONNA.

Erard; while the high ceiling and the dark panelings of the walls gave an air of foreign elegance to
all.
The young singer sighed as she closed her
solfeggi, gathered up the rest of her music in
silence, and began to draw on her gloves. She was
a girl of twenty or so, in an Astrachan cap and
rather an old-fashioned dress; her well-worn pelisse
being by far too scanty to protect her against the
inclemency of a raw November night. But her
form was slight and lissome; and a glance at her
face made one forget the details of her toilet. It
was such an odd face, more remarkable for its force
of character than for any actual beauty of feature
or complexion. The latter was neither fair nor
delicate; and her hair, which she wore very simply,
was of a neutral brown. But the piercing gray eyes
were softened by the longest and silkiest of lashes,
and when a word or a smile broke up the almost
severe repose of her face, the expression was singularly sweet, and the firm chin revealed a girlish
dimple.
The master had subsided into playing minor
chords with his velvety touch, and seemed to have
forgotten her presence altogether. She glanced
furtively at him through her long lashes. He was
in the prime of life, and strikingly handsome; a
tall, willowy presence in a faultless costume, perfectly composed and graceful in every movement.
His skin was a dark olive, lighted up by a pair of
wonderful eyes that glowed at times, like burning

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

II

coals, under his finely-arched brows; but his habitual
expression was an arbitrary one. Albeit he wore
his black, curling hair parted in the middle, in true
artist mode, no thought of weakness or womanliness
could attach itself to the manly face it framed.
The last of her glove buttons disposed of, the
young lady picked up her leather rouleau. On it
was printed in tiny letters, " Marguerite Don Ivan."
She balanced it in her hands and walked to the
door, then hesitated, turned back, and spoke with
a certain nervous timidity:
" You have not told me the hour of the train,
Mr. Cellini ' ? "
No answer. The minor chords had melted by
degrees into the intricacies of a classical sonata;
and the master's impressive profile showed en
silhouette against a dark panel beyond. She tried
it again, a little louder, and with more formality:
" May I ask, Mr. Cellini, the hour of the train
to-morrow ?"
u
What train ? " questioned the gentleman absently.
The young girl bit her lip in discomfiture:" The
train that is to take us to Washington to-morrow,
sir. Have you forgotten the concert ? "
" T r u e ! " said Mr. Cellini, still playing; and
there was a silence of full five minutes more, which
brought him to the end of the adagio. Then, without even a glance over his shoulder : " We leave
the Baltimore depot in the morning at eight," he
said briefly, and went on with his allegro.

12

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

" Maestro / " said the young singer, coming a step
nearer, with her heart in her eyes ; " please, let me
sing the Bolero at the concert, instead of that poor
little ballad."
The master dropped his long, slender hands upon
his knees, and wheeled round upon his stool;
her heart beat faster and her color deepened at
the expression of his face.
" T h e Bolero! " he said slowly, and then he
laughed a short, mellow laugh. " The Bolero from
the 'Sicilian
Vespers' ?" and he laughed again,
eyes and teeth lighting up his dark face as with a
flash of sunshine. • " Miss Don Ivan, you are jesting.
" I am in sober earnest;" and her face glowed.
" I know I could do it justice. I have practised
it day and night for a week, and Miss Lightwood
says I do it like a bird."
" Miss Lightwood is a—goose," said the master,
" and that also is a bird."
He was standing now, with folded arms, looking
at her across the music desk, the amused smile still
upon his face.
" But you will admit that she is a,musician, that
she travelled in Europe, and heard the best prima
donni in the world ? Oh, Mr. Cellini! " cried the
girl excitedly, clasping her hands and with a red
flame burning in her cheeks, " say I may do the
Bolero instead of that paltry Robin Adair y and I
shall be forever grateful. If you will but trust me,
you will yet have reason to be proud of your pupil.

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

13

I feel within me the power to be a great singer. I
have that within which—which
-"
" ' Passeth show! ' " added h e ; and the amused
smile became a sarcastic one.
T o his surprise she burst into tears. H e looked
annoyed and bored, shrugged his shoulders, and
cast away the matter with a swift motion of his
graceful hands.
" Miss Marguerite, you have vanquished with a
woman's best weapon. It is the first time I have
ever yielded to a pupil. You shall sing the Bolero
instead of the ballad."
H e lifted up a curtain behind the piano, and,
dropping it, withdrew into an alcove, where a cup of
hot coffee was always awaiting him at the end of
the day's lessons.
Marguerite., through her tears, looked absently at
the wall, and saw a picture there for the first time
—a lovely little cabinet picture of the Sacred Heart
of Jesus. It was in oil, and exquisite in design and
coloring; a gift to Cellini from a good Italian priest
who sought his countryman's conversion.
The
sweet Saviour pointed to the glowing Heart upon
His breast, as if inviting her to enter therein, while
pitying eyes and tender lips seemed about to speak
the legend inscribed upon the margin: " Learn of
Me, for I am meek and humble of heart."
Words and picture, both together, brought back
to Marguerite the memory of a girl in an Astrachan
cap and a well-worn pelisse, kneeling in the dim
confessional of the Sacred Heart chapel on just

*4

A L0S1

PRIMA

DONNA.

such a night as that, and hearing, between the bitter
sobs, the whispered admonition: " My child, you
will never be truly happy until you are truly humble."
How long ago was that ? Months, and months,
and months—more than she (who had once been so
faithful, who had tried so hard to please God) could
reckon on all the fingers of her shapely hands. She
set her lips in a hard line; her eyes took a stony
look as she crushed down the pleading remorse of
an awakened conscience. People in positions like
hers could not be saints. The paths of pride and
ambition were full of thorns, but she had elected to
walk in them; and in spite of bleeding feet and
aching heart it was too late now to turn back. She
dried her eyes and ran quickly down the staircase.
A t its foot a dressy woman, some ten years her
senior, was keeping guard. Her face was as innocent of expression as a waxen doll's, and her flaxen
frizzes and pink-and-white complexion increased her
resemblance to that pleasant toy. She caught Miss
Don Ivan in her arms with emphasis: " My sweet
Marguerite! " And she kissed her on both cheeks.
•" My precious L i g h t w o o d ! " And the embrace
and salute were returned with ardor. Arm in arm,
the two ladies stepped into the dark street.
" Some good fairy must have sent you to m e , "
said the young singer, squeezing her friend's hand.
" I wanted so badly to see you, and you may guess
about w h a t . "
" The Washington concert ?" hazarded the friend.

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

15

" Precisely; and you know you promised to
chaperon me. W e start to-morrow morning in the
early train. And oh! my dear Lightwood, rejoice
with me—Mr. Cellini says I may sing the Bolero/ "
" You do not surprise me," said her listener.
" It is just as it should be—right, and proper, and
reasonable. To come before a Washington audience
(the 4litey the very crime de la crime of the country)
with such sentimental twaddle as Robin Adair—
you, with your magnificent voice and your faultless
execution,—why, my love, I knew in my heart that
Cellini never would permit you to perpetrate such
an insane act. Said I to your aunt when you sang
the Bolero yesterday: ' Such sweetness, such expression, such facile finish! I am free to say, it
carries me back to the day when I was in Paris at
the house of Mme. Cinti Damareau, and heard
there the inimitable Piccaninni, the pupil of the
divine Rossini, who
' "
" Yes, yes, dear Lightwood/' interrupted Marguerite, too urgent to feast quietly even upon this
delicious ambrosia, " you are the truest friend in
the world, and I thank you heartily for your fond
appreciation; but time presses, and what about my
dress ? You know I must be provided with a concert dress."
" A very grave and important matter, but rather
late in the day for its consideration. , ,
" Granted," laughed the young girl, " but, you
see, Cellini has so many whims, I was not sure
until this evening that the concert might not be

i6

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

postponed a month from date. Lily thinks I might
wear my black silk, with flowers in my hair, and
new gloves.''
" Lily is a little foo-foo," said Miss Lightwood.
"•Black silk for a debutante at a soirie ? Who ever
heard of such madness ? My love, you would look
like your grandmother. , ,
" But what can I d o ? " queried Marguerite.
" Every cent I can spare goes to pay Mr. Cellini
for my lessons, and times are so hard I cannot afford
a new dress until next year. Indeed, to be plain
with you, I don't see very clearly how I can pay
for one even then."
Lightwood's flaxen curls trembled with importance.
" And who wants you to pay for a new dress out
of hand ? My child, there is such a thing as management. There is such a thing as elegant economy. And, thank fortune! there are such things
in the world as modistes who have the Christian
charity to wait for their money, or take it in
monthly instalments. I think I may say with certainty that I saw your new concert dress this
afternoon."
" Where ?" cried the debutante in amazement.
" At Mme. Fitzeasy's (a misfit of Miss Clara
Cadwallader's, who, by the by, is just your height
and make), the sweetest love of a white gros-grairi
that ever you laid an eye on. Fitzeasy said I
might have it for a trifle over seventy dollars, and
I'm free to say I never saw a greater bargain."

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

17

" Oh, Lightwood, let me think! " cried Miss Don
Ivan, pressing her hands to her head, the color
coming and going in her cheeks*
" What is there to think about ? The dress is
indispensable, ready-made, of exquisite material,
and will fit you like a glove. , ,
" Oh! it is not t h a t / ' half sobbed Marguerite.
" Heaven knows I want a new dress bad enough,
and this white gros-grain would be the very thing
for the concert. (My black silk was one of aunty's
made over, you know, and ten years old, if it is a
day.) But the simple truth is, I cannot afford it.
My music, choir and all, does not half pay me.
Aunty works so hard; poor Lily, crippled as
she is, is killing herself with copying; and as for
Maurice
"
" H a n g M a u r i c e ! " cried the homicidal Lightwood; " a plague take Maurice! Maurice, indeed,
—always Maurice! Much the foreman in a foundry
knows about proprieties. The man has not a soul
above iron. H e is not worthy of you, the dolt.
He does not appreciate your genius, your glorious
voice, your sublime ambition.
Now, if it were
Cellini
-"
il
H u s h ! " under her breath, and the girl laid a
strong hand upon her friend's arm, silencing her.
" Well, as I was saying," pursued the volatile
lady, " there is the white gros-grain at Fitzeasy's at
your own terms, and here I go, up-town, to see
about your gloves and slippers. Bless your precious
heart! mightn't I just as well kill two birds with

i8

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

one stone, and order home the dress on my
way ? ' '
" Wait! " groaned Marguerite, but so feebly, so
irresolutely, that Miss Lightwood either heard not
or pretended not to hear; and away she went with
an airy " AM revoir," and a kiss blown backward
from her gloved finger tips.
" O h ! you cruel, selfish girl! " murmured Miss
Don Ivan, apostrophizing herself remorsefully:
" Oh! you mean and poor-spirited coward! "
And looking up in distress of mind at the starless
sky, she felt some drops of water upon her forehead, and realized for the first time that it was
raining.
A gentleman passing with an umbrella, and looking keenly at every chance pedestrian (as if in search
of some one), saw her face in the light of a street
lamp, and turned back to walk beside her.
The light of the same street lamp showed him to
-be a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with a frank,
honest face, and earnest brown eyes.
His chestnut hair was clipped close to his wellshaped head; but his dress, while exquisitely neat,
was nothing finer than a substantial business suit.
" Good-evening, Maggie,*' and he offered her
his arm.
" Good-evening, M a u r i c e / ' but she would not
take it.
" Your aunt and Lily were worried at your stay
ing so l a t e , " said his strong, even voice, " so I
came in search of y o u . "

ELEANOR
11

C.

DONNELLY.

19

There was no cause for anxiety," she replied
coolly. " Mr. Cellini gave me a longer lesson than
usual this evening, in rehearsal for the concert; and
Miss Lightwood only left me a moment a g o . "
H e started slightly.
" Maggie, you are not going to sing at that concert, after all ?"
She evidently resented the reproach in his voice,
but she controlled herself to ask:
" And why not ?"
" " I have already told you my objections to the
matter," said the young man gravely; " reasonable
objections, which your aunt and sister share. But
it seems your best friends have lost, of late, the
power to advise or persuade you."
" One would think I was a child or a fool who
could not be trusted," returned his companion
bitterly (and she kept her face persistently turned
away from him). " My ' best friends/ as you call
them, have rather a curious way of consulting my
best interests."
" And what are your best interests ? Tell me
candidly, Maggie, what good is the thing going to
do you ? What do you expect to gain by singing
at this concert ? "
" I expect to gain celebrity. I expect to make
a name for myself, to establish my reputation as an
artist, to win golden opinions from all sorts of men."
" And Cellini, of course, will pay you well for
your services ? "
How heartily she longed to cast back a trium-

20

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

phant assent to this humiliating query! But she
dared not tell an open lie. Her head drooped a
little, and her voice was lower:
" To be permitted to sing at all at Mr. Cellini's
soirees I regard as a singular privilege. To be the
pupil of such a master imparts a prestige which is
beyond and above a mere question of money. And
furthermore, it is clear that I might go on singing
in that stupid choir " (pointing to the church they
were passing) " till my voice was broken and my
hair turned gray, and I would never gain the tclat
that one night's success before a Washington audience would give me ! "
Her gray eyes flashed like steel, but were
dimmed the next moment with tears, as she saw
how reverently her companion lifted his hat in
worship of the unseen Presence whose poor little
temple they were passing by.
" And for this empty bubble of fame, , , he said
after a long pause, " you will sacrifice not only your
peace of heart but that of your home ? You will
turn your back on the friend you have known and
(it is to be hoped) loved from childhood, and go
over the world with this man, Cellini, who
"
" Maurice Keating! " she broke out, her voice
sharp with pain, " you shall not insult me! If I go
to Washington to-morrow, I go under the protection of Miss Lightwood, a highly respectable lady,
whose reputation is beyond the shadow of reproach,
and one who has been, in* her day, the chaperon of
some of the finest singers of Europe! "

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

21

A dark flush rose to the young man's cheek:
" You are well aware, Margaret, that I detest
that woman. She is worldly and frivolous to the
last degree. Weak as she is, and you, a girl of such
marked character, her influence over you is simply
a species of fascination for which I cannot account
(Nay, hear me out, since you goad me beyond control.) She has bewitched you; she has enslaved
you; she has alienated you from your home and
friends. Her folly and flattery have transformed
the once noble, sensible, and unselfish Margaret
DoniVan into the unreal and restlessly-ambitious
Marguerite Don Ivan.
Her work was complete
when she made you a pupil of that Italian adventurer, Cellini!"
Marguerite's face grew stormy.
" H e is not an adventurer, Mr. K e a t i n g / ' she
panted; " h e is a finished artist, and a thorough
gentleman, which is more than can be said of some
of the friends whom I have known and (it is to be
hoped) loved from my childhood! My good Lightwood was right when she declared that you had not
a soul above iron."
" You have said enough, Margaret," said the
young man in a low, intense voice. " God forgive
you for your scorn of a true heart! A foreman in
an iron-foundry should not, indeed, sit in judgment
on his betters. May your good Lightwood and
your gentlemanly Cellini amply compensate you, in
the future, for that which I foolishly hoped might
have been the glory and the crown of your life! "

22

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

They had reached the door of Miss Don Ivan's
home. H e quitted her abruptly, and strode down
the street into the foggy darkness; and she entered
the house without a word or a backward glance*
II.
Her aunt was setting the table for tea; a slender
woman in shabby mourning, whose care-worn face
was a faded counterpart of Marguerite's. The blast
of damp air which that young lady brought in with
her set the lamp to flaring on an old-fashioned writing desk in the corner, and fluttered the papers over
which a girl was bending.
She was like a spirit, more than flesh and blood,
that young copyist, so ethereal in form, so transparent in skin, that it did not need a glance at the
crooked spine to tell that she was an invalid. Her
pale face was full of purity and sweetness; her dress
so simple, both in material and make, that Maurice Keating always said the wearer brought to his
mind those old, old words: " Whose adorning let
it not be the outward plaiting of the hair, or the
wearing of gold, or the putting on of apparel; but
the hidden man of the heart, the incorruptibility
of a quiet and meek spirit, which is rich in the
sight of God."
No such holy or soothing words came to Marguerite, however, as she threw aside her things, and
sat herself down on a low stool by the fire. She
was deaf to Lily's gentle, " What kept you so late,

ELEANOR

a

DONNELLY.

n

d a r l i n g ? " and the older woman's, " I s n ' t your
dress damp, my dear ? And hadn't you better
change your shoes ? " She could only look from
her aunt's threadbare merino to her sister's thin
hand, in which the pen was trembling at its work,
and think with horror of the white gros-grain at
Mme. Fitzeasy's, and the gloves, and the flowers,
and the slippers, and all the rest of the folly.
A few months back this had been the sunniest
and sweetest hour of the Donivan day. Maurice
Keating, glad to escape from the barren resources
of a suburban boarding-house into a loved and
most congenial atmosphere, generally came to
supper every evening; and bringing Margaret safely
home from the last tedious music lesson, brought
with him at the same time a fund of genial talk and
cheerful laughter that seemed to fill the poor little
box of a house with warmth and beauty. There
was always some delicacy then for slender Lily, a
bird or a jelly, a bottle of wine or a few hot-house
flowers; and after supper, when the poor tired girl
lay resting upon the old lounge before the fire,
aunty and Margaret sewed or knitted, while Maurice read aloud from some charming book. It would
have been hard to find a happier or a worthier
quartette. Marguerite thought of it all now till her
heart swelled within her, and her eyes were wet
with unshed tears. To quarrel with Maurice and
wound his noble nature was bad enough; but to go
in debt in such a mean, selfish, underhand way,
without the faintest hope of getting out of it, was

24

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

assuredly the bitterest drop in her bitter cup of
retrospection. When her aunt called her to supper
she could not even make a show of eating. A sob
kept rising in her throat as she sipped her tea in
miserable silence, and a voice that welled from a
certain bleeding Heart kept sounding ever in her
ears: " Learn of Me, for I am meek and humble of
heart, and you shall find rest for your soul."
Rest—rest—the rest that remaineth for the people of God, the very thing for which her soul was
hungering and thirsting.
Rest—rest—sweeter than the balmy slumber of
the tired child, safe in its mother's arms and pillowed
close to its mother's heart; purer and deeper than
the twilight repose of the weary traveller after
his long day's journey, stretched on a downy bed,
the hush of contentment on the cozy room, and soft
hands bathing his dusty, toil-worn feet.
Rest for the soul (was Marguerite's thought),
delicious, refreshing rest. But the words must be
taken with their context, and the plaintive music of
the promise, like phantom bells in the desert,
seemed to mock her as she shrank from the hard
conditions it imposed.
Her sympathetic companions, reading her pale,
stern face (without apparently looking at it), suspected a lovers' quarrel. Leaving her to herself,
they kept up a kindly dialogue all the while on
homely topics. They knew her too well to harass
her with questions. And after the tea things
were removed, Marguerite went to the old upright

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

2

S

piano in the corner and practised the Bolero for
hours.
It was only at bedtime, when she took up her
candle to go to her room, that she nerved herself to
make mention of to-morrow's journey:
" You must call me betimes in the morning,
aunty, for I am going to Washington on the early
train, and I have arranged to stop for Miss Lightwood on my way to the depot.''
She did not look at them as she spoke, and it
was never clear to her afterward how she evaded
Lily's inquiries about her dress, or her aunt's mild
protest against travelling to the Capital (as she
meant to do) in her best black silk. The halfsmothered sigh that accompanied the words was not
lost upon the debutante, for that sigh meant unpaid rent, and a grocer's bill, and a half-empty
coal bin; but she said nothing about the expensive
parcel awaiting her at Miss Lightwood's. What
she did say was:
" I am too tired and hoarse to help you with the
Rosary to-night, Lily," and so went upstairs, leaving her sister and aunt to tell their beads alone
before the little crucifix in Lily's room. Long after
the lights were put out, and silence had settled on
the house, she stole, in her night-dress and with
noiseless feet, into that darkened room, and, kneeling by the bedside, pressed her lips gently to the
pale face on the pillow. Lily was asleep; but the
cheek that Marguerite kissed was wet with tears, and
the regular breathing of the slumberer was broken

26

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

at intervals by one of those long, shuddering sobs
such as children give when, worn out with weeping,
they lose all (save the vague memory of their griefs)
in innocent repose.
To sleep after that was to dream of being dead
and laid out in a gros-grain silk which was all wet
and blistered with Maurice Keating's tears, while
her aunt and Lily shook over her what seemed at
first to be showers of scarlet roses, but which
changed as they fell into earthworms and creeping
leeches, defiling the whole of her curious shroud.
So loathsome to her, in fine, were the waking
thoughts of her new and costly dress, that she could
not bring herself to look at it until the next evening. Miss Lightwood was with her then, and they
stood together before a mirror in one of the rooms
of a Washington hotel, making ready for the concert. That highly respectable lady, who had been
in her day the chaperon of some of the finest
singers of the Old World, had taken her protegee (of
the New) thoroughly in hand. She had powdered
the young girl's skin and rouged her cheeks; she
had penciled the naturally fine brows, touched the
eyelashes with some sort of an Eastern cosmetic,
and built her hair into such a tower of braids and
puffs and frizzles and flowers, that Marguerite's
coiffure was something rare and mysterious to behold.
But, unfortunately, there was a drawback. The
resources of the most adroit and practised of dressing-maids are but finite. Fashionable science can

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

27

adorn, but not create, a subject; and when Lightwood had looped the last spray of flowers and
secured the last hairpin, dissatisfaction took possession of her soul. Marguerite's head was not a
success. Human skill could do no more; it was
impossible to dispute that fact; but it was equally
impossible to dispute another and much more stubborn fact (which almost deserves, from its astounding character, to be put into italics). Marguerite
looked better, handsomer—yea, even more distinguished—in her own natural complexion, and her
own simple everyday coiffure, than she did in all
this artificial bravery.
" If I took it, every hair, to pieces again, I don't
think I could improve on it," said Lightwood, her
head on one side, like a parrot, viewing the disappointing effect.
" Marguerite, I have never
remarked it before, and I am very sorry to have to
remark it now, but I am free to say you lack style.
When your combing-sacque goes off, however, and
your new dress goes on, perhaps matters will
mend."
And so Marguerite's snowy horror came to light
at last, was lifted out of its case, and shaken into a
shining mass on Lightwood's arm. How it seemed
to fill the room with its gorgeousness! The white
slippers waiting their turn on the footstool, the
white gloves on the bed, and the spangled fan and
trinkets on the table, all sank into obscurity and
annihilation before this piece of trailing elegance.
Blistering tears, and earthworms and leeches, what

28

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

had they to do with such a fresh and lovely thing ?
And yet the debutante shuddered as it was whisked
dexterously over her head, and the dressing-maid
pro tern, (coming to the surface of her deep dejection) began to draw the silken laces. Then the
loathing took a new form:
" Oh, Lightwood! this is detestable!"
" What, my love ? " and the waxen doll looked
up, very red in the face from her unusual exertions.
Miss Don Ivan was still redder, a good, honest,
substantial blush that swallowed up the rouge and
did violence to the powder.
" Look at this corsage; it is cut low, and shamefully low at t h a t ! "
" My precious child, who ever saw a genuine concert dress with a high corsage ? The thing is preposterous! Why, there was the inimitable Piccaninni, pupil of the divine Rossini, as pure and
modest a flower as ever bloomed on a stage, said to
be a convent graduate, wore her shoulders so
bare (exquisite shoulders she had, I am free to say)
that
"
" I don't care if a hundred Piccaninnis indorsed
it," cried Marguerite hotly.
" It isn't decent,
Lightwood, and you know it as well as I do. I
would sooner give up the concert altogether than
go out on a public stage with my neck as bare as
this."
Lightwood stood with clasped hands and shoulders elevated, a picture of aggravating resignation:

ELEANOR

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29

" Well then, my dear, I am afraid the audience
must forego that delicious Bolero. A thousand
pities it is, when the dress is so expensive a one,
and you have come so far to wear it, and may never
in your lifetime have a like chance to display your
superb voice to appreciative people. But that is
not the worst of it."
" For mercy's sake, don't torture m e ! " cried
Miss Don Ivan crossly. " What more are you
keeping back ?"
" Nothing," sighed the exasperating Lightwood,
" only Cellini will be as mad as a hornet if you
leave him in the lurch for a bit of prudery: and it
will be such a triumph to that odious Maurice
Keating. You will never hear the end of his * I
told you so's,' and the rest of his humdrum platitudes."
Marguerite bit her lips till they pained her, and
tapped the floor with the point of her slipper.
" Listen, Lightwood," she said after a pause,
" can you not manage a. fichu of some kind ?"
" Haven't a single thing in the valise that would
answer. A common article won't d o ; it must be
real lace, something rich and rare to correspond with
the dress. And to go to buy it here in a strange
city, and the clock on the minute of seven—don't
talk about it! "—and the cunning chaperon elevated
her hands and eyes, implying that a fichu at such
an hour, and under such peculiar circumstances,
would command a more' than fabulous price.
When Wolsey said to Cromwell:

3°

A LOST

PRIMA

DONNA.

" I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win b y ' t ? "

he gave utterance to a sublime truth, old as the
eternal hills, which bitter personal experience has
made patent to all the sons and daughters of men
seeking preferment, since the days when Adam
and Eve ate of the primeval apple, that they might
be as gods;—has made patent to none more signally
than to those who, not being to the manor born
(and forgetful that he who exalteth himself shall be
humbled), aspire to sit in the high places of the
earth.
And so> in her little measure and degree, was
Miss Don Ivan to gain the saving knowledge which
a bitter personal experience (the agent of a divine
will and the instrument of a divine grace) alone
could bring her in her day and generation.
She made no further remonstrance. She submitted in silence to be laced into the ill-fitting
corsage by her adroit companion. She allowed
herself to be turned about like a lay figure in a
modiste s window. Gold buttons were screwed into
her ears; the satin slippers pinched her feet; a
necklace of pearls was fastened about her throat,
and bracelets and rings were adjusted; and, at last,
(the elaborate toilet complete) she saw her fulllength reflection in the swinging mirror.
Her nearest and dearest relation would not have
known her!
The face was not her own, painted and powdered

ELEANOR

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DONNELLY.

31

into a semblance of a wax dummy's in a barber's
show-case; the form was not her own, with its
naked shoulders and arms, borrowed laces and
jewels; and the dress was certainly not her own, for
she had not paid for it, and alas! poor victim, she
did not know (under heaven) when she ever would
be able to pay for it.
She felt herself to be what she looked, false,
false, false; from head to foot, utterly and supremely false. And she despised herself.
In the small dressing-room behind the stage, she
was met by Mr. Cellini. His first puzzled glance
told her that he did not recognize her.
The
chrysalis had become such a very remarkable butterfly that the gentleman was not to be blamed for his
error. H e recovered himself quickly, however, and
approaching Marguerite, presented her with a programme. Then he kept near her, plying her with
compliments and bonbons, and even going so far as
to detach some flowers from his buttonhole and lay
them in her-hand. But there was an odor of wine
with it all, which the tuberoses and heliotrope
could not cover.
Marguerite's face burned with embarrassment.
She felt humiliated, ill at ease; and, although her
admiration of her master bordered on worship, she
could not disguise from herself the fact that his
manner of addressing her was a trifle more familiar
than it. ever had been before. Instead of pleasing
her vanity, this, strange to say, inspired her with a
certain fear, and she thought of her aunt, and of

32

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

old-fashioned Maurice Keating, with a yearning for
their protecting presence that was positive pain.
The brilliant eyes bending over her led her to droop
her own upon the programme she held, and she
began to go carefully over its contents. Then,
indeed, the iron entered her soul. Her master had
said little to her on the subject, but from his significant silence she had inferred flattering things, and
fallen into a fatal delusion. " The Washington
soiree" (she had said to Miss Lightwood) 'Ms to
have but one prima donna, and the name of that
enviable being is Marguerite Don Ivan." Now, to
her amazement, she read in the most desirable
place on the programme " M M E . E T H E L C O U R T N E Y
VlVIANI, LATE OF THE ROYAL OPERA AT VIENNA !"

T h e paper shook in her hands. But for the rouge,
she would have been as colorless as her dress; and
in the faintness which came over her (the result of
excitement, thwarted ambition, and, it must be
confessed, tight lacing) she could scarcely see the
obscure number which marked her own modest
name on the bill. She nerved herself to look around
the room. Besides Lightwood and Cellini, there
were present some half-dozen men and women, all
musical, all more or less engrossed with boxes of
pastilles, their voices, and their gloves. But none
of those unassuming ladies could be mistaken for a
moment for " Mme. Ethel Courtney Viviani, late
of the Royal Opera," etc. The " star of the goodly
companie" had evidently not yet arisen.
The

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

33

prima donna of the night had not yet condescended
to appear.
Marguerite became aware that Lightwood was
winking and nodding at her in a most extraordinary
and mysterious way, and immediately put her hand
to her head, under the impression that some of the
finery had got out of kelter.
" It is not that," whispered her friend, drawing
nearer, and talking behind her fan; " you look very
nice and presentable (although I might as well have
let your eyebrows alone, and now that the powder
has blown off, I see you are too sallow to wear
white); but I heard her in Vienna, and, I am free
to say, she is perfectly exquisite and sings like an
angel."
" Who? " questioned Marguerite, knowing all the
while what the reply would be.
" Mme. Viviani, the celebrated singer. Those
people have been telling me all about her, and I do
think it was mean of Cellini to show you such a
slight."
" I don't see how Mme. Viviani can damage me,"
said the young girl proudly. " A cultivated audience will understand at once. She is an opera
singer, and this is my first concert."
" Oh, yes! but the critics are perfectly merciless,
and they always favor those who have been abroad.
You might sing like a seraph to-night, but you and
your clothes are not imported, and Mme. Viviani
and hers are, and, I am free to say, those newspaper

34

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

men will pick you to pieces. I don't want to discourage you, my love," concluded the voluble lady,
" but do you know you are a little, just a little—
hoarse ?"
" It is this abominable dress," retorted poor Marguerite. " I am fairly shivering with cold, and I
left my shawl in the carriage because it was too old
and shabby to be brought to the light."
" That is a thousand p i t i e s / ' said the chaperon.
" I would insist on your putting on this opera cloak
of mine, but I mean to slip into the hall with one
of the gentlemen whenever your solo is in order;
and it is really a very distinguished audience. I
peeped through the curtain just now, and I assure
you they are all in evening dress."
" Miss Marguerite," interposed Cellini, bending
over her again with that familiar smile she detested,
" if you will give me this moment that little hand
of yours, we shall go out now for our duo."
Like one in a dream (more like one in a nightmare), she faced that sea of eyes. All she saw was
eyes—eyes—eyes, and a mass of silks, jewels, and
waving fans. Her long skirt tripped her twice
before she reached the piano, and the awkwardness
of her dibut threw a chill on the critical house. No
one (who has not tried it) knows how very hard it
is to walk gracefully down a stage for the first time,
and face, simply and naturally, the fire of a battery
of eyes. There is a difficulty (under such circumstances) with one's elbows and hands which borders
on the insurmountable; and the victim (to borrow

ELEANOR

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DONNELLY.

35

the words of a well-known humorist) seems, in his
embarrassed imagination, to have as many feet as a
centipede.
Marguerite, in her turn, felt as if all ease and
comfort had forever fled.
With her first note came the consciousness that
she was hoarse; and she grew blind with terror.
The duo was the familiar " La ci darem " from
" Don Giovanni/' of which luckily she knew her
part by rote; and the powerful magnetism of Cellini
bore her along with an abandon and vim that
redeemed her from destruction.
But the Italian's blood was up. The fame of the
maestro was staked upon the success of his pupil;
and the latter almost shrieked aloud from the grip
upon her hand.
It was hard enough for her to see that olive face
bowing low to the audience at the final cadence,
wreathed with smiles and melting with affected
suavity; but it was simply terrible to watch it
darken upon her the moment his back was turned
to the people, and behold it secretly convulsed with
arbitrary anger.
" I thought we were going to have a fiasco," he
hissed between his clenched teeth (as the ghost of
an applause followed them off the stage): " Miss
Marguerite, you had better look sharp to your
Bolero! "
As well might he have told a blind woman to
look sharp on the brink of a precipice; or a sleepwalker to take care on the dizzy apex of a danger-

36

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA,

ous roof.
For, blinded and stunned, the poor
young creature sat herself down in the little dressingroom to which he led her, and heard, more than
saw, him tear the music of the unfortunate duet to
ribbons, and cast it from him. But, before she
could say to him what was trembling on her lips,
an excitement arose around the staircase leading to
the street.
The door was thrown open, and a
French maid in a peculiar costume preceded into
the apartment a lady on whom all eyes were riveted
at once.
III.
She was surpassingly beautiful, and dressed with
a magnificence that was simply royal. Her skin
was colorless as the petals of a Calla lily, but the
red of her delicate mouth, the golden brown of her
large eyes, and the shining elegance of her blond
hair, made ample amends for her lack of bloom.
She was not tall, but moulded most symmetrically.
Her jewels were diamonds of the purest water; and
the clinging crape of her embroidered dress, and the
simple coil of her fair hair, gave such a classical
charm to her form and face that poor Miss Don
Ivan felt beside her as a barnyard fowl might be
supposed to feel beside a bird of paradise.
Cellini and the other gentlemen immediately surrounded her; but she ignored them all, and dropping a white velvet coat from her still whiter
shoulders, she seated herself deliberately in a chair

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

37

near Marguerite, and put out her foot to her maid.
The Frenchwoman, on her knees, proceeded to
remove the beauty's shoe, and incase the pretty
member in a satin slipper which literally blazed with
diamonds. And then the other foot was put forth,
and the same performance gone through with equal
results. Being daintily shod to her satisfaction, and
her blond hair relieved of a gossamer scarf, the
elegant creature condescended for the first time to
look at Cellini through her glass, and to extend to
him the tips of her gloved fingers.
The Italian figuratively laid himself down at her
feet, and suffered her to walk over him.
He
devoured her with his wonderful eyes. H e hung
upon her charming lips. He showed himself so
completely oblivious of everything and everybody,
save her own sweet self, that Marguerite looked with
profound amazement on his transfigured face. The
pillar of ice was turned to a pillar of fire.
" My dear," whispered Lightwood in her ear,
" he is evidently dead in love with her; and they
say she is as rich as a queen. She was hand-inglove with all the crowned heads of Europe, an J
the reigning favorite with the late Empress of
France. But is it not time for her to sing her
solo?"
" It is full ten minutes since the last piece: and
she is next on the programme/* answered Marguerite drearily.
" Bless my heart! and how perfectly composed
she is! Look at her, walking up and down with

38

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA,

Cellini, and fanning herself—and the audience waiting! That necklace is what I call Oriental; I'm
free to say I never saw a purer set of brilliants.
Some Caliph or Khedive, or some other old Begum
of that sort, threw it to her in a bouquet when she
was brought before the curtain ten times in the
Egyptian opera. What is she going to sing this
evening, anyway, Marguerite ? "
" It is marked simply Ballad,'' said poor Miss
Don Ivan, who was shivering visibly.
" Now, who'd have believed it ? One would
think her selection might be an aria, or a cavatina,
or a
"
" Bolero," suggested Marguerite grimly.
" To be s u r e " (not noticing the sarcasm);
" something operatic or classical, or even elaborately ecclesiastical, you know. Only a ballad ?
And dear me, hear how she talks French one
minute, and Italian the next, as if she had been
born in France, and raised in Italy. There! she
is going on the stage at last! My precious child,
did you ever hear such an uproar in your life ? "
It was indeed a perfect tempest of applause that
greeted the appearance of the beautiful cantatrice.
Miss Lightwood dragged Marguerite to the stage
door, and (unseen themselves) they could see Cellini
lead the famous Mme. Ethel Courtney Viviani
down to the footlights, which seemed to blaze up
and burn brighter in honor of her approach.
The applause subsided for a second, only to break
out with redoubled vehemence as the lovely creature

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

39

stood alone in the centre of the stage and surveyed
the crowded house.
Such exquisite coolness and aplomb ! She might
have been facing such throngs every night for a
thousand years, for all the emotion the stirring scene
seemed to awake in her. Was there no heart to
beat, that the color of her creamy cheek never took
the faintest blush, nor the golden-brown eyes the
smallest dilation ? She adjusted the diamond
bracelets on her arms, calmly folded her graceful
hands, and stood unmoved as a statue. When the
house was so still that every man could hear his
neighbor breathing, she slightly, very slightly,
bent her perfect head, and sang—Robin Adair.
Miss Lightwood pinched Marguerite's arm till it
was purple; but the girl was too absorbed to feel
it. The draught from the open windows (raw,
searching November wind) beat upon her uncovered
neck and shoulders; and Cellini rudely jostled her
in the doorway, as he applauded noiselessly with
his gloved palms, and purred to himself in Italian.
But Marguerite was lost to every personal discomfort. She was spell-bound, mesmerized, chained
hand and foot, by the silver links of the blond one's
siren voice. Never had she heard anything like it
before. Never had she seen anything like this
marvellous repose, this perfect control of every
nerve which made " the fair with the golden hair "
so graceful a contrast to her frightened and awkward
predecessor. But this was not all—ah, n o ! just
Heaven! this was not all. Out on that brilliant

40

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

stage, in the presence of that elegant and aesthetic
audience, the favorite of the crowned heads was
singing the very song she (Margaret) had despised
and rejected—the simple old Robin Adair, without a trill or a cadenza or a foreign flourish 01
any sort to mar its beauty. The voice that sang it
was so superlatively lovely, so easy in its extraordinary cultivation, so full of the rich aroma its
owner had brought across the seas from the land
whose every breeze is musical with song—that the
homely old ballad took a new and most pathetic
meaning.
The audience was visibly moved. Silly, overdressed misses forgot to flirt, and found a legitimate
use for their airy handkerchiefs. Tears sparkled on
the cheeks of worldly-faced women, and were
suffered, unchecked, to water the dry dust of
treacherous cosmetics; and even the keen eyes of
practical merchants, and the dull orbs of plethoric
bankers and congressmen, revealed a suspicious
moisture.
Alas! for the listener who shivered
unnoticed in the stage-door! The bitterness of a
never-to-be-realized ambition dropped that hour,
like burning gall, into Margaret Donivan's sore
heart. " Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity, save
to love God and serve but Him alone! " She saw
Mme. Viviani retreating from the stage, laden with
floral treasures, bouquets, baskets, crowns. T h e
public enthusiasm had run mad and found a vent
in flowers. She heard the call for madame's footman, which was answered by a colored man in

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

4*

livery, who came to aid in clearing the boards of
their fragrant burden; while Cellini led off the
triumphant Diva literally through a path strewn
with roses. And then arose a rapturous encore.
" I'm free to s a y , " whispered Lightwood, her
flaxen frizzes (very moist and limp with perspiration) hanging over her brows, and her general
appearance that of a much-abused doll; " I ' m free
to say, my love, in all my travels, I never beheld a
grander ovation. I can't take my eyes off h e r . "
Neither could Marguerite. And what she saw
suggested a sick sultana lying back on her divan
with a jewelled vinaigrette at her nostrils, and her
maid fanning her with a sandal-wood fan. Nor were
the slaves wanting to complete the scene. Cellini
and a number of distinguished-looking men (who
had come in from the audience) surrounded the
languid beauty, plying her with compliments in
foreign tongues, and paying her homage as to a
sovereign queen.
Finally, after a delay sufficient to set the audience into a frenzy (the applause thundering all the
while outside), the ex-prima-donna of the Royal
Opera at Vienna yielded reluctantly to the encore,
and once more condescended to show her lovely
face to her admirers.
Poor Miss Don Ivan sat like a carven image in
the corner. Forgotten by her companions, deserted
even by the inconstant Lightwood (who had gone
over with the rest to the enemy), the poor young
singer was only conscious of feeling very cool in

42

A LOST

PRIMA

DONNA,

her uncomfortable dress, only conscious of a desperate longing to rush out of it all, and get home
as quickly as she could to Lily and her aunt. B\it
that awful Bolero was yet to come. Cellini had
never looked at her nor spoken to her since Mme.
Viviani's entrance; and she began to take heart of
grace that he, too, had forgotten her. Now, however, he stood before her with a mask of reserve on
his face, and the long slender fingers twitching
viciously at his mustache. The regal blonde put up
her gold-mounted glasses, and superciliously studied
the situation. His manner was freezing:
" Are you aware, Miss Don Ivan, that your solo
is in order, and that the audience is waiting ? "
The poor girl's misery found a voice at last, but
it was a very hoarse one.
" Oh, Mr. Cellini! please excuse me this evening.
I am ill—I am nervous—I cannot, indeed, I cannot
sing that Bolero."
A wicked light came into the maestro s stern eyes:
" I shall not excuse y o u , " he said between his
teeth; " the choice of the Bolero, signorina, was
your own. In spite of my better judgment, you
insisted on selecting it, and now, pazzerella, you
shall stick to your selection. Come! " And with
his hand of iron stripped entirely of its velvet
glove, the master led forth his pale and trembling
pupil.
Once more the vision of eyes—-eyes—eyes—staring at her out of an ambush of silks, and jewels,
and waving fans. The very sweetness of the per-

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

43

fumed air helped to turn her sick. Losing Ceilings
support (for the maestro had retreated again to the
stage-door), Marguerite grasped at the piano, and
steadied herself—literally, to face the music. The
hands beside her struck the keys—a florid prelude
—then an awful pause. She was mute.
A hum of surprise began to pervade the house;
lorgnettes were levelled at the stage, and the sublime indifference of the audience was broken here
and there. The critics were growing restless in
their toleration of this unknown singer, who lacked
both style and prestige.
" Mme. Viviani has killed her! " sighed Lightwood to a ready-made acquaintance, a youth of
tender years in a dress suit and lavender gloves, on
whom she was wasting her platitudes and her
pastilles.
" Pwe-cithe-ly,'' lisped the gentle dandy.
" Oh! faithful friend, how true you are to your
trust! " said a stern, even voice in her ear that
made her shiver. But she failed to discover the
speaker. The Nemesis was lost in the dense throng
around the entrance door.
" Courage! " whispered the accommodating
pianist to Marguerite; and he improvised a few
more brilliant bars.
Then there came another
pause more awful than the first, during which
audible murmurs of " What does it all mean ? "
n
I do wish she would hurry and get through! M
" Aren't you dying to hear that sweet Viviani sing
again ? " penetrated even to the footlights.

44

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

" Go on! " hissed Cellini in the background; and
in sheer desperation from Marguerite's dry lips
burst a hoarse, discordant strain. Such a mockery
of music! There was neither time nor tune to the
song; and just below her, in the orchestra chairs,
a group of fashionable, but ill-bred, young ladies
were shaking under her very eyes in spasms of suppressed laughter.
Could it be that all the wholesome air in the
house was suddenly exhausted, and Marguerite was
smothering in the dreadful vacuum ? Could it be
that the lustrous globes of the chandelier above the
stage had broken loose in a crazy transport and were
rushing wildly down upon her head ?
She crumpled her music in her gloved hand—took
a step backward (unconscious tragedy!) in a blind,
dizzy way—and fell flat at the pianist*s feet in a
dead faint.
Then was seen the spectacle of a tall, broadshouldered young man with a frank, honest face
and a pair of earnest brown eyes making his way
from the entrance door, like a strong swimmer,
through waves of excited people.
The genteel voice of Lightwood was heard to cry
" Murder! " as the vigorous arm of the newcomer
dealt destruction to the waxen doll and her amiable
dandy; and, leaving them hors de combat, Maurice
Keating cleared the footlights at a bound, and
sprang upon the stage.
" O sweet pale Margaret!
O rare pale Margaret!"

ELEANOR

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DONNELLY.

45

She lay there like a marble statue of despair
fallen from its pedestal; the broken and bruised
flowers that were strewn all about her (debris of
Mme. Viviani's triumph) mute and fitting emblems
of the crushed and broken victim of a blighted
ambition. It wrung his very heart to look at her,
so ghastly and corpse-like in all that glittering and
detestable finery; but the hero of our story did not
waste his time in useless sentimentalities or adjurations h la Romeo.
He was eminently a man of
action as well as one of unpretending delicacy, and
he loyally resented his maiden Margaret, his pearl,
his precious one, being exposed in her hour of
helpless humiliation to the profane gaze of those
cold-blooded aristocrats.
With the grace and
agility of a young Lochinvar, he caught up the
lifeless form of his poor wilful darling; and with
that waxen face upon his shoulder, and the shining
length of her snowy dress trailing over his arm,
Maurice Keating bore away his prize. The dressing-room door stood open; Cellini and his satellites,
the French maid and the colored footman (to say
nothing of Lightwood, ctesolee, and supported by
her amorous stripling), all pressed around him; but
he scattered them, right and left. To snatch from
the elegant Viviani the glass of champagne she was
about to pour into her own stately throat, and to
force it between the white lips of Margaret; to wrap
his warm plaid about the reviving girl, and to shut
the carriage-door forcibly in the face of the
astounded Lightwood, were works which few save

46

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

Maurice Keating could have done as rapidly or as
well.
But that wretched ride by rail that followed, the
stout-hearted young foreman never forgot. The
girl was burning with fever, and her strong lover
was taxed to the utmost to keep her safely in the
car; to soothe her out of singing snatches of that
vile Bolero in her husky wreck of a voice; and to
hide his manly emotion when she pleaded with him
in moving terms to send Maurice Keating to her,
that she might ask his forgiveness then and there
for all her obstinacy and pride.
Before noon the next day Margaret lay in her
own little white bed in her own little room, with
her aunt and Lily watching anxiously by her side.
It was an aggravated case of pneumonia. Disappointment, mental worriment, and the unusual
exposure of her neck and chest had done the mischief; and life and death had a tough struggle of it
before her naturally good constitution, with the
blessing of Heaven, got the mastery. But her
singing voice was gone forever.
" My pride is justly punished, dear Maurice,''
she whispered with a faint smile (when that gentleman at his one hundred and tenth call was admitted
for the first time to a peep at the pale and interesting invalid). " The stage has lost a prima donna."
" But we have gained our Margaret, God bless
her! " was the hearty response; and the speaker
thought he had never seen his affianced look sweeter
or lovelier than she did at that moment, with the

ELEANOR

C,

DONNELLY.

47

penitent light in her eyes and the peaceful smile
playing about her lips.
It was her first venture at sitting up, and they
had ensconced her in the big easy-chair in aunty's
room; and Lily had made her quite gay with a
scarlet woollen wrapper and a breast-knot of Maurice's flowers.
She touched them with her thin hand, and the
gray eyes were turned brightly on the young man:
" Your ' roses blossom the whole year round,' "
she said to him, with a glance at the Christmas frost
on the window pane.
" Heaven grant that they may, and that the
longest-lived of all my flowers may be my sweet
Queen Margaret! They have not told you my
secret, dear, but God has been very good to us.
The iron men have taken me into the firm this
week; and I have the prettiest little nest in the
world making ready for my sick bird. As soon as
you are strong enough to go to church, Daisy, we
will get married like old-fashioned folks, and settle
down to housekeeping."
" I am not worthy of y o u , " she said very humbly, and with moist eyes.
" Say rather I am not worthy of you," returned
he, much moved and shading his face with his hand;
and there is no telling to what lengths these mutual
self-depreciations might have gone, if Lily had not
burst into the room at this juncture in a state of
such excitement as to startle even aunty, who, worn
out with nursing, was dozing over the fire. Her

48

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA.

usually pensive face was radiant with smiles, and
she made a show of hiding something in the folds
of her apron.
" Miss Lightwood has just been here with a
message, *' she cried merrily.
Maurice's pleasant face was clouded, and the
blood rose brightly in Margaret's transparent cheek.
" You need not look so cross, young gentleman,"
said Lily, not at all abashed at her reception. " It
is all so funny, and so nice, and so romantic, that
I know you will laugh instead of frowning when you
hear the whole of it. Voila tout!
Mr. Cellini is
to be married at the Cathedral, to-morrow morning,
to some Mme, Vivi—Vivi—(bless
me! what was
the name anyway?) ah, yes! Viviani, Mme. Viviani;
and Miss Lightwood goes to Europe with them,
right after the ceremony, as companion to the
bride."
" I am free to say, Deo gratias! " murmured
Maurice under his breath.
" You would have pitied the poor old soul if you
had seen h e r , " pursued Lily, trying to straighten
her smiling face into a sympathetic expression;
" she was all tears and remorse over Maggie's narrow escape, and she really showed a depth of feeling
for which we did not give her credit.
She is
desperately afraid of shipwreck on the high seas,
and she left all sorts of loving adieux for the entire
family, not even forgetting her ancient enemy,
Mr. Maurice Keating," and Lily courtesied in his
direction.

ELEANOR

C.

DONNELLY.

49

" May every blessing go with h e r , " said that
gentleman, with a very serene and sunshiny face;
" and may she enjoy the delights of the Old World
so thoroughly and so supremely that she may never
be tempted to return to the annoyances of the
New! But what are you hiding in your apron,
Pussy ? "
" A h ! that is the best of i t , " and Lily crossed
the room and knelt by her sister, looking up into
her pale face with eyes brimful of tenderest affection.
" Maggie dear, Mr. Cellini is also very,
very sorry for his share in your sufferings, and he
has sent Lightwood expressly to say so, and to present you in his name with this little token of his
lasting regret."
She threw aside her apron as she spoke and held
up before them all the lovely little picture of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus which Margaret had seen in
the maestro's room the night before the fatal concert. Once more she beheld the sweet Saviour
pointing to the glowing Heart upon His breast as
if inviting her to enter into that sanctuary of love
and peace; once more the pitying eyes and tender
lips seemed about to speak the words inscribed upon
the margin: " Learn of Me, for I am meek and
humble of h e a r t " ; and this time (thanks to His
patient and persistent mercy!) she did not reject
His inspiration, she was not deaf to His pleading
whispers. The happy tears were shining in her
eyes as she laid the gift in her lover's hands.
" ' Meek and humble of h e a r t / " she said softly.

5°

A LOST PRIMA

DONNA,

looking up into his face, " and only God and my
confessor know how full my heart has been of anger,
and pride, and obstinate ambition. Oh, Maurice!
how much I have to learn before I shall find rest to
my s o u l / '
" W e will study the lesson together, dear l o v e , "
was his grave and gentle answer; " we will go like
little ignorant children, day after day, to learn in
that sacred school; and surely at last when we ask
the Master and His holy Mother to bless our humble wedding feast, He will not refuse to change the
water into wine, but will draw us closer and closer
to Himself, and make us henceforth the faithful
servants of His meek and lowly H e a r t , "

ANNA HANSON DORSEY.
MRS. ANNA HANSON DORSEY was born in Georgetown,

D. C , December 17th, 1815, and descends from a number
of the most brilliant and patriotic Colonial and Revolutionary families of Maryland.

She is a convert to the Catholic

faith, having been received into the Church by the Rev.
Louis Regis Deluol several years after her marriage with
Lorenzo Dorsey, Esq.
Mrs. Dorsey is the pioneer of Catholic light literature in
the United States, and her works, from her first story,
" T h e Student of Blenheim Forest," to her last book,
"Palms,"

have enjoyed a never-diminishing popularity.

The

list

is a

long one,

including:

"The

Oriental

Pearl," " May Brooke," " The Young Countess," " T e a r s
on the
of

Diadem,"

Charity,"

Vow,"

" Woodreve Manor,"

" Mona

"Dummy,"

Flemmings,"

the

Vestal,"

"Fair

"Coaina,"

"The

"Nora

Sister
Brady's

Play is a Jewel,"
"The

Old

Gray

"The

Rosary,"

"Tangled Paths," " G u y the Leper," " T h e Heiress of
Carrigmona,"
Promise,"

"Adrift."

"Ada's Trust,"

" Z o e ' s Daughter,"

" Beth's

" Warp and Woof,"

"The

Old House at Glenaran," " The Fate of the Dane," " The
Mad Penitent of Todi," " T h e Story of Manuel ; " three
admirable juveniles, " T o m Boy," " Two Ways,"
Snow A n g e l ; "

and

finally her

crowning

"The

achievement,

" Palms," pronounced by all the critics to be the equal of
" Ben-Hur," and by some its superior.
During the late Civil War Mrs. Dorsey was an earnest
lover and ardent advocate of the Union cause, and her burning patriotism found vent in two ringing lyrics :

"They're

Comin,' Grandad, A Tale of East Tennessee," and " Men
of the Land.''

And her l ' Mother and Son '' was said to be

the best piece of literature evoked by the Custer Massacre.
She has been the recipient of the highest honors that
the

Church

Medallist.

in America

can

confer, being a Lsetare

Her work has been twice especially blessed

from Rome, and the tribute recently paid her by the Bishops
is one of the most highly-prized happenings of her life.
She has been a widow for many years and lives at her
home on Washington Heights, Washington, D. C , crowned
with years and honors, and surrounded by her children, her
grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren.

TEbe /Ifcab penitent o£ Zobl
BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY.

I.
I T is near sunset as two men stand talking on one
of the lower terraces of the public garden of an old
Umbrian town, which, perched on the mountain
side, looks down, with its time-worn walls and turrets, like a grim warden over the beautiful valley
below, where the Tiber and the Naga unite their
waters and flow peacefully through fertile meadows
and shadowy solitudes, lending brightness to the
scene and musical echoes to the air; where, in more
shallow places, the stream, made impetuous by
obstructions, dashes in wild eddies and wreaths of
foam over the grotesque rocks< which by some freak
of nature pave its bed. The glow of sunset is over
all: a tint of rose-color here, flashes of gold there;
and farther away, on the sides of the rugged mountains, soft purple shadows creep slowly up, to throw
a twilight mantle over the shining mists that like
bridal veils crown their summits. The perfume of
roses and jessamine makes the air drowsy with fra53

54

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TOD I.

grance, and the first trills of the nightingale are
heard in snatches from the leafy coverts.
Suddenly the silvery chime of a convent bell,
higher up the mountain than the old city, floats
out on the hushed air, repeating to heaven and
earth the oft-told story of the Incarnation and the
glory of Mary; then the deep-throated bell of the
Cathedral, and that of St. Francis Assisi strike in,
the air trembling and pulsing with their notes as
the Angelus sweeps heavenward, while a solemn
stillness falls upon the city, upon the gay pleasureseekers in the gardens, upon the groups chattering
and laughing around the fountains; upon little
children, and proud cavaliers, noble dames, peasants, and the toil-worn sons of labor; and all, with
one accord, saint and sinner alike, kneel in honor
of that supreme moment which announced to the
world a Saviour.
The two men rise from the reverently whispered
prayer, and turn to ascend the broad marble steps
leading to the gardens. They are near the t o p ;
but, reluctant to leave a view so beautiful, pause,
and turn again towards the valley. One of them
is past middle age, a man of grave, abstracted, but
gentle countenance; the other, in the first glow of
early manhood, with dark, soul-lit eyes, finely
chiselled aquiline features, and a dreamy expression
which harmonizes well with the clear pallor of his
complexion. The elder man had spent his life in
endeavoring to master the science of the stars.
His companion, a Florentine, was already pluming

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEY.

55

his poet-wings for sublime flights which would one
day fill the world with his fame. Both stand silent,
the astrologer thinking of the hour which will
triumphantly verify his calculations, the poet steeping his soul in the glowing loveliness outspread
before him, when suddenly wild shrieks fill the air,
people rush hither and thither, as if seeking safety;
some, in their blind haste get too near the edge of
the terrace, lose their footing and roll, spinning
over and over, to the bottom; but there is no one
to laugh at them—the panic is too universal.
The two friends hasten forward, and have scarcely
reached the last step when two spirited Andalusian
horses, harnessed to a light magnificent chariot of a
new fashion, dash towards them; their driver, a
handsome young man in richly embroidered garments of garnet velvet, with heavy chains of gold
about his neck, his long dark hair flying backwards
on the wind, trying in vain to curb them. His
companion—a female—whose jewels and superb
attire glitter and flash in the last level rays of the
sun, with white agonized face clings shrieking to his
arm, impeding his efforts to rein in the frightened
animals, whose course leads direct towards a narrow
belt of olives and ilex which grow on the very
borders of a precipice overlooking the valley a
hundred feet below.
With one impulse the friends spring forward, and
at the risk of their lives seize the horses' heads, and
the Florentine with a quick motion throws his cloak
over their wild? fiery eyes: the sudden movement,

56

THE MAD

PENITENT

OF TODI.

the sudden darkness, check their mad flight, and
they fall back upon their haunches, their silken coats
covered with foam, their limbs trembling and convulsed; then he passes his long soft hand gently
over their faces, speaking caressingly to the frightened creatures, smooths and pats them on shoulder
and flank, until at last they stand quiet. Many
persons—the danger past—now press around with
zealous offers of assistance; and the gentleman,
having descended from the chariot and led his companion to a grassy bank, directs some workmen,
who stand by, to lead the horses to his stables,
throwing them several broad gold pieces to ensure
the safe conduct of his equipage. Having seen that
his horses step off quietly, he turns—not to the
frightened woman, trembling and sobbing hysterically where he left her, and from whom other
women stand aloof—but to find his preservers, who
are just turning into a shaded alley which leads by
a short cut to the street. Walking swiftly forward,
he overtakes them, and, saluting them courteously,
holds out his hand, and thanks them in earnest language for saving his companion and himself from a
certain and terrible death. But the outstretched
hand is unnoticed, and the older of the two men
replies in coldly courteous words that " they deserve no thanks for obeying a humane impulse."
Chagrined at the repulse, the young cavalier,
with the blood rising hotly to his face, hands them
his card, saying: " If I can ever requite the.service
done me to-day, present or send this to my

ANNA

HANSON

DORSE V.

57

address " ; then, turning on his heel with haughty
mien, he walks away.
il
I see by the flush upon thy cheek, Alighieri,
that thou art shocked by my rudeness.''
" I must confess to the fact, Maestro; for that
is as handsome and fair-spoken a cavalier as I ever
saw.
" Yes, he's handsome, and he's fair-spoken,
more's the pity; and he's not only of gentle birth,
but the only son of the richest man in Umbria,—
more's the pity again."
" Why, may I a s k ? "
" Because his position and gold give him great
power to do evil, for which he has a large capacity,
and he loses no opportunity to follow the impulse."
" Dear Maestro, art thou not severe on the follies
of youth? "
" Towards the follies of youth I am lenient, but
I must judge a man by his virtues or vices. Listen,
Alighieri: that man whose life we have just saved
is Jacques dei Benedetti, the greatest profligate of
the age; he is breaking his old father's heart by his
wasteful profusion and his shameless pleasures—"
" And the lady
"
" Faugh! do not name her.
She is lost to
virtue, to shame, and to all womanliness, and yet
he dares to flaunt her in jewels and rich raiment,
which are the price of sin, before the eyes of the
fair matrons and virgins of Todi. It had been
better, perhaps, had we let them be dashed to
pieces."

58

THE MAD
il

PENITENT

OF TODI.

If God, the All-seeing, were not over a l l ! "
said Alighieri, making the sign of the cross. li The
future is a sealed book to us."
" Well! if Jacques dei Benedetti is preserved
this day for any good end, it will be a miracle,"
said the elder man, laughing.
" Don't understand, because I am incredulous, that I am not
willing it should be so; for the Church hath saints
whose beginning was not a whit better than his;
but such things are hard to realize."
" The man hath touched me strangely, and I will
offer a decade of Ave Marias daily for h i m , " said
Alighieri.
" Our blessed Lady loves to win such triumphs;
may thy Aves be blessed! " said the Maestro, lifting
his velvet cap, and glancing upward for an instant;
but in that one glance he saw, pillowed on a fold of
purple cloud, the evening star just risen from
behind the mountain. " I would have thee come
with me to my eyrie, Alighieri, but the stars are
beginning to come out, and I must be vigilant lest
I lose the first appearance of the new planet."
" Thou hast yet faith ? "
" Yes, unless the heavens fall," said the astrologer, fixing a look of rapt belief on the blue depths
above.
This man, Bartolomeo Tasti, had spent the best
years of his life in studying the movements of the
heavenly bodies, and it was said that he was master
of the more occult science of astrology.
It is
certain that many of his predictions had been veri-

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEY.

59

fied, and the common mind regarded him with awe,
as one whose knowledge of hidden things was indisputable; but he, pursuing the even tenor of his
way, waited only for the appearance of the new
planet, to crown his labors with triumph.
" I would fain go with thee to thy quiet eyrie,
Maestro, if only to read the poetry of the heavens,
but I have an engagement at the house of one of thy
citizens, to whom I brought letters.''
" Keep watch and ward over thy heart, Alighieri;
for there's a beautiful maiden in the house of Gondolfo the banker."
" So I have heard. But how didst thou divine
my destination so truly ? "
" No divination in the matter. I met Gondolfo
to-day and he told me that he had invited thee this
evening; but I had forgotten it until thou didst
speak of thy engagement.''
With a warm grasp of the hand the friends separated. The young Florentine had heard much of
the beautiful Julia from Father Giovanni, a monk
of St. Francis Assisi, whose monastery crowned
one of the hills back of the town. " She will
devote herself to Heaven," the good monk said,
folding his hands with a smile of complacency;
" such a soul is indeed a true daughter of our
blessed St. Francis."
And Alighieri thought, as he saw her an hour
afterwards moving among her guests with winning
smiles and graceful mien, clothed in the rich attire
befitting her station, and decorated with the old

60

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODL

jewels of her house, that she far surpassed the ideal
he had formed of her, and could but sigh that so
radiant a creature should seclude herself in a convent; such perfection, his poetic mind imagined,
would win more souls to Heaven in the world than
she could hope to do by austerities and prayers in
the cloister, the Italians even then having a saying
that " a beautiful woman is the thought of God."
So, as on one set apart for Heaven, he gazed,
until her fair image was imprinted on his imagination so vividly, that in later years, under the form
of Beatrice, the world saw her in the " Divine
Comedy."
H e lingered some days longer in Todi, studying
the marvellous paintings and sculptures of Guido of
Sienna, of Cimabue and Giotto, and seeking in the
monastery and convent chapels scenes in the life
ot the beloved patron Francis. And here, wandering through the delicious scenery, he pored over
St. Bonaventure's " Legend of St. Francis," and
felt his heart moved by the account of the saint's
last hours, " when the swallows, those little birds
that love the light and hate darkness, though the
night was falling when he breathed his last, came
in a great multitude, filling the windows and roof."
Likewise did St. Francis find immortal honor in
the " Divine Comedy," which seems part of the
glory with which he is crowned in heaven.
Several times after the evening spent at her
house, Alighieri saw the beautiful maiden at the
early Masses, sometimes coming from Holy Com-

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEV.

61

munion, her eyes downcast, her bared,* perfect
hands folded, her countenance clothed in such
peace as the world cannot give — unseeing, and
unthinking of all except the heavenly Guest who
abode in her heart.
And occasionally he met, either driving or on
the promenade, the handsome cavalier Benedetti,
always conspicuous for his perfect physique, the
bold beauty of his face, his rich attire, and the goodnature which threw bows and smiles to his friends
or a handful of silver to the beggars. The poet's
heart was strangely drawn towards him, why he did
not seek to analyze, knowing how impossible a
friendship would be between them; but he never
failed to whisper the Ave Marias he had vowed for
his conversion.
II.
It is early summer, and in the three years that
have glided by the world appears to have moved on
without change in the old city perched on the
mountain side. The games are over; it is very
quiet; every one is complaining of the dulness, and
weary to death for a sensation.
But it is always a deathlike stillness which precedes the earthquake, and one day a rumor suddenly^
shook the old city that made men turn pale and
hold their breath; it was that, at last, Jacques dei
* In Catholic countries it is a custom for ladies to unglove
during Mass.

62

THE MAD PENITENT

OP TODL

Benedetti had ruined his father, and there was
nothing left except the house that sheltered them,
and that only because it had been inalienably settled
upon him and his descendants by his grandfather !
One morning, shortly after this, the elder Benedetti was found seated at his desk, his accountbooks open before him, with pen in hand—dead.
His son was instantly summoned.
He had
avoided his father's presence ever since the crash—
the silent anguish of the old man hurting him more
than the most violent reproaches would have done.
H e hastily entered the library, not knowing what
to expect—for the servant who called him was
incoherent from terror—and stood arrested by the
shock, as if turned to stone. His eyes, starting from
his head, gazed upon the staring eyes of the dead;
his face grew white and drawn, while the veins in
his temples and neck stood out like whipcords.
No tear relieved the remorse that stung him, no
passionate outcry relieved his grief, no whispered
prayer escaped his lips, as he stood there motionless
before the cold, silent figure upon whose wide-open
eyes the expiring lamplight flickered, imparting to
them a life-like expression of wrath and reproach.
Suddenly the flame shot up and expired, and the
stricken man beheld only the sad, pathetic expression left upon the dead face by the last throb of a
broken heart.
With a cry of anguish Jacques threw himself
upon his knees, and, lifting the cold, stiff hand,
pressed it to his burning forehead, and registered a

ANNA

HANSON

DORSE V.

63

vow—a vow which he fulfilled to the letter. Then
he stooped and kissed the dead man's feet; he
dared not desecrate that poor, sorrowful face by a
caress—he who had brought such bitterness, even
death itself, to him who had never reproached or
pained him by a harsh word.
H e secluded himself in his own apartment, leaving to the good monks of St. Francis, to whom his
father had been a generous benefactor, and a few of
the most trusted servants of the house, all the
necessary arrangements for the last rites. Masses
were daily offered for the repose of the departed
soul, and all that the faithful could do, all 'that the
Church could do, through the communion of saints,
was done to win for it a place of " refreshment,
light, and p e a c e / ' T h e funeral, as was customary
in Italy, took place by torchlight.
One figure
wrapped in a black cloak, walked by the bier, and
while the priests and monks chanted the solemn
services of the dead, no tear, no sign of emotion
was visible in his white, rigid face. People touched
each other to notice him, and wondered at his
heartlessness; " he is either turned to s t o n e , " they
said, " or he is dead to all natural feeling." Ah,
they did not know.
But there was one present, closely veiled, who
watched him with the deepest pity, from whose
eyes tears flowed, and from whose heart pure
prayers ascended for his conversion and consolation.
This was Julia Gondolfo, who attended the funeral
with her father—between whom and the deceased

64

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODL

a life-long friendship had existed.
She beheld
under the still calm of those features a stern,
remorseful grief, too deep for expression, and she
would fain have whispered words of sympathy; but
that being impossible, she could only pray ? and oh!
how earnestly, for she knew he had sinned deeply,
and her heart was filled with a great compassion for
him, lest without consolation or divine help he
might despair and end his own life. Every one was
against him; all blamed him; but he had been her
playmate once, and she remembered the gentle
traits of his character, especially his kindness to
the poor, and his merry companionship.
The gentle maiden need have had no dread on one
point. Jacques had no thought of self-destruction;
on the contrary, he meant to live and repair the fortune he had wasted, and the honor of his house;
this was what he had vowed, and this was to be
henceforth the motif of his existence. H e would
live only for this, and accomplish it, or die in the
attempt.
H e disappeared from men's eyes; the gay
resorts of pleasure saw him no longer; his splendid
horses, equipages, and jewels were sold; those who
had ministered to his sinful pleasures were peremptorily, and without appeal, dismissed, and of the
small remnant of a fortune inherited from his grandfather, and the result of his sales, he formed the
nucleus of a new business. None so attentive to
his affairs, none so exact as he, and none so frugal!
T o Venice, to Florence, to Marseilles and other

ANNA

HANSON

DORSE Y.

65

marts he journeyed, and one or two fortunate
speculations brought him immense gains. Grave
and quiet in his demeanor, he was never seen in
public except at Mass, or sometimes in the evening
wandering alone in the more retired parts of the
public gardens, his avoidance of all sympathy and
companionship keeping away his former friends.
Prosperity crowned his energetic efforts, and in
two or three years he had nearly retrieved his losses
and the honor of his old house, which still carried
on its business in his father's name. H e began
now to relax somewhat the severity of his self-imposed isolation from society, and one day he
accepted Count Gondolfo's invitation to dine with
his daughter and himself—with Julia, who yet told
her beads and offered her Communions for him.
Living so long apart from all social intercourse, it
is not strange that he should have been at once
attracted, fascinated by the exquisite loveliness and
gentle grace of his young hostess; he felt as if
under the influence of a mysterious spell, not only
while in her presence, but afterwards; thoughts
and feelings heretofore strangers took possession of
his mind, and again seeking her, drawn by an
irresistible impulse, he found himself even more
bewildered and fascinated than at first; he could
not define his sensations, nor recognize the fact that
it was the dawning of the first virtuous love he had
ever known.
But how one so fair and saintly in her life could
ever consent to become the bride of the man whose

66

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODL

record was stained with sins and vices which had
broken his father's heart, became the topic of the
day in T o d i ; for Jacques, determined to woo and
win her, had made known his sentiments to her
father, to whom he furnished proofs that he had
more than retrieved his fortunes, and had put aside
forever the vices of his earlier life, which, he
declared, were more the result of an undisciplined
youth than of a malicious preference for sin; and
now he wanted a wife like Julia, who, like an angel
by his side, would lead him to a better and higher
life.
Count Gondolfo probed deeply the past history
of his daughter's suitor, and, with stern insistence
to know clearly much that had been only half revealed by rumors and gossip, questioned him without mercy. But he was equal to the ordeal; he
frankly acknowledged his guilty peccadilloes, but
defied the strictest investigation of his life since he
had turned his back on the follies and sins of the
past. T h e old Count, at length satisfied of his sincerity, felt that he might trust his daughter's happiness to his keeping, and consented to her receiving
his addresses, saying: " T h y cause must stand upon
thy own merits, Benedetti. I shall not interfere
either for or against. My daughter is old enough
to judge for herself, and is too precious for me to
want to be separated from her; therefore do not
count in the least upon m e / '
" Never fear, Count Gondolfo," said the other,
proudly; " I must have a willing bride or none,

ANNA

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DORSE Y.

67

Julia is my first love; if she in turn loves me, I
shall be the happiest man living. Good night/*
Julia did not reject her lover's suit, neither did
she accept him; she only asked in shy, broken
words for time to consider his proposal.
The
delay would have chafed his proud spirit beyond
endurance, had not the soft blushes that mantled
her cheeks, and the quickened throbbings of her
heart, which stirred the rich lace upon her bodice,
assured him; and he yielded with tender deference
to her request, hopeful and confident as to what the
final answer would be.
Meantime the gentle
maiden did not propose to settle this momentous
question by her own unaided judgment. She had
Masses offered, commenced a novena to St. Francis,
and asked the prayers of the saintly religious of Santa
Agnese and of the Franciscan monks, and of many
faithful souls among her poor, for her intention.
T h e rumor that she was betrothed to Jacques
dei Benedetti penetrated convent and cloister, and,
although none questioned her, they understood
what her " intention "was,—and, truth to say, the
holy souls were opposed to it, for had they not
always believed her a virgin too fair and pure for
any earthly love, and that she was surely destined
to become the bride of Heaven ? The Virgin without stain, the sweet Mother of Jesus, was besieged
by the devotion of all who best loved Julia, and
feared that she was rushing to the destruction of
her earthly happiness; and on the day the novena
ended, never except on a s a i n t s /esta had so many

68

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODI.

thronged to receive and offer Holy Communion that
all danger and evil be averted from her whom many
of them looked upon as a victim to the wicked
designs of an unprincipled man,—notwithstanding
which they prayed ardently for his conversion, for
(as they said) if any one ever needed such prayers
and the saving grace of God, it was Jacques dei
Benedetti.
But there was no miraculous interposition—no
sign vouchsafed to show either the approval or the
displeasure of Heaven, and the betrothal was duly
announced, and celebrated with great splendor by
a superb entertainment.
The nuptials followed
shortly after, and never had so lovely and magnificently dressed a bride been seen in Todi; never a
bridegroom so noble in appearance, so perfect in
manly beauty.
But as the grand nuptial Mass
went on, every one felt a sensation of thankfulness,
and drew a long breath of relief when they saw the
Sacred Host laid upon the bridegroom's tongue;
and the remark of an old woman at the church
door, afterwards, represents the sentiment which
had generally prevailed at the moment.
" Thanks to our blessed Lady, he's not given
over body and soul to Satan, or he'd have dropped
dead when he received," said she to a friend.
" They don't always," mumbled the other old
crone. " Let them wait as cares to, to see the
end of it. God has His ways and we have ours,
and they are as far apart as the East and the
West!"

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69

That was a grand truth: " God's ways are not as
our w a y s . "
And of all the gossip and talk that day, there
was nothing came so near the truth as the saying of
that toothless old woman.
III.
The marriage was a happy one. Jacques idolized his wife, and revered in her the Christian
virtues which made her life more beautiful than
that of other women.
He accompanied her to
High Mass on Sundays and the great festas; because
he desired to make her happy, and he loved to
watch her in her rich attire, more beautiful than
any pictured saint upon the walls. It was not long,
however, before she discovered that although his
life was morally changed he never approached the
Sacraments, and whenever he alluded to religion,
it was in light, careless terms, which pained and
saddened her.
Benedetti was now jurisconsult of Umbria, a
dignity conferred upon him by the reigning prince
in reward for some successful achievement in finance
which had greatly benefited the royal treasury, and
he felt it to be due his position to take the lead
universally conceded to him. With all his pride,
he was never haughty or arrogant; the same goodnature and generosity characterized him now as in
the past, and he dealt even justice in all cases over
which he had jurisdiction.
Upon his wife h§

70

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TOD I,

lavished the most profuse and magnificent gifts: the
richest stuffs from Genoa, fro_m Persia, and Lyons;
the most cunning embroideries from India, the most
rare and costly laces from Venice and Flanders;
opals, pearls, and diamonds set in rare devices in
gold, he offered as love-gifts to her; the most
costly equipages and the finest of Arabian horses
were imported for her use, and it was his pleasure
and will that she should appear in magnificent attire
at the entertainments, the games, and the public
gardens, where her peerless beauty made her the
cynosure of every eye.
Not only was he generous in this prodigal fashion
to her, but he won the hearts of the good religious
on every side by his largesse to their charities and
his alms to the poor. If a new altar was to be
erected, or new mosaics were needed, another wing
to be added to the monastery of St. Francis, or an
orphanage established, or stained glass from Venice
for an abbot's memorial, his was the hand that
responded, partly because he knew it would please
his wife, but more because he was by nature lavish
and fond of giving; and he was blessed and prayed
for as no other sinner in Todi had ever been before.
And these prayers! Do we not read in St. John's
vision of golden vials in which were the prayers of
the saints? W h y then should one ever faint with
despondency, even after years of unanswered
prayers ?
Within a year of her marriage, Julia's father died,
leaving his daughter a large fortune; he blessed his

ANNA

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DORSEY.

71

children, for he loved Benedetti as his own son,
and besought him to watch over and guard his
d a u g h t e r s happiness; then, fortified and consoled
by the rites of the Church, he passed away in hope.
In Julia's heart, consolation mingled with grief;
it was her sweet privilege, she knew, to help him
by her prayers and more solemn devotions; that,
although separated for a season, her intercourse
with him would remain unbroken. But Benedetti,
gazing sadly upon the white, drawn features of the
old patrician, as the flicker of the blessed tapers
trembled over their motionless calm, thought:
" And is this the end ? Death, the grave, and forgetfulness! Rather let us enjoy life while it lasts;
let us eat, drink, and be merry!
Faugh! the
thought of becoming a carcass sickens m e " ; and
he left the death-chamber to go out into the sunshine and scented air of his garden, his only grief
being the tears which he knew must flow from the
eyes of his wife, and the shadow that death would
throw across his home.
He hated gloom; he
breathed freely only when in an atmosphere of gay,
stirring life, and surrounded by everything that
could charm the senses or delight the taste. But
the period of mourning was inevitable; it was one
of the penalties of his rank and station, and he
determined to go through it with the best grace he
might.
One year of intolerable weariness to Benedetti
passed b y ; several times he determined to leave
home for a month or two, but he could not bear to

72

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PENITENT

OF TOD I.

absent himself from his gentle wife, more beautiful
in her sadness than even in the sunshine of happiness, and her efforts to be cheerful for his sake were
so full of pathos that he would rather have seen her
weep.
A few friends were admitted during these days of
mourning; and her drives usually terminated at the
convent of Santa Agnese or the monastery of St.
Francis, where, in sweet converse with the saintly
men and women who had devoted themselves by
heroic vows, body and soul, to Heaven, the hours
passed swiftly and happily by. Every morning
found her humbly kneeling before the altar of St.
Stephen the Martyr, offering her Communion and
devotions for her father and her husband. Nor
were her poor forgotten: in seeking to alleviate
their sufferings, and in other works of mercy, her
time was well and profitably occupied.
But as the days passed on, Benedetti, who had
nothing to console him beyond the perishable
things of earth, grew restive. The silence and
gloom of his house became more and more intoler'able to him; his patience had been rare, but it was
now nearly worn out, and he began to absent himself from home, frequently not returning until far
into the night, and sometimes not until daydawn.
Julia observed these signs with sad surprise; he
was not less kind or affectionate in his manner
towards her, but—he was seeking pleasures outside
his own home. Soon she noticed that under some
slight pretext or other, often without any, he would

ANNA

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DORSEY.

73

hurry from her presence, leaving her lonely, and
saddened by vague apprehensions. One evening
he came in with reddened face, his speech thick,
and his gait unsteady, doing his best in a fond,
maudlin way, to conceal his real condition. She
was very gentle towards him, nay, tender in her
great pity; and when, under pretext of not feeling
well, he retired, she was thankful.
She spent the hours of that sorrowful night in
questioning her own heart severely, and praying
earnestly for guidance. " I have been selfish!
was the result of her self-examination; " I have expected too much of my husband, who finds his greatest happiness in the pleasures of the world, and
flies from solitude and devotion as something fit
only for priests and nuns. This is no way to win
an influence over him which will lead him to better
and higher things. I will henceforth forget myself,
and bury my griefs for his sake; and oh! Blessed
Lady of Sorrows, help me by thy intercession; pray
for my husband, that the fruit of thy Son's Passion
and thine own unspeakable sorrows^ may not be lost
on h i m . "
Two or three days after this, when Benedetti had
quite recovered from the fumes of the strong foreign
wines he had drank that night, and to the use of
which he was unaccustomed,—for with all his faults,
he was temperate in the use of liquors,—he drove
out, and after his return appeared on the promenade
of the gardens in his usual way, elegantly attired,
dignified, as became a jurisconsult, and affable to

74

THE MAD

PEN I TEN 7" OF TODL

all. When he returned home, towards his dinner
hour, with a sort of chill at the thought of what
would meet him there, what was his surprise to find
his house brilliantly lighted, and to hear the sound
of music stealing through the half-closed jalousies !
H e hastily entered: the fragrance of flowers welcomed him; the sight of their glowing hues, grouped
with dark greens, decorating the vases and garlanded
about the pillars, filled his sensuous nature with a
thrill of ecstasy. H e saw no one, and ran up to his
wife's dressing-room, where he found her in rich
attire, decked with his favorite gems, and looking
more beautiful than ever, as she came forward with
smiles to greet him. He was overjoyed; never had
she looked so lovely, so regal; never had such
brightness and fragrance pervaded his home.
" I am thankful that at last thy penance is
ended,*' he said, embracing her. " How beautiful
thou art, bella sposa ! and what an enchanting surprise thou hast prepared for me! A h , " he said,
gazing fondly upon her, " how much more suitable
to thy years, than so much praying, and fasting,
and penance! 9f%
" Penance, dear Jacques! Dost thou ever think
of penance ? " she asked, with a smile, smoothing
the hand which still clasped hers.
" Think! Of course I think of it! How can I help
it with such a devout little wife! And my father's
death gave me penance enough for a life-time," he
said, with a sad inflection in his voice.
" True, that was a great sorrow," she said,

ANNA

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DORSE V.

7$

raising his hand and leaning her fair cheek upon
it.
" It was, and will be to my dying day, a bitter
remorse. What more penance wouldst thou have
the heart to ask for me, bella sposa, than this ? "
" Dear Jacques, my husband, let me do penance
for thee. I will gladly, and mayhap our dear Lord
will accept i t . "
" What a little enthusiast! " he said, laughing,
and kissing her hand as he folded her to his breast.
" How glad I am that thou didst not live in the
days of Santa Agnese! Thou wouldst surely have
won the palm of martyrdom. Do penance for me,
cara mia, if it will make thee happier; only don't
flog thy fair flesh, or torture it with sackcloth. I
would rather not have such vicarious penance, my
nightingale."
She smiled, and said sweetly, as she left the
dressing-room:
" I t is time for thee, dear one, to change thy
dress; a party of friends are to join us at dinner,
and even now I must hasten down to receive t h e m . "
" C o m p a n y to d i n n e r ! " he exclaimed; " h o w
delicious! ' ' and she could but smile at his almost
boyish delight.
A year passed by after this, and the jurisconsult
led a life which completely filled out his ideal of
happiness. The most beautiful woman in Italy—
had not the artists and poets so crowned her ?—was
his wife; they loved each other devotedly; there
seemed to be nothing to cloud his felicity, and

-J6

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODL

he had retrieved himself in the opinion of his fellow-citizens, who, smiling, said to each other:
<;
Aha! our jurisconsult has sowed all his wild oats!
See what a good and beautiful wife can do for a
man!"
As we said before, he was devoted to art, and
was ever ready to assist young and struggling
artists; and he had the honor of entertaining
Alighieri. From him he heard ill news of the
astrologer Tasti.
The old star-gazer had gone
blind, and his heart was broken; his star had not
yet appeared, and now he could never behold it;
he was living in actual want, without a friend to see
to his needs.
" My God! " exclaimed Benedetti, " to think I
am rolling in wealth and luxury, while the man who
saved my life is without bread! Alighieri, pledge
thyself to do me a favor.' *
" If I may, most g l a d l y / ' answered the poet,
gravely.
" Thou mayest if thou wilt; I ask nothing that
could hurt the most sensitive scruples of a s a i n t / '
said Benedetti, flushing.
" W h a t wouldst thou have, f r i e n d ? " said the
sweet-voiced Florentine.
" I would have thee be my almoner; not really
to give alms, but to repay a debt I owe to Tasti by
all the laws of honor and g r a t i t u d e / '
" Ah, I see! " said Alighieri, a divine smile
brightening his countenance.
" I would settle an annuity upon him for life.

ANNA

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11

Let him think it is a long-delayed debt due his
family—make up any harmless romance thou
mayest about it. / must not appear; for he'd
throw the money into the fire, and me after it, if
he could lay hands upon me. Say, wilt thou manage this ? ' '
" I must think it over, and see how best it can
be d o n e . "
' " How best ? It does not require a moment's
thought. So many thousand ducats are placed in
thy hands by me, which thou wilt deposit in thy
own name to the credit of Giovanni Tasti. What
can be more plain ? ' '
" I will, and with a thankful heart that our
blessed Lady has inspired thee to so help the friendless and destitute,'' said the Florentine, grasping
his hand,
" It is a debt, and my religion is to pay my
d e b t s , " replied Benedetti, dryly. ll When will thy
cursed pride let me pay that which I owe thyself ? "
" Should need overtake me, friend, I will not fail
to call upon t h e e , " answered Alighieri.
" I trust to thy word; and now to business, for
I will not sleep until it is all settled."
And so it was done, and a divine rest filled
Alighieri's compassionate heart, which had been
torn and grieved beyond measure by the condition
in which he had found his old friend, whose needs
he had no power to relieve, his own means being
barely sufficient to procure him the necessaries of
life. Now he could leave him in comfort, with an

7§

THE MAD

PENITENT

OF TOT?I.

attendant to care for him, and enough to provide
clothing and any little luxury he might crave; and
all owing to the noble generosity of a man he had
once despised, and refused to know,

IV.
One bright day, at an hour when he was rarely
there, Benedetti came home in a gay mood, and
went with quick steps towards an apartment which
opened on the garden, where his wife usually spent
her mornings. The light air he was humming died
upon his lips as, looking around, he saw no signs of
her except her empty chair, and a coarse woollen
garment, that her fair hands had been fashioning
for one of her poor, lying upon it.
" Where is your lady ? " he asked her favorite
maid, who was seated in a window, busied over a
piece of embroidery.
" My lady has gone to the Cathedral, signor, to
offer prayers," she answered.
" The fiend fly off with so much praying! " he
exclaimed, hotly. " A r e you sure it is to the
Cathedral she is gone? "
" Yes, signor, because she took flowers to lay on
the old Count's t o m b . "
" How long has she been away ? "
" About a half hour, signor."
i4
There is some chance then of my finding her
there?"

ANNA

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79

" I think so, signor."
Chafing with impatience, Benedetti rushed off to
the Cathedral, where, just as he was crossing the
marble pavement of the wide portico, he heard the
voice that always fell upon his ear like a strain of
music say: " H e r e ! Shall we turn back ? " And
she was beside him, wondering with deep emotion
if he had come thither for some pious,purpose,
" Aha, runaway! is it thou ? Turn back ? Not
for the world. I only came to bring thee away, for
I have great news for thee, bella sposa%''
" Good, I t r u s t ? "
" Joyous! But I will hold thee in suspense until
we get h o m e , " he answered, gayly.
The distance was short between the Cathedral and
their house; and after Julia had thrown aside her
veil and mantle, and seated herself, she said:
' ' Now I am ready for the great news.''
" Great news indeed! " he exclaimed, throwing
himself upon the pillow of an ivory couch that
stood near her; "' something that I have worn myself
out to obtain. Thou knowest, bella sposa> that we
have not had the games at Todi for five years, and
the theatre is overgrown with moss and weeds, the
arena a haunt for swine; but next month they are
to be celebrated, by the royal order, which I
obtained, in honor of the birth of a son to the king.
H e is so devout and keeps so many monks around
him, that I had great difficulty in obtaining his
consent, for he thinks such amusements are bad for
the morals of the people, a belief which his spiritual

So

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODI.

advisers are at great pains to confirm; but I prevailed this time, and I am determined the games of
1268 shall be celebrated with a splendor and magnificence never seen before. What sayest thou ? "
" They will make our old town very g a y , " she
answered, with a sinking heart.
" Gay! It will be like paradise! I have ordered
a new gallery to be built for a chosen company,
among whom the wife of the jurisconsult will shine
the fairest of them all. T h e Prince and Princess
Doria of Rome, the great Minister, Count Taverno,
and one or two other distinguished persons of the
Court, I have invited to occupy the gallery with
thee. It will be a splendid affair, hung with clothof-gold, and canopied and cushioned with Lyons silk
of rose-color and blue, spangled with gold. A h a !
how proud I shall be to have the world see and
acknowledge thy beauty! ' '
" O Jacques, why so vain of me ? I t pains
me.
" Pains t h e e ! How can I help being proud of
thee, sweet love ? T h e very thought of possessing
such a treasure—a treasure such as no monarch, if
he searched the world, could hope to find—makes
me supremely happy! " he replied, folding her
hand to his heart.
" Such love is very sweet, but it is too much for
the creature; we must remember that our God is a
jealous God, and will have none preferred before
Him."
He dropped her hand, and turned from her with

ANNA

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81

a cloud upon his brow, and did not speak immediately ; when he did, it was not unkindly:
1c
We hear those sayings in the Cathedral. Leave
them to the monks, and don't throw cold water,
albeit it be holy water, into my face when my heart
runs over with love for thee. I will be good one
of these days, bella sposa: in fact I am not so bad
a Christian as some others. Look at old Sacchi,
for instance, who ,has prayed his knee-pans off, and
often goes to Communion! Does he ever give a
scudi to the poor ? Did he not turn his own son into
the street, to want and beggary, because he could
not pay a debt that he owed him ? "
" No, thank our dear Lord, thou art not like
that! " she said, laying her long fair hand upon his
head. " But we must not j u d g e . "
" W h a t ! Not when a fig tree is barren ? Why,
my gardener, an ignorant peasant, would root it up
and burn it with the weeds."
" Our dear Lord is patient—oh, how patient!
He alone, who beholds the secrets of hearts, can
judge with righteousness, " she said, sweetly.
" If the devil don't get old Sacchi, what is the
use of being pious ? Here am I always giving to
the poor and to the Church. I love to give. I
am never happier than when I am giving. Have I
not just sent a piece of Venetian lace to the
Cathedral for the baldachino of Our Lady; and did
I not only yesterday send a beautiful picture,
Santa Agnese before the Proconsul, to the convent,
for their new altar ? "

8?.

THE

MAD

PENITENT

OF

TODI.

" Our dear Lord will requite all that is done for
the love of H i m , , , she said, smoothing back the hair
from his forehead, and smiling brightly. " Yes,
thou art good, my love, according to thy mind; by
and by Our Lord will show thee His w a y . "
" Wilt thou go to the games ? " he said, abruptly,
almost as if he feared she would refuse.
" Yes, as thou dost wish it so much. W h a t is
to be done ? "
" I can scarcely tell thee in order yet. There
will be comedies, wrestling, dancing, music, races,
mock fights between the athletes, and what more
I cannot tell; but thou wilt enjoy it all, my Julia;
I know thou wilt."
She said no more, and Benedetti, wooed by the
breeze that stole through the jessamine, fell
asleep.
" Enjoy i t , " he said. Alas! her splendors, and
all that her husband imagined ought to make her
the happiest woman on earth, were simply wearying, irksome trials; she had but one wish upon
earth, and that was for his conversion; for that she
endured all things; for that she did penance; for
that she daily offered her very life to Almighty
God.
It must not be supposed that conversations like
the one just related were of frequent occurrence: it
was only when his mood presented the opportunity, and then only so long as he appeared willing
to listen; the moment a shadow darkened his face,
or a sneer escaped his lips, she would change the

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEY.

S$

subject for something more congenial to his gay
temperament.
Keen in his perceptions, the proud, pleasure-loving man was not slow to notice this exercise of
charity; he made no remarks, but it softened his
heart yet more tenderly towards her, and made
more holy and beautiful in his eyes the example of
her virtues.
Days and weeks passed by. Todi was full of
strangers,—the princely, the noble, and wealthy
citizens from other parts; poets, philosophers,
comedians, dancers, and wrestlers thronged thither,
some to witness, others to take part in the games.
Nothing else was thought of, nothing else was
talked of. There were those who criticised, and
others who praised the arrangements; many made
themselves happy by betting on this, that, or the
other, while there were not a few who predicted
failure—on points which ran counter to their advice.
There were whispers, too, about certain repairs at
the amphitheatre having been too hastily made for
safety; among them the jurisconsult's gallery, which
was built upon the old beams of the original one,
that had been blackening there in the sun and
rains of a century; but it had been examined by
competent persons, and pronounced safe; and it
was being painted and gilded by artists from Rome.
x

#•

*

*

*

There is a soft luminous radiance behind the
mountains, about whose shadowy sides the blue
mists still linger; jets of glittering light shoot up

84

THE. MAD PENITENT

OF TODL

towards the violet-tinted and rose-colored clouds as
if from a sea of gold; the nightingales sing sweet
fitful songs in their bosky coverts; the river sweeps
through the valley like a whispered prayer; the dew
spangles leaf and flower. Oh, how brightly dawns
this day upon the old Umbrian city—the opening
day of the games!
From the side door of a lofty and elegant dwelling, a lady, closely wrapped in mantle and veil,
came out. With swift, light steps, she approached
the Cathedral just as one of the Fathers of St.
Francis ascended the altar to begin the celebration
of the Holy Sacrifice. It was Julia dei Benedetti,
and those who saw her that morning when she
received the Sacred Host never forgot the radiant
expression of her face, a radiance so solemn and
angelic that had it been the Viaticum they might
have been pardoned for believing that light from
the half-opened portals of heaven was shining upon
her.
The jurisconsult wished his beautiful wife to
appear on this the opening day of the games in her
most magnificent apparel, in her rarest jewels; in
obedience to his request, so emphatically made
that it savored of command,, she arrayed herself in
robes fashioned of rare and costly silk of pale
delicate color; films of Venice lace shaded her
bosom and arms, and fell draped about her in misty
folds; pearls and fire-opals from India gleamed in
her hair, around her throat and arms, and in her
ears. Never had she looked so lovely, and when

ANNA

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85

Benedetti ran up to her dressing-room to speak to
her, she happened to be standing where a ray of
sunshine slanted over her. He paused an instant
in mute admiration and astonishment: even he had
never imagined she could look like this. She held
out her hand with a smile of welcome, he clasped
it a moment, then, bending his knee, kissed it,
saying:
" N a y ! hast thou just stepped out of paradise ?
I can scarcely dare more than offer homage to an
angel.''
" O Jacques! why so foolish? Wouldst thou turn
my head with thy flatteries?" she answered, with a
little laugh, making him rise. u l a m only I ; all
these beautiful things in which I am arrayed are thy
gifts and worn for love of thee. A h ! why should
I be vain ? ' '
" If thou wert clad in sackcloth, would it change
thy beauty, thy grace, thy perfect form, bella sposa ?
N o ! I will then be proud and vain of thee—enough
for thee and for myself.''
" How soon are we to go ? " she asked.
" I just ran up, bella sposa, to say that it is
utterly impossible for me to accompany thee to the
amphitheatre. I have been appointed to receive the
members of the royal family that are here; but thy
cousin, the Count Pelchioni, and his wife, are coming to go with t h e e . , ,
" A h ! I am sorry to lose thy attendance. But
the Prince and Princess Doria—who will receive

them?"

S6

THE MAD
li

PENITENT

OF TODL

I forgot to mention yesterday that they have
been recalled to Rome by the illness of their only
son."
" Ah, how unfortunate!
Our blessed Lady
grant they may find him out of danger. But thou
wilt join us after thy official duties are over ? " she
said.
" Yes, yes. The Count knows our gallery, and
I have stationed a guard t h e r e t o prevent those who
have nd right from crowding upon our party.
Farewell, sweet one, until we meet a g a i n / '
H e kissed her almost reverently, and after one
fond lingering look hurried away.
It was a glorious day, clear and balmy; the awning which formed the temporary roof of the amphitheatre tempered the glare of the sun to a pleasant
light, and surely there was never assembled a gayer
or more light-hearted crowd than that which filled
the circular tiers of seats, from the arena to the roof.
It was one shimmering, beautiful mass of color,
the richly-decorated gallery of the jurisconsult being
the centre of attraction when his beautiful wife
entered. The comedy was a great success; the
plaudits of the people and strains of music thundered together, and only subsided when a troupe of
Egyptian dancing-girls floated out to perform a
measure to the sound of weird, wild harmonies,
Benedetti had not yet appeared; he was evidently
detained by something imperative, for the royal
seats were all filled; and it was not until a chariotrace began that Julia, who had been restlessly

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEY.

87

watching for him, caught a glimpse of him forcing
his way towards her through the surging crowd.
There was a proud smile upon his lips as he saw
how conspicuously her beauty shone in that great
assemblage, and how well the splendor of her surroundings became her. But just as he lifted his
jewelled cap to her, there came a sudden, crackling
sound, shrieks filled the air, and that richly-decorated structure, that gallery, with its freight of life
and beauty, fell, a wild, heaped-up ruin, into the
arena. With a piercing cry, he sprang to the
rescue of his wife over the heads and shoulders of
the crowd; and no man stayed his mad progress,
for all knew him, and understood the awful blow
which had fallen upon him.
At length he reached the spot, and on the edge
of the mutilated, shrieking heap, crushed and
benumbed, he found her who was all the world to
him, and, lifting her tenderly, he conveyed her to
a place of safety, the crowd making way and giving
what assistance they could. She still breathed,
and, unclosing her eyes, fixed a tender gaze upon
his agonized face. H e laid her down, her head still
reposing upon his breast, and began to cut open her
bodice, but with a blush that crimsoned even her
neck, she whispered, " Not here! not h e r e ! " and
indicated by a gesture that he should take her
farther away from the crowd. Again raising her in
his arms, and forbidding any to follow, he bore her
to a green, shaded spot, cut open the pearl-embroidered tissues of her festive robe, and tore away

88

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TOD I.

the fine silk and linen of her under garments, that
her heart might have no pressure upon it, that the
air of heaven could blow freely upon her; but what
did he see ? Not the fair ivory skin that covered
the faultless symmetry of her form, but a rough
hair-shirt under which the tender flesh showed many
a stripe and scar. A cry escaped his lips of such
bitter anguish that it recalled her from the bright
mysteries which were already dawning upon her;
there was a tremulous movement of her white, dying
lips, and, bending down his ear, he heard her whisper: " It was for thee! O Christ, make him Thine
own! "
That was all. Her pure soul passed with the
prayer. Then he knew how she had done penance
for him, knew that for his sins and follies this rough
garment was worn, and that by the suffering of her
tender flesh she had hoped to win mercy for him.
Many drew near and offered assistance, but he
motioned them away, and, gathering the dead form
to his bosom, he bore her back to their desolated
home, where, with speechless agony and a dumb
wonder, he watched, shedding no tear, uttering no
moan, until those who were to perform the last sad
offices for the dead came to lead him away. Then
he touched the hair-shirt with his finger, " Leave
that as it i s , " he said.
V.
What was left for Jacques dei Benedetti, now ?
Sympathy, condolence, and religious help were

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEY,

89

offered, but he would none of it. The dreadful
blow had wounded the natural man unto death; it
was as a sword that had " divided the bones and
the marrow ' ' ; and there echoed through heart and
brain one only word: Penance! Penance! Penance!
It was not as yet the solemn whisper of a new
life, but the memory that stood out above all else
—the penance and prayers she had offered for his
guilty soul. Nature was, however, slowly giving
place to a new-born supernatural principle, as in
solitude, almost in darkness, the days went on. H e
refused admittance to all, except when obliged to
answer questions about the funeral arrangements;
and when a friend would have led him to look his
last on the saintly beauty of his dead, he uttered a
stern " N o ! " and, closing his door, flung himself
prostrate while his soul leaped up in a strong cry
to God. It was his first prayer, and a strange peace
fell upon him, with a sentiment of humility so profound as to overwhelm him like a torrent.
Then came the magnificent funeral, and again he
walked a pale, tearless mourner; but his hair had
grown white, and his stately form so bowed that
people questioned whether it could really be the
proud, handsome jurisconsult. And when the world,
weary of a week's mourning and seclusion, and
even the priests—worn out with their long vigils,
fasting, and the ceremonies which had occupied
them so many days—hastened from the Cathedral,
Jacques dei Benedetti remained in the crypt with
the dead; and with his head bowed upon the coffin-

90

THE MAD PENITENT

OP TODL

lid of her whom he had so loved, he made another
and holier vow "than the one of years before. After
this, no more grieving: here they would separate
until the judgment-day; she was Heaven's own;
and he then made a renunciation of tender, fruitless
memories; of his sorrow, which he offered with the
sufferings of the Crucified; of all the beautiful idyls
of the past; of every earthly hope and desire; and
thus stripped of self, he offered himself humbly to
Almighty God, to be moulded and fashioned as H e
willed.
His next step was to resign his civic dignities,
and to the almost dumb amazement of the community, he sold his goods and distributed his possessions to the poor; and then, dressed in rags, like
one distraught, he haunted the churches, absorbed
in devotion, looking neither to the right nor left,
his head bowed upon his breast, and floods of tears
streaming from his eyes. H e walked the streets
bareheaded, his garments old and coarse and ragged,
and his bare feet often bleeding from the sharp uneven stones.
A t first people were awed, and wondered at such
abnegation. Some thought he would get over it
and come out in renewed splendor. But when they
found he did not mend his ways they nicknamed
him " J a c o p o n e " — m a d Jacques.
The boys
shouted after him in the streets, pelted him with
stones, and the people saluted him with derisive
shouts; but he went his way in silence, unheeding
their insults. One day, like the prophet Jeremias,

ANNA

HANSON

DORSE Y.

91

who appeared in the public places of Jerusalem
with a yoke about his neck, a symbol of her
approaching captivity, the poor penitent showed
himself on the public promenade half naked, with
a saddle and bridle on his back, walking on his
hands and knees like a beast of burden. Some
wept; there were a few who shouted in derision;
and many were touched and saddened as they
beheld the miserable state to which his envied
destiny had fallen.
" H e is mad! " they said.
" H e is not m a d , " observed a holy man who knew;
" he is doing penance."
But people could not discern the supernatural
under such a guise; they only stared and laughed
at the strange spectacle, and said: " Poor Jacopone! His vagaries are harmless; but Todi misses
him sorely; the place has grown as dull as a graveyard."
His palace he could not alienate; but he granted
the free use of it to a branch of the Order of Mercy,
founded by a saintly knight of Languedoc, Peter
Nolasco; and this was considered by many as fresh
evidence of his insanity.
" When he recovers,
there will not be a shelter for his head."
But none knew of Jacopone's hidden life,—how
he went in secret to the sick and destitute poor in
the hovels about the town, ministering to their
necessities and performing the meanest offices for
them, until some even believed that the dear Lord
had sent St. Francis to their aid; none knew of
his vigils in the churches, where, hidden behind a

92

THE MAD PENITENT

OF TODL

pillar or tomb, his forehead pressed against the
stone floor, he meditated on the Passion of Jesus
and the Dolors of Mary until the marble flags were
wet with his tears.
News of his madness finally spread abroad, and
strangers, many of whom had witnessed his former
splendor, came to look upon him and wonder. His
case was reported to and discussed at Rome, but
when those were sent having authority—three men
of holy lives—to note his eccentricities and question
him, his answers, briefly and humbly made, convinced them that he was moved to perform his
heroic acts of penance by a purely supernatural
motive.
A period of ten years passed by, and one morning the porter of the Franciscan Monastery told the
prior that Jacopone was at the gate and asked to
be admitted to the a b b o t s presence. The prior
frowned. H e was a man of holy, ascetic life, but
looked upon all novelties as a delusion and a snare
of the devil.
" Didst thou tell him, brother, that the abbot is
rarely interrupted at this hour ? "
" I did, Reverend Father; but he said he would
wait, and went and sat upon the roadside with the
beggars."
" Very well. I will let him know the abbot's
pleasure/'
" Our abbot does strange things, sometimes,"
the prior thought: '' he may choose to see this
mad beggar, for whom we pray as one of our bene-

AN 1ST A HANSON

DORSEY.

93

factors. May our blessed Lady deliver us from
evil. The enemy of souls has been known to counterfeit a penitent; didn't he so appear once to Fra
Juan Garin, at Montserrat, and come near dragging
his soul to hell! " .
By this time he had reached the abbot's door,
where he rapped, and was bid to enter.
" A mad beggar is at the gate, Reverend Father,
craving admission to thy presence; I will dismiss
him if thou sayest so. , ,
" Name him," said the abbot briefly.
" Jacopone."
" Jacopone! Bring him hither, my good prior.
Jacopone must never be kept waiting; it were a
shame for us, whose house and church he so beautified in time past; and let me tell thee what I fear:
when Christ comes some of us will be cast out of
the Kingdom, while the ' mad penitent* will be
received and crowned among the saints."
T h e prior bowed; there was a spot of color on
his pale cheeks, but he made no reply, and withdrew to do the bidding of his superior.
The abbot arose from his chair, and stood waiting, while strange emotions agitated his heart.
H e had known Jacopone in the days of his pride
and prosperity; and he had met him saddled on the
public promenade, followed by the hooting crowd;
but never since his penitential days had he come
to the monastery. What could be his object ?
T h e door opened, and Jacopone—his broad forehead pale, his temples and cheeks sunken, his beard

94

THE MAD

PENITENT

OP

TODL

almost white—entered and knelt while the abbot
blessed and welcomed him in a voice that trembled
with emotion.
11
Rise, my son, and be seated," he said.
" If thou wilt, I will remain so; it is more fitting,
as I have come to beg a great boon at thy hands,
Lord Abbot."
" Do as it best pleases thee, my son; but what
wouldst thou of me, in God's holy name ? "
11
Having fulfilled a vow, I now wish to enter the
Order of St. Francis," he said humbly, never raising
his eyes.
" My son, dost thou understand that all who
enter here have to learn the holy science of obedience?" His voice was steady now, and almost stern.
" That I know right well, Lord A b b o t ; it is a
science I most desire to be taught."
li
And dost thou know that our rule permits no
singularities in devotion—no novelties in dress or
manner ? "
" Aye, that also I know. I seek to enter the
Order of the blessed St. Francis as a servant,—
that I may work out my salvation. Pity me, my
Lord Abbot, for my unworthiness is even greater
than thou canst conceive; but by the grace of our
dear Lord, whose mercy is infinite, I hope to be
moulded like wax by the blessed rule of St. Francis,
until—until—at last—I may be found worthy of
reconciliation with H i m . " H e faltered, while great
tears rolled over his wan cheeks, and glistened like
jewels on his gray, tangled beard.
The good

ANNA

HANSON

DORSEY.

95

abbot's impulse was to kneel beside the poor suppliant, fold his arms about him and welcome him
with a thousand welcomes to the Order. But he
only said:
" Be comforted, my son; for, whether in the
Order of St. Francis or out of it, such penitence as
thine will in the end win heaven for thee. I will
lay thy application before the brethren.
Come
hither next Monday and I will make known the
decision to thee. Now, go in peace, pray for me,
and may the Most Adorable Trinity bless and
strengthen t h e e . "
*
*
*
*
*
The answer was a favorable one, and thus l' the
old athlete of penance," as he is called, entered
the great Order, and his after-life became a strange
chapter in its history.
H e lived long years, abating nothing of his
austerities, rather adding to them; and shortly
before his death, from his prison at Collazone, he
gave to the world his matchless hymn the ' ' Stabat
Mater" which will keep alive the memory of his
burning love and his mighty repentance until the
sublime chants of the Church Militant blend forever
with those of the Church Triumphant.

ELLA L O R A I N E
ELLA LORAINE DORSEY

DORSEY.

is the youngest child of

Mrs.

Anna Hanson Dorsey and her husband, the late Lorenzo
Dorsey. Esq.

She began her literary career when she

was about 16, as special correspondent on the Chronicle
and Critic, two Washington

papers.

Later she wrote

specials—regularly for the Chicago Tribune, and now and then
for the Boston Journal, Cincinnati Commercial Gazette, etc.
In April, 1886, Harper's

Magazine

published

"Back

from the Frozen Pole," and the Catholic World published
' ' T h e Czar's Horses," which last was attributed to Archibald
Forbes, and went around the English colonies as far as
New Zealand.

The same

year Father

Hudson pub-

lished "Midshipman Bob," which was so kindly received

that it was reprinted and had a large sale in England and
Ireland, and was translated into Italian.

From that time

she devoted herself to our Catholic boys through the Ave
Maria, trying to do for them what her mother does so
nobly for the grown-ups; and between '86 and '90 Father
Hudson published: " J e t , the War Mule,''

" T h e Two

Tramps," " Coppinger's Inheritance" " The Jose Maria,"
"Saxty's Angel," "Speculum Justitiae," " T h e Wharf Rat's
Christmas," " T h e Brahmin's Christmas," " T h e Salem
Witch," and " Tiny Tim."

Before that, however, several

of her sketches had been published: " The Solitary Soul."
" T h e Son of the Widow of Nairn," " T h e Fool of the
W o o d " " Bodger," " Ole Miss," etc.
In 1890 a violent and prolonged attack of grippe put a
stop to her work, and since that time she has written scarcely
anything, except two poems in the Cosmopolitan, a story
in Outing, "Ivan of the Mask," some

" s p e c i a l s " in

the Washington Post and Ave Maria, and "Smallwood's
Immortals," a historical sketch of the young paladins of
the Maryland Line, who died at Long Island in 1776. that
the

army—the

defeated, panic-stricken, routed, almost

destroyed army—might live.
Her mother's prolonged illness two years ago further
checked Miss Dorsey's work, and a new book on which she
is now engaged will mark the recommencement of her
regular work.
Miss Dorsey is a Daughter of the American Revolution,
a Colonial Dame, a member of the Literary Society of
Washington, the Geographical Society, and the Georgetown
Convent Alumna; Association.

Speculum 3ustitia>*
BY ELLA LORAINE DORSEY.

I.
I T was a bitter night in winter. The streets had
been deserted at an early hour, and the wind that
raged up from the sea tore at the shutters and
banged at the doors, shrieking, whistling, and
roaring, till the townsfolk turned in their beds and
muttered: " God save the sailor lads this night! "
But some of the nervous old women covered their
ears and said: " The good-for-nothing vagabonds!"
For they thought the banging and shouting came
from some ship's crew just landed, and hurrying to
spend their money and vitality larking.
Suddenly the wind veered to the northwest, and
whirling down out of the low black clouds came one
soft white flake, then another, and another, until
the air was as white as the surf bursting and flying
out on the harbor bar.
And all the time, in a side street of this waterend of the city, a man lay face down, a knife in his
back, and death on his lips and in his heart. And
the snow gathered and covered the red stain that
crept like a scarlet snake from the small wound, and
99

IOO

SPECULUM

JUS

TITTLE.

wrapt him in a winding-sheet whiter than any flax
ever spun.
And a ship drove safely into the harbor out of
the storm, let go her anchor with a rattle and clank
of chains, and a hearty " Yo-heave-oh! " that rang
merrily through the night; and one of the sailors^—
refusing with a laugh to wait for daybreak—sprang
into the dingy, pulled ashore through the angry
water, and struck out briskly for home. Such a
little box of a home, but neat as a new pin, and an
old mother in it dearer than all the world to the
sturdy fellow tramping through the snow.
" I told her I'd be there, and of course I will;
for this here wind a-blowin', and the delay from
the backin' and fillin' we had to do outside there,
so 's to git a good headway on th' old gal [the
ship], ull have her that uneasy I know she won't
sleep a wink this blessed—hullo! what's here ? Git
along, old chap. 'Taint safe for a feller to be
takin' naps in this here temperatoor. Whew! if
there's one thing I hate it's a feller a-makin' a
beast of himself a-drinkin'. Mebbe, though, I'd
been there myself if it hadn't been for Father T o m ;
so here goes to help ' the man and brother.' My
Lord A'mighty, what's this here? It's a knife, and
the man's dead as a nail! Mur
"
But an iron arm had him round the neck, and an
iron hand was clapped over his mouth, and he was
dragged furiously here and there, while a stentorian
voice rang out, " Murder! murder! murder! "
In the mad struggle that followed, David Jams-

ELLA

LORAINE

DORSEY.

IOI

son's clothing was torn from his back, and his face
bruised; though he defended himself so manfully
that his assailant was put to it for breath wherewith
to keep up his shout of " Murder."
The harbor-watch ran panting to the scene, and
before Jameson—bewildered by the sudden attack,
and exhausted by the violent tussle—could speak,
the man who grappled him poured out a voluble
story. H e had been coming along the street after
spending the evening at Moreno's wine-shop,and had
seen the two men struggling; this one had plunged
a knife into the back of the other; he had fallen
and died without a groan. Then this man stooped
to—he supposed—rifle the dead man's pockets,
and he had seized him.
" You lie! " shouted Davie. " T h e man must
have been dead an hour when I saw him. H e was
covered with snow
"
" Shut u p ! " said the harbor-watch.
And Davie's captor, with an expressive shrug
and a flinging out of his hands, said: " Behold the
knife, signor."
T h e knife was a black clasp-knife, such as any
sailor of any nation might carry; but the officers
smiled contemptuously when Jameson declared it
was not his, and told them his sheath was empty
only because he had lost his knife that very night
coming into port—that it had been knocked out of
his hand while he was cutting away some raffle
tangled up by the gale. And they carried him off
with every indignity to the station-house, treating

102

SPECULUM

JUSTITIM,

with marked consideration the foreigner—an Italian
—who had captured the desperate murderer at such
risk and after such a fight, and thanking him with
some effusion for his offer to be at their service day
or night so long as he stayed in port, noting down
the place of anchorage of his vessel; for of course
he was the only witness for the prosecution.
Poor David! One hour before a free, lighthearted lad, springing home to his mother, his soul
innocent of guile, and his heart at peace with the
world. Now disgraced, ironed at ankles and wrists,
his heart a pit of rage, and every muscle aching to
get at the man who had lied away his honesty, his
integrity, his liberty, and—it might easily come to
that—his life.
The jailer was a kind-hearted man, so when he
came into the cell in the early morning he asked
David if he had any friends he wished to see; and
he, poor lad, with a ray of hope striking across his
passion of rage and despair, cried: " Let me see
Father F a h e y . , ,
" Father Tom, is it? " asked the jailer.
Xi
That's the o n e , ' ' said David, eagerly.
" Oh, I know him! " said the man, with 3 broad
smile; " and it's himself always has his joke and
his good word for everybody. I tell him, sometimes, he's sent for so constant he'd better just live
here. Him and me'd make a good pair, and trot
well in double harness—me a-catchin* the corpus
delictisses" (he had his little vanities of fine language, this jailer), " and him a-nabbin' the bad

ELLA

LORAINE

DORSE Y.

103

consciences. ' Gillett,' says he to me no later than
last Tuesday, when I'd said as much to him,—
* Gillett, we've got responsibilities both of us, and
above all we've got to keep everything clean-washed
and accounted for.' ' Yes,' I cuts in, ' me to the
Guv'nor and you to the Lord.' That's just what I
said— i me to the Guv'nor and you to the Lord,'
—and it was a pretty neat answer."
And he rubbed his chin softly, and repeated his
own words several times with intense enjoyment of
their neatness.
" When can I see him ? " begged David.
" To-morrow, m a y b e . "
" To-morrow! " and his face fell back to its lines
of misery. " Good Lord, man, my old mother'll
hear it before that, and it'll kill her if it's broke too
sudden to her! Father T o m ' s the only man that
can do i t . "
" Well, well," said the jailer, " I'll telephone
round for you; b u t " — w i t h a sudden sense of
responsibility—" that was a shabby trick to play a
messmate."
" I d i d n ' t , " said David, simply, and he raised
his honest eyes to the jailer's face. "I never saw
him till"
" There, there! " said the jailer, soothingly;
" don't talk till your lawyer gits h e r e . " And off
he went down the corridor, thinking as he did so:
" H e looks honest, but, great Scott! you never can
tell. They'll look like cheraphs and serabims "
(his biblical knowledge was slight and very mixed),

IO4

SPECULUM

JUSTITIJR.

" and all the time they'll be up to any dodge on
the p'lice docket. This feller's cut diff'rent from
the heft of my birds, t h o u g h / '
An hour later Father Tom stood in the cell, and
he took David in his arms, and welcomed him as if
he had come home laden with honors instead of
crushed under the charge of crime. Then he said,
gently: " Now, Davie, tell me all about i t . "
And David told the whole story, beginning with
the start from the ship, and going circumstantially
through the after-events, from the brief but terrific
struggle over the dead man's body to the prison.
Father Tom listened intently, and David, as he
warmed up to his story, concluded with " I am as innocent of that man's blood as you are, Father T o m ;
but if I had that Italian here I'd strangle h i m . "
Father T o m ' s only answer was to pull out the
crucifix from his girdle, hold it up, and point to the
agonized figure on it.
David hung his head, and with the cry, " But
think of mother! " the tears burst from his dry and
burning eyes.
Presently Father Tom said: " Now, Davie, let
us kneel down and say a Memorare and the Veni
Sancte Spiritus, and then we'll see what's to be
done first."
But poor David's cry, as soon as the Amen was
said, was again: " O Father T o m ! my poor old
mother! "
" Now look here, b o y , " said the priest, with
some severity, " do you suppose sTich a good

ELLA

LORAINE

DORSEY.

105

Catholic and such a devoted servant of Our Lady
as your mother is, is going to waste time mourning
and weeping ? If you had been guilty, then she
might have broken her heart; but she'll have so
many prayers to say for you, and so many things
to do for you—and she can come every day to see
you, too,—that the time will go by almost before
you know it. I'll go to her now and tell her about
it. And would you like me to send your skipper
or any of your shipmates to see you ? "
" Not y e t , " said Davie; " tell 'em, though.
And, Father, tell 'em, too, I didn't do i t . "
" Ay, ay, lad, you may depend on that. Now,
is there anything you want ? Have you# got tobacco,
and warm flannels, and some money ? Have you
got your—oh, yes, there are your beads! "
" Yes, sir," said David, " I've got them safe;
but it's a wonder I didn't lose 'em in that scrimmage last night. I s'pose I would a' done it ef I
hadn't strung 'em round my neck before I went
aloft out yonder. The wind certainly was tremmenjis off the Point, and when we was piped up to
cut loose a broken yard and snug down, I didn't
count much on seeing home-lights again. So 's I
run along the deck and began scramblin' up the
shrouds, I slipped 'em over my head. I heerd a
Breton sailor say once that the Blessed Lady 'd lift
us safe and sound out of even a ragin' sea into
heaven by 'em. Of course I knew he didn't mean
the real body of us, nor the real string of beads,
nor the real seas; but it seemed to me the idee was

io6

SPECULUM

JUSTITIM.

about so—that she'd lift the souls of us out of the
pit o' death and tow us into port by that there
hawser of prayers we'd been a-makin' and a-makin'
ever sence we could toddle.''
" And it is s o , " said Father Tom, heartily, laying his hand on David's shoulder: while the latter
knelt as he used to do when a little lad in Father
T o m ' s catechism class, and received his blessing.
" Keep up your heart, keep down your temper,
and trust in G o d , " were the priest's parting words.
" I'll send you some papers, and I'll come back
to-morrow."
Then he went and had a little talk with the jailer,
and asked su.ch privileges as could be allowed the
prisoner; and left the jail with a heavy heart, to
break the news to David's mother, to get good
counsel for him, to see the judge of the criminal
court, whom he had so often to interview on behalf
of prisoners, and to see the captain of the ship to
which the young sailor belonged. And the farther
he went, the more depressed he got—the hour, the
circumstances, the straight story told by the Italian,
all tended to push David nearer and nearer the
gallows.
There was a certain sort of good luck, though;
for the court was in session, and a sudden lapse in
the testimony in a long-drawn bank robbeiy case
left a free day, which the counsel seized upon, asking the judge, in view of the peculiar circumstances,
to call the trial; for the only actual witness, one
Manuel Ignatius Pizarro, would have to sail with

ELLA LORAINE DORSEY.

107

his brig—the Maria di Napoli—on the following
Wednesday for Marseilles.
There was some demur about precedent and so
on, but the point was carried, and the 20th of
December saw the court-room filled to hear the
trial of David Jameson, seaman, for the murder of
an unknown man on the night of the 13th day of
that same month, in the year of Our Lord 188—.
The court was opened with the usual formalities,
and the case presented by the counsel for the Government. Then, after a brief citation of the facts
— " the terrible facts," they were c a l l e d , — t h e
Italian, " whose tongue alone could tell the t r u t h , "
was put upon the stand.
H e was a tall, well-formed man, but there was a
furtive trick about his eyes; and the eyes themselves, though large and brilliant, were so near together that they seemed to cross at times; the eyebrows were heavy and met at the root of t h e nose,
which gave a sinister look to his face; and his
nostrils were thin as paper, and vibrated with every
breath. For the rest, he was handsome enough;
and his picturesque though very theatrical costume
was becoming, from the scarlet Phrygian cap, and
the wide gold rings in his ears, to the curiously
embroidered top-boots, and the long Spanish cloak
in which he draped himself (as he entered and departed) in folds that would have done credit to an
ancient Roman.
H e told his story dramatically and with abundant
gesture, and wound up by saying, " Doubtless,

lo8

SPECUL UM JUS

TITIM.

excellency, it was some secret foe; for he stabbed
him with such force, such savagery; and a blow in
the back—0 treachery! O cruelty
"
" Stick to facts, sir," said the judge, impassively.
The Italian shrugged his shoulders and bowed,
but his eyes seemed to leap toward each other, and
their flash belied the wide smile that displayed his
teeth, white and strong as a shark's.
Then the cross-examination began.
" A t what time did you go to Moreno's ? "
" At twenty-two hours (10 o'clock p . m . ) . "
" Where were you before that ? "
" Aboard the Maria di Napoli."
" At what hour did you leave the ship? "
" A t twenty-one hours and a half (9.30 p . m . ) . "
" Were you alone ? "
"When?"
" When you left the s h i p . "
" No. My mate was with m e . "
" What is his name ? "
" Pedro Maria Allegrini."
" Was he with you in the wine-shop ? "
" A l l the t i m e . "
" Did you leave together ? "
"No."
"Why?"
" Pedro's head was heavier than his l e g s . "
" Where is Pedro Allegrini ? "
" H e r e , " and he waved his arm toward a heavy,
stolid man among the audience.
His name was noted.

ELLA

LORAINE

DORSEV.

109

" When you saw the two men—the prisoner and
the deceas'ed,—what were they doing ? "
" Struggling: this one actively, the other like a
man heavy with w i n e . "
And so on, and so on, with a circumstantiality
of detail and a distinctness of outline that were
appalling to Father Tom and David's other
friends.
And when Moreno and Allegrini were called they
confirmed all that Pizarro had said up to the hour
of his leaving the house, at two o'clock.
The witnesses for the defence could do only negative service by testifying to David's previous good
character, and this they did heartily; but the jury,
after a half-hour's deliberation, returned a verdict
of murder, commending the prisoner, however, to
the mercy of the court.
When the foreman had spoken, a shrill, heartbroken cry rang through the room: " My son! my
son! Spare him, your honor! spare him! H e ' s
as innocent as a baby! "
It was the old mother, who tore at her gray hair
and beat her breast, while the slow tears of old age
rolled down her cheeks. •
" Poor soul! " said the judge, kindly; " I can
only let the law take its course."
Then she raised her tottering frame, and, with
hands and arms uplifted, she cried: " Mirror of
Justice, defend us! ' '
It was a touching little scene, and many people
in the court-room wiped their eyes; and the pris-

110

SPECUL UM

JUSTITIJE.

oner's drooping head, clenched fists, and laboring
breath, bore witness to the anguish he endured.
Father Tom came to him, and spoke a few cheering words, then took the mother from the courtroom; and the captain and some of David's shipmates followed him to the jail to see him; but,
finding they could not enter, stood about and talked
in low voices of him as one already dead. During
the week they came back one by one, the captain
to shake hands and wish him kindly but vaguely
" well out of i t " ; the sailor-men to shuffle their
feet, shift their quids, and sit about awkwardly and
silently, the very force of their sympathy making
them as undemonstrative as wooden figure-heads.
Then they sailed away, and the Maria di Napoli
spread her canvas wings for the Mediterranean; and
the world forgot David—all except Father Tom,
and his mother, and his lawyer; the latter of whom
had become so deeply interested in his fate that, by
incredible work and judicious appeal and presentment of the case in the right quarters (to say nothing of catching at every technical straw that could
aid him), he secured a final sentence of " imprisonment for life at hard labor."
But this all took months, and it was not until the
jail had blanched his face, and the confinement
almost burst his heart, that David was taken to the
penitentiary, and there, among forgers, murderers,
and criminals of all degrees and grades, put to
work out a life of misery.

ELLA

LORA WE

DORSE Y.

til

II.
Again it was a night in winter, and again the
wind blew and the snow flew—stinging like a swarm
of white bees,—just as it had blown and flown that
other night three years ago, when, in that Northern
seaport town, a man had been stabbed in the
street, and a young sailor was sent to the penitentiary for it;—sent to the penitentiary for life on circumstantial evidence and the testimony of—of the
man who is now, on this bitter winter evening,
creeping along against the houses of that same
town, glancing first over one shoulder, then over
the other, with terror in his eyes, and a shivering
and racking of his body that made progress slow.
Once or twice he stopped, panting for breath; but
started up and hurried on again, looking back fearfully as if pursued.
U p the street a great block of carriages stopped
the way. It was before the house of an old German merchant, who, forty years before, built his
house in the then most fashionable quarter of the
city; but business marched up and on, pushing the
gay world farther and farther northward and westward, until now it was the only dwelling in the
square. But the old merchant lived there contentedly, and on this night his youngest daughter,
his golden-haired Elsa, came of age, and the birthday was celebrated by a great fancy ball.
This the Italian, of course, could not know; for

112

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JUSTITIJE.

he was a stranger, and was, moreover, half crazed
with drink; but what he did know was that at that
point there were people, there was life, there was
the sound of human voices, and above all there was
light, beautiful light,—light that kept at bay the
terrors that rent his soul when night and sleep fell
on the world.
How he hated the dark! It swarmed with such
ugly things; and a face—an awful face, with staring
eyes and rigid lips—would start into such ghastly
distinctness as soon as the sun was down. And it
followed him like a shadow, hounding him from
place to place, filling him with an unnatural vigor,
and an activity that tired out the stoutest of his
boon companions; and when they slept, exhausted,
it still drove him on, tortured, agonized, panicstricken, till the day broke, and the sight of the
crowds helped him to sleep and reason.
As he reached the awning, and pressed close to
the steps, a carriage dashed up to the curb; the
door of the house was flung open for some parting
guests, and for a few minutes a dazzling vision was
revealed — fairies, shepherdesses, arquebusiers,
pages, halberdiers, kings, court ladies, and queens,
in gorgeous colors and flashing jewels. But the
Italian saw none of these; his staring eyes fastened
on a stately figure that seemed to float down toward
him between the rows of orange and palm trees that
lined the staircase. On it came, tall, in flowing
raiment, a cloud of golden hair rippling over its
shoulders from under a crown of light; in one raised

ELLA

LORAWE

DORSE Y.

113

hand a pair of scales, in the other a gleaming sword,
whose point seemed to mark him from the throng.
*i Speculum Justitice! '' he shrieked; ' ' yes, I did
it—I did it! I murdered him! Take me
"
And he fell grovelling at the feet of the policemen, who had forgotten their official stolidity to
stare, open-mouthed, at the lovely Angela von
Henkeldyne, who in her costume of " Justice " had
wrought such innocent vengeance.
On principle they seized the Italian for a rowdy ;
but his repeated cry, " I did it—I murdered him! "
soon attracted their attention, and as he struggled
in a fit, they called up the patrol wagon, and took
him to headquarters. There the police surgeon
took him in hand, until finally, at daybreak, he
recovered consciousness. On being told that he
could not live through the next night, he asked
for a priest, and who but Father Tom was brought
to shrive the poor wretch, and listen to the story
he had to tell!
H e had played, he said, in the wine-shop that
night until midnight with a stranger, who lost
heavily to him, and drank deeply as he played.
But his losses did not seem to depress him, and
tke wines did not confuse him, and Manuel said:
" You are a gallant man, signor. You lose with
grace and courage.'*
And he had answered, with a laugh: " I can
afford to. I have fifty thousand dollars h e r e . "
And he touched his breast.
Manuel raised his eyebrows.

114

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JUSTITI&.

" Don't you believe me? " asked his companion,
with some heat.
Manuel bowed derisively.
" Hang it! " said the man; " I ' m telling you
the simple truth. Look h e r e . " And he drew out
and opened a small doeskin bag slung around his
neck, showing a diamond, the like of which Manuel
had never beheld.
" It sent a madness to my head, Father, and I
felt I must have it, if I had to wade to my eyes in
blood to get it. But he tucked it away again, and
rose. ' I must g o / he said; * I have already
stayed too long.' I pressed him to wait, but he
got restless, and looked at me suspiciously. I asked
where we might meet the next day, and drink our
glass and play our little game of mora. But he
answered he didn't know—he was here to-day, and
there to-morrow, and far away the day after. I laid
my hand on his arm.
' Come, crack another
bottle,' I urged. But he shook me off roughly,
and pushed out of the wine-shop, saying,' Enough's
as good as a feast.'
" I knew the house. There was a cellar that
gave on the street he must pass. I said: ' I must
have a bottle of lachrytna, the vintage of ' 7 3 . ' I
went below—the landlord knows me,—and I opened
the cellar door, and stole after him. In the dark
I tracked him, and struck as I sprang on him.
I wrenched the bag from his neck, and nearly
shrieked as something soft and cold, like a dead
finger, touched my cheek. It was a snow-flake, and

ELLA

LORAINE

DORSE Y.

115

I ran in hot haste back to the shop, so no tracks
could be left. I had struck well—the blood had
not spattered, there was no struggle. It was the
stroke of the Vendetta. The whole affair did not
take twenty minutes, and I came back into the
room, and drank and played. But the diamond in
my breast burned like a coal, and I thought its rays
of splendid fire must be seen; and in at the windows
the dead man's face seemed to look—but that was
only the snow flying past; and I felt drawn back to
the spot, as if he had his hand at the sleeve of my
jacket. But this I fought against, until suddenly I
remembered with terror I had left my knife sticking
in the wound, and I knew I must have it at any
risk. As I crept along I saw a sailor coming up the
street. H e stopped; he touched the body. Here
was my chance. I sprang on him, dragging him
here and there—and he fought well, that boy—like
a wild-cat; and I shouted, i Murder! murder! '
" It all turned out as I hoped. The watch—
poor fools!—never thought to see whether the man
was stiff; and when the coroner arrived, he was too
stiff for question. Then came the trial, and there
the first stone struck m e . "
His face was distorted with emotion.
" That boy I pitied—yes! But it was he or I,
and / preferred to go free. The lies I swore to did
not trouble me at all, for lies and I were bosomfriends; but when that old woman raised her hands
and cried out, ' Mirror of Justice, defend us! ' I
felt a fear; for my medal hung at my neck, and the

116

SPECUL UM JUS

TITI&.

only prayer I had said for years was, sometimes, an
' Ave.'
Habit, I suppose, but it was so—I said it.
And like the thunder on the mountain came the
meaning of that prayer—Speculum Justitice*
And
from that day I was a haunted man. Waking, that
face followed me—the face I had struck into stone
by a knife blow; and if I slept I saw always the
same thing—myself trembling before a great balance, and a sword hanging over my head; but two
hands—a Woman's hands—held down the scalepan, and held back the sword; and through a mist
a face sweet and sorrowful looked down at me, like
the Dolorosa in the home chapel where I made my
First Communion. And my terror lest the hands
should slip or move would wake me with a start,
and there would be the dead man and—and my
memory waiting for m e . "
His voice sank to a whisper, and his eyes stared
gloomily into space.
" What a life it has been! " he went on, wearily.
" I dreaded to be robbed, and yet I dared not sell
for fear of detection; I could not drink for fear I
might betray myself, and for months the diamond
hung like lead on my breast. Then I went to
South America, and from there to Paris, where I
sold it well, with a good story of how I found it at
the mines, and smuggled it away.
" But bad luck followed me. The money went
at play—I lost, lost, lost, at everything; rouge-etnoir, vingt-et-un, roulette, mora—all were alike
against me. Everything I touched failed. My

ELLA

LORAINE

DORSEY.

117

crew got the fever. My Maria was lost off the
Bahamas. My savings went in a bank failure.
And forever and forever Our Lady appeared when
I slept, and the dead man when I waked.
" Then I began to drink hard, and I kept jolly
fellows about me—loud fellows, boisterous fellows,
—and I would hear no word of prayer or hereafter;
for the devil ruled my soul, and I knew I was outcast from heaven. But—will you believe it ?—I
still wore my medal, and might have tried to say
an ' Ave/ but I woke too often shrieking, * Speculum Justitice! ' and out of my own mouth I was
condemned; for what would justice mean for me ?
" To-night the end has come; for I saw with
these " (he touched his eyes), " not sleeping, not
dreaming—awake—the Mirror of Justice. But She
no longer stayed the sword, She no longer touched
the scales. She held both in Her own hands
"
H e stopped, shuddering violently.
" My s o n , " said Father Tom, " what you saw
to-night was not Our Lady, although she might well
have come from heaven to cry justice on your twofold c r i m e / ' H e told him what had really taken
place, closing with, " Now be a man and a true son
of the Church. Come back to the manhood and
the faith you have betrayed. That you repent
truly of these sins I firmly believe, but prove it by
confessing before the proper officers of the law; set
free the innocent man who drags out his days under
an unjust sentence in the penitentiary; and rest
assured when you are weighed in the great scales of

118

SPECULUM

JUST1TIM.

eternal justice, Our Lord's cross will outweigh your
sins, and Our Lady's prayers will stay the sword."
Manuel nodded his head, and with a great effort
raised his eyes to Father T o m ' s . They were still
far too near together for honest dealing as the
spirit understands it, but there was a new light in
them.
" Father, I will, but—but—what will they think
up aloft there, the good Jesu and Sanctissima f I
fear I could not do this if I did not know I was
going to die. I would not have the courage. I,
who call myself a gallant man—I am a coward! "
And two tears rolled down his cheeks.
Father Tom felt a knot in his own throat at this
confession, courageous in its weakness, pathetic in
its falterings; and, although the words of St.
Augustine * seemed to stand out before him in
letters of fire, he thought of that hill on which once
hung three crosses, and he heard a thief cry,
" Lord, be merciful to me a sinner! " and the Voice
that answered through the gathering darkness across
the shuddering earth, " This day shalt thou be with
Me in paradise." And while he sent for the nearest magistrate, he said such words of hope as the
Church alone can breathe to the penitent, teaching
as he did it the meaning of true repentance, and
filling the sinner's heart with humble hope.
After all was over, Manuel begged to see David.
* Beware of delayed repentance. A sick-bed repentance is
too often a sickly repentance; and a death-bed repentance,
alas! is in danger of being a dead repentance.

ELLA LORAINE DORSEY,

19
1

" I dread it, but I cannot go until he forgives
m e , " he said.
And somehow, in spite of technicalities, Father
Tom managed it so the two men met on the third
day; for Manuel spoke the truth when he said he
could not go without forgiveness, and he lived
on until then, to the amazement of t h e prison
physician.
At first David refused outright to see him, for his
heart was bitter with the load of anguish borne
through those three frightful years. But Father
Tom " talked to him," and his mother gave t h e
final stroke that determined him.
" Ye must go, Davie," she said, as she hung on
his neck. " Ye must go, boy; for the Mirror of
Justice is the Mother of Mercy t o o . "
And, oh! the thoughts of t h e two men as they
faced each other!
#

#

*

-H

*

Where is Davie now ? Well, his story got about,
and there was quite a furore of sympathy. Some
good soul started a purse, and big hearts and good
incomes ran the money u p t o enough t o buy him a
half share in a schooner, of which he ultimately
became owner and captain. His old skipper wanted
him back, b u t he did not need to be any man's
man now, except his own—and Our Lady's.
The old mother lived to dandle his children on
her knee, and to take them on sunny Sundays,
sometimes to Father Tom's, and sometimes to a
quiet graveyard by the shore of the bay, where

120

SPECULUM

JUSTITIJE.

they would kneel by a small slab of gray granite,
and pray for him who slept below. And then, as
they rested before starting home, small hands pulled
the weeds from the grave, and picked the lichens
from the letters of the inscription, sometimes spelling them out as they did so. And the spelling
read: " Pray for the soul of Manuel Ignatius
Pizarro. Mirror of Justice, defend him! "

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN was born at Philadelphia, May
24th, 1852. He was sent to one of the first parochial
schools established in his native city, but his education was
chiefly conducted by his mother, a woman of excellent literary taste. He attended La Salle College for a time, but
being obliged to leave on account of his health, he continued
his studies at home, and was enabled to receive his degree of
Master without the customary attendance. He finally took a
course in philosophy at Georgetown College.
For a while he studied law, but eventually drifted into
journalism, and was successively editor of McGee's Weekly,
assistant editor of The Catholic Review, and associate editor
of the New York Freeman's Journal. In 1888 he was

appointed professor of English Literature at Notre Dame
University, which chair he resigned seven years later to
occupy a similar position in the Catholic University of
America.
Mr. Egan is a member of the Authors' Club, the New
York Shakespere Society, and half-a-dozen philological
societies in this country, England, and Germany. He has
travelled extensively and written ' many books, some of
which, including his most successful anonymous novels, he
prefers to forget. His sonnets in the Century have been
widely copied, and have elicited praise from Longfellow,
Cardinal Newman, Stedman, and Gilder. His poetry and
prose differ greatly;—and this, according to Mr. Edmund
Clarence Stedman, is a great advantage. " His verse is
that of a poet; his prose direct, simple, true." And, as in
the example we quote: " How Perseus became a Star,"
he is sometimes almost painfully realistic. We give the
list of his works taken from the book of the Authors' Club
(1896): " That Girl of Mine," "Preludes" (Poems for
the benefit of Notre Dame University), "A Garden of
Roses," " Stories of Duty," " Songs and Sonnets " (1885
and 1894), "The Life Around Us," "The Theatre and
Christian Parents," "Modern Novelists," "Lectures on
English Literature," "The Disappearance of John Longworthy," "A Primer of English Literature," "AGentleman"
(essays for boys), "A Marriage of Reason," "The Success
of Patrick Desmond," "The Flower of the Flock and the
Badgers of Belmont," "Jack Chumleigh," "The Vocation of
Edward Conway," " Influences in Literature,"

1bow Perseus Became a Stat*
A SKETCH

FROM

LIFE.

BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.

I.
CONE CITY is well known now because the Hon.
Perseus G. Mahaffy was born there. The noise he
made in the House of Representatives when it was
found that Golung Creek, on which Cone City has
the happiness to be placed, had been left out of the
first River and Harbor Bill is historical; for, reduced to printed symbols, it is in the Congressional
Globe. H e was known for the last ten years of his
life as the Fixed Star of Golung Creek, and he was
supposed to equal in learning the Sage of Hastings
and in eloquence the Tall Sycamore of the Wabash.
The Cone City Eagle had sung his praises many
times, but when he died it exhausted itself in a
burst of adulation and appeared with a black border.
The opposition paper, the Herald of
Liberty,
dropped its series of letters under the heading
" W h y did H e Change His Name ?" and a respectful tear; although it said editorially that death
condones even the weakness which impels a man to
change his name from Patrick to Perseus. Both
123

124

HOW PERSEUS

BECAME

A

STAR,

papers had long accounts of the services which were
conducted in the First Baptist Church; the lists of
the floral tributes occupied a column, and among
them was a star of lilies-of-the-valley from Col.
Will Brodbeck, who assisted at the service, without,
as he distinctly asserted, taking any part in a mummery which the world had outgrown. Still, CoL
Will Brodbeck's presence at the church was looked
on as a compliment to religion and as showing a
very liberal spirit. The Rev. Mr. Schuyler changed
his text from a passage in Isaias to one in*Robert
Elsmere when he saw that the Colonel was a pallbearer; and the congregation, consisting of the best
people in Cone City, divided its attention between
the widow's appearance and the Colonel's face,
which wore a highly decorous and non-committal
expression.
When the preacher alluded to the
Hon. Perseus G. Mahaffy as one who had cast off
the bonds of early superstition, who had seen the
light lit by Luther and the Fathers of the Reformation, who had died firm in the Protestant belief,
the Colonel looked scornful; and when the Colonel
looked scornful, he was not pretty.
H e was six feet high, and of that pale, waxy
complexion which gamblers, in works of fiction, are
said to possess, with keen black eyes, a mass of
grayish hair, and a broad chest. He took off his
white gloves supplied by the undertaker, and, of
course, too large even for him, and while Mr.
Schuyler made his peroration, toyed with a large
diamond on the little finger of his left hand. The

MAURICE

FRANCIS

EG AN.

125

mocking look in his eyes became more evident as
the diamond flashed with his nervous movements,
for he knew why and how the Hon. Perseus G.
Mahaffy had died.
The widow of the subject of Mr. Schuyler's
eulogies, a handsome woman with a haughty manner
and eyes like Col. Brodbeck's—she was his sister—
sat with her three children near the coffin. She
did not appear to be interested in the minister's discourse, and as it was known that she had had
violent differences of opinion with the deceased,
and that he had left a large life insurance, many of
the assembly felt that she should have shown more
signs of grief. Clara, her eldest daughter, a girl of
sixteen, bent over the pew in front of her, a shapeless mass of black; the two boys seemed sad and
bewildered rather than grief-stricken.
When the long prayer was over and the choir,
assisted by the Masonic Temple Quartette, had
sung " Almost Persuaded/' which was hastily
chosen with reference to the supposed effect of the
sermon on Col. Brodbeck, the funeral procession
moved slowly from the church. Nothing unusual
happened until Mrs. Mahaffy reached the door.
An old woman in a bonnet and gown of rusty
black bombazine rushed forward from a corner of
the vestibule and caught Mrs. Mahaffy's hand.
" Can you tell me—will you tell me, in the presence of the dead, how he died ?" she said in a hasty
and trembling voice.
The widow snatched away her hand and passed

126

HOW PERSEUS

BECAME

A

STAR.

on. Clara Mahaffy unconsciously raised her head
at the words, and the old woman caught sight of
the gentle face, so like that of her father in his best
moods.
" Oh, dear! oh, acushla! " the old woman said
with a pathetic ring in her words, " maybe you can
tell me—maybe you were told
"
But she was thrust aside by the undertaker, and
the mourners passed into the street. The longing,
despairing eyes of the old woman, so wretched in
appearance, so wretched in heart, never left the
girl's mind until the answer to that strange question
was found.
II.
T h e opposition paper of Cone City made a mistake when it asserted that Perseus Mahaffy had
dropped the name of Patrick. H e often remarked
that he would not have been fool enough to do
that. If he had been named Patrick, it would have
been money in his pocket, for the vote which is
supposed to be attracted by that venerable name
was strong in Cone City, and sometimes held the
balance of power, but he had changed his name.
His mother came from a part of Tipperary where
Boethius is a cherished patronymic, and he had
been called by that name. He had dropped it for
Perseus Gifford, because Perseus Gifford took an
interest in the clever young Irish lad, and helped
him to study law, and because Perseus was an hon-

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ored name in Cone City; it gave an air of " A m e r i canism M to his surname, which, until the Irish vote
became a factor in politics, he cursed with all his
might. His father had died when he was eleven
years of age. His mother, a rosy-cheeked, wrinkled
old woman, who adored her son, had passed away
about a year before Mr. Schuyler had delivered his
funeral oration. He had got " beyond her," as
she said towards the last, when he and his wife and
her grandchildren passed the end of her little garden
every evening without coming in. She shed many
bitter tears over thig, but she never blamed him;
in her heart she laid the guilt of this desertion on
his wife.
A h ! what an angel of light he would have been
had it not been for this wife! she exclaimed to herself often in the twilight when she sat alone. These
idle hours in the dusk were the hardest for her to
bear. She could see the lights in her son's house
from where she sat. There were sounds of music
and of children singing—his children, her grandchildren, yet so far from her. She could never bear
the music of those childish voices. She always
shut the windows when they began and tried to say
her beads. H e was a good son still; did he not
send her -ever)' week from the bank enough money
—more than enough—to keep her in comfort ?
But oh! if she could only go back again to the old
days when he was a little boy, and such an affectionate little fellow! How he used to cry when she
sang an old song to him in the gloaming, after she

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had done her day's work and they were waiting for
the father. It was all about a little girl that lived
in a red house by the sea, without sister or brother
or father or mother. She often tried to recall it:
** I sit alone in the twilight,
While the wind comes sighing to me,
And I see that dear little orphan
In the little red house by the sea."

Surely the loving little boy, whose eyes filled
with tears every time she sang those simple words,
could not have changed entirely. She had made
his heart cold, the mother said of his wife; she had
made him forget church and priest, and even hi$
mother.
It must be admitted that the old woman would
not restrain herself when, soon after his marriage,
her son had often come to see her. She had never
spared his wife, and from this fact had sprung the
coldness which prevented him from going to see
her. It was none the less hard for the warmhearted old woman. She took no pleasure in her
son's political successes; her only consolation,
besides her religious duties, was in the company of
one more unhappy, if possible, than herself. This
was an old Irishwoman, Mrs. Carney, who lived in
an unpainted and bare-looking frame house at the
back of her garden.
Frank Carney had been in the district school with
Perseus—Mrs. Mahaffy never called him by that
name, but always " the Boy "—and he had entered

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the same Lodge as that enterprising politician when
the time came to cast off allegiance to the faith.
Frank, a blue-eyed, light-haired, good-natured
young man, was not quite so clever as Perseus, and
not quite so unscrupulous. H e had more conscience ; but he had no firmness of will in face of a
laugh. Moreover, he was fond of society; and,
according to the constitution of Cone City, Catholics were not socially eligible. He was gay, cheerful, with a fatal facility for making himself agreeable. He was handsome; he could dance well,
and he soon acquired those graces which Cone City
had lately grasped with the "swallow t a i l " and
ether metropolitan novelties. Perseus took him
into his law office, and from that time Mrs. Carney's life became bitter. Her only son dropped
his habit of going to Mass with her; he seldom
came home; he promised when he did come that
" he'd make his soul by and by "—and this with a
laugh.
But when she heard that he had been
promoted—Cone City looked on this as a promotion
—to the friendship of Col. Brodbeck, the notorious
infidel, her heart sank; she refused to be comforted.
Mrs. Mahaffy knew that her son had drawn
Frank Carney from the way of peace. She never
admitted it, nor did Mrs. Carney speak of it. But
any one who knew the two old women could not
help seeing that on one side was a desire to make
amends, and on the other a determination to accept
kindness simply because it relieved the one who
conferred it. Each of these two old friends—they

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were born on the banks of the Suir, had crossed on
the same ship, and had lost their husbands at the
same time—bore her burden better because each
thought the other's was the heavier. At last old
Mrs. Mahaffy died, blessing her son. He, being
absent at a political convention, was not present to
receive that blessing.
And so great was this
admirable man's horror of superstition, and so strong
his desire not to give bad example to his fellowtownsmen, that he telegraphed to his mother's
pastor to bury her at once with solemn services.
H e did this because he wanted to be sure of his
nomination and because he did not care to be seen
entering the Catholic church. Old Mrs. Carney,
who had never said a word against Perseus, burst
out at the funeral of her friend. " If I had such a
son," she cried, " Fd curse h i m ! "
III.
Perseus had begun to be a star when he married
the late Judge Brodbeck's daughter. Judge Brodbeck came of an old English family, but this would
have mattered very little in the town of Cone City
had not the judge made a great deal of money in
railroad speculations. People said the railroads had
influenced his decisions on the bench; but as he
was rich there was a certain respect for him mixed
with this censure. The judge had been the strictest of strict Calvinists; his two children, the colonel
and Clara, hated Presbyterianism.

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Clara meeting Perseus by chance at one of the
dancing assemblies, found him to be a pleasant
contrast to the business-sodden men around her.
And the colonel, her brother, who saw that Perseus
was vain as well as clever, did not object to the
intimacy.
When the marriage was announced
Cone City was amazed. The ceremony was performed in the First Baptist Church, simply because
Clara held that a religious ceremony was socially
respectable.
But on that day the mother of the bridegroom
knelt before the crucifix in her little room. Her
son had become an apostate to gain prosperity—
he, the descendant of martyrs! After this Perseus
had fewer scruples; the die was cast; his mother's
entreaties fell on callous ears.
Colonel Brodbeck determined to take advantage
of Perseus' vanity, as well as of his cleverness. It
was Perseus' • misfortune that his horizon was
bounded by Cone City. No parvenu who had suddenly married a princess could have been more
elated than was Perseus by his marriage.
" You have given up your God, your soul," his
mother had said to him, " for nothing."
" I have never seen God or my soul, mother,"
he had answered. " See here, mother, I want a
big house, I want to be rich, I want to be one of
the best people of this town, and you can't be that
if you're poor; for all these reasons I've married
Clara Brodbeck. I'll get the best out of life I can,
and take my chances."

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" And you'll turn your back on the Church and
the priest for this! Sure, you've already joined a
secret society."
" Everybody knows that. As soon as I learned
to read I learned that I must get on or live down
here in this shanty, despised—nobody. I was born
of the poor; everybody looked down on the ' Irish
boy '—I'm no more Irish than they are English or
German or anything else—and the Irish boy had
patches on his clothes, and he went to the church
to which only the hewers of wood and the drawers
of water went."
" And his mother was only a poor Irishwoman! "
said Mrs. Mahaffy, with a flash of sarcasm.
" She couldn't help that
"
" But her son would have helped being her son,
if he could."
Perseus reddened. H e admitted the truth of this
in his heart.
" You ought to be proud of me, mother. I've
leaped over the bounds that kept me out of everything worth having.
I have an assured position
in the town, and my children will have all the
advantages which I lacked. My wife is the most
cultured woman
"
" God help us! " interjected the mother, " you'd
think he was talking of Dublin after having married
a great lord's daughter! You're too ignorant to
know the miserable price for which you've sold your
soul. Your grandmother starved in the famine
rather than change her religion, or seem to change

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it even for a moment. Why was your father poor ?
Why were we exiles ? For one reason only: we
kept the faith."
" I've heard all this before, mother,*' he said,
" and there's no money in i t . "
" And you're leading young Frank Carney away,
t o o , " the old woman had said, exhausted and
despondent.
Perseus only shrugged his shoulders. H e was
satisfied that he had done the best he could for
himself. The duty of making money was the first
recognized in Cone City. " Put money in thy
p u r s e , " the spirit of the town whispered through
every medium. The churches were valued according to their financial status. The Presbyterians
were in the ascendant in money matters; therefore
their " socials " and meetings were best attended.
The Catholic priest was respected because he paid
his bills promptly and would not permit himself to
be cheated.
The Protestant-Episcopalians were
poor, their minister was a Canadian of high-church
proclivities, and though some " nice p e o p l e " sat
under him—people who wore diamonds and sealskin—yet they were, as a rule, " looked down
on."
Perseus must have been stronger than he was to
have escaped the fever of money-making.
He
saw that in a Protestant and highly total abstaining
town, Colonel Brodbeck's infidelity and moderate
fondness for whiskey were condoned because of his
wealth. Money could do anything, he concluded; it

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might even open the way socially to a Catholic, provided he were not too Irish. He had a somewhat
better education than the other boys; for Father
Deschamps taught the little school—he was too
poor to pay a teacher. When Perseus had left it
and gone to the district school, the kind priest,
discerning the boy's talent, had made him read
Cicero and Virgil. Father Deschamps was replaced
by another pastor, and Perseus was left to the
deadening influence around him. Having planned
his career, he was somewhat relieved to have Father
Deschamps go. And yet he never felt that he was
ungrateful; he became so entirely absorbed in his
desire to be rich that it seemed only right that all
the world should aid. H e became his own Buddha;
he was rapidly losing himself in self.
Colonel Brodbeck admired Perseus' capabilities.
" If the fellow," he said to himself, " only knew
his ability, and if his confounded snobbishness did
not prevent him seeing how superior he is to these
Cone City chumps, he'd get away from here as soon
as possible. But he looks on the Cone City settler
as one of a superior race.''
The colonel grinned sardonically, and opened a
letter about the selling of the Cone City water-front
to the new railroad company, whose stock was
mostly owned in Chicago.
" A h ! " he said, " we shall find some work here
for Perseus.
Perseus was sent to Congress. And just before
the day of election the rival candidate brought out

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the old story about his having changed his name.
Both of the Cone City papers had his mother " interviewed/' According to the friendly journalist,
she was a " handsome old lady, living in opulence
provided by an adoring s o n . " The other journal
said she was a " decent old woman, bowed down
by her son's neglect, and living in comparative
squalor." All the old woman could be induced to
say was that she " would not have cared how often
' the Boy ' changed his name, if he had only stuck
to his religion."
This brought a card from Perseus. H e protested
that religion had no place in politics. His religion
was his private affair. H e would allow no human
being to interfere between him and his God. His
Irish friends, he hoped, would remember that,
though an American in every fibre of his being, he
loved, next to the principles of 1776, the principles
of Home Rule. While he lived he would oppose
any state tax on church property. To be honest
was the first commandment of his religion; and he
hoped, in Congress, to show that this religion influenced every act.
T h e card was effective; the Home Rule phrase
and that about church property helped him very
much, though he promised the Methodist minister
to lecture at an early date on " Roman T y r a n n y , "
—a promise which he did not intend to keep.
To be frank, Perseus believed that he was only
diplomatic, not dishonest; he often said to himself
that people did not know how good he was. His

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wife's indifference about religion annoyed him. H e
held that a woman ought to be religious; but Clara
laughed.
" The children shall choose their own religion/'
she said one evening, after one of the Cone City
functions called a " coffee." Sixty leading Cone
City ladies had eaten chicken salad and ices with
her from three until six, and the probable conversion of one of their number to Catholicity had been
discussed. li Cora Bramber is going to turn Catholic, and I must say I like her spirit."
" I thought you hated Catholics," Perseus
said.
" I ? Good gracious, n o ! I think they are more
consistent than other denominations. And I don't
see why they should be held responsible for the
awful things the Jesuits and popes did long ago.
I ' m sure the Puritans were bad enough."
" You wouldn't want the children to be Catholics, Clara."
" If they were rich and could do as they please,
I think I would. But Providence, if there is a
Providence, seems rather hard on people when he
makes them Catholic and poor at the same time.
The children must have some religion or other. I
can keep straight without religion; I've a natural
tendency towards respectability, and you're a good
husband; but Perseus, I wouldn't trust anybody
else. I ' m thinking of sending Clara to a convent
school.
Perseus set down his coffee cup in amazement-—

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he was in the act of making a collation from the
remains of the afternoon feast.
" I won't have i t , " he said; " it would ruin the
girl's prospects, Clara. Who'd marry a Catholic
here, and if she goes to a convent, she might
"
" If there's anything that exasperates m e , "
answered his wife, calmly washing the silver, " it's
your foolish reverence for Cone City, people.
They're only people who came here to earn a living;
they're the sort of people who go to Europe every
year to complete an education that was never
begun at home. If Clara has money, she might be
a Mohammedan. Haven't you learned that yet ?
She'll be safe in a convent school."
" Well, I'll lose the Methodist vote, t h a t ' s a l l . "
" No, you won't, nor the Baptist either. T h e
anti-church-tax-property stand holds all denominations. Besides, haven't I given five hundred dollars
for the Methodist chapel? You'll gain more Catholic votes than "you ever had. Anyhow, I will have
Clara well taken care of. I know our boardingschools too well. The nuns may make her narrowminded, but they'll keep her gentle. The others
make their girls both narrow-minded and aggressive. > »
Perseus was silent. After all, it was like the
sound of far-off bells, sweet to his ears, to think
that his child might say the same old prayers and
kneel before the tabernacle. Nevertheless he would
not sacrifice anything for this. As Clara took the
responsibility, he left it to her. H e was resolved

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that the boys should not be handicapped by
religion.
H e took his wife to the opera-house that night
to hear her brother lecture on " The Beautiful in
Life." The theatre was crowded. The colonel
was very florid in his speech. H e said that beauty
was religion, and if religion and the enjoyment of
the beautiful were opposed, religion must go.
" If God is a God of terror," he repeated, " God
must go; when men's souls shall have attuned
themselves to the grace of the Venus of Milo
rather than to Churchly ideas of womanhood, when
the use of money shall mean more beauty in life,
then virtue and sensuous enjoyment shall be one
and life be c o m p l e t e / '
" I suppose you'd like Clara to hear that kind of
stuff," Perseus' wife said as they drove home.
'* It was very p r e t t y , " said Perseus; " I d o n ' t
quite see what it means; it certainly makes religion
very attractive. Like you, the colonel does not
seem to need religion in order to be g o o d . "
His wife laughed. " I don't know about that;
but I know what he means—he means free love.
As for religion, we all need it. Do you know, if
you had stuck to your religion I should have had
more respect for you, and it is probable I might
have become a Catholic myself. There are times,
Perseus, when your silly admiration for Cone City
makes you very tiresome. As for my brother,
can't you see that he is not a good man ? H e
believes in God in his heart, of course he does!

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The way he protests against it shows that he does.
As for myself, I dislike any unreasonable and illogical belief founded on man's dictum and the Bible.
But I don't know Catholicism. I might like it.
W e all need religion—my brother worse than anybody I k n o w , " she added with a short laugh.
" There is nothing in our times, except religion, to
keep a woman from dropping a husband she does
not like and taking one she does; and no religion
can do it effectively except yours—I beg pardon,
I mean the religion you have progressed out of.
There's Mrs. Churton—she's been divorced twice,
and yet she's head and front among the Congregationalists.''
" You don't mean to say that you'd
" Perseus almost gasped, as he turned to his wife.
" I don't mean to say anything but that Clara
shall be fortified against the dangers that would
beset me if I cared for any other man than y o u . "
This was frank enough. Perseus shuddered as he
heard it. H e imagined his mother saying such a
thing! N o ; toil-worn, uneducated, old-fashioned
as she was, there was a bloom of innocence and
womanliness about his mother which his wife
lacked. Such frankness gradually built up a wall
of distrust between them. Later, she differed with
him almost habitually; and she was generally right.
Finally, she came almost to despise him.
T h e question of the sale of the water-front came
up. Perseus and Colonel Brodbeck opposed it. It
meant robbery. It would open the door to mo-

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nopoly. It was an outrage on the rights of the
people. It was because of his course in this matter
that he was sent to Congress a third time, and was
enabled to second some of his brother-in-law's
schemes very effectively. Frank Carney had been
his constant supporter. Frank had now no legitimate business; he was devoted to politics, he lived
by subsidies from the Hon. Perseus and Colonel
Brodbeck. H e was their slave, and the more selfrespect he lost the more valuable he became.
Somebody must do the dirty work in politics, and
Frank's hand, once in the mire, did a great deal of
it. His mother said this to him about Easter-time,
when she was urging him to go to his " d u t y . "
" I can't, mother," he said; " don't ask me.
I'd have to get out of politics if I did. When I've
made my pile," he added, with a rather timid
attempt at a laugh, " I'll r e p e n t . "
" They say that you and Colonel Brodbeck have
robbed right and left. I can't bear to hear such
things."
11
Oh! it's newspaper lies. Don't you see the
colonel is a big man for all that ? It doesn't make
much difference in this country where you get
money, so that you get i t . "
The old woman could only cry and wring her
hands. She saw that her son had begun to drink,
and it was said that he gambled. Prayer, constant
and unwearying, was her only resource.
The railroad company wanted the water-front
badly. Its counsel and directors knew that Colonel

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Brodbeck and Perseus controlled the council of Cone
City, of which the colonel was the attorney. Had
the colonel and the Hon. Perseus a price ? An
answer to this question was easily obtained through
Frank Carney. They had, and it was high. Perseus
was at first inclined to be honest, but the colonel
laughed at him.
" Nonsense," he said, " that sort of thing went
out of fashion with religion. You felt yourself
trammelled in the process of making your career
by your Catholicism, and you gave it up. W h y
should you keep up the bondage after you've
emancipated yourself ? It ought to be a whole hog
or none. There's no confession to be afraid of
now."
Perseus laughed uneasily. H e had the feeling
" a s if "—his mother would have said i t — " somebody was walking over his grave.''
His wife was shocked by the change of view on
the waterside question. She spoke her opinion
very plainly. " I might have k n o w n , " she said in
her most cutting tones,'" that it was t a risk to marry
an apostate, but I never imagined this disgrace.
O h ! my brother ? My brother is an infidel, but
you pretend to be a Christian still!/'
After this Perseus knew that his wife despised
him, though he had cleaved the ether and was a
star. H e winced under sarcasm; ridicule withered
him; he distrusted her. What guarantee had he
that she, not looking at their bond from the
point of view of duty, might not desert him at any

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moment ? Clara, his daughter, was at a convent
school; his boys were also away; his life was
wretchedly unhappy—but it was growing richer in
this world's goods every day.
The " d e a l " between the Cone City syndicate
and the railroad company had been arranged very
neatly through Frank Carney. There had been no
tell-tale checks in the matter. Frank had delivered
thirty thousand dollars to two of the most potent
men.
T h e council had been managed, but no
one knew who did it, so that while popular indignation struck the council, it never even glanced
on the colonel and his brother-in-law.
It was
cleverly arranged—there was no scandal; Perseus
admired his diplomacy and his success, for thirty
thousand dollars was a great sum in Cone City, and
yet it was the beginning of disaster.
Frank Carney, good-natured, plastic, credulous,
began to see that he was only a tool. H e had been
almost ignored in the division, of the spoil. H e
feared Perseus and the colonel too much to find
fault openly.
But his discontent was growing.
H e was in this mood in the spring, when Easter
came again. His mother met him one morning,
just after old Mrs. Mahaffy's death; she stood and
looked at him with yearning eyes. H e had been
drinking all night; but he was sober enough.
" What is it, mother ? " he said.
" What is it, dear ? I'm just thinking that I'd
give the world to have my own boy back
again.

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X43

In the early sunlight as she turned away, Frank
saw a tear on her cheek.
" I f God helps me, you shall, m o t h e r , " he called
after her; and then he said to himself: " She's
worth it all; I'll surprise her; I ' m tired of the
mud."
IV.
I t happened that the Hon. Perseus G. Mahaffy
and Colonel Brodbeck were asked to speak before
a spring meeting of the Farmers' Alliance one
Saturday night.
The colonel made an address
which was not well received. It was not vaguely
atheistical—it was not humorously atheistical; it
was openly immoral—a plea for " affinities," an
apology for a law granting easier divorces. It was
hissed by the farmers who had tolerated his jokes
on the Divinity and his amusing caricatures of
modern Calvinism. Going home with Perseus and
Frank Carney, his humor was ferocious.
The
" B e a u t i f u l " — n o t even Goethe's " H e l e n a " or
the march in " Lohengrin "—could have made him
less savage. It was strange that the panaceas
recommended by the colonel for other people rarely
answered for himself.
The three were walking; it was a moonlight
night.
Perseus was well satisfied with himself;
Frank Carney was moody. They were passing the
arbor-vitae hedge which separated his mother's
little house from the road.

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" Do you know, colonel, I have concluded to go
back to my first love and get out of your infidel
clique, and likewise out of politics ? You haven't
treated me right; but that makes no difference
now. I'm going into the insurance business at
Oxhart next week, and I shall follow my conscience.
I ' m a Catholic at heart and I'll be one practically,
with God's help, after this. A speech like the one
you made to-night ought to make us all religious."
" Who hasn't treated you right ? " The colonel
stood still and confronted Carney.
" You ought to k n o w . " They were standing
near the new railroad embankment, and Carney
paused near the edge to answer the colonel.
" I suppose you mean that as a t h r e a t , " sneered
the colonel. " I suppose you think we're afraid
you'll go and confess certain little things to a priest.
But you can't frighten us. If you want money,
why don't you say so, instead of trying a monkey
trick like this ? "
Frank Carney's face turned ashy.
" I don't want thieves' m o n e y . "
He had no sooner spoken the words than the
colonel raised his fist. Frank Carney tried to guard
himself; the colonel struck him, and he fell down
the embankment, a descent of twenty feet. H e lay
still among the stones; then he groaned. Perseus
and the colonel went to the ladder at the side, and
with some effort dragged him up to the hedge near
his mother's house. There was a deep cut on his

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forehead, and another on the back of his head; his
face was white. The colonel felt his pulse.
" H e can't live.''
T h e wounded man opened his eyes, and his lips
moved in a mute appeal.
' " H e wants a p r i e s t / ' whispered Perseus. " Stay
with him, while I run to the town; it's not half a
mile."
T h e colonel showed his white teeth.
" A priest, you fool! Do you want him to ruin
us with his silly nonsense ? He knows too much.
Let him confess to us; we'll keep his secrets.'*
" H e must have a priest, colonel."
Again the dying man opened his lips and tried
to raise his hands.
The colonel looked at Perseus in his ugliest way.
" You're a nice person to be talking of priests—you
that pretend to hate them. I can't afford to have
a priest come here; neither can you! "
Perseus stood irresolute. He felt as if he were
killing a soul. But he had let the colonel's evil
will dominate him so long that he could not resist
it now. A t the same time his last hope of all better
things seemed to die out as he steeled his heart
against Frank Carney's whisper, " A priest."
Carney's voice grew stronger in his agony: " For
God's sake, get me Father Lovel—he's not far—
my mother. I t ' s all I ask. I can't stand this much
longer."
" You hear his confession, if you're so anxious
about i t , " said the colonel, mockingly.

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Perseus had become accustomed to wince at that
tone. He turned away from the agonized face of
his friend, and went down the road; and then it
seemed to him that his own soul went to hell and a
devil of despair took possession of his body. The
colonel soon rejoined him, and spoke in his coolest
voice.
" H e ' s dead. The thing's awkward; but I just
dropped my whiskey-flask into his pocket and
rolled him down the embankment.
Everybody
knows he drank. That will account for it all when
he's found. We'll say he left us at the Junction.
The idiot!"
Nobody cared much, except Frank's old mother.
She heard that he had died almost at her door.
The whiskey-flask part of the story was mercifully
kept from her.
" It accounted for it all," as the
colonel had predicted.
But the Hon. Perseus Mahaffy was never quite
himself again. One night, in the autumn, he made
a great speech at the closing dinner of the trustees
of the County Fair. It was said to be the effort of
his life. The colonel, who had noticed the change
in him since the night of Frank Carney's death,
watched his face intently. At first he sneered at
the orator's grandiloquence; then his expression
became more serious. When the Hon. Perseus
began his peroration and was interrupted by cheers
for the Star of Golung Creek, the colonel noticed a
fixed look in his eyes, and when he again attempted
to go on he stammered.
Suddenly the words

MAURICE

FRANCIS

EG AN.

147

seemed to freeze on his lips; he looked at the large
pyramid of fruit and flowers before him as if it were
a human being of threatening aspect. The colonel
jumped up and caught him as he was falling, crying
out, " What's the matter ? "
" I thought I saw Ms ghost," he whispered.
" It has killed m e ; for God's sake, send for a
priest! "
" N o n s e n s e ! " returned the colonel.
"What
good will a priest do you ? Here, take this brandy."
Perseus thrust the little glass away from him.
" A priest! " he whispered again and again. But
the group around him thought he was raving.
Who among them had ever connected him with a
priest ? The sneer came back to the colonel's face
as he made room for the doctor. In less than an
hour he was in convulsions.
H e never spoke
again; the horror of it all was that his eyes remained
open, and the look in their depth was as if he
longed to speak. At last, a look of agony crossed
his face as if he saw an awful thing. Then he died.
T h e doctor gave his disease a medical name; the
colonel said to himself that it was superstition,
acting on a weak mind. And his last words had
been: " Success, gentlemen, is not measured by
material prosperity. It consists in being true to
ideals, in sacrificing all aims and objects which are
not truth's. That is success in the sight of God.
All other things named success are illusions."
His daughter did not forget the face of the old
woman who had pulled her mother's frock at the

148

HOW PERSEUS

BECAME

A

STAR.

funeral. She found out her name and made her
acquaintance. Poor Mrs. Carney prayed for her
son as only a mother in doubt about a son's soul
can pray.
" If I only knew how he d i e d ! " Mrs. Carney
wailed constantly; " if I only knew how he died!
I've often thought your father might know whether
he was prepared or not."
Clara understood her; she knew that the mother's
thoughts were on her son's soul. She could say
nothing; she did not dream that her father and the
colonel knew only too well.
It happened that just before the summer vacation, Clara at the convent had finished a little picture of the Sacred Heart for Mrs. Carney. The
chaplain, Father Morgan, was about to go to Cone
City, and he had promised to take charge of it for
her. Clara knew that the sight of his genial face
would do Mrs. Carney good.
" Mrs. Carney," he said, reading the address.
" Is that the mother of the poor young man who
died under such strange circumstances last spring ?
A h ! indeed," he continued musingly, in answer to
Clara's assent. " I saw him that very afternoon.
I was hearing confessions in the German church,
and he came to me just as I was leaving the box.
H e introduced himself and asked for some advice
about the examination of his conscience.
I
answered him by taking him back to the box and
hearing his confession. Poor young man! "
Clara's cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled. She

MAURICE

FRANCIS

EG AN.

149

had found out how Frank Carney died; now she
knew that he had passed from earth with the cleansing dew of absolution upon him.
She thanked
Father Morgan and ran off to get permission from
the mother-superior to go with him to Cone City;
she gave her reason, and as a great and special favor
it was granted.
" What would you like most to have? " she asked,
when the old woman had greeted the priest and
kissed her.
" To know that I should see my boy again in
heaven, to know that he died well," she answered
with a tremor in her voice. Then Clara and Father
Morgan made her happy.
Colonel Brodbeck has begun to have more than a
local reputation. His " Life of the Honorable Perseus G. Mahaffy " is much praised. The description of Perseus' " conversion " from Romanism to
a serene state of religious indifference is particularly
well done. His sister seldom sees him; she is in
doubt. " If I were anything," she says, " I would
be a Catholic, like Clara—that is, if all Catholics
were * like her.
But Perseus' example and the
example of so many like him make me pause.
There's plenty of time." And she says to herself:
" I'll send the boys to a Catholic school next year,
in the hope that they will grow up unlike Perseus
and the colonel."
When the Rev. Mr. Schuyler remonstrates with
her, she tells him that she has tried Calvinism and
agnosticism, and found them hollow; what is left to

150

HOW

PERSEUS

BECAME

A

STAR.

her but the Church ? And then she wonders why
Perseus turned away from it. " H e must have
been weak," she thinks, with a curl of her lip; she
cannot say this to him; he has gone.

FRANCIS J. FINN, SJ.
THERE was a time, not so long ago, when there were no
Catholic boys in fiction, that is, no boys of one's own
species in the books which boys read as idealized pictures of
their own lives. There were plenty of good little boys who
were always undergoing persecution for the sake of their
religion, and of smart boys who always had the best of an
argument with the minister, but there were no pictures of
the real American Catholic boy. In the great crowd of
story-writers there was none to give a picture of the life of
the American Catholic boy. Suddenly, while most of us

were bewailing ihe fate of our children without books
specially their ov/n. Father Finn came. He has never
told us whether he thought he had a mission to boys or not.
Probably not, since "Tom Playfair" was written with no
idea of publication. But the boys liked him and his books
better than any books they had read, because he understood
them and because when he wrote he became a boy again.
It is the kindness, the cheerfulness, the earnest sympathy,
and the idealism of Father Finn that makes boys love him.
By idealism we mean his power of illuminating the boy so
that he sees himself as he would like to be ; and his power,
too, of showing the boys' teacher as he ought to be.
Father Finn takes the boy as he is; he has no illusions
about him,—but he strives to make him better by shov/ing
that boys may be honorable and spiritual-minded without
losing all the qualities which the growing man esteems and
loves in his heroes. And what the boy loves in his heroes
he strives to imitate.
Father Finn was born at St. Louis on October 4, 1859.
He entered the Society of Jesus on March 4th, 1879,
and was ordained priest in 1893. He was Professor in St.
Louis University and in St. Mary's College, Kansas, and
Professor of English Literature in Marquette College,
Milwaukee.
Father Finn's published books are: "Percy Wynn,"
"Tom Playfair," " Harry Dee," "Claude Lightfoot,"
"Mostly Boys," " Faces Old and New," "Ada Merton,"
" Ethelred Preston." -He is at present engaged on another
story, which will no doubt be the equal of the others.

fl>2 Strange Jf rien&*
BY FRANCIS J. F I N N , S.J.
I.
A FEW days after Christmas, I was sitting in my
room, nursing an incipient cold, and wondering
when my health would permit me to return to the
seminary. At this period of my life, I was heir to
many ills, prominent among which was the dyspepsia. Headache in the morning from eight to ten,
headache in the afternoon from two till about four,
headache at night from seven indefinitely, then
bed;—this constituted my daily order, dull enough
surely in the reading, but painfully dismal in the
realization.
The cessation of my morning headache was almost
due, when my sister, singing gayly, tripped into
my room with a letter, which she handed me with
a mock bow.
" I am very much obliged to you, my dear, for
bringing me this letter," I remarked; " but now
really couldn't you dispense with your feminine
war-whoop when you're in my room ? "
153

154

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

" Oh, you great, big, dyspeptic bear," she laughed
out, " you want me to take pattern after yourself,
and go about like an unsuccessful undertaker ? "
I felt my gorge rising at her remark, and was
tempted to say something ungracious and bitter, as
she danced out through the door-way. That's the
way with us dyspeptics; we have no sympathy for
sweet human life, and are especially high with our
near relatives.
Without stopping, however, to analyze my feelings, I tore open the letter and read:
FAIRMOUNT G R O V E , Jan.

MR. THOMAS

12,

1874.

MAXON:

Dear old Tom, I can never forgive myself the
language I used previous to our parting. What a
pity that supper ever came off at all. But I am
now so heartily ashamed and penitent that I know
you will forgive and forget. And now you can do
me a great, a very great service, and I feel positive
that you will not refuse me. I have heard that you
are unwell. Come out here in the pure country air
and spend a month with me. It will surely do you
good, while beyond all doubt it will serve me
untold gain. O my dear, dear friend (for I trust
that you have already forgiven me, and are my
friend again), come and see me. I have changed
greatly, and am very miserable. The strange darkness that has come over my life, I may not, cannot
tell. Some terrible power imposes silence upon
me, though I would give worlds to confide it to
you, dear Tom. But come, come; let yourself be
the answer to this note. Ever your loving friend,
WILBER

STONE,

FRANCIS

J. FINN,

S.J.

J

55

I read this letter with mingled sentiments of
pleasure and of pain; pleasure, that it reconciled me
with the dearest friend of my boyhood; pain, that
judging by the tenor of his communication, a terrible, saddening change had come upon him.
Wilber Stone and myself had been chums at
college. Beginning together, we had gone on from
class to class, dividing (let me say in all modesty)
the honors between us. While studying Rhetoric,
a prize was offered for the best essay on Longfellow. W e were both admirers of the poet, and
set to work at the task with ardor. The day before
the essays were to be handed in, Wilber, on invitation, came to my house to see my paper. H e read
it carefully, praising what pleased him, and, like a
true friend, frankly pointing out what he considered
its defects.
" Well, Wilber," I said when he had finished,
" suppose you let me see your own essay."
" Willingly," he answered, and took from his
coat a bundle of manuscript.
I read it eagerly.
" It's no use my handing in," I remarked, when
I had come to the end of it. " Your essay will
certainly take first place: no boy in the class can
come near it."
" You think it better than your own ? "
" Better! " I exclaimed warmly. " Why, Wilber, I couldn't write like that in a year's time.
Yes, Wilber, my boy, I'm beaten squarely."
A strange look came over his face. But, instead

156

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

of continuing the conversation, he caught up his
hat, bade me good evening, and abruptly left the
house.
A month later the gold medal was awarded.
" The prize for the best essay on Longfellow is
awarded to
" Here the vice-president of the
college paused to clear his throat. I was sitting
next to Wilber, and patted him on the back.
" Get ready to go up, old b o y , " I whispered.
Wilber's face was strangely pale; and so nervous
had he grown that he was unable to return my smile.
" Is awarded," the vice-president continued, " to
Thomas Maxon."
This was one of the greatest surprises of my
school life. Amidst hearty applause, I found myself—how I got there I know not—on the stage,
receiving from the hands of the president the gold
medal. But I was far from being satisfied.
" Wilber," I said, when I had regained my seat,
" this is a mistake."
" Next in merit," continued the vice-president,
now that the applause had subsided, " George
Murray and Francis Elaine."
" W h a t ! " I gasped. " W h y you're not even
mentioned. I'm going to ask our professor about
this just as soon as this affair is over."
" No, no, T o m , " whispered Wilber more nervous
than before; " you mustn't do any such thing.
You have honestly earned the medal."
I attributed his nervousness and his words to
bitter disappointment,

FRANCIS

/ . FINN,

S.J.

157

" But I will," I answered hotly, for I was burning
with indignation at what I could not but consider a
cruel mistake.
My dear friend spent some time in persuading
me not to make any inquiries in the matter; but
he was unsuccessful.
" Mr. Warden," I said, touching my cap to my
professor, as we met outside the exhibition hall,
*' how is it that Wilber got no mention for his essay
on Longfellow? I read it, and felt sure that his was
far superior to mine."
" The reason is simple," answered Mr. Warden.
" Wilber neglected to hand in his essay."
Then the truth flashed upon me. I turned away
with the tears standing in my eyes. The medal
was now indeed valuable to m e ; it was the sacred
memorial of a heroic act of friendship.
But poor Wilber, noble as he was, had grave
faults. He exhibited two traits which made me
tremble for his future. One was an ungovernable
pride, the other, an outgrowth of the first, an unwillingness to take advice. H e went through life
" at his own sweet will."
The latter defect came into prominence during
our year of philosophy. H e grew captious about
revealed truth, sneered at the classic answers to
philosophical and theological difficulties, and occasionally gave voice to opinions which shocked me.
Despite my protestations and the warning of some
of the professors, who took a deep interest in him,
he chose as a, friend a fellow-stucknt whosQ stand-

158

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

ing, both as to class and to character, was at the
lowest. Insensibly there arose a coolness between
us; not that we ceased to be friends, but that our
plans and pursuits had become so widely divergent.
On the night of Commencement exercises, we
philosophers, having finished our course, sat down
to a parting banquet before separating in the great
world.
The first hour passed pleasantly enough, though
I noticed with uneasiness that Wilber was drinking
freely. By and by the talk turned upon the valedictory which I had delivered.
" The allusion to Our Lord you brought in," said
one, " was very beautiful, and, at the same time,
came in so naturally."
Wilber gave a scornful laugh,—such a laugh that
conversation came to a stop, and all eyes turned
upon him.
Then, flushed with wine, he spoke such words of
Our Saviour as I have not the heart to record.
Every one present was aghast at the blasphemous
language; many looked at me. They knew that I
was shortly to enter a seminary, and seemed by
common consent to place me in the position of
spokesman.
" Wilber," I said, rising, and the pain I felt at
that moment I shall never forget, " I cannot stay in
your company, if you choose to speak such language."
" Free country, young Levite," cried Wilber, his
face hardening with pride.
" We're not in the

FRANCIS

J. FINN,

S.J.

159

class-room now, Deacon, and I'll say just what I
please."
Then he went on to utter further blasphemy.
With a heavy heart, I left the room whilst he was
still speaking, followed by all except Wilber and his
evil genius, the classmate against whom he had been
so vainly warned. On the following day Wilber
departed for the East with his family; and though
one year and a half had gone by from the time of
that unhappy banquet, I had not seen him since.
On re-reading his letter, I decided to comply with
his request at once, and accordingly I arrived at the
depot near Fairmount Grove that afternoon at
three o'clock.
What was my dismay when I saw awaiting me at
the depot not the gay, handsome athletic Wilber of
college days, but a sad, gaunt, hollow-eyed young
man, so changed in appearance that I could hardly
bring myself to believe it was the same person.
As he caught my eyes, his face lighted up with
pleasure.
" O Tom, T o m ! how glad, how very glad I am
to see you."
I rushed forward to give him a hearty handshake, but he drew back with an air of timidity illbefitting the bold Wilber of former days. Recovering himself by an evident effort, he took my hand
in his. He held it for a moment in a cold, pressureless grasp, and then drew back as though he had
done a guilty deed.
" Your hand is cold/* he said nervously.

i6o

MV STRANGE

FRIEND.

I looked at him closely, but the welcome on his
face belied his actions. I was puzzled.
" You find something strange about me, T o m , "
he said in reply to my look, " but if you only knew
all. Don't think that you are not most welcome.
Here, jump i n , " he added, motioning to a sleigh
that I knew to be his.
As we jingled along to Fairmount Grove, we fell
into an earnest talk about old times in the course
of which, however, through motives of delicacy, I
avoided bringing in a single allusion to matters of
religion, fearing that perhaps it might awaken unpleasant memories.
" So you are studying for the priesthood ? " he
resumed after a short lull in our conversation.
" Yes, Wilber; and I hope to give my whole life
to the service of G o d . "
What was my astonishment when, at the mention
of the sacred name, he released one hand from its
hold upon the reins, and lifted his hat with an air
of devotion that was a sermon in itself.
" Ah, Wilber,"' I cried in delight, " I knew it
would end so; I knew that you would come back to
the old way of looking at things.''
H e turned his face towards mine, and with a
frightened, wistful expression in his eyes, asked:
" Tom, what does our divine Lord say about the
scandalizing of little ones ? "
" It were better that a millstone were placed
about the scandalizer's neck, and that he were cast
into the depth of the s e a . "

FRANCIS / . FINN, SJ.

161

" Just s o / ' he responded with a sigh, and an
expression that was pitiful, " and yet H e is such
a good, such a merciful God, t o o / *
" Indeed, H e i s , " I answered. " W e can none
of us begin to understand how tenderly God loves
us."
" Say that again," he said softly, while a smile
warmed his face into melancholy beauty.
I repeated my words, and continued to talk in
the same strain, as I saw what evident pleasure the
subject afforded him.
When I had come to a
pause, he added:
" And yet H e is so terrible in His denunciations
of those who scandalize His little o n e s . "
" Y e s , " I made reply, " but there is forgiveness
for them if they repent. But cheer up, Wilber;
what makes you so sad ? "
" I have many reasons, Tom. Just one month
ago mother d i e d . "
" Indeed!—your mother dead ? O Wilber! why
didn't you let me know ? It must have been an
awful blow to you."
" But that's not the worst, Tom. I knew for a
month before that some one very dear to me was
going to die."
I was again amazed.
" How in the world did you know t h a t ? "
" I can't tell, Tom, but listen "—his voice sank
to a whisper—' l what day of the month is this ? ' '
" The fourteenth of January."
" Very well, on the twentieth of January—"

162

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

here he paused while the lines upon his face indicated some terrible agony—" on the twentieth of
January—O my God!—some one else dear to me
will die."
The groan which accompanied his ejaculation sent
a shiver through me; I began to fear that I was in
the company o f - a madman.
But he read my
thoughts as though I had framed them in words.
" No, n o : it is no hallucination; I am not out of
my senses," he exclaimed; " nor can I now explain
to you how I know such things; but what I say is
true."
I made no reply, and my silence might have
been awkward were it not for the fact that at this
juncture we turned into the winding roadway which
leads up to the spacious country house of Fairmount
Grove. Standing at the gate was a bevy of boys
and girls from the tot of three to the hoiden of
fifteen, smiling and waving hats and handkerchiefs
at my delighted self. I remembered them all—the
" t i g e r s " was my name for them—and, if signals of
welcome go for anything, they remembered me.
" H u r r a h ! " cried Charlie, the oldest lad of the
group, a cousin of Wilber's, " here's Uncle Tom
come at last."
Though I was in nowise related to any of Wilber's
cousins, they had insisted on calling me Uncle Tom
from the first time that I showed myself to their
delighted eyes in the full dress of young manhood.
No sooner had the horse come to a stop before

FRANCIS

J. FltfN,

S.J.

163

the gate than all the tigers, with the exception of
the two older ones, sprang upon me with a series
of joyful screams and friendly struggles, pulled me
from my seat and out of the vehicle, and cast me
down into a deep bank of snow, the more astute of
them in the meanwhile emptying my overcoat
pockets of various small packages, which, little
rogues, they knew I would not fail to bring by way
of a peace-offering.
W e had a merry time of it on that winter afternoon, the tigers pulling me this way and that, forcing me to play the elephant, exhausting my entire
stock of fairy tales, then clamoring for more, and,
in fine, exacting of their Uncle Tom ample amends
for his long absence. It was great fun for them,
and, I may add without apology, for myself, too;
for I love little children, and sincerely pity the man
who does not.
Throughout this round of amusement, Wilber had
contented himself with being merely an onlooker.
H e witnessed our rompings and tumblings with a
strange, sad, timorous, yet pleased expression, and
whenever he spoke to the children, it was in so
sweet a voice, in so gentle a manner, that one
would think he was addressing himself to superior
beings. As we were going up the stairway at bedtime, I made a remark to that effect.
€i
You are right, T o m , " he answered: " I do
regard them as superior beings; for they are, God
be thanked for it, pure and innocent, and whenever
I am in their company, I cannot help bearing in

164

MY

STRANGE

FRIEND.

mind that their guardian angels ever see the face of
their Father who is in heaven."
Once more was I impressed with the thrilling,
awe-inspiring reverence of his voice and expression.
It was such a change in Wilber, who of all my
school companions and friends had ever been the
least reverent.
" H e r e , " he continued, throwing open a door,
" this is your room. It is next to mine."
•" Good," I said; " if I feel at all wakeful, which
is not at all likely after the events of this day, I
will give you a call,"
With an air of secrecy, he closed the door, and
said to me in a tone of voice which was little more
than a whisper:
11
Tom, my friend, if I should happen to come in
here during the night at any time, you wouldn't
mind it, would you ? "
" Certainly not, Wilber: you shall be most welcome," I replied, though I must confess that I
could not control a motion of astonishment.
il
Thank you very much. And, Tom, if you
note anything strange or out of the way in my
conduct in case I come in, you must try not to
mind. I should like to—to tell you all, if I dared;
but I really cannot—at least, not yet. Perhaps,
the time will soon come."
" But at any rate, tell me this, Wilber: is not
your health seriously affected ? You look far from
being a well man. You are very thin, and worn,
and are excessively nervouso"

FRANCIS

J, FINN, SJ.

165

" I can't tell—I can't speak out," he made
answer in a voice that had become loud and hoarse.
Then he caught at his throat as though he were
choking, and resumed in a lower key: " It is wearing me away. Doctors have examined me, and
have all been obliged to give it u p ; and no wonder.
But good night, Tom. Suppose we shake hands:
you are warm now."
H e shook my hand with almost an excess of cor-'
diality, and then quietly departed, leaving me to
wonder and surmise far into the night.
I had not long been asleep, so far as I could
judge, when an uneasy sensation to the effect that
something or some one was in the room, began to
trouble my slumbers.
After a few struggles, I
succeeded in awaking sufficiently to realize that a
man was in the room. I sat up fully awake, and
discovered by the pale light of the moon shining
full through my window that Wilber, his face distorted by terror, was beside me.
" Come closer, Wilber," I said, endeavoring,
despite an uncanny feeling, to put a note of cordial
welcome into my voice.
" Oh, I am so glad that you are awake," he whispered. " Let me be near you. Let me take your
hand. There, now, my dear friend, lie down again
and try to go to sleep. Don't talk. You need
your rest. All I ask is to be near you."
I ventured to make a few remarks, but he begged
me to compose myself to sleep.
H e sat beside me on the bed, meanwhile, holding

166

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

my hand, his large, lustrous eyes distended with
fright. Occasionally, in a tone so low and indistinct that I rather apprehended than heard what he
said, he muttered, " On the twentieth of January,
one that is near and dear to me will die."
It is needless to say that I slept little. A t the
first break of day, he stole away quietly.
The following night witnessed a repetition of the
same incident, whereupon I suggested to Wilber
that he should make my room his own, a suggestion
which he accepted with alacrity.
His bed was
removed to my room, and we were thus brought
almost constantly together. From that time, and
until January the nineteenth, all went well. Then
came the twentieth of January.
" T o m , " he said, on that memorable night as we
entered our room, " may I ask a particular favor of
you ?
" Certainly, Wilber; I shall be only too glad to
do you any favor in my power."
" Thank you, Tom. Please, then, stay up with
me to-night; for Tknow that I shall not be able to
sleep."
" With pleasure, Wilber; but how shall we pass
the time ? "
" Tell me something about God's mercy, T o m ;
I love to hear you speak on that topic."
Fortunately, just previous to my visit, I had read
and pondered over Father Florentine Bondreaux's
excellent work entitled, " God, Our F a t h e r " ; and
so I could speak with some fluency on this beautiful

FRANCIS

J. FINN, SJ.

167

subject. Wilber listened to me with an interest
which was intense, although at times strange fits of
trembling came upon him.
" But, Wilber," I said when one of these
paroxysms had passed, " do you really entertain
any doubts of God's mercy ? "
" No, no," he exclaimed earnestly, throwing out
his hands with vehemence. " Not a man living, I
dare say, has more reason to have faith in His
goodness than I ; and the very secret which is consuming me teaches me how very, very good H e i s . "
" But if the secret is injuring you so much, why
not tell it to
"
I stopped short; for an expression so unearthly
and awe-inspiring had come over his face, that it
would be useless to attempt its description. To
this day that expression haunts me. As it came
upon him, he sprang from his chair, and, with bated
breath, appeared to be listening.
A moment
passed; another and another, amidst a dead silence
made horrible by the ticking of the great hall-clock;
then, with a sob, he sank back upon his chair, and
bending low his head, buried his face in his hands.
" Dead! d e a d ! " he groaned.
" W h o , " I faltered, wiping my brow, for I too
was possessed by fear. The clock sounded eleven,
as he answered:
" A h ! I shall know soon enough."
The remaining hours of the night passed slowly;
but from that moment Wilber became more composed. A t the first gray dash of dawn upon the

i68

MY STRANGE

FRIEND,

blackness of the eastern horizon, he fell into a heavy
sleep, and, taking advantage of this, I threw myself
upon my bed and was soon unconscious.
I had not slept beyond two hours, when I was
awakened by some one pulling at my sleeve.
It
was Charlie, Wilber's cousin, to whom I have already
referred. His eyes were wet with tears.
" H e l l o ! " I exclaimed, ' ' w h a t ' s the matter,
Charlie ? "
" Papa's dead,*' said Charlie, beginning to cry
afresh. " H e died at our house in town last night,
and I shall never see him again."
II.
Charlie's father had been Wilber's best beloved
uncle. Yet the bitterness of loss fell more easily
upon my friend than the vague presentiment of it,
and from that time he began to rest more quietly.
I flattered myself, therefore, that the worst was over,
and that Wilber's troubles had already touched their
highest mark.
About eleven o'clock, on the night of February
the fourth, however, I was aroused by some one
clutching my arm. Looking up, I saw Wilber in
such an agony, as God grant I may never again
witness upon the face of any human being. His
eyes, protruding from his head, gleamed with a
strange light, his limbs were quivering and so unsteady that he swayed from side to side, while his
faqe was moist and beaded with perspiration,

FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J.

169

" Wilber, Wilber! what ails you ? " I cried.
" O my God! " he murmured.
There was no need for me to question further.
I saw it all now. Another warning had come, and
together we were to face the tortures of thirty
nights of presentiment.
Like a drowning man he clung to "my arm, and
held it hour for hour, shivering and praying till the
glad dawn broke.
The days that followed were indeed gloomy.
Wilber appeared to be unequal to this fresh trial,
and every hour seemed to set its seal of decay upon
him. In two weeks' time he was hardly able to go
about. His doctor, a man high in the profession,
said that the case was baffling in every respect.
But strange to say, as Wilber's physical faculties
grew weaker, his will and mind gathered strength.
His gloomy fits became rarer, and he began to
sleep quite soundly. In lieu of the weariness and
unrest that formerly possessed his features, there
came gradually a look of deep calm and abiding
peace.
Towards the end of February, he was
obliged to keep to his bed.
On March the third, he called me to his side, and
begged to be allowed to speak to me alone.
All left the room, and I seated myself upon his
bed.
" T o m , " he began, ""you know what is going to
happen soon. Some one near to me is going to
die."
I bowed my head,

170
il

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

Do you know who it is ? "
" No, Wilber."
" But I d o , " he answered with a certain triumph
in his manner. " It's myself; and I am so happy,
Tom, for I know who it is that will judge me."
H e pointed to a picture of the Sacred Heart on
the wall.
" That most loving Heart is the Heart of my
judge."
A h ! how beautiful he looked, as his face softened
with love and hope.
" I ' m afraid, Wilber, that you are right. God
is about to take you away. But I am glad, indeed
I am, that you are in such peace.''
" Before I do anything else, Tom, I want to tell
you of that awful mystery—for I feel at last that I
can talk of it. When you become a priest of God,
it may be of service to you„ Ah, Tom, sometimes
I think that I might have become a priest, if I
hadn't gone wrong. Then I'd have done some
good, but now here I am a wreck. It's too late.
' Too late, too late, you cannot enter now.' "
His voice trembled as he quoted Tennyson's
exquisite paraphrase.
" You remember," he went on, " my conduct
on graduation night ? Well, I carried on in that
way, blaspheming God and his saints, but always
careful to keep such words and sentiments from my
relations. When mother and I returned from our
trip East, things went on smoothly till last Christmas a year ago. During the holidays, all my little

FRANCIS

J. FINN,

S.J.

171

cousins and nephews and nieces—your tigers, you
know—came here for a visit, and for a few days we
were a merry party. Shortly after New Year's day,
I wanted to go to town to hear a certain lecturer
who made fun of religion for one dollar a head.
Somehow, my father came to hear of my purpose.
He called me to his room, gave me a severe scolding, and ordered me not to leave home for a month.
H e was furious; but before he had said much—you
know my pride, Tom—I was furious too, and there
were high words between us. On returning to my
room, I found a letter on my desk with news of the
sudden death of one of my new friends. You know
the kind of a friend that means, Tom, but I really
had liked him very much.
" The dinner hour then found me in a most unhappy frame of mind.
After some attempts to
compose myself, I strode into the dining.hall, where
father, mother, and all those little children were
already seated, and without looking at any one I
threw myself into a chair.
" l Wilber/ said my father, ' you forget your
grace.'
" ' No, I don't. Bah! as if there were anything
to be thankful for/
" O T o m ! you should have seen how pale and
puzzled and frightened those little children became.
And my dear mother! When I think of the sad
look that came upon her sweet face, and see her
put her trembling hand to her heart, I can hardly
keep from weeping. And yet, brute that I was, I

172

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

didn't soften in the least; no, not even when her
trembling hand rested upon my cheek, and her dear
eyes rilled with tears. My father could not speak.
" Poor mother was dazed; I could see it. She
could not credit her ears; with an effort she mastered herself and spoke.
11
' Come, my dear b o y / she said in her gentlest
tones, ' you are not yourself. God has been ever
good to us, there is nothing we can ask for that H e
has not given us.'
" * I n d e e d ! ' I exclaimed in the brutality of pride,
* there are a good many things He doesn't give us,
seeing He's such a good God.'
Tom, I should
have stopped there, at least. For again my mother's
hand went to her heart, her lips quivered and all
the happiness of her life left her face; but, God
forgive me,-1 went on and added: ' Why, for instance, can't I know beforehand when my friends
are going to die ?'
" ' O Wilber!' and the words sounded as though
they came from a'broken heart, ' that I should live
to see this day,' and my mother buried her head
in her hands.
" I see it again, those little children, their innocent faces fixed in horror, my mother bent in grief,
my father utterly at a loss what step to take. There
I sat gazing haughtily upon all, when suddenly I
sprang to my feet and would have fled, but that
I was rooted to the spot. There was a cold,
clammy grip upon my shoulder. I turned, but
there was no one behind me, and still that cold,

FRANCIS

/ . FINN,

S.J.

173

chilling pressure, as of an icy hand moved slowly
along my arm, till it caught my hand with a
strength that I cannot describe, for it was not the
strength of physical force, and words stop short of
beginning to describe it. Then my hand, released
of that awful grip, dropped powerless to my side,
while in my ears I heard the sound as of a deathrattle. I gazed wildly about the room and saw
that all were looking at me in utter consternation.
" I attempted to cry out, but it was impossible
for me to utter a sound. At length the rattle
ceased; the spell was broken, and I rushed from the
hall, and sought refuge in my own room. For hours
I paced up and down in the most terrible mental
suffering; then, at random, I picked up a book,
which chanced to be a collection of autographs, and
opened it at these words:
" ' I shall love thee, even after the cold hand of
death hath touched thee.*
" I threw the book aside with my first sense of
terror revived. An hour later I took up another
book. This time it was the Bible. Perhaps you
may guess what I read:
" * But he that shall scandalize one of these little
ones that believe in Me, it were better for him that
a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and
that he should be drowned in the depth of the
sea/
" One month from that day, another of my
former friends died.
Then I knew what that
strange occurrence meant.
God had heard my

174

MY STRANGE

FRIEND.

wish, to punish and correct me. Three months
later, the same dreadful feeling—and a month later
my mother died. Tom, I had hastened her death;
I had broken her heart.
il
You know the rest, T o m ; but you cannot see,
as I do, how merciful God has been to me. Oh,
H e is indeed a good God, and what seems His
severest chastisements are often His tenderest
mercies/'
Late the next evening, all the little ones gathered
about the bed of the dying man.
In faltering
accents, he told them enough of his secret to
repair, as far as could be, the dreadful scandal; and
the sobs of his listeners were the only interruption.
" Wilber, my boy," said his father, " as you
yourself say, God has been indeed most merciful to
you.
" Yes, father, and I have often thought that,
aside from my mother's prayers, He did it to reward
me for the one heroic act of my life. It was heroic
for me, when, through love for Tom here and to
humble my pride, I gave up my chance for that
Longfellow prize."
A few moments later, the hand of death had lost
its power over him forever.

WALTER LECKY first made his mark not many years ago
in the columns of the Montreal

True

Witness.

His

work, which was well considered, found favor with the public,
his advancement was consequently rapid, and to-day he is
known as one of the foremost of American Catholic writers.
He was born April 9th, 1863, and his early days were
passed in the town of

Lawrence, Massachusetts.

As

a child he attended a private school, and afterward went
for a time to Villanova College.
he

turned

his face

where he became

At the age of eighteen

Westward and reached
a

Chicago,

"newspaper man," doing repor-

torial work on the Times, Herald, and Mail. A love of
adventure took him South, where, he obtained work on the
Louisville Courier and the New Orleans Picayune. But his
restless spirit could not remain content in one place; he
travelled on foot to and through Mexico, and finally, having
come into some money, started for Europe. There he had
the pleasure of meeting ..many distinguished men,, among
them Cardinal Newman and Pope Leo XIII. He witnessed the Passion Play at Oberamergau, and stood on the
summit of the acropolis cf Athens. Finally, sated with
adventure and with his note-books filled to overflowing,
he returned to this country, and settled down in the mountain town which he has ever since made his home. It is
there, in the heart of the Adirondacks, that he met the
queer characters whom he has since described in his novel
"Mr. Billy Buttons."
A keen observer, an ardent lover of nature, Mr. Lecky
is seen at his best in his pathetic passages and his descriptions of the woods and waters which are his haunts. Of
him it may be said as it was of Thoreau, he has " dedicated
his genius with entire love to the fields, hills, and waters."
Though vigorous in his denunciation of all shams, Mr.
Lecky is quiet and retiring in his manner and in deep sympathy with every form of human suffering. He is sincerely
ioved by his neighbors, for whom he constantly labors. He
has built a hall and a library for them and has taught and
still teaches their children. In fact, he strongly resembles
the Pere Monnier he has so charmingly drawn. His
published works are : " Green Graves in Ireland," " Down at
Caxtons," and " Mr. Billy Buttons."

©fliiman ©Qle^
BY W A L T E R

LECKY.

DRYBURGH was a small town. It had a few
general stores, a grist-mill, a blacksmith's shop, and
half a hundred private residences. ' Its people came
from Vermont when Dryburgh was part of the forest,
and by much toil and labor cut down the trees and
made the soil productive. They were thrifty and
saving—a combination which in the many years gave
them a bank-account, and the airs which generally
accompany a safe deposit.
Their houses from
log-huts were gradually transformed into pleasant
cottages, of no known style of architecture; each
owner, having years to study his tastes, built to
satisfy his comforts.
Dryburgh had one street,
wide and tree-lined, giving, in the most sultry
weather, coolness and shade. A bit of garden in
front of each house, abloom with old-fashioned
flowers—the seed, once a parting gift, when leaving
their old homes to found the new, from some neighbor, who took this kindly way of being remembered
—gave Dryburgh an air of culture. Somehow we
do associate culture with cleanliness, flowers, and
well-trimmed lawns. Yet of culture in its true
177

178

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

sense, as referring to that knowledge which comes
from books, the people of Dryburgh had little.
The older and pioneer men and women had no
leisure for books; and as that taste is rarely acquired
in later life, they contented themselves with the
editorials of a local paper, and the spicy columns of
a farm journal that came weekly from the great
city. This journal gave them a bundle of ideas to
thrash nightly in one of the village stores. It kept
them posted on legislation, and in well-rounded
periods and fantastic metaphors ministered to their
good humor with an exalted idea of the dignity and
importance of the American farmer.
Dryburgh was a religious town with a periodical
inclination to bigotry. Like most small towns, it
had a sufficiency of churches. It mattered little
that the baker's dozen of people were not forthcoming at a Sunday service; the ministers were conscientious, and, disdaining numbers and prizing the
quality, hammered away for a good hour, forging
the few to give testimony against sin. These few,
though over-inclined to piety, were not generous;
not even religion could command the beloved
pocket-book. It was not surprising, then, that ministers could not afford to be leaders in dress. They
made the best of their circumstance by marrying
strong, thrifty, health-keeping girls, who could
patch neatly, knit, fix over a bonnet, and for their
outdoor exercise have a garden worth bending over
the inconvenience of a picket-fence to see. It was
a ministerial saying, coined by a clever Anabaptist

WALTER

LECKY.

179

exhorter, that " no minister in these parts could
afford to have his wife run a drug bill.** It was a
truth vouched for by the other ministers—Baptist,
Methodist, Dutch Reformed, Lutheran, Swedenborgian. Religion gave the people much of their
social life, in the form of church parties of all
kinds. As the revenue from a church supper is
small, it was necessary to have them often—once a
week at least. " The preparation for and consummation of such suppers," said the Methodist divine,
" was a needed relaxation." This was the thought
of the young, who found these suppers pleasant
opportunities for wooing, and that without any fear
of parental interference. Were they not under the
watchful eye of the church—right under the noses
of pastors whose watchfulness was proverbial; in
full view of ancient spinsters, whose pleasantry was
a shy at everybody's business? A t these suppers,
frequented by the sinner and saint alike, tongues
were free, and, to use an old-time phrase, " rattled
away at everything and on everybody." Here was
a distributing agency for news. Every one brought
a little, gave it willingly, and in return was privileged to carry away the budget. It was comfort
after a hard day's work to sit down, especially for
youth, by the side of a rosy girl, to a board which
had none of your city lightness, but the solid, substantial character which appeals to the sons of toil.
Pies and puddings, it is true, were there to round off
the tail end—the merest fringe to pork and beans,
potatoes, and other health-making foods. And the

i8o

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

appetite—how it would wrinkle the wry faces of
the nation's great army of dyspeptics! At a table
where there is no appetite, where every one stares
at his neighbor, where the music of fork, knife, and
spoon is lacking, even the most brilliant conversation becomes dull. An air of weariness envelops
the board, repressing all human spirits.
These Dryburgh suppers had all the qualities of
a festive board. Youth, love, pride, and that
delightful though heavy-footed old country lady,
Dame Gossip. Some have been known to sneer at
her presence as they saw her nestling among the
divines. Yet these were base hypocrites, who in
their innermost heart loved the old lady and but
danced their mouth to the music of jealousy. It is
a human way, though man has saddled the fox to
carry his folly, that we despise the grapes that are
beyond our reach. Jealousy is the acid that sours
them.
It was at one of these suppers, held to reimburse
for salary not forthcoming by ordinary means the
Rev. John Powdery, the Swedenborgian—a man
with a family not to be counted on one hand—that
Brother Collins, the Anabaptist, whispered that a
new gentleman had come to town. Whispering in
Dryburgh was poorly developed. It had none of
that artistic grace which one finds in the homes of
the great. There whispers are dangerous if they
shoot beyond your neighbor's ears. A Dryburgh
whisper was in the ordinary tones of conversation;
yet it was conceded to be a whisper, and as such

WALTER

LECKY.

181

unheard. It could never be a pivot around which
conversation might revolve. After supper, however, whispers were considered public property and
discussion of them was invited. Now the coming
of a stranger to settle in Dryburgh, even for a few
days, was an event to make bustle in every household. Questions were to be asked and assumptions
made; to phrase it in Dryburgh's way, " bearings
were to be taken," before anything definite could
be said in public. Whisperings, no matter how
fanciful, were legal; but woe betide the culprit that
would in open speech state something that time
would blow away. The women would brand him
and hush their babies to sleep with the lying
bugaboo's name. The ministers, whose two eyes
rested prominently on the source of their bread and
butter, followed the ladies; and in hints that were
as thrown brick to the offender, held up to wellmerited detestation " verily that abomination of
abominations, the liar."
There is a Dryburgh tradition that becomes
the property of even the passing stranger, of
a young man who gave utterance to statements
for the fun of making them. In a quiet way
one Sabbath the Rev. Floyd Jenkins, then
holding the Baptist living, read the story of Aman
and Mardochai to his flock, which happened
that day—possibly owing to a Saturday night
hint—to crowd his church. With that story, by
twists here and there, aided by his powerful imagination and the copious flow of words that, as a

I&2

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

brother said, " dripped from his mouth like water
from a soaked sponge," the Rev. Mr. Jenkins (here
I prefer to quote from a letter of the time written
by a lady well known for her gospel work) " made
his flock see the road liars were on—a road of perdition owned by Satan, and kept in good repair by
his wily majesty for their comfort.
On it he
showed Cain, Judas, and Jesuits—a nice crowd for
any young man to be in. We were all in tears.
The Rev. Mr. Jenkins' speech was just grand, lifefull, soul-stirring.
Just think what effect was
in these words: ' To walk in truth is to be what
one seems; to scorn counterfeits, shun shams, or
the pathway hung about with shows and shadows
and pageants.' I was doubled over in my pew
with expectancy. I was braced up, I trust, for
many a day, by the next sentence—which was fairly
boiling: ' Truth lodged in the soul is like leaven
placed in the loaf: it works, it permeates, vitalizes,
revolutionizes.' The young man for whose benefit
the masterpiece was done never repented. H e had
lived in the cities for a while, and laughed at his
neighbors for making such a fuss over a joke. H e
even went further—by wooing and marrying the minister's daughter, presenting, as he laughingly said,
the other cheek. Then he went West, and many
who condemned him in the days of his youth, in
later years hearing of his success, speak of him now
with generous words. The sermon had, however,
a lasting effect. I might sum it up by saying
that it confirmed whispering on all topics, but

WALTER

LECKY.

183

silenced open speech unless proofs were given in
support.''
The whisper of Brother Collins made the villagers
alert and watchful of the new-comer. Had he
money, or was he a poor man ? If the latter, said
the nightly gossipers of the village store, what in
thunder brings him here ? We have more poor than
we need. There was a suggestion that he was a
business man, which enraged the proprietor, who
held a monopoly of the town's industry. His rage
flew into such phrases as, " N o n e but an idiot would
come here to start in business;" " those who are
in are there to their sorrow, and would like to sell
out to-morrow at a loss. " Weeks went and the
stranger added anxiety to every household by not
divulging his plans, and by keeping within doors;
giving no chance to be cross-examined by the few
village fathers grown gray, who held as a sacred
right their authority to ask any question under the
guise of interest in those questioned.
One of the relics of Dryburgh's better days is a
rambling brick ruin, used by the children as a place
for their hide-and-go-seek games. Old men point
to it and tell of the " circulating money," and " the
work for all," when this ruin as a glass factory was
in " full blast." Near the ruin is a red wooden
structure, once the office of the glass company, but,
following the fate of its brick neighbor, shaky and
lonely-looking. Once a bright red, the storms in
the years when it was in nobody's thought peeled
off the paint and left a dusky rotten hue. Had it

IS4

G1LL1MAN-

OGLEY.

fallen at any time, it would not have caused the
slightest talk. Its downfall was expected, and in
heavy winds the prophets had always a subject for
disaster. Judge, then, of Dryburgh's surprise when
Simon Butler, the justice, announced that the ruin
was about to be rented by the stranger, whose
name—and he pulled out a large wallet from an
inside pocket crowded with papers, selected one
and adjusting his eye-glass proceeded—" was, as
the paper that I hold in my hand shows, Gilliman
Ogley."
The justice's information aroused inquisitiveness
—a country gift.
" What does he intend to do with it ? " asked
half a dozen. " It's of no earthly use, Mr.
Butler," said Dr. Cronker, whose wisdom was
appreciated. " Prop it as you will, it's bound to
go; it cannot last a great while. Queer things
never cease. I have two good houses to let and
cannot get a tenant; yet here is an old affair
that I wouldn't house hogs in—wouldn't take if it
was made a present to me—rented! I am a man
that don't say much—in fact, I'm the last to accuse
any man—-but, between us, that old barn of a thing
was never rented for any good purpose."
There was a sense of wisdom in the listening faces
—if, as some people think, a mingling of sourness
and seriousness be the sign — and a shaking of
heads, that told the doctor he threw their thoughts
into words. The justice, little in size, corpulent
and stately, dignified by nature and adding to it the

WALTEX

LECKY.

185

dignity of his office—an important one in Dryburgh
—gave his auditors a slight wink, cleared his throat
with a cough that was acknowledged by even his
enemies as original, and said he was now in a frame
of mind " to warn all whom it concerns that the
machinery of the law in this town is in most excellent form, , , and that " any man, or men, who
imagines this is a slow town, where you can do anything you want, without a tumbling thereto by the
aforesaid machinery of the law, put himself ipsifacti
in its coils, where, like a bird tangled in a thread, the
more he tried to get out the more he was caught."
The homely simile provoked a burst of laughter
from the listeners, and increased their pride in the
shrewdness and watchfulness of Justice Butler.
" Well, boys," said Dr. Cronker, " mind, I said
nothing about the stranger—he might be an acquisition to our town; but his renting such a building
seems so queer that I cannot get it out of my head;
it's either for something strange or it's a foolish
move."
" I have nothing to say," said the justice,
"absolutely nothing. Justice requires a tight mouth.
All I know is, that Mr. Ogley has leased the office
for the space of five years. On business matters I
found him very close. My experience I offered to
him—an experience of thirty years, meeting and
treating with all classes of people. H e thanked me,
and said that he was a poor man and was about to
do business in a poor way, to knock a living out of
it; that's all. But I must tell you, boys, I was

186

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

honest. I told him to save my soul I didn't know
a business that was not overdone in town. It was
then that Mr. Ogley said, ' Would a marble-yard on
a small scale pay ? ' I nearly burst out m his face.
It took all my legal training to suppress myself.
' Why, dear Mr. O g l e y / said I, l we die up here
so slow that one monument in a generation is about
as much as we put up, and then we have to see that
it wears well before we make up our minds to pay
for i t / "
" I wonder/' said Dr. Cronker, " has he paid his
rent in advance. This business of trusting strangers
who have seemingly nothing is not to my taste.
He may be honest, but I fail to see what is made
by putting honesty to a test."
" Speak of the devil and he'll put in an appearance," said one of the listeners.
" Right you are, my boy," said Justice Butler;
" here comes the gentleman himself."
" It's not every day you see a stone-cutter so
dressy/' remarked Dr. Cronker; " he looks more
like one of the profession."
" Many a one afore you, doctor, that banked on
looks lost; and many a one coming behind you,
untaught by experience, will lose both capital and
interest," said a red-bearded farmer, stroking his
under-chin growth of hair, and watching with his
cold steel-gray eyes the effect of his philosophy
on the Solon of the law.
H e was repaid when
Mr. Butler tapped him on the forehead, saying,
" Kiinker will d o : he's all right."

WALTER

LECKY.

187

All eyes were turned in the direction of the
stranger, who was accompanied by a merry-eyed,
talkative girl of thirteen, who was continually changing from side to side, catching his hands and tugging at them with well-shown delight.
He was a man of middle age, wiry in build, with
a military carriage. His features were pleasantly
cut. When the hat was removed, the bristling
black hair gave to the whole head a shapeliness
which was agreeable, and an impression that the
owner was, or should be, a lucky fellow. Faces
throw impressions which are liable to toning down,
or even radical change, as the years go by and contact and experience are ours.
The hands were white and small—an argument
which might have been used with effect against Dr.
Cronker's gratuitous assertion. T h e dress—and on
that article Dryburgh holds an old opinion (you
may hear it any night that you wish to bring up
this subject in the village store)—dress makes a
man, and the want of it a fellow; and between these
words there is a distinction which, to borrow from
Brother Powdery's great sermon on the ways of
" Mr. Satan," is both special and profound. Gilliman Ogley had a good figure; the ladies admitted
that, and to such authorities I respectfully bow.
Nature has given their eye a quickening in this art
that men, no matter how artful, can never possess.
Dress would have set him out in a winning way,
but it must be chronicled of him that he was indifferent to his shape's draping—careless of his clothes.

i88

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

He will never know the peace of mind this little
failing procured him during his sojourn in Dryburgh.
The girl—(I am well aware that in the use of this
word I am departing from the well-established
phraseology of Dryburgh, which insists that from
the tenth to the fortieth year of female life the term
lady is only proper, and on sober thought I think
it is best to comply with my townspeople's rule, so—
the young lady)—was dressed in plain black, with
white cuffs and collar, simply, but so tastefully
that admiration dwelt in the mouths of the critical.
Comparisons were made; things dissimilar suggest
ideas; and be it said of Dryburgh that no idea went
naked. If the critics would permit me an adjective,
I would write of corpulent ideas as being native to
the Dryburgh soil. Gilliman Ogley's clothes were
neither torn nor patchy, but they were pitch-forked
on, and that in a hurry. Miss Ogley's —for that
was the name of his daughter and companion—were
draped at leisure, the mirror advising; and all with
an eye to a graceful ultimate effect.
As Mr. Ogley approached the impatient-eyed
crowd, his dress brought forth a comment that
" he looked in his clothes like f u r y / ' a strong term
in these parts.
" He's not badly built," said Dr. Cronker, " but
work has thrown him to the one side too much."
This opinion was held in common, as was shown
by the audible grunt that welcomed it.
" H e is about to join the crowd," said Mr. Butler,
becoming so grave that a small boy who makes his

WALTER

LECKY.

189

mouth express his eye would call such gravity
grinning.
il
Perhaps there's some hitch in the lease; looks
like it; it's the justice he's looking for. The only
mill, justice, that everybody brings corn to is
yours."
There was a loud laugh, for Dr. Cronker was
called witty; and in the country, when a wit says
something, you are supposed to see a joke and
recognize the same by quick appreciative laughter.
11
Just taking your afternoon stroll, Mr. Ogley ?
The air is salubrious; full of this ozone; beats anything where it comes from; our country's full of it.
And the young lady "—the justice removed his
hat, dexterously showing his flat, close-cropped
skull—" it will bring to her cheeks the color of a
June rose; she will need no saspirillas or other concoctions to make blood. In a year she will be full
of it. The doctor there can tell you a bit, if he
wishes; if he didn't keep the drug store and make
an odd l spec' on horses, he might starve. I have
a joke on the doctor; I say, it is only for style
that our folks buy drugs. I have been here a long
while, but the only medicine I bought was a package of salts, and I believe my wife could hunt you
up a dose yet."
Miss Ogley laughed that sweetest of all music, a
young girl's blithe, hearty, untrammelled laugh.
It swept away every prejudice and won the justice's
heart, who took it as a compliment to his wit.
What comfort there is in delusion! H e is a sorry

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GILLIMAN

OGLEY,

fellow who considers it his duty to go up .and down
the world disillusionizing his fellows. It was an
inspired moment when the poet sang that if ignorance is bliss it is folly to be wise. Yet the snarlers,
under the pretext of teaching wisdom, are ever
destroying our bliss. To them a miry frog-pole is
dearer far than the loveliest visions. Sticklers for
the real, let them shout in the crossways; the
majority of men will pass them by, travel, despite
their warning, in dream-land—suffer, if you will, but
paid a thousandfold for that suffering by the remembrance of those travel years.
Miss Ogley laughed and Justice Butler kept his
delusion. That he died with it should be recorded,
for in after years it was his boast that Florence
Ogley's laugh was worth a dozen of his jokes; and
when it is known that the justice was in the habit
for years of giving but one, and that during the
festivities of the Fourth of July, the worth of the
compliment comes to view.
" How do you like Dryburgh,*' asked Dr. Cronker, waiving all introduction. " I presume you
are Mr. Ogley. We are a plain people, without
airs and frills, clap a stranger on the back at first
sight, and do our own introducing/*
" Glad to meet you, g e n t l e m e n / ' replied Mr.
Ogley, " and especially you, doctor, who I understand have a house to let. It happens to be just
the thing Florence and I need—very pretty and
comfortable. I am willing to pay a fair price and
would like to move into it at o n c e / '

WALTER

LECKY.

191

Dr. Cronker was radiant in smiles, and full of
apologies for his inability to let the cottage, " as so
many people had spoken to him for it, who were
old friends of many years.
" Well, doctor,'' said Mr. Ogley looking into his
eyes, " what rent do you consider it worth ? or
better, what do you get for such cottages ? Do not
answer me if my question is in any way annoying.
I am from the city, and have no just idea of village
rentals.''
" Well, a cottage like mine—use of the barn,
garden, orchard—is cheap at fifteen dollars a month;
saw the time when it was worth more, but times
are hard and money t i g h t . "
" Doctor, I will give you sixteen dollars a
month, and pay a year in advance, paying for any
damage that you may declare during my occupancy. "
The crowd winked to one another, some of them
nipped their fellows. Dr. Cronker gave a delicate
cough.
" Well, really, it is hard to go back on old friends;
but, seeing you are a stranger and a business man
at that, I will take on my shoulders all blame, and
as soon as you deposit the money with the justice,
you can have the key. Of course, the garden being
set will be extra, and I claim the orchard this year.''
" Very well, doctor; we will not dispute over
these matters.''
Gilliman Ogley went down the village street. As
he turned into a lane which led to the lake, he

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GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

remarked to Florence, who was full of wonder at
the queer people of Dryburgh, " My dear Florence,
money hath power, and selfishness and greed are
everywhere—in town and country.
" Yes, papa, but I think a little more in the
country/'
" That, Florence, I do not know; in the city we
hide it with putty and p o l i s h / '
As Mr. Ogley and his daughter disappeared, the
crowd took up the discussion, joined by Brother
Collins, who always valued an audience.
11
A queer m a n , " remarked the sandy-bearded
man, whose first hit made him prone, following the
ways of human nature, to serve more from his dish.
" Not a bit of i t , " replied Dr. Cronker. " Not
a bit of it! A business man with a city way of
doing business! Catch anybody in the city going
to rent a house and trusting to trust to pay the rent.
W e are away behind in this—away behind. See
how quick we struck a bargain in a few minutes.
It would take a week up here. Mr. Ogley saw that
I was a business man and came to the point at once.
In fact, my impression of him is that he has seen
better days. I rather like to think of him as a contractor than as an ordinary mechanic. Adversity
is to be pitied—but a man who meets it like Mr.
Ogley deserves to be upheld. I am sure that is
your thought, Brother Collins/'
Brother Collins had that morning called on the
Ogleys, to see, as was his wont, if they were of his
flock. He was in a position to gossip.

WALTER

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193

" Well, doctor, it is very hard to know anything
about that Ogley family. I questioned the young
lady; then her father; but all I could get out of
them was: ' You are very kind, Mr Collins, we
assure you of our thankfulness; but we do not
belong to your church/ Well, then I named him
every church, in town; he thanked me for my
offices in his behalf, but accepted nothing. I fear
he's one of those agnostics, and if so I pity the
formative education of the young l a d y . "
Brother Collins heaved a deep gurgling sigh.
" H u m p h / * said Dr. Cronker, " it's nobody's
business what he is, so long as he pays his debts and
behaves. How many men are there in this town
that bother with church? When they send their
women, they think that's enough."
" Precisely," said Justice Butler. " You speak
from a full hand. There are some of us, with all
due reverence to this company, who think this
visiting and offering religion is out of place."
" I am one of t h o s e , " said Dr. Cronker, whose
wife was leading-string in Brother Collins's church.
T h e divine twittered a little laugh, and with a bow
went off, followed by the separating crowd, firm in
their belief that no divine had a chance when confronted by Cronker and Butler.
In country towns men carry the news to fheir
wives. This gives women the privilege, when visiting each other, of having something to feed on.
Said Mrs. Cronker to Mrs. Butler, over a mug
of tea: il These Ogleys, I'm told, have no more

194

GlLLlMAXr

OGLEV.

religion than the doctor's St. Bernard. Preserve
me from city folk. We think our husbands are
careless, but, my dear, there is no comparison—
none whatever. The justice and the doctor will
own up to some belief now and then, but these folk
to nothing. Just think of poor Brother Collins,
with all his kindness—and you know how lovely he
is—not being able to fathom these Ogleys! Such
people! I told Mr. Collins that they looked like
spiritualists. You know Mrs. Bixbee calls herself
a medium, and has her seances every Sunday night.
I am sure as my name is Mrs. Doctor Cronker, that
the Ogleys will be in that s e t . "
" I don't care," responded Mrs. Butler, " for
Ogley himself; he's just horrid; not to my taste.
And did ever you hear such a name in your life
as Gilliman ? But the young lady just took the
justice's eye. She's just awful sweet. I wonder
who makes her clothes, they sit so well. Don't you
think they become her ? I would like to have a
pattern of that waist for my Jenny. I think it is
awfully cute. The justice is going to invite her
down to the house to meet J e n . "
" I would put down my foot," said Mrs. Cronker,
" on any such invitation, until I knew what were
the religious principles of the child. I like this
child—rather I pity her—but we must remember
the Rev. Mr. Powdery's advice l not to bind the
tare with the wheat.' Our children know nothing
of the world; little darlings of heaven, straying as
Brother Collins put it on Children's Day, * far from

WALTER

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195

the battle-ground of care, in the land of bliss by
the pathway of p e a c e / "
Mrs. Cronker wept; and Mrs. Butler, good old
soul! joined her friend with a pitiful sob.
" Let us talk of something else," said Mrs.
Cronker, rubbing her eyes with her fringed handkerchief; " time will show."
Here Mrs. Butler broke in with " Yes, time will
show. Next Sunday all the eyes in the village will
be on them.
If they go anywhere it will be
known."
Sunday came, slowly for the folks of Dryburgh.
It was noted that sinners that day went to church.
" It was curiosity, not the Word, they were after,"
was a woman's remark. I thought it cruel, but as
I am a mere chronicler, in conscience I am bound
to record it.
The Dryburgh school is pleasantly situated at the
end of the town, in a shady maple grove, much used
in summer-time for church picnics. It is very
plainly built, and whether or not it was painted I
am unable to state. Its present color is a dirty
gray, making me, even at the risk of contradiction,
hazard the guess that the only painting it ever had
was with the winds as brush and the rain as paint.
A few Irish farmers, heavily mortgaged with their
wives and wagon-load of chattering, fun-making
young Celts, came here for service once a month.
They were unable to build a church, so the use of
the school-house was allowed to this " handful of
Romanists," as they were called, on condition that

196

G1LL1MAN

OGLEY.

they would give " annually a few loads of dry wood
for heating the school." It was Justice Butler who,
against all opposition, procured them this privilege.
H e had been in the same army corps with these
Celtic Catholic farmers, and was carried away by
their fighting qualities. H e knew they were honest
and brave men, struggling against many hardships,
working early and late to clear the mortgage, " and
if their religion was any consolation to them,
they were going to have it, even if he rigged up his
barn/* They on their part had always a vote for
their old comrade, and any law-business they had
was thrown in his way. These farmers came early,
loitered around, the men smoking and chatting,
the women busied in making tidy the school-room,
the children romping around, now and then resting
to take a peep at their catechism.
There was a lull as a gentleman and a lady approached and asked " if this was the place were
Catholic service was held."
A large woman, holding a baby in her arms,
fluttered around for a few minutes, then called a
little urchin, who came suspiciously, and told him
" to find Myles McCaffrey for the gentleman and
missis." Myles was, as she stumblingly said, " the
man who knows all about the church after the priest
himself."
Myles came trotting, pleasant-faced and smiling,
with information bubbling on the tip of his tongue.
" My name, sir, is Myles McCaffrey. I come
here awhile always before the rest. Just to do odd

WALTER

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197

turns around, before his reverence comes. I light
fires when needed and fix the teacher's seat. Then
the ladies, yer honor, make it into a snug altar."
" Well, Mr. McCaffrey," said Mr. Ogley, " if you
show us seats we will be thankful; and my daughter
Florence, you must know, Myles, will help the
ladies to trim the a l t a r / '
" Bless her h e a r t ! " said the flattering Celt,
" she's the best flower of them all."
The ringing of a little bell drew the worshippers
within; and the priest, stately and grave, began
the service.
A middle-aged lady thrummed indifferently Leonard's Mass. Note after note came, hurriedly, as if
frightened; a few young uncertain voices kept the
music company.
As soon as the service was over, the priest unrobed and came t o where the strangers sat, hoping
with fatherly care that they were properly attended
to by Myles, as they happened to be seated before
he noticed them. H e invited them to come again.
" Certainly," said Mr. Ogley, " every time you
hold service; and my daughter insists that you
breakfast with us to-day—for that matter, that you
stop with us while in the village. We are not rich,
but I have no apology to make to a man of sacrifice.,,
" Yes, you must come," put in Miss Ogley;
" we are the least of your flock, and that should be
reason"enough for your coming."
" B u t , " said Father Denham, " I teach a village

rpB

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

lad Italian, and I generally breakfast with him; and
as soon as the breakfast and lesson are over, I drive
home; quite a drive—in the neighborhood of
twenty miles."
" M y ! that is too much," said Mr. Ogley.
" Bring the lad along. I have a few Italian books,
and we will see, Father, if Florence is not your
match in that tongue. If you come, I think you
might get her to play the organ and train your
choir. It is a little bit jerky—want of practice,
I dare say.
See now what attractions I hold
out."
" I must submit, I suppose, and breakfast at
your h o m e , " was the priest's response. " Just as
soon as I settle a few matters with Myles, who
is my merry man of all things, I will be with you."
On the way home Mr. Ogley said: " F l o r e n c e ,
my dear, I have broken my resolution not to have
any visitors save the priest, but it is a lad and it
will be an easy matter to get rid of him."
" O h ! papa, if the priest brings him—and
especially such a sedate priest—he must be bright
and studious. The people here are so dull that a
few lights should be a cause for thankfulness."
" Well, Florence, let us see him first. To find
him studying Italian is a feather in his cap. See
what you can do from our little store to make the
priest's breakfast appetizing.
There can be no
doubt of his being educated in Rome. I knew
that by his way of pronouncing Latin. Little
housekeeper, make him think of your birthland.

WALTER

LECATV.

I99

Don't, I pray you, child, laugh if the lad murders
the beautiful Italian. Everybody creeps."
The Ogleys were ,in front of their cottage. On
Monday morning every passing villager had time to
give a few moments to the old glass office. It
bore on its front, in white-lead letters:
" Monuments Of Every Description Made to Order.
GlLLIMAN OGLEY."

Before the door stood a few marble blocks and
a small monument crowned with a dove.
That Gilliman Ogley had gone to the '* Romanist
handful over at the school," sealed his fate.
The Dryburghers arose steady in purpose not to
talk about anything save the strange religious belief
of the Ogleys, a belief which meant social ostracism,
at least from the women—and when they club
against you, sociability is sparse; but seeing the
sign and the monument and marble blocks, their
astonishment took the form of a few day's dumbness; then tongues angrily wagged, assumptions
were made, imagination let loose, charity and
religion forgotten. This abated when a new minister took Mr. Powdery's place; then a change of
subject was forthcoming—the new minister and his
wife had to be passed upon.
Gilliman Ogley cared little about the village talk.
Every morning he entered the old office, locked the
door behind him, did something—what it was no
one knew—and left every evening. No order for
monuments came his way, and he sought none; so

200

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

the curious spectacle—curious to village folk—of a
man living on nothing was one of the things of
Dryburgh. Two callers came to his house; one the
priest, when his duty brought him to the village;
the other the lad he had introduced—a dreamy boy,
full of talent and visions, laughed at by the village
fathers, as most dreamers are, but somehow or other
winning the friendship of the tongue-tied Gilliman
and the confidence of Miss Florence.
H e was an orphan boy, brought up by his grandmother, and this might have softened Gilliman
Ogley's heart to him; or was it his name—Leigh
H u n t Watkins—which appealed to one who loved
the exquisite essays of the genial Cockney poet?
Be it whatever it was, young Watkins was a constant visitor at Mr. Ogley's cottage, and for this
indiscretion had weekly homilies from his prophetic
grandmother and unconcealed hostility from his
neighbors.
Here it must be written that such persecution
was taken in the spirit of Job. Youth and, I was
going to write, love—although I lean only on suspicion—build palaces with the stones tormentors
throw.
To read Italian on the little cottage
veranda under the careful guidance of Gilliman
Ogley, to be mimicked by Florence, and to pay
back sarcasm by culling her flowers; to listen to the
Italian stories of Leigh Hunt or the mystic artist
verse of Rosetti, was the height of boyish bliss, the
dreamer's paradise. The dreary town and its dull
people were effaced; and in gayly decked barque

WALTER

LECKY.

201

Leigh Hunt Watkins, like his namesake, sailed for
the Hesperides.
What a blessed thing are the friends whose voices
can waft us from dullard surroundings to the isles
of the West!
With the death of the grandmother, Leigh Hunt
Watkins bade Dryburgh a sorrowful farewell. A
mercantile career in the great city was opened for
him by rich relatives; and the dreamer from a country town with his head full of flowers, birds, and
songs, and love romping through his blood making
that glorious insanity which poetry has partly
caught, went forth to join the ranks of the earners,
to strive in the battle of life, to company with ugly
realisms, and daily to walk on the ruins of his
ideals.
Mr. Ogley had wished him well. Florence had
allowed him to steal from her neck a little silver
cross.
li
A man that will be heard from some day," said
Mr. Ogley the evening of his departure; " the most
charming youth I have known; full of talent, but
completely unsuited for a mercantile career. Poor
fellow! you might as well try to cage a hummingbird. Like his namesake, he was born to live
among books and flowers."
" Yes, papa, and how lonesome it will be here
now! I only wished we lived in New York. Oh,
dear me! what a dreadful place this is! Such horrid
people! "
" But, Florence," and Mr. Ogley laughed, " y o u

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GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

must remember that you have lived here a few years
seemingly content, and this sudden fit is rather difficult to explain; but if fortune favors us—and she has
long kept away—we may live in New York some
day. I also am a little weary of all this loneliness,
and long for some one who would partake of my
thoughts.
No, Florence; I cannot blame you.
Life only comes once, and to potter it out in Dryburgh would be sad waste. I trust he promised to
write a letter now and then; it would be pleasant;
you have time enough to answer."
" The Lord is merciful if we only wait long
enough/' said Mrs. Cronker; " young Watkins has
gone to the city away from those Ogleys. The
prayers of Brother Collins for that young man have
not been offered in vain. Will he be saved, I wonder?
These Ogleys have primed him well. It's my
opinion they have made him a Jesuit. Just think
of the grandson of Dan Watkins writing poems about
the Madonna and telling Justice Butler that it be a
Catholic priest that writ the hymn I'm so fond of
—the one I sung at Moore's funeral. ' Yes,' says
he, * " Lead, kindly Light " was so composed.' I
trust he'll fall into good hands, but poison once in
the vitals is hard to physic out. I wonder who's
next on the list for contamination."
So runs the world, interesting from its diversity
of opinions. We are saddled with motives, then
accordingly judged. It is the old censure of the
poet: man's inhumanity to man.
Dryburgh soon banished Leigh Hunt Watkins

WALTER

LECKY.

203

from its ordinary conversation; he was only discussed when some memory recalled his name; and
thus the years wore on. The Ogleys made no new
friends. Dr. Cronker was delighted in having a
model tenant; the townspeople had given up guessing how the Ogleys lived; the fountain that had
supplied gossip so long was dry.
Gilliman Ogley loved to sit on the little porch in
the warm evenings, and read his paper, or watch
his daughter busying herself among the flowers,
giving a cool drink to a drooping fellow, pruning the
ambitious, staying the weaklings. The paper lay
on an easy-chair ready to be read. One evening,
missing what had become a necessity, he called his
daughter, who approached him with a bundle of
manuscripts.
" I have something better than your old paper,
papa. Leigh has written a novel and had it accepted by a big publishing house. It is full of fun.
I have been reading and laughing all the afternoon.
I know the most of the characters. We can never
forget Dryburgh as long as we have Leigh's novel.
I see the Butlers, Cronkers, Collins, all that set,
strutting up and down the pages. If everybody
likes it as well as I do, it will make Leigh famous.
Just read Chapter I I I , where Justice Butler holds
court. How funny! Perhaps I had better read it,
as you look a trifle t i r e d . "
" Y e s , Florence, read. I am weary, weary of
Dryburgh; but I see no chance of leaving it y e t . "
She read, throwing her whole soul into the read-

204

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

ing, flashing out the fun with her laughing blue
eyes.
As she read the weariness fled from her father's
face, and a rippling laughter that she had not seen
for years took its place. When the chapter was
finished she looked towards him and listened.
" Florence, this is capital. By Jove, if I know
anything this book will make Leigh famous! I knew
he was clever, but I never looked to him to give
us such a humorous book. I would like to take it
to the shop and make a few drawings. I am on
the spot, which means much. Leigh you could ask
to show them to his publishers. All they can do
in the matter would be to reject them, and that
kind of thing will not hurt me. I am used to
it," and a cynical shadow stole over Mr. Ogley's
face.
" Oh! I wish you would, papa. Just think of a
book by Leigh, and illustrated by y o u ! "
" Foolish Florence! You rear a dream; the
illustrations may not be needed.''
It might have been a dream, but from that
moment Florence Ogley saw it as a reality. She
wrote to Leigh of her father's intention, and he procured time and a promise from the publishers to
look over il Mr. Ogley's illustrations."
" Everything comes to the patient, Florence,"
said Mr. Ogley, opening the little wicket gate that
led to his house.
" The illustrations are done,
and sent off in your name. Nothing venture,
nothing win. If they are worthless
"

WALTER
4<

LECKY.

205

Why talk that way ? You know that they will
be as good as the t e x t . "
" Well, my daughter, it is right, I suppose, for
you to hold an exalted opinion of your father—it
enables him to bear the world's contrary verdict."
A few weeks came and went—weeks of longing
on the part of Florence Ogley; weeks of hope and
prayer for her father. At length the long-awaited
letter came. It was noted in Dryburgh that on
this day Miss Ogley actually ran from the postoffice to her house, and throwing herself under the
shade of a maple, opened the precious packet.
How her heart beat! How the words went galloping! " The illustrations were accepted; the publishers declared they would sell any book/' Mr.
Ogley must come to New York, as the firm needed
more of his work. And for all the Ogleys' kindness
the book was to be dedicated to Florence, as a
small token of Leigh's affection.
Leigh would return with Mr. Ogley and take a
well-earned rest.
She rested her head against the trunk of the tree,
happiness came to her dreams; beautiful dreams
romped through her head. Dreams invited sleep,
and that fairy princess came.
Mr. Ogley, returning home, found his daughter
fast asleep with a crumpled letter held to her breast.
Gently he took it and read. Tears ran down his
cheeks. ' ' If my wife were only alive," he muttered,
" o n l y alive! Perhaps people now may buy my
pictures. All I wanted was to get a start—to get

2o6

GILLIMAN

OGLEY.

away from Dryburgh and exile, far from dulness
and bigotry. To live in the city once more is not
a dream, but a reality, Gilliman Ogley."
Florence awoke: the father and daughter, eyes
telling a tale, embraced.
" W h a t is that you're killing yourself laughing
at ? " said Justice Butler to Dr. Cronker.
" The funniest book that was ever penned—a
book got up by young Watkins, and Ogley, who
rented my place. Ogley has become a great man.
Guess what he was doing in the glass office while
we were laughing outside—painting pictures. They
were sold the other day at auction; brought prices
you and I couldn't touch. I wanted to know more
of that man, but I was led the other way by my wife.
Men are foolish to be led by the noses, the women
element holding the string. My wife was always
prophesying about these folk, and that Leigh was
not going there for nothing, and something bad
would happen some day. Leigh was not going
there for nothing; that bit of her talk is correct,
I reckon, if the dedication to Mrs. Florence Ogley
Watkins means anything, and I'm betting it
does."
" Doctor," said the justice, removing his hat and
scratching his head long and crosswise, " t h i s is a
slow town: the people know nothing. Just think
of the way they treated that great man. I wouldn't
wonder but that that Watkins boy, if he's clever
enough to write books, might turn the laugh by

WALTER

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207

composing one on Dryburgh, and get Ogley to picture i t . "
" Serve them right. Just what would wake them
up, and this book tells me that young Watkins can
do it thoroughly.''
" Let me have a read at it as soon as you get
through, doctor," and Justice Butler went down
the street to his office.
Dr. Cronker put under his arm Burgkdry, a
novel, by Leigh Hunt Watkins, illustrated by
Gilliman Ogley, and dedicated to Mrs. Florence
Ogley Watkins, and strolled off into the shade of a
maple to laugh at the music of a fellow-townsman.

CHRISTIAN
Mrs.

REID.

FRANCES C. TIERNAN, whose books are published

over the name of "Christian Reid," was born at Salisbury, Nortn Carolina, where her people have lived from the
first settlement of the country.

Her father, Colonel Charles

F. Fisher, was killed on July 21st, 1861, in the battle of
Manassas, while in command of his regiment of North
Carolina State Troops.
This event, followed as it was by the loss of the Southern cause and consequent loss of fortune to ail of those who
had been among the. leading people of the South, made a
great change in the prospects and future life of his daughter.
Soon after the end of the war. while still very young, she
began writing, a pursuit to which from her earliest childhood

she had been greatly inclined, having indeed composed
stories and dictated them to a kind elder, before she learned
to form letters.
followed

A year or two of preliminary work was

by the publication

and immediate

success of

"Valerie Aylmer," after which for several years she devoted
herself closely to literature, living most of her time in the
old home of her family in Salisbury.
To a mind clear as hers, to a soul loving beauty, to a
heart always brave, religious truth could not remain unknown.

In early womanhood she recognized, admired, and

fervently embraced the Catholic faith.
In 1879-80 she spent some time in Europe, chiefly in
Paris and Rome, and after he r return to America wrote
"Heart
"Morton

of Steel" and
House,"

"Armine,"

"A

Question

which together
of

Honor,"

and

with
"A

Daughter of Bohemia" maybe mentioned as her best works.
In 1887 she was married to Mr. James M-. Tiernan, and
has since chiefly resided in Mexico, where her husband has
large mining interests,

Out of

Mrs. Tiernan's stay in

Mexico have come "The Land of the Sun," "Picture of
Las Cruces."
stories are

and

"Carmela."

"Armine,"

"A

Her principal

Child of

Mary,"

Catholic
"Philip's

Restitution," "Carmela," "A Little Maid of Arcady," and
•A Woman of Fortune."
Mrs. Tiernan's other books are : "A Cast for Fortune."
"The Lady of Las Cruces," "Mabel Lee," "Ebb-Tide,"
"Nina's Atonement," "Carmen's Inheritance," "A Gentle
Belle,"

'Hearts and

Hands," "The Land of the Sky,"

"After Many Days," ' Bonny Kate," "A Summer Idyl,"
"Roslyn's Fortune," "Miss Churchill."

1Tn tbe (Sluebra&a*
BY

CHRISTIAN

REID.

AMONG the wildest heights of the Sierra Madre
in western Mexico is the town or mining camp of
T6pia, which occupies what would b? in case of war
an absolutely impregnable situation. It lies in a
high, cup-shaped valley, with immense cliff-faced
heights surrounding it like the walls of an amphitheatre, while its only gate of entrance, save some
trails over the hills, is a deep pass, or quebrada, cut
through the mountains by a river which in immeasurably distant ages forced a way for itself to the
Pacific Ocean.
U p this quebrada, which is almost impassable in
the rainy season because the waters of the river then
completely, cover its boulder-strewn bottom—the
greater part of which is in the other season dry—all
supplies for the town are conveyed on the backs of
men or of mules. During the dry months there is a
constant succession of long trains of the last-named
patient animals, bearing immense packs, passing
over the trail—for road it cannot be called—which
winds upward among the rocks, crossing and recrossing hundreds of times the atream which flows
down the pass. Of these trains the most important
211

212

IN

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are the bullion trains, or condtictas, from the mines,
which carry down the product of their reduction
works in massive bars of silver to the mint in the
city of Culiacan, to be conveyed back in a few days
in the form of freshly-coined dollars stamped with
the Mexican eagle. These bullion trains would
have been in times past a mark for constant robbery,
but since the government has suppressed brigandage
with so strong a hand they are very seldom molested.
As a measure of precaution, however, they are
always accompanied by a guard of two or three
armed men, and the leader or " conductor" is
always a man of proved honesty and strong nerve.
Such a train set out one day from Culiacan, bearing many thousand dollars of freshly-coined silver
for the Madrugada Mines in the mountains of
Durango, and accompanied not only by the " cond u c t o r " in charge and his men, but by a young
American, Philip Earle by name, who was going as
consulting engineer up to the mines. Having had
considerable experience both in Mexico and South
America, this young man was not at all daunted by
anything which he had heard of the difficulties of
the way, nor by the remote and almost inaccessible
situation of the place for which he was bound. All
that concerned him was the large salary offered him
at the mines, for he was particularly anxious to make
money and to make it fast. So, bidding good-bye
to his friends in the flowery city of Culiacan, he set
forth with the bullion train for the mountains which
lay, blue and remote, on the eastern horizon.

CHRISTIAN

REID.

213

The journey of the first two days was commonplace and monotonous enough to one who knew the
country and was familiar with its customs. To one
who was not, however, the nineteenth century, with
its railroads and Pullman cars, would have seemed
but a dream in this land where troops of mules and
donkeys still transport all freight, where every man
goes on horseback, and where at night the only
places for lodging are the wayside fondas where the
animals are turned into a corral while the traveller
spreads on the ground the blanket which he carries
and, with his saddle for pillow, sleeps—or does not
sleep, as the case may be, to an accompaniment of
the stamping of mules, grunting of pigs, and lowing
of calves.
Earle had, however, travelled in remote parts of
Mexico before, and these things were almost as
much a matter of course to him as to his companions, the dark, sinewy, Arab-like men who
formed the escort of the train. It wras only when
they entered the quebrada on the third day that he
found himself impressed by any novelty in his surroundings. And indeed the person would have
been singularly obtuse who was not impressed by
the wonderful grandeur of this pass, which seemed
a way opened by Nature into the heart of her remotest fastnesses.
Bold green hills and precipitous cliffs lined the
sides of the narrow gorge, the bottom of which was
covered with stones worn into round shape by the
erosion of water through countless ages; and as the

214

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train of mules and men wound deeper and deeper
into this wild cafion, with the great rock-faced
heights towering above them, they were conscious
of an increasing sense of altitude. They had left
behind the oppressive heat and relaxing atmosphere
of the tierra caliente. A cool, Alpine freshness
was now about them, the gift of the giant hills, and
a luxuriant wealth of verdure began to adorn the
stern grandeur of the pass, mingled with fantastic
masses of rock of every shape and hue, and the
constant charm of rippling, flashing, pouring water.
Strange to say, also, as they penetrated farther
human habitations began to appear more frequently.
So excellent was the grazing for cattle on the hillsides, and so rich the soil wherever a foothold could
be secured for cultivation, that every few miles some
house of primitive construction appeared, nestling
under broad, rustling shade on some little point of
vantage between the mountains and the rock-strewn
quebrada.
It was at the close of their first day in the pass,
as twilight came on, with great masses of gorgeously
tinted clouds flecking the narrow strip of sapphire
sky over their heads, that Earle ranged his mule up
beside that of the " conductor " and inquired where
they would spend the night. It seemed a very
pertinent inquiry at the moment, for they were then
in a portion of the cafion so wild, so deep, so rugged
that it seemed as if no human habitation could be
near. But the Mexican replied without hesitation:
" A t Las Huertas, sefior."

CHRISTIAN

REID.

**s

" Las Huertas! " The young man looked around
shrugging his shoulders. Nothing could have been
less suggestive of gardens than this narrow pass in
the heart of the frowning heights. ' ' And how far
are we from the place ?" he asked.
" About a league," the other replied.
This meant an hour's longer riding, for progress in
the quebrada was slow; so, resigning himself, Earle
rode on. Half an hour later stars were shining out
of the dusky violet sky, toward which the massive
hills that lined their way towered in austere remoteness, and the murmur of the river was the only sound
which met the ear except the plashing now and
again of water as the train crossed some one of the
many fords. Earle, who had lighted a cigar to
solace the way, was very far in mind from his surroundings as he mechanically followed the man who
rode in advance of him around the shoulder of a
jutting cliff, where great masses of rock—detached
from above by the disintegrating processes of Nature
—were scattered in piled confusion, amid which the
mules slowly and in single file picked their way,
when suddenly—crack!—the sharp report of a rifle
rang out close at hand, and the startled rush of the
animals, the cries and shouts of the men told Earle
at once that the train was attacked. In the same
instant that he realized this, two more reports
sounded in rapid succession, and as he endeavored
to control his wildly frightened mule he was suddenly
aware of a dark head appearing above a rock close
beside him, and the levelled, shining barrel of a

2i6

M

THE

QUEBRADA.

gun. H e spurred his already excited animal, and
with a frantic bound it leaped forward just as a
fourth report rang out. H e was conscious of a
stinging pain in his shoulder and of falling headlong
from his saddle. After that he knew no more.
Even as his loss of consciousness had been by the
road of pain, so was his return to it. Red-hot
throbs and darts of physical anguish recalled his
senses from the dark region where they had
remained unaware of the body until thus recalled
to it. H e opened his eyes, and they rested on a
face that seemed to hirn like the creation of a
dream. Dark, delicate, gentle, tender, draped in
the dusky blue folds of a mantle, it was so like in
type to the well-known face of Our Lady of
Guadalupe, which hangs on the wall of every house,
palace, or hut in Mexico, that he could not believe
it to be other than a vision until, meeting the gaze
of his eyes, the vision spoke in a voice as soft as
her glance:
" Did I hurt you so much, sefior ? I was trying
to do something for your wound."
" What can you do ?" asked Earle with a groan.
" The ball must be in my shoulder, and only a
doctor can take it out."
" We have sent to Culiacan for a doctor," she
answered.
" He may be here to-morrow, but
meanwhile it is necessary that your wound should
be bandaged.''
" Bandage it, then," said Earle, setting his teeth
with a groan.

CHRISTIAN

REID.

217

H e could not but acknowledge, however, that
her touch was wonderfully deft and gentle, although
she had not the skill of a surgeon or of a trained
nurse. But the small dark hands, with the slender
supple fingers of her race, had a soft skill of their
own; and after she had bandaged the wound he
looked at her gratefully.
" You did that very well," he said, " and it feels
much better. But my head! I think it is injured
worse than my shoulder. It struck a rock as I fell
—that is the last thing I remember."
" It is badly cut, but not broken," she said. " I
have examined and bandaged it. That blow was
what stunned you. I don't think your shoulder is
very badly hurt."
" But what o c c u r r e d ? " he asked, suddenly
remembering the scene last imprinted on his consciousness—the dark pass, the piled rocks, the sharp
report of the rifles, the frightened mules, the shouting men, the gun levelled with deliberate aim at
him, the bullet in his shoulder, the fall from his
plunging mule. " Was any one killed ? " he asked.
" Was the train robbed ? "
" No one was killed, sefior—gracias d Dios! "
she answered gravely. " But injured, yes. Don
Ramon lies dangerously wounded, and so is Manuel
Alvarez. The silver was carried off."
" By w h o m ? "
She shrugged her shoulders—apparently at the
futility of the question.
" By robbers, without doubt, sefior; but who they

2i8

IN

THE

QUEBRADA.

were—quien sabe? It has been very long since anything of the kind happened in the qvebrada before."
" Have they been taken?'*
It seemed to him that she shrank, and that the
soft tint of her face grew paler.
" N o , " she answered, catching her breath a little,
" but the soldiers are out in search of them.' ,
" Then it is not likely they will escape/' said he
with satisfaction. " T h i n g s of this kind are not
played with in Mexico. They catch their robbers
—and when they catch them, they shoot them."
" Si, sefior," she assented faintly. There was no
doubt now of her increasing pallor, and the hands
still busied about his bandages trembled excessively.
He noted these things, thinking to himself that her
nerves were somewhat overwrought by such tragic
happenings. Then it suddenly occurred to him to
wonder where he was, and he asked the question.
" A t Las Huertas, sefior," she answered. She
rose, adding gently: " I will bring you food—it is
necessary that you should take something."
As she left him he lay looking at the scene which
surrounded him and taking in its details, as far as
his dulled and weakened faculties would permit him
to do so. He perceived that he was lying on a cot
under a straw-thatched shed, such as formed a front
to all the adobe farm-houses of the country. The
usual dark, unventilated rooms were behind, but in
front was what might readily have been transformed
into a paradise of beauty, for it was a part of the
huertas at the mention of which he had smiled.

CHRISTIAN

RE ID.

219

Through the glistening green foliage of a thick grove
of orange-trees the sunshine flecked the ground in
broken gleams; while under the arching boughs were
to be caught glimpses of the rocky quebrada, with
its towering heights, beyond, from whence came a
constant murmur of the swiftly flowing river. This
was for a little while the only sound which met the
ear of Earle, then another reached him—a low, deep
moan of pain. His eyes and attention thus drawn
to his immediate neighborhood, he saw not far off,
on a cot like his own, the recumbent form of Ramon,
the " conductor " of the bullion train; while farther
yet, stretched on a pallet on the floor, was another
prone and bloody figure. " It is like a hospital
after battle,'' he thought; i' but whereare surgeons,
nurses, means of help for any of us ? W e shall
probably all die from mortified wounds. My God!
what a fool I was ever to have come h e r e ! "
He did not change this opinion even when, the
next day, the doctor summoned from Culiacan
arrived and speedily extracted the ball from his
shoulder, declaring the wound not dangerous with
proper care. The other men were also looked after
and despatched to their homes near by. But when
Earle pleaded to be taken to Culiacan, the surgeon
promptly negatived the request.
" It would be exceedingly dangerous," he said,
" t o return to the hot country in your condition.
No, you must stay here in the hills, and if you
follow my directions carefully there is no reason
why all should not go well with you. I will come

220

IN

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QUEBRADA.

back in two or three weeks, and you can then decide
whether you will return with me or go up to the
mines. For the present I will leave you in the
hands of the pretty daughter of the house here,
who is unusually capable, with natural qualities for
nursing, if no training."
" There is something very soothing about h e r / '
said Earle, languidly.
It was this soothing quality, perhaps, which in
the days that followed made him lean so upon this
girl with the dark, tender face, so like the face of
the Lady of Guadalupe. Once, when she was bending over him in some act of ministration, the resemblance seemed to him so striking that he said to her:
" Is your name Guadalupe? It should b e . "
She looked surprised.
" No, seftor," she answered. " My name is Innocencia."
"Ah!"
H e could not but smile, the name
seemed so appropriate to the expression of her
face—to her whole air and manner, which was that
of a childlike innocence blended with the gravity
and wisdom of mature womanhood. Lying on his
couch of pain, with nothing to do but observe what
went on around him, he had seen that not only
himself but every one else in the house depended
on this quiet, gentle, capable creature, who went
about her daily tasks so silently and deftly. She
appeared to be the only child of her parents, who
leaned upon her in equal degree—her father a grave,
taciturn, apparently careworn man, and her mother
a fretful invalid who could render no assistance in

CHRISTIAN

REID.

221

any household task. These tasks she performed
with wonderful neatness and despatch, yet never
permitted the stranger who so entirely looked to her
for all his comfort to feel himself in the least neglected. And through all her many and varied
duties she preserved ever the same gentle serenity,
the same sweet purity of glance and manner which
made Earle exclaim on hearing her name :
" T h a t is charming!
You could not possibly
have a name more appropriate to you—not even
Guadalupe."
H e saw that she blushed and the lids with their
dark silken fringes fell over her eyes.
" The
sefior is very g o o d , " she said, " b u t he does not
know a great deal of me. It is possible that he
thinks better of me than I deserve."
" Y o u deserve everything good that I could
possibly think of y o u , " returned Earle with energy.
" Y o u have been my good angel. I owe my life
to your kindness and c a r e . "
" And if that were so, sefior, I should be very
g l a d , " she answered with a sincerity which could
not be doubted. " Nothing could give me more
happiness than to believe that I had saved your
life."
" You may believe i t , " he said earnestly. " But
for your nursing, your constant care, I should surely
have d i e d . "
So far from dying, however, he was soon able to
walk about. And then it was that he fully realized
the exceeding picturesqueness and beauty of the

222

IN

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place where fate had thrown him. The hills, receding slightly from the quebrada^ left a space a hundred
or two yards in width, but in length perhaps half
a mile, which was covered with the most luxuriant
groves of orange and other fruit trees extending on
each side of the house, which was set with its back
immediately against the steeply rising mountains,
covered with luxuriant forest growth. It was a
delight to Earle when he grew stronger to wander
out into these gardens, and in their leafy alleys—for
the trees were planted in long rows—to try his
strength in walking, or merely sit and absorb the
marvellous beauty and tranquillity, the wild sylvan
freshness, the sense of utter remoteness in the scene.
And it grew daily more of a pleasure to him to
watch for the appearance of Innocencia, as she
would come to seek him at regular intervals with
his food and medicine. He would establish himself
at the end of the huerta farthest from the house,
so as to prolong the pleasure of watching the
advance of the slender figure, drawing nearer
between the rows of trees, overarched by their
foliage, amidst which gleamed the golden fruit.
There was something so Arcadian in the whole
environment that it made a perfect frame for that
figure in its gentle grace, toward which his thoughts
and feelings daily inclined with more of tenderness.
It is an old story, that of the heart of the convalescent turning toward the nurse who has become
necessary to him. But there was something more
than the ordinary reason to account for Earle's

CHRISTIAN

REID.

223

growing sense of attachment to this girl, who was
so totally different from any woman he had ever
known before, as different as this wild, remote,
strangely beautiful chasm in the heart of the mountains was to the world left, it seemed to him, so far
behind.
And the reason, too, was an old one. H e had
left, with a sore and angry heart, not only that
world, but another girl whom he had loved for years,
but who had refused to share the fortunes of his
wandering life. " When you are able to return and
live in civilization I will marry y o u , " she had said,
to which he had replied hotly that in such case she
preferred the advantages of civilization to himself.
" If you choose to think s o , " she had answered
proudly. And so the matter had ended with a broken
engagement and a disappointed man going to bury
himself in the most remote portion of Mexico. His
thoughts had been dwelling angrily, bitterly on
Alice Wilmot at the very instant when the attack
on the train was made; he had recalled her brilliant,
scornful beauty as if it had been before his eyes,
and then—after the dark interval of unconsciousness
—it was on the tender face of Innocencia that those
eyes opened. Was the one appointed to heal the
hurt inflicted by the other, the mental as well as
the physical wound from which he was suffering ?
As the days went on he began more and more to
think so, more and more to lapse into a dream of
passive content.
But this content was suddenly and rudely shat-

224

IN

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tered. It chanced that one morning he rose very
early after a restless night, and wandered out into
the leafy alleys of the huerta before the sun had
appeared over the mountains and while a certain
obscurity of dawn still lingered in the dewy, fragrant shades. As he sauntered along he was surprised suddenly to catch a glimpse of the familiar
blue mantle of Innocencia in that part of the garden
which bordered immediately upon the steep mountain-side. He turned at once and went toward her,
with the pleasure which the sight of her always
evoked quickening at his heart; and it was not
until he had nearly reached her side that he perceived that she had a companion—a man, whose
tall athletic figure was partially concealed by a
clump of foliage as he stood, leaning on a rifle,
before her.
Earle paused abruptly. Something in the attitudes of the two persons, and the sound of their
low earnest voices, told him that this meeting in
the early dawn was not an ordinary one. H e would
have retreated unseen, could he have done so; but
as he paused the man glanced up, saw him, and,
quick as thought, raised his rifle. Amazed, Earle
stood still, offering an excellent target had the other
fired; but at the same moment Innocencia also perceived him and with a low cry struck up the gun.
She then uttered a few words rapidly and.passionately. The man scowled, hesitated an instant, then,
turning, quickly sprang up the mountain-side and

CHRISTIAN

REID.

225

was almost immediately lost to sight in the dense
forest.
Innocencia stood looking after him for a moment
before she walked slowly toward Earle, who still
stood as if transfixed, the full significance of the
scene having by this time dawned upon him. So
she had a lover, this girl whom he had blindly
thought so deserving of her exquisite name! And
a lover whom she not only met in secret at unseemly hours, but who was so brutal a desperado
that he lifted his gun without provocation to fire
on an unarmed man. It was no wonder that he
regarded her sternly as she approached, so pale
that in the pallid, misty dawn she seemed the mere
wraith of herself.
" Senor," she said, speaking faintly and with
evident difficulty, " you are out—very early."
" Y e s , " Earle assented, " and I am sorry that
chance should have brought me out to witness what
I have seen. Y e t , " with sudden energy, " I am
not sorry to learn the truth, however painful it may
be. For I have thought so well of you t h a t — "
" That it is now painful to you to think badly of
m e , " she said, as he hesitated. She had regained
the calmness which usually characterized her manner, although she was still very pale; and as she
stood before him he could not but think that there
was nothing of the culprit in her aspect. Instead
there was a strange mingling of dignity and pathos.
" It is t r u e , " she went on; " you cannot think

226

IN THE

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otherwise than badly of me now, and you will perhaps think still worse when I ask you to do me the
great favor not to mention to any one that you have
seen—him who has gone away."
" I should not have thought of mentioning the
fact to any o n e / ' Earle replied coldly. '* It is no
concern of mine that you choose to meet in such a
manner and at such a time one who is so little of
a man that he lifts his weapon against a stranger
unarmed and unoffending."
" Pardon him, sefior," she pleaded. " H e is a
hunted, desperate man, and he feared—"
" That I would recognize h i m ? " A sudden
swift intuition flashed upon Earle. " That was one
of the robbers of the bullion train," he declared
with positive conviction. " Perhaps the very man
who shot me. You cannot deny it."
" Sefior!" She clasped her hands and looked
at him piteously, appealingly.
" My God! " said Earle, regarding her with eyes
that burned with indignation. " I fancied myself
in an honest, hospitable house, and instead I am in
a haunt of robbers. I fancied you goodness incarnate, and instead you are—"
H e paused, suffocated with passion; and as he
paused she came nearer to him, holding out her
clasped hands and lifting her eyes full of supplication.
" Of me, sefior, think what you will," she cried,
" but do not think for a moment that my parents
know anything of this. My father's house is honest

CHRISTIAN

REID,

227

—he would die sooner than harbor a robber within
it. Oh, be just to him and believe this! "
" I am glad to believe it," replied Earle sternly;
" but in that case how is it possible for you, the
daughter of an honest man, to meet secretly one
who is a highway robber, and a murderer as well at
heart?"
She burst into an agony of weeping, burying her
face in her slender hands, and it was several minutes
before she could answer him.
Then she said
between her sobs:
" All that you say of him is true. I cannot deny
it, and—valgame Dios!—I cannot tell you why I
meet this man. Only, it would break my father's
heart to know it, and I pray you, therefore, say
not a word—"
" I have already told you that I will say nothing,"
Earle interposed abruptly. " But I shall make immediate preparations to leave this place, where I
now feel that my life is unsafe."
Giving her no time to reply, he turned with the
last words and walked away.
It was the afternoon of the same day that Earle,
leaving the shady groves of Las Huertas, walked
across the quebrada to its farther side, where the
river flowed along the base of towering cliffs.
Seating himself in the deep cool shadow cast by
these, he gave himself up to very bitter reflections.
On the exact nature of these reflections, especially
as concerned the ineradicable depravity of feminine nature, it is unnecessary to dwell. They have

228

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been the reflections in all ages of those who leaped
too rapidly from particular examples to general
conclusions. Mingling in his thoughts the heart lessness of Alice Wilmot with the duplicity of Innocencia, he sat moodily gazing at the stream and
wishing that it were possible to leave Las Huertas
without an hour's further delay. But departure
had proved more difficult than he had anticipated.
Mules and a guide were to be obtained, all of which
involved delay and required an exercise of patience
to which he felt himself at present unequal. H e
had come out, therefore, to escape at once the
annoyance of endeavoring to explain his sudden
departure to his host, and the sight of Innocencia,
which had become intensely painful to him.
But was he not to escape this sight after all ?
For, lifting his eyes suddenly, whom should he see
hastening toward him across the rock-strewn space
that lay between Las Huertas and the stream but
Innocencia herself! She was running as fast as was
possible over the stones, almost falling now and
again, but recovering herself quickly and coming on
with unabated speed. Earle regarded her approach
with a wonder which grew into positive amazement
when she at last reached him and paused, pale,
panting, agitated as he had never seen her before.
H e sprang to his feet, thinking for an instant that
she was about to faint.
" What is the matter ?" he asked, assisting her
to a seat on a stone. " What has happened ? "
She looked up at him—a wild terror, as he now

CHRISTIAN

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229

perceived, in her eyes, and a passionate entreaty as
well.
" Sefior," she gasped, " he has been taken—the
man whom you saw this morning—"
" A h ! " h e said, with an instant hardening of
feeling which was reflected in his face and voice.
This, then, was what her agitation meant! Her
villainous lover had been captured by the guards
who had been searching the mountains for days;
and she knew well what little chance of escape, what
short shrift, there was for such criminals when once
taken. Earle made no effort to speak other than
coldly as he asked, " What then ? "
She cast an agonized look across the quebrada;
and, following it, he saw a group issuing from the gate
of Las Huertasand coming across the rocks toward
him. It was a party of soldiers escorting a prisoner.
"' Sefior," she cried, catching his hand in both of
her own, " they are bringing him to you, to see if
you will identify him as—as one of those who
attacked the condiicta. When I heard that, I said
that I would come in search of you; and I ran away
before they could stop me, to beg you for the love
of God to be merciful—to have pity— M
" S t o p ! " said Earle almost roughly, for the men
were now half-way across the quebrada. ki Let me
understand you. Have they no proof against the
man unless I can identify him ? "
" None, sefior, none. They suspect him—ah,
valgame Bios/—but they know nothing. It is all
with you."

2J6

IN

THE

QUZBRADA.

" Be quiet now," said Earle in the same sternly
commanding tone. " They are almost here, and
they must not suppose that you have appealed to
me. Turn your face away or it will betray you."
As she obeyed him with one last piteous glance,
he stepped forward so as further to shield her; and
taking a few steps met the party, which had now
reached him. They halted, salutations were exchanged between himself and the officer in command of the guards, and the latter then said:
" We believe, sefior, that we have captured one
of the robbers who attacked the condiicta the night
you were wounded. He bears a very bad name, but
we lack direct evidence against him; and we have
brought him to see if you can perhaps identify him,
since we are informed that you alone saw one of
the assailants on that occasion."
Earle looked at the prisoner, whose face he had
hardly observed in the early morning. It was easy
to observe it now, for he held his head haughtily
erect, and his dark eyes were full of defiance under
their level brows as they met without wavering
those of the man whose word could send him to
death. There was no fear in them and no appeal.
Just so it was certain they would face the muskets
which in a little while would be levelled to shoot him
did Earle only say, " That is the man."
With the involuntary feeling of admiration which
courage always evokes, Earle turned to the observant, expectant officer beside him.
" You will remember, sefior," he said quietly,

CHRISTIAN

REID.

231

" that the attack on the condticta took place at
night. Therefore, although it is true that I saw
one of the robbers just before I was shot by him, I
could not be certain enough of his appearance to
identify him, and I cannot possibly declare that this
man is h e . "
" You positively cannot identify him as one of
your assailants ?" asked the officer in a disappointed
tone.
" I positively cannot do so."
" Then we need not trouble you further.
Adios,
seizor/*
" Adios, Sefior Capitano."
Hats were lifted, the officer gave a word of command to his men and they turned back across the
quebrada with their prisoner, the look of relief on
whose face was visibly mingled with surprise.
Earle remained silently watching them until they
were well out of earshot. Then he turned again
toward Innocencia. But he was not prepared for
her rising from the stone on which he had placed
her, and, before he could divine her intention or
prevent her, taking his hand and kissing it. Almost"
violently he drew it away.
" For God's sake, spare me! " he exclaimed passionately. " I need no further proof of how much
you love this brigand—for that I am sure he is,
though I have suppressed the truth in order to save
him."
" It is because you have saved him, sefior, that
I thank you," she said in a tone of deepest feeling.

IN

2$2
li

THE

QU&BRADA.

I want no thanks," he replied angrily. li I
have simply paid a debt. And I am glad to have
been able to do so without perjuring myself. I did
not recognize the man—how could I identify a face
seen only for a moment in the obscurity of night ?
But I have not the faintest doubt of his guilt, and
I only refrained from expressing my conviction
because, if he nearly took my life, I owe its preservation to you. And so, for your sake, I have
spared him—though it might have been better,
even for your sake," he added gloomily, " if I
had identified him, and so insured his being shot."
" Do not say that, sefior," she pleaded, growing
if possible a shade paler, " for you would have
broken not only my heart, but the hearts of my
poor father and mother as well.* H e is my only
brother.''
"Innocencia! "
It was a cry in which gladness, relief, reproach
were mingled indescribably; but Innocencia went
on without heeding, in her low pathetic tones:
" I did not intend to tell you, sefior, for the sake
of my poor father, who is so honest, so good, and
to whom it is so sore a trial, so heavy a cross that
his son is otherwise. To escape the disgrace he
brought upon us, my father left his home beyond
the mountains yonder M —she pointed eastward—
" and came here, thinking that Cipriano would not
find us and no one here need know with what a son
God had afflicted him. But he discovered where
we had gone and followed us. My father refused

CHRISTIAN

REID.

*33

to allow him to enter his house. H e went away,
swearing that he should regret it. And soon after
this, sefior, occurred the attack on the condticta.
I knew nothing of my brother's connection with it,
but I feared, I trembled, and so did my father.
And this morning, when I went out early to milk
the cows, he—Cipriano—came down the mountain
and spoke to me. H e told me that he was closely
pursued, that he would be shot if taken, and begged
me to hide him. We were still talking, for I knew
not what to do, when you.came—and the rest you
know."
" My poor Innocencia! " said Earle, taking her
hands and regarding her with eyes in which compassion and pleasure were subtly mingled. • " So
this is the explanation. What a fool, as well as a
brute, I have been!—a fool to think for a moment
that you could have been guilty of what I imagined,
and a brute to treat-you in any case as I have
done. Can you forgive me in consideration of the
only excuse I have to offer—that I love you with
all my heart, and that it maddened me to be forced
to believe you unworthy of that love ? "
' ' Sefior!"
She drew back as if frightened.
" It is impossible "—she caught her breath—" it
is not right that you should speak so to m e — "
" And why not ? " he asked impetuously. " Do
you not know that you have healed my heart as
well as my body, that I have daily learned to love
you more, until now I cannot live without y o u — "
She drew her hands from his clasp, and retreating

*u

IN

THE

QUEBRADA.

slightly from him, stood looking at him, smiling a
little sadly.
" Oh, yes, senor," she said in her musical accents,
" you will easily learn to live without the poor
Mexican girl who has had the happiness of repairing
in some measure the evil her unhappy brother
wrought, but who is not fitted to share your life.
No, setter,"—as he attempted to speak—" say no
more, I beg. You forget the great difference
between your life and m i n e . "
" It is t r u e , " Earle replied simply. " I forget
everything, and desire to forget everything—
except that I love you."
She~shook her head. " But that is not right,"
she said.
" There are many things which you
should remember—your country, your friends—"
He made a gesture as if he abjured them. " I
give them u p , " he said. " All that I ask is to
stay here with y o u . "
" Here—-in the quebrada i'" She smiled again,
almost pityingly. " Ah, seftor, what a little time
it would be before you would hate the quebrada,
and perhaps poor Innocencia too, were she foolish
enough to listen to you. But it is because you are
still weak from your illness that you think these
things. When you are strong and go back to
the great world, of which you have talked to me,
you will wonder that you ever thought of staying
here or of loving a girl who is so poor, so ignorant—"
" And so divinely good and tender," he cried,

CHRISTIAN

RE1D.

235

taking her hand again. il Innocencia, what do I
care for any of these things ? I care only for, I
think only oiyou."
" Then think of me, sefior," she said quietly,
" as one whose duty is fixed. You have seen how
it is—my parents are heart-broken over the loss of
their only son. I am all they have and I will never
leave them. That promise long since I made to
God and to my own heart. But even if this were
not so—if my parents had not such need of me, if
my brother were not disgraced—I could not be so
foolish as to listen to you, who would so soon
regret your own folly—"
" Innocencia! "
She suddenly lifted her hand and pointed.
" Y o n d e r , " she said, li comes the sefior doctor
from Culiacan, who will take you back with him.
And it is better so."
" Hallo, Earle!" said the doctor when, having
dismounted from his mule at the gate of Las
Huertas, he came across the quebrada to his patient;
" I am delighted to see you so much improved.
And for your further improvement I have brought
with me a most efficacious medicine."
" I have no need of any more* medicine," said
Earle, ungraciously. *' I have taken enough of the
stuff you left for m e . "
" A h , this is medicine of another and better
kind," returned the doctor. " It will give you all
the strength you need to accompany me to Culiacan
to-morrow/'

2^6

IN

THE

QUEBRADA.

" I have no intention of returning to Culiacan,"
said Earle. " I am going up to the mines."
" You are not strong enough yet for that t r i p , "
said t h e doctor, decidedly. " You must come back
to Culiacan, and" then take a companion with you
when you start again for the mountains of Durango."
" A companion! " Earle glanced at the figure
of Innocencia as, draped in her blue mantle, she
was passing across the quebrada homeward. " I
haven't the least desire for any companion who
is likely to care to accompany m e , " he said
gloomily.
" One never knows," returned the doctor, mysteriously, "-what might turn up. It is the unexpected that happens, you know.
Oh, confound
it, Earle, I am a bad hand at either keeping a secret
or breaking news! The long and the short of it is,
that I have a letter for you from the most charming
young lady in the w o r l d / '
" F o r m e ! " Earle stared in amazement. " B u t
I don't know a young lady in Culiacan/'
" T h i s young lady only arrived in Culiacan the
other day, from San Francisco.
She had heard
some news which concerned her very much, and so
she came. Here is her letter."
He produced from his pocket a letter which he
handed to Earle, and then rising walked away.
With the feeling of one in a dream, Earle opened
and read:

CHRISTIAN

KEID.

237

' P H I L I P : We have both been foolish, and I
apparently heartless. But I learned when I heard
of your danger that I am not heartless, so I have
thrown pride away and come to share all your
dangers henceforth. Are you glad ? If so, come
quickly to
"

ALICE."

When Earle looked up from the sheet which bore
these lines of writing his eyes had a dazzled light
in them, as if under amazement joy were dawning.
But he turned his gaze to the spot where he had
last seen Innocencia. She had disappeared.

MARY A. SADLIER.
MRS. MARY A. SADLIER was born in Cootehill, County
Cavan, Ireland, where her father, Francis Madden, Esq.,
was a highly respected merchant.

Miss Madden began

her literary career by poetical contributions to La Belle
Assemblee,

a London Magazine.

Shortly after her emi-

gration to America, Miss Madden was married to Mr. J a m e s
Sadlier, the publisher.

From this time forth, she embarked

upon a literary career which lasted with but little interruption for almost half a century.

She edited for some years

the New York Tablet, being fortunate in such co-laborers

and contributors as Dr. Brownson, Hon. T. D. McGee,
Dr. Ives. Henry Giles, M. E. Blake, Dr. Huntington, Dr.
Anderson, and John McCarthy.

In March, 1895, Mrs.

Sadlier received the Ltetare Medal from the University of
Notre Dame, an honor conferred on few.
Amongst her best-known works are : '' The Confederate
Chieftains," " Blakes and Flanagans," " O l d and New,"
" T h e Hermit of the Rock," " Bessy Conway," "Maureen
Dhu," " N e w Lights, or Life in Galway," " Confessions of
an Apostate," "Elinor Preston."
" Daughter of Tyrconnell,"
" H e i r e s s of Kilorgan,"

" MacCarthy More,"

" Old House by the Boyne,"

" R e d Hand of Ulster."

Honor's Keepsake," " C o n O'Regan,"

"Willy

"Aunt
Burke,"

"Alice Riordan," " F a t e of Father Sheeny," "Agnes of
Braunsberg,'' and jointly with her daughters a volume of short
tales, " Stories of the Promises."

Mrs. Sadlier also com-

piled a catechism of "Sacred History," " A Young Ladies'
Reader," "Purgatory: Doctrinal, Historical, and Poetical."
Her translations include: " De Ligny's Life of Christ,"
" Orsini's Life of the Blessed Virgin," " Lambruschini's
Immaculate Conception." "Collot's Catechism,"

"The

Orphan of Moscow," " T h e Spanish Cavaliers," "Catholic
Anecdotes" in three volumes, " T h e Lost Son,"

"The

Castle of Rousillon," " T h e Year of Mary," " Legends of
St. Joseph." " Meditations on the Holy Eucharist," " Easter in Heaven," " T h e Pope's Niece." " T h e Bohemians,"
"Salim," " T h e Vendetta," " The Exile of Tadmor," " T h e
Poachers," " T h e Great Day," "Benjamin," " T h e Devil,"
" The Family," " The Priest's Sister and the Inheritance,"
" Ten Stories," " Tales and Stories."

©ban SJempses's 5tot£,
BY MARY A.

SADLIER.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.—GRAY.

T H E old Catholic homesteads of Ireland have each
and all their regular set of dependents or hangerson, wholly apart from the domestics, yet belonging, as it were, to the family. What Catholic is
there of the middle or upper classes, brought up
in that country,
"Where smiles hospitality, hearty and free,"

who has not a circle of these humble friends and
followers associated with the memories of " auld
lang syne"? A cherished place do they hold, these
" well-remembered " beggars, in the heart's record
of early life. They were the story-tellers of our
youth, and had more to do than, perhaps, is generally believed with developing what nature gave of
imagination. How eagerly the children of the
family longed for the periodical visits of these successors of the senachies of old! Their presence was
241

242

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

more joyfully welcomed than had they been royal
personages.
Amongst the individuals of this class whom I best
remember was an old man of the name of Shan
Dempsey.
H e considered himself, and was by
others treated, as above the ordinary run of beggars.
He was as poor as poverty could make him. Yet
somehow he always contrived to appear " a little
decent," in an old, snuff-colored surtout much too
long for his bent figure, gray corduroys, and indifferent woollen hose.
He had reached the last of Shakespeare's stages,
so that the aforesaid hose were ever
" A world too wide
For his shrunk s h a n k s , "

and his attenuated frame was bent almost double.
Yet when he glanced up from beneath his shaggy
eyebrows there was a sort of weird intelligence in
his glance that both surprised and attracted one
in some inexplicable way. It was the waning light
of an intellect which had never borrowed either
from art or culture, but which might have made
some noise in the world had it been assisted and
developed by instruction. As it was, poor Shan was
confessedly illiterate, yet his natural shrewdness
and quickness of perception gave him, like many
other Irish peasants, a considerable knowledge of
human nature.
H e had been observant all his life long. T h e
past seemed as vividly present in his memory as

MARY

A.

SADLIER.

243

though the snows of fourscore winters had not
silvered his head.
Shan's reminiscences were
mostly connected with the affairs of others. Seldom
did they bear upon his own. It seemed to us
children that some cloud hung over his own life,
and the very indifference with which he affected to
treat it made us the more anxious to know why
he should be destitute when his only son was wellto-do, having a lucrative position as guard of a
stage-coach and owning a small farm besides. For
a long time Shan kept our curiosity at bay. When
our questions pressed him rather hard, he would
suddenly remember a romantic tale concerning some
great family, and for the time made us forget Shan's
secret, as we chose to call it.
" Well, then, it's no secret, after all," said the old
man, one winter evening, when he sat in his accustomed place by the wide kitchen chimney, bellows
in hand. He seemed to have a fancy for blowing
that useful wind-instrument. " Sure, doesn't the
whole country-side about the ould place^ know it.
But, ye beat the world, childer, for pickin' out o'
people. I b'lieve ye'll never be aisy till you know
the ins and outs of it. Will you reach me a drink,
Master John, dear, an' I'll tell you how it was, onst
for a l l . "
The drink was given with unusual despatch, and
Shan, after sitting a few moments with his old,
twinkling eyes fixed on the turf fire, the bellows
across his knee, his hand on the handle ready for
use, he thus began his story;

244

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY,

" W e l l , I declare, childer," he said with visible
effort, <4 it isn't much of a story, afther all. Still,
as you want to hear it and it's something by common, thanks be to God ! I may as well open my
mind to you. But the sore's a deep one that I'm
going to rip up. Far ear gar, it i s . "
Another short pause and a few leisurely puffs at
the fire, and Shan spoke again:
" It's thrue enough for them that tould you I
might be well enough at home with Tommy, for he
has ten acres of as good ground as you'd get from
here to Ballyshannon. When I had them, better
oats didn't come into the market than I brought;
and as for the praties, why it 'id do you good just
to look at them, laughin' in the basket after they
were teemed.
I'm tould nayther one no th*
other's as good now with them, for the neighbors
think there's a curse on the place of late years."
" A curse on the ground, Shan! How can that
be ? "
" Listen, aroon, and you'll soon hear; that's
what I'm goin' to tell you.
I wasn't always as
you see me now. Poor and lonesome as I am the
day, I onst had as full an' plenty, an' as good a
wife as ever broke the world's bread, and a houseful
of fine, hearty childer, boys and girls, as God sent
them. Tommy was the youngest, and, mavrone,
sure we made a pet of him entirely, and for loathness to put him at hard work, it's what we let him
grow up in idleness when all the others had to take
their share of the work, rough and smooth, just as

MARY A.

SABLIER.

*45

it came. Many a time they grumbled hard to see
Tommy goin' about sportin' his figure at fair and
market, an' they workin' hard at home, though by
this time he was a'most as big an' strong as any of
them. Still they kep' it among themselves for fear
of frettin' the poor mother, that was weak and sickly
anyhow. At last she broke down altogether, an' it
was the first heavy crush my heart got when we
covered her up in the dry mould of Kilmarky. At
first there was nobody took on half so bad as
T o m m y ; but somehow or another he was the first
to get over it, and before many weeks went round
he was as brisk and merry as if the like never happened.
" S u r e enough this went to my h e a r t , and
I was so angry at the fellow for his want of gratitude that I couldn't keep my tongue off him.
When I did begin I tould him his own, never fear
but I did. I t ' s what he only laughed at me, an'
said hard work wasn't to his likin', an' that he
believed he'd try his hand at something lighter.
I asked him what he meant to do, but he wouldn't
tell me at that time, all I could do. H e cut his
stick that same evening, and the next we heard of
him he was stable-boy at the Head Inns, here in
town. Myself and the rest laughed when we found
out what the graceless fellow was at, for if our work
was hard, sure his wasn't aisy, an' we knew it 'id
soon cure him of his laziness.
" Every one in the house, barrin' myself, was glad
t o be shot of him; but I missed him sorely, if it was

246

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

nothing else, on account of the poor mother that
thought so much of him. Night and day I fretted
and grieved, and at last I wanted so much to see his
roguish face back at the hob, that off I set into
town and done my best to bring him home with
me. But if I was to lay the hair o' my head under
his feet, sorra a step he'd come, only put me off
with a laugh and made a joke of it. Well becomes
the boys and girls at home if they didn't make
game o' me when I got back, and said it was a pity
Tommy wasn't tied on my back, so that I'd get
enough of him. But at last when they seen I was
keepin' so down-hearted, some of them began to
get angry, and said that maybe I'd get more raison
to fret before long. So I did, God help me! Take
my advice, childer, and never grieve without good
raison. I t ' s not pleasin' to them above, as I know
to my heavy sorrow."
Poor Shan stopped, gave a few blasts, pressed
his lips very hard together, and winked several times
to shake the gathering tears from his eyelids. No
one spoke, for young as most of the listeners were,
the sight of the old man's grief awed them into
silence. When he spoke again his voice was thick
and husky, but at a higher pitch than usual—probably because he feared-it might fail him*altogether.
" Not many days after I went to town," he continued, " t h e boys and girls were all out shearm*
corn, barrin' my daughter Ally, that was washin' the
vessels afther dinner-time. I was sittin' one side o*
the fire makin' a potato-basket out o' some rods

MARY

A.

SADLIER.

247

I had, thinkin' o' poor Molshy and dronin' a kind
o' a song, when in walks a little ould-fashioned crab
of a lame beggar man, with a wallet on his back
a'most as big as himself.
" H e had the quarest little red eyes ever you
seen in a man, and a hooked nose that was down
a'most over his mouth. Not a word he said—neither
' God save y o u ' nor * morrow be here,' but in he
stumped and popped himself down on a creepy
right forenenst me. He flung his bag down on the
floor, an' you'd think from the noise it made that
it was crammed with ould iron in place of potatoes
or anything that way.
" * God save you, honest m a n ! ' says I at last
when I seen he didn't spake; ' did you travel far
the day ?'
" ' Farther than you'll travel in a year,' says he,
quite short; an' with that he turns round and claps
his ferret eyes on Ally. The gersha was smudgin'
an' laughin' in to herself, and no wonder she would,
for so quare an ould codger never came the way
before.
'* ' What's the gersha laughin' a t ? ' he says;
' maybe to show her purty teeth. They'll do, a
colleen, they'll do.'
" And the ould joker nodded and winked at her
as if he was a young chap ready for all sorts of fun.
*4 4 Ally,' says I, * give the decent man his share
and let him be goin','—for myself didn't like the
looks of him or the way he was carryin' on.
" I want no charity,' answers the beggarman,

248
1

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

nothin' that's yours, barrin' what you'd hardly
be willin' to give m e /
" * An' what's that ?' says I.
li i
That schemin' girl there,' says he. ' If you
give her to me I'll make it worth your while.'
" A t this Ally laughed till, you'd think she'd
burst, but it was the other way with me.
" i By this and by that,' says I, takin' up the
tongs, ' if you don't get out o' my sight, you ould
leprachaun of a creature, I'll smash every bone in
your b o d y /
" i Don't be makin' so free with the name of them
that's your betters,' says the ould fellow, beginnin'
to bristle up. ' I ask you a civil question, Shan
Dempsey: Will you or will you not give me your
daughter A l l y ? '
" ' Get out o' my sight, I tell you, or I can't
answer for what'll happen,' I cried, an' I made as
though I would strike him. H e never answered a
word, but looked up in my face in a way I'll never
forget.
" ' Don't strike,' says h e ; ' don't, I warn you; if
you do you'll only have once to rue it, an' that'll
be your whole life. I wish you well, though you
mayn't think it, an' I came here for no harm.'
4< l
Father, dear,' says Ally, coming behind me,
* let the man go quietly. H e ' s cracked,' added she
in a whisper.
" * I'm not cracked, Ally Dempsey,' says the
quare ould customer, < an' you'll know that, too,
before long. Still, I'm thankful to you for the soft

MARY

A.

SADLIER.

249

word, an* I'll give you a bed of down for it some
fine day, with a coach an' with soft cushions to take
your pleasure in. Fare you well till we meet
again!'
" I was so confounded that I couldn't get out a
word, if I'd die for it; an' as for strikin*—why the
tongs fell out of my hand as if I'd lost the power
of it, though I didn't, thank God! Without sayin'
another word, the beggarman ups with his bag,
threw it across his shoulder, and out he marched,
makin' a face at myself as he passed me by that
'id make you laugh if you were half dead. It did
set Ally agoin' again, an' she laughed till the tears
ran down her cheeks, throwin' herself down on the
very creepy where the ould fellow sat. I was vexed
to see her make so light of his impidence, an' somehow I didn't half like to see her pop down on the
stool the minute he rose from it. I hardly know
what I said to her, but I said plenty, for the tears
came into her eyes, and she looked at me with such
a pitiful face that I got sorry for spakin' so hard to
her, only I wouldn't own to it.
" ' Well, father,' says she, as she got up an'
began to put the vessels she had washed on the
dresser, ' it's a poor thing to be blamed for what a
crazy beggarman says and does, but I suppose we
must put up with it. God forgive you for all you've
said to me without rhyme or raison, an' I'm sure
it's more than you've said to Tommy the wildest
day ever he was.'
44
This softened me down in a jiffy, and so I laid

250

StfAN DRMPSEY'S

STORY.

my hand on the colleen s head, a silky, brown head
it was, and bid her not take it so much to heart,
for that I didn't mean half what I said. That was
all Ally wanted, an* she started as merry as a cricket
to give the others a hand at the shearin'. Towards
evenin' she came back and put down some sowens
to boil for the supper, an' then leavin' me to stir
it, she took her pail and went off in search of the
cows to milk.
" Whatever put it into my head, I went to the
door an' stood lookin' afther her, an' sure enough
I felt proud o' her as she tripped along over the
green pasture, singin' like a thrush or a linnet. It
was. as fine an evenin' as^ ever came from the
heavens, and the sun was just settin' behind Liscarron Forth.* I looked up at the Fairy hill, an'
you'd think there wasn't a tree on it but was covered
with goold. ' A h , ' says I, ' it's a pity the dark
treachery's in you for all you look so smilin'.'
Little did I think at the time the heavy woe it was
goin' to send down on m e . "
Here Shan paused again, rubbed the back of his
hand across his eyes, gave two or three heavy sighs,
and when he did speak it was in a choking voice.
" That was the last sight I ever saw of my poor
Ally—in life, anyhow.
The ould calliogh that
brought back the milk was no more like her than
* This is one of those primitive fortresses with which the
earlier inhabitants of the country dotted the face of Ireland.
They are called forths (i.e., forts) and raths indiscriminately,
and are popularly regarded as the haunts of fairies.

MARY

A,

SADL1ER.

*5l

I'm like Master Frank there—God between him
and all harm! She had Ally's clothes on, to be
sure, but that was all. They were all at their
supper when she comes in, an' down she sets the
pail with a grunt like a pig.
" ' 'Deed, then, an' it'll be a long time before
you'll get me to carry such a load agin,' says she.
" An* so it was, for she never did that nor anything else all the time she was on our floor. The
voice made us all look round, for we seen at onst
it wasn't Ally that was in it.
" l Why,' says I, ' honest woman, where do you
come from ? Sure you're not our Ally ? '
" An' with that I thought of the ould beggarman, an' my blood ran cowld in my veins.
" ' If I'm not,' says she, puckerin' up her weazened face into a kind of a laugh, ' if I'm not, I'm
thinkin' I'm all you'll ever get of her. In regard
to where I came from, it's nothin' to you. Make
room at the table there till I get my supper. I
hope you didn't let the sowens burn, father, while
you stood with your mouth open lookin' afther me.
Bad scran to them cows, but I had hard work to
find them, an' when I did it was in the forth they
were, the thievin' villains.'
" She said this with such a wicked twinkle in her
ould eyes that we all knew she wanted to taunt us
about Ally, but we thought it best to say no more,
so the girls gave her a noggin of milk and made her
sit over to the table. Lord save us and bless us!
it 'id frighten you to see what the little ould thing

252

SHAM DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

ate. Bedad, she left the rest of us stinted enough
anyway, but we couldn't for shame's cause bid her
stop, an* she ate on an' on till there wasn't a pratie
left on the big wooden dish. If that was the
beginnin', it wasn't the end of it. Every day of
her life it was just the same, till at last we thought
she'd ate us out of house an' home. The fun of
it was, she wouldn't do a hand's turn in the house,
but sat from mornin' till night in the chimney-corner, givin' ould chat to every one that came the
way; an' a tongue like a razor she had, too, that 'id
cut you to the very bone. We were all afeard to
discommode her in the least, an' though we'd give
the world to be shot of her, we'd as soon, any of
us, put our head in the fire as say an ill word to
her.
" Neither of the girls would sleep with her, so
we made her a shakedown by herself in a corner of
the room; an' Lord save us, she'd tumble into that
at night and get out of it in the mornin' without
ever bendin' a knee or even as much as blessin'
herself. We knew well that luck or grace couldn't
be in the house with such a haythen, but, then,
what could we do? Some o' the neighbors advised
us to bring the priest to her, and well becomes me,
so I did. But what do you think of the ould
sinner, when myself an' Father Terence—God be
good to him!—got to the house, she wasn't in it, up
or down! His reverence had a laugh at myself, for
he wasn't willin' to come with me at the start on
such an errand. H e was hardly back at his own

MA BY A.

SADLIER.

253

house when we had her at the hob again, as large
as life, an* her laughin' till you'd think she'd split
her sides. Two or three times she played us the
same trick, an* at last ne'er a one o' the priests 'id
come at all, for they said it was all nonsense and
shuperstition from first to last.
Well, as that
failed, all failed. So there we were with that ould
damsel on us like a nightmare, atein' as much as
the three boys put together, an' doin' nothin' all
day long, only bitin' and snarlin* at every one of
us., An* then to the back o' that was the loss o'
my poor colleen, one o' the best childer that ever
a poor man had. It seemed to me as if all the
grief ever I had was nothin' to the loss o' her, for,
as I said to myself, if she only died a natural death,
an* was laid beside her mother under the green sod,
I wouldn't feel the tithe o' what I did. But to
think of her bein' taken away where no one belongin' to her could ever get speech o' her, an' where
prayers or charity could do her no good!
" This was what troubled me most of all, an' I
could see by the boys an' girls that their hearts
were as heavy as my own, but somehow we couldn't
bring ourselves ever to speak of Ally to one another.
For in the fields we were too near the unlucky
forth, and in the house we daren't for fear of the
ould calliogh at the hob. But she knew our thoughts
for all that. One winter's evening, when I was
sittin' forenenst her, strivin' to smoke away the
sorrow that was like a load on my poor heart, she
looks over at me with her fiery red eyes, an' says

254

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

she, ' Shan Dempsey, sure it's nothin' but what
you brought on yourself. Maybe you wouldn't
grieve so much now for your graceless son Tommy
takin' a tramp—eh, father ?'
" ' Don't call me father, you ould—' I stopped,
for with all my anger I knew it wasn't safe to vex
her.
" i H a ! ha! maybe I won't,' says she, with a
laugh as if it came out of a barrel; * if you choose
to deny your own flesh an' blood, it's what I'll never
do, bad as you take me to be, Take it aisy, anyhow; an' above all, kape your tongue in bounds. I
think you ought to be the last man to say an unmannerly word to any one afther all that's come
an' gone.'
" With that she got up and stepped out into the
darkness, an' we didn't see her again till bed-time.
When we got her out we knelt down an' said the
Rosary, an' when we were done we looked at one
another, an' we all said into ourselves the prayer
that we daren't say aloud, not knowin* but the ould
hag was athin hearin' for all we couldn't see her.
It's like the Mother o' God heard the prayer of our
sorrowful hearts that night, for things took a turn
with us before many days went by.
" The month of October was comm* near an end,
an' myself and the childer were tryin' hard to have
the last of the praties in afore Holl' Eve night.
T h e weather was the finest that ever you seen for
the season, an' the nights were a'most as bright as
the days on account of the clear moonlight that was

MA BY A.

SADLIER.

*55

in it. A t last Hoir Eve came, an' we finished our
job with the last o' the daylight, jist in time for
the big supper. Ochone ! but it was the sorrowful
supper to me, for I was thinkin' all the time it
lasted o' my poor darlin' Ally, an' whenever I
looked across the table at the calliogh in the corner,
every bit I ate was fit to choke me. But I couldn't
ate, though I tried hard, on account of the night it
was. I got up at last and took my caubeen off o'
the peg, an' was makin' for the door.
" ' Why, Lord bless us, father,' says my daughter
Peggy, all of a fright, ' sure it's not goin' out you
are on sich a night as t h i s ! '
" * W h y wouldn't h e ? ' says the thing in the
corner, takin' the word out o' my mouth; * what's
amiss with the night, Peggy Dempsey ?'
" ' Oh, nothin' at all,' says the poor girl, as
white as a sheet; ' only we don't like to see father
leavin' us to ourselves on a state night. Father,
dear, don't—don't go out,' an' she most cry in'.
" Her sister and the boys were near as bad.
11
' Nonsense, childer,' says I, mighty sharp,
' don't be makin' fools o' yourselves. I'll be back
in a hurry. I'll only take a look at the night an'
come in again.'
" Out I started, and when I seen the night was
so fine I thought I'd take a stretch across the fields.
I don't know how it happened that I made for the
ould forth, for I'm sure I didn't intend it. But
sure enough my head was full o' my poor Ally, an'
I suppose my feet took me to 'ast where she was.

256

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

Anyhow, before I knew, I found myself at the head
of the whin field close to the forth, an' when I
looked up and seen where I was, my heart sank
within me, for it was no place to be on Holl' Eve
night, of all nights in the year. The best I could
do was to bless myself, an' I done that in a great
hurry. I was turnin' my back on the rascally ould
place, when, what do you think but I heard a noise,
•like the rockin' of a cradle and a voice singin' soft
and low.
" With that my heart rose to my mouth, for I
knew the song and the voice too, for all it sounded
as if it was down, down in the earth. I was most
wild with joy, an' thought I wouldn't care if the
whole fairy troop was athin hearin\ So I gave a
kind o' little cry an* was for dartin' into the forth.
But the voice from within spake out in a whisper—
begorra I thought it was at my elbow: ' Wise men
never set foot in Liscarron Forth on Holl' Eve
night. It 'id be no use to come in, anyhow. Go
home and, the first chance you get, make the sign
o' the cross over them, you know. Home, home!
there's danger at hand.'
" Well, childer, you may be sure I wasn't long
gettin' home—not on account of the danger, for
somehow I never thought of it, I was so overjoyed.
But I wanted to do what I was bid in regard to the
thing at home, for I knew well enough it was her
was meant. I thought it was the easiest thing in
life to do it, an' the minute I got inside the door
I was makin' over to her, sayin' that I wanted my

MARY A.

SADLIER.

257

pipe off the hob. My dear, she was on her feet in
a jiffy, an' says she:
" ' Keep your distance, ould man, or I'll make
you rue it the longest day you have to live. There's
your pipe in the jamb hole.'
" Myself was so confounded, I didn't well know
what to do. At any rate, I was too much afeard
of the hag to slight her warnin'. So I pacified her
as well as I could, an* took the cutty an* began to
fill it with tobacco, makin' b'lieve I was laughin'
all the time. The childer was busy duckin' for
apples, so they didn't take any notice of what
passed.
" I sat in one corner all the evenin' smokin' my
cutty an* the ould hare forenenst me, as quiet as a
lamb. But for all that, when she thought I wasn't
lookin' she'd throw every eye at myself, that you'd
think she wanted to pierce me through. Whiles I
thought of makin' a dart over at her and doin' what
I had to do. But the least move I made she was
on the watch and I didn't half like the look of her
fiery red eyes.
" A t last the tricks were all over, and the childer
began to prepare for bed. T h e calliogh never
stirred till the fire was raked, then up she got an'
waddled down the room. When she got to the
door she half turned round and shook her finger at
myself, with a look that made me shiver all
over.
" ' Sure enough,' thinks I, ' she knows what's
passin' in my mind. I b'lieve I'll not try it this

258

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

night, anyhow. I'll take my time an' come on her
when she's not thinkin' of it.'
il
For two or three days my ould hare and myself
kept watchin' one another like two thieves. If I
chanced to stir at all, even when I wasn't thinkin'
of her, she set herself for me, with her two eyes
shinin' like a cat in the dark, an' I declare to you
I was afeard as much as to look at her.
" I was jist beginnin' to lose all heart, thinkin'
I'd never get doin' what was laid on me, when one
night—of all nights in the year it was the \hird
after Holl' Eve—I was lyin' awake about the first
cockcrow, thinkin' of Ally an' Tommy an' the poor
woman I lost. The clear frosty moon was shinin'
in through the window at the head o' my bed, so
that it was most as light as day. I happened to
set my eye on the room door, an' what does I see
but it openin' of itself, very soft and aisy. Well,
sure enough I was a little afeard, but I couldn't
keep from gettin' up on my elbow to see if there
was anything in sight. Not a thing could I see,
but a voice whispered at my very ear: * Now's
your time! Now or never! '
" I didn't ask who was in it, for the voice was
my poor colleen sy nor I wasn't the bit daunted.
All the fear was gone from me, a n ' I felt so strong
and courageous in myself that I thought I wouldn't
fear all the gentry * in the rath afore.
" I knew well enough what the colleen wanted,
* This is one of the many conciliatory terms applied to the
fairies by the country people.

MARY A.

SADLIER.

2

59

so up I gets an' down with me to the room t'other
side of the kitchen, where the calliogh lay. I found
that door open before me, too; but still when I got
fairly into the room I stopped. Fear came upon
me again, an' I felt the hair beginnin' to rise on
my head. Still I thought of the warnin' I got, an*
I made a step or two to'ast the shakedown on the
floor. Not a sound did I hear from it—not as
much as a breath; an* I couldn't see it, because it
was in a dark corner at the foot of the girl's bed,
where the moonlight didn't reach it.
" ' Well,' says I to myself, ' it's on me to do it
—it's for Ally's sake, an' with God's help I will
do it.
Now or never was the word the colleen
said.'
" With that I put up my hand an' blessed myself,
an' made a dart at the bed, an' made the sign o' the
cross over it, though my hand shook like an aspen
leaf. Childer, dear, the cry that came from the
ould hag, I'll never forget to, my dyin' day. It
was as if I drove a knife into her heart.
'' * O you black-hearted villain,' says she, * you
done it at last, but your luck ' 11 be none the better
for it. Take her now, an' much good may she do
you! H a ! ha! h a ! ' The laugh was like the laugh
of an evil spirit, an' it rung all through the house,
an' I hard a noise like the whizzin' of ever so many
wings passin' me by. I was most dead with fear,
an' couldn't spake a word if it 'id save my life, but
as God would have it the girls started up" in a fright,
and asked;

260
t€

SHAN DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

' In the name o' goodness, what noise is that?
Father, is it you or your wrath that's in i t ? '
" * I t ' s me, childer, dear; don't be afeard, but
get up an' light the candle.'
" They did, an' I tould them in the kitchen above
what happened. Down we all went to the shakedown in the corner, an' we could hardly b'lieve our
eyes when we seen the purty face of our darlin'
Ally above the clothes, in place of the weazened
ould calliogh that was in it at bed-time.
At first
we were goin' to wake Ally, but she was sleepin'
so soundly that we thought it a pity. Well, we
said to one another that we'd wait up till she'd
waken, for you may be sure none of us could sleep,
we were so overjoyed.
4
* So we got on our clothes, an' the girls lit the
fire, an' we sat round it talkin' in whispers of the
joyful mornin' we were goin' to have of it. How
many things Ally would have to tell us an' we the
same with her! We didn't disturb the boys, for we
meant to give them a grand surprise in the mornin'.
Every now and then some of us stole down on tiptoe to take a look at Ally an' see if she was stirrin'.
" But she wasn't, nor even breathin', though that
didn't frighten us, for didn't we often hear of people
brought back from the fairies that lay in a trance
for hours an' hours.
A t last the daylight came
peepin' into the little room. By degrees the dark
corner where Ally lay was dark no longer, an' her
face was plain in our sight. But it was a dead face,
childer! a dead face! white an' cowld an' stiff as

MARY

A.

SADLIER.

261

marble.
The purty brown eyes never opened
again, an* the voice that was music to my ears at
the dead of night was silent forevermore.
" The ould wasp didn't go without leavin' her
sting behind in our broken hearts. It was aisy to
see that death was there. Still we wouldn't give
up hopes that it might be a trance. So we kept
Ally three days before we coffined her. There was
no change on her, barrin' for the worse; so we put
her in her last house, an' buried her in Kilmarky,
longside of her mother. I thought my heart 'id
break when I put the last shovelful of earth on
her. But it didn't, you see, childer, it didn't.
Well for me if it did."
There was dead silence for a few minutes after
this. All were anxious to hear the sequel, but no
one dared to break in on Shan's solemn musing, as
he sat looking dreamily at the blazing turf on the
hearth. At last he cleared his throat several times,
and rousing himself as if by an effort, he looked
round on the group of expectant young faces, with
a faint attempt at a smile. " Death was newer to
me then than it is now," said poor Shan. " I got
well used to it athin the next three years, for by
that time I hadn't a child in the world, barrin'
Tommy, who was married an' doin' for himself.
The boys and the girls dropped off one afther
another—'deed they did, childer.
They melted
away before my eyes like snow off a ditch. The
two girls died of decline, one of the boys of a
pleurisy he took from a wettin' after a hard day's

262

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

work, an* the other of a bad fever that was goin' at
the time."
" Why, Shan, how did you live at all after them?"
cried one of the youthful listeners, a bright, manly
boy, his big round eyes dilated with wonder.
" Now, will you b'lieve what I'm goin' to tell
you, childer," said Shan, with unusual solemnity,
" I didn't feel half as bad about any of them as I
did about Ally. For all the others had the rites of
the Church afore their death, glory be to God, an'
I knew that their time was come, an' that their
Maker was takin' them to Himself, where I'd soon
be. Still I was lonesome enough, you may be sure,
especially when the last one went, my youngest
boy, an* I found myself alone in the house.
'' I might have been far worse. Only a day or two
after poor Hugh's funeral Tommy came out to see
me, an' brought me lots of tobacco an' tay an'
sugar. H e tould me that if I wished, himself an*
Jenny—that was his wife—'id come and live with
me as soon as ever I liked. H e said it wouldn't
answer him so well, on account of business; but still
an' all, they'd do it if I wanted, for that Jenny's
eyes had never dried since Hugh's death, thinkin'
of how lonesome and desolate the ould man must be.
" ' A n ' you know, father,' he added, ' she's as
good a servant as ever laid down two hands, for she
lived three years with the mistress athin before we
were married. So she'll give you a good bit and
sup, an' kape you clean and comfortable. Faith
she will, father; she's just the girl can do it.'

MARY

A. SADLIER.

263

" Well, childer! myself can't tell you how overjoyed I was to find so much nature in Tommy and
his wife, an' to think that I'd have them for company an* to take some of the toil of the farm off
my hands. 'Deed I could hardly have been better
pleased if some of the childer were given back to
me from the grave. An' it was good cause I had
to be joyful. For afther Tommy and the wife came
home to me I had the life of a lord, a body might
say.
" Sich a son and sich a daughter-in-law as I had
couldn't be found anywhere. Tommy had left off
his wild tricks altogether, barrin' the bit o' fun that
was in him. That I didn't want him to get rid of,
for it kep' myself alive. My dears, he was as sensible as a judge an' never said a word agin religion
as he used to do, an' that pleased me best of all.
He was away from us on the coach about half his
time, but when he was at home I tell you he worked
well.
" As for Jenny, if she was my own born child
she couldn't have done more for me than what she
did. Not a hard turn of work she'd let me do—
not so much as to bring in a creel of turf; though I
used to do it when her back was turned, for I was
strong enough at the time, an' I'd rayther do it
than see her doin' it.
" Not but what she was abler than I was, for, you
see, she was a fine, strappin' woman, with every leg
an' arm on her so big an' so red that you'd wonder
to see them. She was a likely girl to be sure, but

264

S&Atf

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

there was enough o' her to make two middlin' people.
I never had much gra, childer, for big
women, but Jenny was so kind an' good to me I
couldn't but like her. She never went to fair or
market but she'd have the bit o' tobacco home to
myself, an' maybe some other kindness to the back
o' that.
" It wasnothin' with her an' Tommy but * father,
dear,' at every word, an' neither of them would do
the most triflin' thing without askin' my advice.
Them were happy days, childer, d e a r , " said the
old man with a heavy sigh; " pity they didn't last.
" The only thing that I didn't like in my daughterin-law was a way she had of makin' little o' my
poor girls. To hear her talk you'd think they were
both idle an' wasteful, an' had no care for their ould
father. Well, this used to sting me to the very
quick, an' many a time I had a hot argument with
Jenny about it. It was no use tellin' her she was
in the wrong, an' I soon see that she didn't want to
be set right. At last I used to hould my tongue
an' let her talk on, though my very heart 'id be
tearin' asunder listenin' to what I knew wejl was
lies. Still, Jenny was so good to myself that I
couldn't for shame's cause quarrel with her, an'
that's the way we lived together for as much as half
a year.
" I was never done tellin' the neighbors all round
what a treasure of a daughter-in-law I had, an' how
much Tommy was changed for the better. Some
o' them seen with the same eyes I did myself, an'

MARY

A. SADL1ER.

.

265

they thought I was happy born. Far more o'
them used to shake their heads an* say: ' Wait a
bit, Shan! the big woman didn't take off her
brogues yet.'
" T o be sure myself used to be a good bit put
out with them for throwin' a slur on Jenny. Sometimes, when they came out with worse than that,
or said I was too soft for a man of my age, an' that
my eyes 'id be opened some fine mornin', I'd take
it ever so hot, an' vow that I'd never darken their
doors again as long as I lived. The very best friend
I had in the world happened to have the very worst
opinion of my son an' daughter-in-law, an' that
grieved me more than all. I done all I could to
convince him, but he was a dark, silent man, not
aisy to move from his own notions. All I could
say or do wouldn't bring him to say a soft word o*
them, espaycially Jenny.
" At last he called her a big ' stag ' up to my
very face, an* I couldn't stand that anyhow, so
Tarry an' I fairly quarrelled. For as good as three
months we never opened our lips to one another,
more than biddin' the time o' day, if we chanced to
meet. 'Deed it was ill our comin's, too, to fall
out, for Tarry an' me were no less than double
gossips.
" T o make a long story short, childer, one winter's evenin' about a. month or two after my quarrel
with Tarry Reilly., Jenny was down in the room
doin' somethin', an' Tommy an' me were settin'
above in the kitchen on either side of the hob.

266

SHAM DEMPS£Yr$

STORY.

" ' F a t h e r / says Tommy, * I'm goin' to say somethin' to you on a little matter o' business, but mind
if you don't like what I have to say, tell me so at
onst, and the thing is ended.'
* " i Well, let me hear the word, anyhow, Tommy,'
says I, lookin' over at him.
" * I will,' says he, ' but you must come over
near me, for I don't want the woman below to hear
me. Do you know what came into my head last
night, as I was sittin' on the back seat o' the coach
an' it goin' like a bird flyin' ?'
" ' Why, then, how would / know, Tommy ?
What was it, avick f '
" * I was thinkin' that the care of the little spot
o' ground must be too much for any man at your
time of life, with sich a heavy load of trouble on
you into the bargain. Says I to myself, wouldn't
it be a good plan now if he'd make the house an'
place over to me, an' let me give up this stravagin'
way of life onst for all, an' stay at home an' mind
it. My father then could have a little rest in his
ould days.'
" With that up comes Jenny from the room an'
say she:
" ' What's that you're sayin' to the ould man,
Tommy ? If it's in regard to him givin' up the bit
o' ground it's what I'll never consent to. H e ' d
find it quare now in the end of his days to be on
your floor or mine. Not a word, now, Tommy,
not a word. I know what you're going to say,
aroon; an' to be sure it 'id still be his own floor he'd

MARY

A. SABLIER.

267

be on when he'd be on ours- I know that as well
as you, Tommy, but the ould man doesn't know it.
He'd be afeard—and small blame to him for that
same—that he'd live to rue it. We're all well contented now, an' if you take that situation that was
offered you, Tommy,'—I chanced to look up at
Jenny, an' if my eyes didn't decaive me, she winked
at Tommy— ' if you do, you know, the ould man
can get plenty to come an' kape house for him. So
I tell you, again, don't think of sich a thing as him
givin' up the place to you.'
" Now myself was always aisy led—too aisy, as
poor Molshy—the heavens be her bed!—often tould
me. At first I thought I wouldn't do what Tommy
wanted, if he made a king o' me. But when I seen
Jenny, as I b'lieved, so much agin what was for
their own good, on my account, an' espaycially
when she made mention of the situation that Tommy
could get, I began to ask myself what would I do
at all if they left me again. Sure there could be
no harm in it afther all, for wouldn't I have aisier
times and a good bit an' sup, as I had ever since
they came here, and besides, they'd be sure to stay
then. There was another notion in my head, too,
an' out it came first.
" * I'll do it,' says I, dashin' the ashes out o* my
pipe on the hob, i I'll do it, Tommy, if it was only
to spite Tarry Reilly.'
" i How is that, father ? ' says Tommy, with his
eyes an' mouth wide open.
" ' Oh, never mind,' says I, ' that's none o' your

268

SHAN

DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

business. I'm obleeged to Jenny for her good
wishes in regard to me, but it's not her advice we'll
take this time. We'll go into town the morrow, if
God spares us, an' get ould Douglas to make out
the writinV
" And so we did, childer," said Shan, with
rueful gravity. " W e went in on the edge o' our
feet, Tommy an' me. I made the house an' place
over to him. T h e scrivener wanted me to put in
a clause that I'd have my livin' out o' it all my
days, but I wouldn't hear o' sich a thing. So all I
had in the world was made over to my son Tommy.
Sure myself thought it a fine thing to get the care
o' it off my shoulders.
" For about a week or so everything went on
well, an' I seen no change worth spakin' of. When
Jenny came home from the first market she was
out, I got a little glimpse of what was in store for
me. She brought me no tobacco, an' at first I
thought she had forgot it. So I asked her for it,
an' its what you'd think she'd bite the nose off me.
" ' Where would I get tobacco for y o u ? ' says
she; ' you gave me nothing to buy it.'
" i Why, Jenny, dear,' says I, ' didn't I give
you a half-a-crown the other day to get some for
me ? You mind the day you went to Paddy Markey's shop, you only brought me an ounce, an'
never gave me any change.'
" * How sharp we're gettin' all of a s u d d e n ! '
says she, mighty cross. i When you want tobacGO,
go an' buy it; you've less to do than I have.'

MARY

A,

SADLIER.

269

" Well, childer, there came a wakeness over me
so that I was ready to drop. I asked Jenny to give
me a drink of water, an' she made as if she didn't
hear me, an* walked away with herself into the
room. So I had to do without the water, an* I got
waker and waker every minute till I thought I was
goin' to die. I didn't. God had greater trials in
store for me, blessed be His name! It 'id be too
long to tell you the treatment I got afther that from
both Tommy and the wife. The good cup o' tay,
the smoke o' tobacco, an' all the good eatin' an'
drinkin' went from me by degrees. The hardest
turns about the house were laid on me, till my ve-ry
life was a burthen to me with sorrow an' the height
of hardship.
" The worst of it was that the neighbors had no
pity on me. They all said it was my own fault,
an' that as I made my bed now I must lie. What
do you think, but it was Tarry Reilly had the most
compassion on me, afther all. When at last Jenny
tould me one day to go an' look for my share, as
many a better man had done, an' that they had
enough to do to support themselves an' the child
they had, it was to Tarry's corner I went. Though
I wouldn't be a burthen on him an' his, an' took to
the road as Jenny bid me, I was welcome to the
best bit an' sup they had, an' a bed in the warmest
corner, as often as I chose to go.
" But Tarry died some four or five years agone,
an', mavrone, but I lost the good friend when I lost
him. The childer all make me welcome, to be

270

SHAN DEMPSEY'S

STORY.

sure; still, they can never be to me what their father
was. For we were gossoons together, an' grown
men, ay! an' ould men together too. W e had a
heart likin' for one another, an* when poverty an'
ould age, an' worse than all, the unnatural treatment
of my own flesh an' blood, sent me on the skaugkran, I could never say I wanted a friend as long as
Tarry lived.
" His death was another sore crush to me an' a
heavy loss, but I got over that, too, like all the
rest, thanks be to God that never shuts one door
on His poor creatures but He leaves another open.
As for Tommy an' his wife, I b'lieve they're not
much better off than I am. Though Tommy said
he'd give up the coach when he got the farm, he
never did for all that. The idle, lazy habits he got
about that inn an' them horses he never got over,
an' never will. They have a scrawl of young childer
about them, so that Jenny can't get much out.
So between one thing an' another, nothin' seems to
go right with them. The farm is so little use to
them that they might as well not have it.
" So, you see, childer, they didn't make much
of it afther turnin' out the poor ould man that
owned it. Sure, sure, that same's no wonder, for
when was a bad undutiful child known to prosper!
If they do, it's only for a while. For the curse of
the evil-doer is upon the man or woman that shuts
their heart agin the father or mother that God put
over t h e m . "
Reader, this was Shan Dempsey's story, and I

MARY

A.

SADLIER.

271

wish I could say that it ended here. The concluding words of the broken-hearted father were fearfully impressed on the minds of all who heard him
by the sad fate of his unnatural son, who fell from
the top of a coach a year or two after and broke his
neck. H e left his wife and children to beg their
bread, as he had driven his father to do before.
The old man did not long survive this most dreadful of all his misfortunes, and in him we lost the
last of our old story-tellers. May his doom be a
warning to all foolishly indulgent parents, and his
story be of interest to the readers. It belongs to
the days
" When fairies were in fashion
And the world was in its prime/'

ANNA T. SADLIER.
ANNA TERESA SADLIER, daughter of Mrs. J a m e s Sadlier,

was born in Montreal, Canada, and was educated chiefly at
Villa Maria, the principal Convent of the Congregation de
Notre Dame, in that city.

Like her mother, she has spent

about equal portions of her life in New York and Montreal.
She has been a frequent contributor in prose and verse to
most of the American Catholic periodicals as well as to some
English and Canadian ones.
short stories.

She has written a great many

One of her earliest literary ventures was

" S e v e n Years and Mair," a novelette published by the
Harpers in their Half Hour Series.

Her principal original

published works are '' Names that Live" and " W o m e n of
Catholicity," two volumes of biography.

On these Miss

Sadlier spent much labor, but not unavailingly, for they
possess no little value from a historical point of view.
two of

the sketches which

In

are distinctively American

she drew largely from the Jesuit " R e l a t i o n s "

and the

Memoirs of Pere Olier, and she had the advantage of
access to the annals of the Ursulines of Quebec and of
the Congregation of Notre Dame of Montreal.

Of her work

it may be said as she says of the writings of Marie de
1' Incarnation, it possesses '' rare excellence in a literary point
of view, and as a historical record is unsurpassed for clearness and accuracy.

The style is delicate and spirituelle, while

forcible and consistent; the work is marked by a keenness
of perception, a subtle grasp of points at issue, an attention
to detail which is never wearisome, and a breadth of thought
embracing the whole extent of what lies before it." Herother
books are "Ethel Hamilton" and " T h e King's Page."

Her

translations from the French and Italian include : " Ubaldo
and Irene,"

"Mathilda of Canossa,"

Monk's Pardon,"

"Idols,"

"The

" T h e Outlaw of Camargue,"

"The

Wonders of Lourdes," " T h e Old Chest," "Consolations for
the Afflicted," " A Thought of the Sacred Heart for Every
Day of the Year," " Words of St. Alphonsus," "Lucille,
or the Young Flower-Maker."

" T h e Two

Brothers,"

" Augustine, or the Mysterious Beggar," "Ivan, or The
Leper's Son,"

" T h e Dumb Boy of Fribourg" and " T h e

Recluse of Rambouillet."

/HMstress 1Rosamon& TLvcvov.
LEAVES
FROM THE JOURNAL
OF THE
ABOVE
LADY, BEING A NARRATIVE
OF
CERTAIN
EVENTS
IN THE COLONIES OF
MARYLAND.
BY ANNA T.

SADLIER.

The Fifteenth Day of fune, in the Year of Our
Lord 1644.—I marvel much if my father did, indeed, regret that day of St. Cecilia, in the year
of 1633, upon which he set sail for these shores.
My mother declared that he wept bitter tears on
passing the castle of Yarmouth, overhung by
November mists. Excessive the grief which could
draw tears from eyes habitually cold and stern.
Perchance time hath wrought a change. A youthful portrait showeth him, light of heart, buoyant
of spirit, as Philip himself.
Philip! It is a pretty name. How deeply did
he carve it upon the oak! Above it mine—Rosamond! " Rose of the World," he said. How wondrous are those oaks, " standing since the world
was y o u n g ! " as sayeth our dear, dear Father White.
Yet I am wroth with him because of the confusion
into which he threw me at table yester e'en,
275

276

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

" If God and my superiors so will," he said, " I
shall stay yet awhile at St. Mary's. I, who christened Mistress Rosamond, and have otherwise ministered unto her, must needs officiate upon a certain
happy occasion. What say you, Philip ? "
" In truth, your Reverence," began Philip.
But the dessert being ended, I fled, first curtsying to his Reverence and to my father.
My father, methought, looked graver than his
wont. This jesting recalleth, perchance, that it was
Father White who married him in England, and
christened me some eight years before the departure for these countries. Hence in my eighteenth
year I take this journal for my confidante, recording
the petty events of my daily life. How solemn the
thought of my beauteous mother, dead long since!
Often do I stand before her picture painted in wedding finery. Her eyes would seem to question that
adventurous, hazardous future into which she was
going unawares. Dare I look forward? Shall the
years, too, transform my Philip? But, no—the
thought is monstrous.
His countenance becomes illumined as he discourses with Father White upon the conversion of
these pagan Indians. I am, in sooth, more in
terror of these hideous, painted beings, notably the
Susquehannas, than I am solicitous for their souls.
This is paltry. Even Philip hath so declared it.
What noble plans he has against the time he shall
have made his fortune. I must be worthy of these
noble souls, amongst whom my lot is cast. I must

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

277

aid in this holy work of conversion. Yet I tremble at sight of these grim chiefs, streaked with red
and yellow, feathers upon their head, and a fish of
copper or other metal upon their brow. It is sad
to reflect that these beings, created by the most
high God, should worship corn and fire, and invoke
an evil spirit whom they call Ochre. At least I
can pray for them.
The Twenty-seventh Day of the Month of June.
—At eighteen should not one be grave and circumspect ? Yet have I confession of folly to make.
Last night a ball was given by his Excellency,
Governor Leonard Calvert.
It was surpassing
beautiful. Gay uniforms, rich costumes. Those
splendid gentlemen were most kind to me, no doubt
for my father's sake, who is in high repute amongst
them. His Excellency spoke first of my father's
high services and next of my auburn ringlets and
the pearl necklace, out of which he made a most
graceful comparison. My heart, I confess with
shame, was more pleasurably moved by these
praises than betimes it is when Philip speaks of
higher things. And if the blossom of vanity be
sweet, the fruit thereof is exceeding bitter. Hence
arose my first quarrel with Philip. Repeating to
him certain fine phrases of one Captain Evelyn concerning my foot in its high-heeled slipper, Philip,
flushing, laid his hand upon his sword. Unsuspecting I added, thinking to please him, the pretty
compliments of our Governor. I further remarked
that it was passing strange that a man of such fine

278

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

parts as hjs Excellency should have grown old
unmarried.
" Perchance he showeth therein his customary
w i s d o m / ' said Philip, in a tone which I had never
before heard. " Moreover my lord Leonard Calvert is not old, but still much in request as a
cavalier/*
" He is most fair of s p e e c h / ' I said; whereat
Philip's anger broke forth, and he accused me of
being overfond of the commendations of strangers.
" I t is but a vain coquette who seeketh praise
from all m e n / ' he cried.
Whereat my spirit being aroused, I retorted that
I was no coquette, and that perchance he was too
sparing of such commendations. A t this moment
Captain Evelyn offered me his hand for the dance.
After which I spoke no more with Philip, but went
home in much sadness and vexation of mind.
This morning after Mass I received a brief note
from Philip, worded thus:
" My Rose of the World, forgive me. Greatly
have 1 misdemeaned myself in rudeness of speech
to you. Write, I do beseech you, to assure me
that your gentle spirit bears no m a l i c e / '
I penned a tiny epistle and despatched it to
The Most Honorable Philip Fairfax,
Gentleman, at the Island of St. George.
H e is gone thither for a short period with some
officers. H e is a St. George himself, so brave, so
excellent, and so zealous for the conversion of the

ANNA

T. SADLIER.

279

savages. Last night I prayed to be worthy of him,
and I laid the string of pearls at Our L a d y ' s feet.
How thoughts jostle each other with scant ceremony in one's mind. Great was the divine goodness in saving the vessels which brought thither my
father and the other colonists, all men of fortune,
high lineage, and professing our holy Catholic faith.
It being the anniversary of St. Clement, the name
of that Saint was given to the island where a landing was first effected. Possession was taken " in
the name of Our Saviour and for our Sovereign
Lord the King of E n g l a n d / '
After solemn Mass our own Father White with
his companions, and aided by his Excellency Governor Calvert, took upon their shoulders a huge
cross, which they carried to some distance and set
up. The devout assemblage, kneeling, recited the
Litanies of the Cross. Truly were they mindful of
the saying of the Lord Cecil Baltimore, " that his
first and most important design, which should also
be the aim of all who go to these shores, is not to
think so much of planting fruits and trees in a land
so fruitful, as of sowing the seeds of religion and
piety.''
Like a page from the annals of the first Christians
was that celebration of the most blessed festival of
the Annunciation, 1634.
The Twenty-first Day of the Month of July, Present Year.—To-day I shall be busy. Gooseberries,
plums, and mulberries have been gathered from the
woods, to be made into compotes and confections of

280

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR,

many sorts. Adelaide has likewise a store of gums
and balsams for the preparation . of plasters, unguents, and perfumes. She declares that I must be
initiated into those arts which it behooves a woman
to know before departing from my father's house
to govern a household elsewhere. When I argue
that time presses not, she but rebukes me for my
levity.
11
When he whom the Lord hath appointed hath
his dwelling in readiness, thither must you g o , " she
says, " to do your appointed work."
She positively affrighteth me. She should have
been a heretic of the colonies of New England—
which indeed she hath been until converted by
Father White. I opine that, being a Dissenter,
she fled thither to escape persecution, but of this
she speaks no word. Duty is her idol. Imagination she scarce knows by name. How wroth was
she that I should strive to catch the sunlight falling
through the linden on the casement! I affected to
believe it gold. Little knows she what romances I
steal into unguent pots or seal up in pickle jars.
Wondrous skilful is she in all household matters.
But now she has brought to completion a wine
thick as oil, concocted of berries from the neighboring wood. What homilies she reads me as I stand
by her side in the store-room! Philip may have
cause to bless her if I profit by her teaching. Preparing these mulberries, I bethink me that Philip
proposes to cultivate mulberry-trees for the feeding
of silkworms near the manor he is building on

ANNA

T.

SADL1ER.

281

land bestowed by the king. He fancies it may
become a lucrative industry. My father shakes his
head, but who knows ?
The Nineteenth Day of the Month of August.—
After the middle day repast yesterday I stole into
the woods adjoining. It was a veritable stealing,
for Philip declares that wild beasts are in its depths,
and Adelaide with sour looks cries out that it
beseems not a maiden to go thus far unattended.
Excellent soul! I would not for a kingdom's wealth
that she accompanied me with homilies and texts
for each tree and clump of moss. She can flatter,
this grim Adelaide, betimes. Last evening she
declared to Philip that the Lord till His good time
was reserving for the honored Master Fairfax the
treasure of a good housewife.
" My claim," cried I, " rests upon little better
foundation than some skill in peach conserving. "
" Sweetness," returned Philip, (< is a safe basis
for a life's happiness."
" It may c l o y / ' I said gravely, " as confections
do f e r m e n t / '
" Nay, and the peaches be sound and sugar
without alloy ? " said Philip. Whereat I cried:
" To drop metaphor, what nature is without
alloy? Not mine, good sooth.
I know not if
bitterness would not best preserve m e . "
" Sunshine purifies! " laughed Philip.
" Can its rays dispel the mists of vanity ? " I said,
" for strong within me is the desire to seem fain

2S2

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

Looking upon my mother's portrait, I would fain
be as c o m e l y / '
44
All brides are fair," said Philip; " so perchance—''
But I fled around the dairy wall, for Philip's eyes
were full of laughter. How sweetly the blackbird
sang above our heads, my love and I. Peradventure it was the same bird I heard in the fir-trees.
I love those sombre firs, with strange whisperings
as of some we see not. In the silence and mystery
of the woods one's better self is uppermost. Perchance the soul responds to the touch of solitude.
Beautiful are the oaks, larches, and cypresses
touched by the sun. Philip tells me that ships will
be built some day from this same timber, and will
help him to grow rich. H e is rich enough, and how
full of schemes for the hereafter! The very word
makes me to sigh unreasonably. But Father White
will endure no sighs. " Joy, cheerfulness, hope are
the Christian's heritage," he says. " The shadow
of the cross should banish other shadows."
The Fourteenth Day of the Month of September.—
Philip hath been away for a fortnight on some
military expedition with the Governor. Trouble is
ever impending at Kent Island, from the wiles of
one Master Claiborne, the evil genius of this colony.
Kent Island is sixty miles hence—but a step to the
voyages he has taken, declares my father. T o me
it seems so far. There is comfort in the reflection
that thought can bridge unmeasured distance. On
laying by my trinkets in the jewel case I bethought

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

283

me of the hopes entertained by Philip and others,
that gold and gems should be found in these
countries.
This belief is occasioned by the native men and
women decking themselves with articles of unwrought gold and strings of pearls—indubitable
proof that such are found here. How proud shall
I be of an ornament made from Philip's mines!
Such is the glory of a new country. One never
knows. There is room for hope and endeavor.
Twentieth Day of the Month of September,—Oh,
joy! Philip hath returned. This evening Adelaide
permitted me an hour's walk with him in the elm
avenue. My heart sang like a thrush, though our
discourse was mostly of sober tone. I knew full
well it was with no vulgar boastfulness that Philip,
in speaking of the origin of these colonies, said, with
the air of pride that so well becomes him:
" They were all gentlemen, Rosamond, in fortune
and lineage; but they were more—they were confessors of the faith.''
" They came thither," he added, "' to worship
God in freedom and bring truth to these aborigines
My lord Caecilius Baltimore might well exclaim
that the English nation, renowned for so many
ancient victories, never undertook anything more
noble than this. For it is the work of Christ, the
King of Glory."
" A noble character that of my Lord Baltimore,
our Pate?'Patrice'," I said.
" No less noble is our Governor," said Philip,

284

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOX.

with a smile, ll though he should write sonnets to
auburn ringlets.''
Philip, noting my confusion, turned to sober
themes again.
" Here they have made asylum, not alone for
those of our faith, but for the oppressed of every
creed and race. These shores have been made the
refuge from intolerance, always through the good
counsels of their Reverences.''
" Our good and gentle Jesuits," I said, eagerly,
" Say rather our high-hearted and whole-souled
Jesuits," said Philip, who had been a student with
the Society for years. " You will join me in the
sentiment, sweetheart, God bless the Jesuits; for
what should these poor colonies of Maryland have
been without them ? "
" From my heart, Philip, God's blessing on the
Jesuits!"
We fell to discussing the incidents which befell
" The A r k " and " The D o v e " on their voyage
thither, accompanied for many miles upon the high
seas by the good ship " Dragon." How the portentous sunfish gave token of the storm, during
which " the Dragon " parted company with them
and walked no more upon the deep.
" A brave sight must it have been," I said,
" when those brave men knelt to receive holy
absolution from the Fathers. After which, Father
White, turning aside in prayer, besought the Divine
Master to remember that for the honor of His
name this expedition had set forth.
Scarce was

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

285

his prayer concluded when the storm ceased. How
beautiful must have been the sunlight which followed !
" Our exiled hearts recked little of beauty," said
my father's voice coldly and so suddenly that I
started. " We gave God thanks, in truth, but with
the resolution of servants doing a Master's will,
thankful for sunlight, prepared to buffet storms.
Child, you speak of what you know not. Better
beseems you the knowledge of pasties and needlework. Philip, lad, you may mar a promising housewife. Let not a woman's mind run riot on serious
themes, or your pasties will be of lead and your
hose unmended."
Cold and scornful as were tone and words, I knew
they came not from the heart, which conceals its
high purposes under such an exterior. My father
hath had many a stern experience. When my
father had left us Philip took my hand.
" Sweetheart," he said, " we men, though of rude
exterior, sympathize more than might appear."
" Alas for all womankind were it not s o , " I said ;
" sympathy is our life. Failing it, God's grace
alone keeps us from growing h a r d . "
" Let sympathy and trust be our mutual a i m , "
said Philip, and solemnly we made the pledge.
" Good night, Rosamond."
" G o o d night, Philip."
Our voices died with the twitter from the nest in
the laurel-tree which alone broke the stillness of
coming night. Philip, watching till I had gained

2$6

MISTRESS

AOSAMOtfB

T&BVOR.

the stone steps, waved farewell. Adelaide, who
had called me divers times from the casement,
rebuked me, saying:
" The Lord loveth a prompt and cheerful spirit,
quick to o b e y . "
(i
A cheerful spirit am I, A d e l a i d e / ' I said,
full of happiness.
" The Lord keep you s o , " said Adelaide.
T o which I responded heartily, " A m e n . "
In the corridor I encountered my father. To
my amazement he detained me.
" I grieve," he said, " if I have broken in but
harshly on thy pretty foolishness. Keep the spring
while it is yours, lest winter come in dreariness
excessive."
Never had I beheld him so moved, but at supper
his countenance was once more impassive.
" A t eighteen one is of necessity an egotist," he
said to Master Gerard, who sat beside him; " for
women this feeling perchance hinders them from
meddling in concerns beyond t h e m . "
Perchance I am an egotist in my love and happiness. Our Lady guard me from the fault.
Twenty-sixth Day of the Month of September.—
Sympathy is founded on a true understanding.
Therefore do I make such study of the history of
these countries as enables me to enter into Philip's
feelings. From a manuscript loaned me by Father
White, I learned that the most noble George,
Baron Baltimore, sought in the colony of Virginia
asylum for those of his faith. So sorry was his

ANNA

r.

SADLIER.

287

reception, that he was fain to turn northwards to the
Bay of Chesapeake. An oath was tendered him
denying the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, which
that brave gentleman rejected with scorn. H e
procured grants from the king, and set about the
work of colonizing. But it was his son, the Lord
Csecilius, who completed such arrangements, and
sent thither the Most Honorable Leonard Calvert,
with his brother George, with Masters Hawley and
Cornwallis, and many more brave spirits, guided by
three Fathers of the Company of Jesus.
No human creature was wronged by the advent
of these worthy pioneers. The savages were most
fairly compensated for their lands, from which they
had previously resolved to depart, in terror of the
formidable Susquehannas. When the great chief
Archihu heard from Fathers White and Altham of
their mission of peace, he said :
" It is well. We will eat at the same table.
My people shall hunt for you, and we shall have all
things in common."
In our settlement of St. Mary's, one mile's distance from the river of the Potomac, each man
was accounted free to worship God as he desired.
Error was tolerated side b ^ side with truth, as chaff
amongst the wheat, God winnowing in His own
good time.
So this Maryland had its origin in peace and goad
will to all men.
The Twenty-eighth Day of September,—We sat at
dinner to-day to the number of forty, a somewhat

288

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

motley assemblage, His Excellency gave me his
hand to the dinner-table, uttering many pleasant
speeches during the repast. Masters Cornwallis and
Hawley and other friends were mingled with two
Swedes from the Province of Pilaware or Delaware,
a Quaker from the Hampshire colonies, three
Anabaptists, and other Dissenters from the English
of Virginia. All were of a certain distinction, having fled to our colonies through persecution. They
are worthy of respect and sympathy, for though we
hold them in error, they have suffered much for
conscience. Alas! could our Catholic charity and
toleration for our neighbor but spread through
these countries!
Near my father sat a huge man, discoursing in a
big voice across the table to Father White, who
regarded him with kindly interest.
". He is mayhap somewhat over-forward in relating all that hath befallen him for conscience* s a k e / '
I whispered to Master Cornwallis, who sat upon
my left.
" I discover in him a resemblance to the son of
Saul, *' said he, as he broke some filberts to lay upon
my plate.
" Wherefore?" asked I, surprised; for scriptural
quotation, save with such as Adelaide, is not in
vogue amongst our people.
" Because he hath never trimmed his beard nor
washed his garments."
I was forced to laugh, though I misliked the jest
as savoring of discourtesy to a guest at our table.

ANNA

T. SAD LIE R.

289

For the laws of hospitality, observed with so much
punctilio in our Maryland, are doubly binding where
these exiles are concerned. Our Maryland*gentlemen do vie with each other in good offices to them.
The Second Day of the Month of October.—A
day of mingled bitter and pleasant flavor. Father
White departs to dwell amongst the Indian tribes
one hundred and twenty miles distant. Father
Fisher will be superior, aided by others from England. For, in addition to the conversion of the
Indians, many heretics have renounced their errors
and embraced the faith. Divers others attend our
Catholic sermons.
Adelaide and I proceeded early to the dwelling
of the Fathers. She brought with her some excellent butter and a batch or two of bread, all of her
making, with other delicacies.
These shall be
stored, with cheese, corn, beans, and flour, in a
small chest. Another shall contain essentials for
the Mass, and holy water for Baptism. The missionaries go provided, too, with trifling objects,
such as bells, needles, combs, to please the natives.
I laughed heartily, picturing those great, solemn
chiefs, whom I so dreaded, receiving with pleasure
these infantile gifts. Adelaide would have been
scandalized at my levity had not Father White
joined heartily in my mirth. H e likewise showed
me a tent to serve as sleeping-place, and a table to
be an altar. I shuddered as I thought of the perils
to which this beloved friend would be exposed.
Adelaide having not yet completed her prepara-

290

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ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

tions, and my father being absent from home, we
remained to supper, Adelaide attending me as I
drank my tea from a coarse earthen cup. To her
chagrin I performed a like office for her.
Philip came later to make his farewells to Father
White. How delightful the half-hour we spent in
the study, though my heart was heavy at thought
of our dear Father's departure! But sorrow cannot
last in his presence: he smiles it away. H e said
beautiful things to Philip and me of our future
lives and of the good we might accomplish in these
colonies. The windows were open, for the air was
warm, and the light of the moon poured in, forming
a halo around that fine head as he spoke.
" I shall be bodily amongst you o f t e n / ' he said,
" as ever in spirit. My ministry will necessitate
visits to St. Mary's. If duty permits, in due season
I shall be here to give Rosamond to you, Philip.
At your side she will play the part of one of those
bright spirits whose feast we keep to-day.
And
with happy confidence I shall know, Philip, that
you are worthy of the trust."
After a time Philip inquired as to the reports
concerning the chief Tayac, for it was to his
country that Father White was bound. The latter
replied that, as far as human judgment can be
trusted in such matters, the tale was worthy of
credence.
" Tayac was vouchsafed a dream, which has conduced to his conversion," he said. " In it he
beheld Father Gravener and my unworthy self, no

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

291

doubt as superior of our house. Both were in company with a stranger of rare beauty, clad in snowwhite g a r m e n t s / '
We fell to talking of a similar vision vouchsafed
to one Unwanno, who beheld the selfsame Fathers,
and heard a voice declaring that they loved the
tribes and would bring them blessings.
" Who can inquire into the mysteries of the
Most High ?" said Father White, looking towards
the moonlit sky as for solution of the problem.
" Who dare say whether such things be His manifestation or a trick of the senses ?' *
Our minds were diverted by the appearance of
the other Fathers, all of whom joined with Father
White and ourselves in jest and laughter—a rebuke
to all the Puritanism of the world.
As Philip and I went homeward, saddened and
yet calmed by the influence of that happy presence
we had left, the moon shone exceeding bright upon
the distant Potomac—-Altomeck the savages style
it; the Fathers have rechristened it St. Mary's.
The islands which they met they named for Our
Lady, St. Clement, St. Catherine, St. Cecilia, St.
George. The promontory jutting into the Potomac
was christened St. Michael.
As the descending
sun of evening falls thereon, one might fancy that
mighty spirit standing there, clad in shining armor.
The Tenth Day of the Month of October.—Our
interest—that is, Philip's and mine—had been awakened of late in one employed as my father's secretary. Philip declares that, my father consenting,

292

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

this Master Gerard shall be overseer of the new
domain. A sad story, but great grace hath compensated him for much evil. He is of gentle birth
and breeding. In England he squandered a fortune. Adelaide compares him to the prodigal son.
" He hath spent his substance in riotous living/-'
she says, " wherefore the Lord afflicted him. For
the riches of the unjust shall be dried as a river."
However it be, he was constrained to sell himself
into bondage amongst the English of Virginia. H e
was ransomed by the Fathers and afterwards became
a Catholic. So great is his fervor that it edifies
all who observe him, especially during Mass. His
countenance is sad, but uncommon peaceful. Perchance is he happier than in prosperous days, though
it is sad to be severed from home and kindred.
H e has much skill in music, and is an adept at arms.
Amongst our serving people are two likewise delivered from bondage and professing the Catholic faith.
Adelaide treats them with much respect as " the
Lord's freedmen/ ,
Fifth Day of November.—111 tidings have come.
Father Gravener, having had a relapse of fever, has
perished amongst the Indians. I pray earnestly for
his soul. God grant him sweet rest after his toils
for the kingdom of God. Father White is likewise
stricken with that pestilent disease, but is in a way
to recovery. How deplorable, when the Indian
harvest fields lie so white!
" Perchance it is not yet God's time. Blessed
be His n a m e / ' observed Father Fisher tranquilly.

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

293

First Day of December.—Little
have I said in
these pages of troubles with the neighboring colonies
of Virginia, and with one Master Claiborne, before
mentioned, who lays claim to the territory of Kent
Island, despite the pleasure of our sovereign lord
the king. My Lord Baltimore has had to chastise
his insolence and quell disturbances arising through
his arts. Religious rancor has of late arisen, and
upon this blessed soil, which we of the Catholic
faith would have made free to all, must ourselves
suffer the bitterness of persecution. Rumors of
trouble are rife. Peace has been the calm before a
storm. My father looks disturbed. Father White
is visiting St. Mary's—welcome as the dove to the
ark.
Second Day of the Month of December.—At a late
hour Fathers White and Fisher arrived, proceeding
to my father's study. I marvelled at so late a visit.
Their Reverences departed speedily, engaged in
anxious converse with my father, even to the very
door. H e has ridden forth, though it be close upon
midnight. I am full of forebodings.
Fifth Day of the Month of December.—Early on
the third day of the present month Philip brought
tidings that, after an attack upon St. Mary's by the
colonists of Virginia, our Governor and others had
surrendered themselves upon conditions which were
already violated.
Three brave gentlemen have
already suffered death.
My father is at large,
though he was in attendance upon the Governor.
Philip rode away with Master Gerard, W e have

294

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

passed a day of terror and suspense. As the hour
of ten struck from the timepiece in the hall, the
sound of galloping hoofs reached us. Each nerve
within me vibrated. My senses were on the alert
to a painful degree, my eyes starting from their
sockets.
" Though armies assail me I shall not fear,"
muttered Adelaide, " for the Lord is my strength,
my helper and deliverer."
She stood in the great hall, a lantern raised above
her head. I, fearing the very shadows upon the
armor or warlike implements, crept close to her
side. The knocker was sounded with vehement
haste.
" Deliver us, O Lord, from the hand of the
w i c k e d / ' cried Adelaide, " and from our fear."
As the knocking continued, she opened a small
panel in the door, saying:
" If the Lord hath sent you, make yourself
known to His servants."
" Open, open, without delay," cried my father's
voice.
The command was joyfully obeyed. He entered
with Phflip, Master Gerard, some servants, and two
gentlemen closely muffled, whom I presently recognized as Fathers White and Fisher. Their countenances of wondrous serenity were in strong contrast to the flushed and wrathful ones of my father
and the others.
" Adelaide," said my father, " prepare instantly
such food as may»be taken upon a journey. Master

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

295

Gerard, see that horses be in readiness.
Your
Reverences be seated and partake of some refreshment. In an hour's time we ride for our lives to
the frontier."
" We must indeed go into hiding for the mom e n t , " said Father White, " but personal considerations, cannot permit us to be long absent from
our work." H e added smilingly, " Nor must we
needlessly terrify our little Rosamond. With our
dear Lord's aid all will be well, and for His greater
glory."
Their Reverences riding forth supperless, Father
White still feeble from fever, were accompanied by
my father. He peremptorily ordered Philip and
Master Gerard to remain.
" Need may arise," he said; " the town is in sore
confusion.
The dwellings of all Catholics are
menaced."
I wrung my hands in anguish of spirit, whilst
Philip secured and barricaded the house—that
peaceful dwelling which my father had erected on
coming to the colony.
" Alas! " thought I, " when we heard of like
doings in neighboring colonies, how little did we
guess it would so soon be our own case!"
Philip having completed arrangements, counselled
me to seek shelter in a retired part of the house.
" In the hour of peril you shall not banish m e , "
I said.
" I am but a poor commander if so youthful a
soldier proves contumacious,'' said Philip, smiling.

296

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

" Command what you will, so that it be not to
leave y o u , " I said; " my place is at your side now
and forever/'
I had never spoken so boldly. I read in Philip's
face his pleasure at my words, though Adelaide
reproved me for overforwardness of speech.
Philip beguiled the time by relating the events
of the evening. Sad havoc had been wrought with
the Fathers' dwelling. Their furniture and books
had been destroyed.
When the moment had come for flight, an attack
was made by some Catholic gentlemen at the
farthest side of the house, to divert the attention of
the assailants. Meanwhile my father and Philip
stood ready with horses for the Fathers to mount.
T h e feint being unsuccessful, a certain number of
the enemy remaining before the dwelling, Master
Gerard stationed himself in the doorway, crying
that he desired to encounter the caitiff crew singlehanded. Having thus drawn attention upon himself, the Fathers were enabled to depart, though
with much reluctance. Philip declared that they
feared lest life or limb should be lost for their preservation. My father at length threatened to convey them thence by force.
T h e mob meanwhile clamored against " impost o r s , " " false teachers," yet how deeply are these
very heretics beholden to these ecclesiastics; and as
to their meddling with state concerns, often have I
heard my father relate that Fathers White and
Altham refused a seat in the first colonial assembly

AJVJVA T.

SADLIER.

297

of Maryland, praying to be excused from taking
part in secular affairs.
" How base, how cruel the ingratitude !" cried I.
" It is infamous/' said Philip; " I shall shake the
dust of our Maryland from my feet if she do not
teach them a l e s s o n / '
11
The Lord hath permitted that His anointed
be tried in the crucible, as gold in the fire/' said
Adelaide. Her cheeks were wet with the first tears
I had ever seen there. I could not refrain from
embracing her, to her confusion, in presence of the
honored Master Fairfax.
" I pray you, hold my young lady e x c u s e d / ' she
said; 'i her heart is ever greater than her judgment.
" A small fault in a prospective b r i d e / ' said
Philip.
But I was too heavy-hearted to note his speech
or the smile accompanying it.
Sounds of strife began to reach us with terrifying distinctness.
Our discourse ceased, save for
whispered conferences between Philip and Master
Gerard, who, heavily armed, grimly awaited events.
How careworn his countenance beside the open,
joyous one of Philip! Sad and stern his expression. This came to me afterwards. I could but
sit with clasped hands, praying silently. Adelaide
in a loud voice repeated psalms and versicles from
Holy Writ. During that harrowing night musketshots were fired about our dwelling, with shouts
and maledictions:
" Down with the traitor, the friend of lying

29S

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

priests! Burn his dwelling. Perchance the pestilent Mass-mongers are within."
Thundering knocks sounded upon the door, with
cries of " Open, or we burst it! "
" That oak was not grown in Virginia, caitiffs! "
cried Master Gerard through a loophole, wherein
he had placed his musket. A storm of blows fell
upon the door. Glass was shivered by musketshots. I sat with covered face, praying, oh, how
earnestly!
Master Gerard and Philip used their rifles with
good effect, as did the servants above; but as the
cries of " Burn the nest of traitors! " became more
frequent, Philip resolved to make terms with those
outside.
To this was Master Gerard resolutely
opposed, his blood being up.
" You shall enter and search,'' said Philip,—
" no priests are here,—provided you commit no
violence."
" No dictation of t e r m s , " said a voice.
" Then stay without," cried Master Gerard furiously, " and let incendiaries look to it.
Herein
are soldiers who will open so deadly a fire that
Virginia shall be filled with widows."
Terms were, however, agreed upon, Philip recalling my father's great credit with our lord the king,
which was the reason the house had not been sooner
fired. During the search, which Philip conducted
in person, four stragglers, evidently intoxicated,
reached the distant room whither Adelaide and I
had retired, I should have swooned away in fright,

ANNA

T. SAD LIE R.

299

for, despite the expostulations of Adelaide, they
were determined to venture upon obtrusive pleasantries with me. Suddenly a powerful blow struck
down the foremost ruffian.
Master Gerard, of
deadly pallor, his eyes aglow with anger, cried:
" You hounds, had I a whip at hand, I should
teach you how a gentleman keeps his kennels." In
an instant he was at bay against four brutal assailants. Adelaide drew me forcibly away. Later I
saw her tying up an ugly wound in my defender's
arm. H e only smiled when I wept at sight of the
thrust, saying with a courtier's grace:
" I n some causes wounds are sweet.''
By morning his manners had resumed their
wonted quietude. None could guess how brave,
how impetuous he is.
The Nineteenth Day of the Month of December,—
Our beloved Fathers have contrived to get over the
frontier, where they have taken shelter in a species
of cistern. Philip and Master Gerard convey provisions to them by night, and are loud in commendation of their courage and patience. Now it is a
jest, at their sorry shelter or foodless state, which
often continues for hours. Even when they return
to their missionary labors, the small sum sent for
their maintenance being intercepted, they will have
no guides through the trackless forests. Most grievous do they esteem it to have no wine for the Holy
Sacrifice.
My father declares that henceforth there will be
no certainty of peace for persons of our faith. I

$0o

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TREVOR.

account it glorious to suffer in that cause, if God
willeth. H e can give strength to our weakness.
Yet is my nature enamored of sweetness and light.
Should a bird twitter in yon elm, or a rose burst
into bloom in the garden, I should be filled with a
thousand dreamy fancies. While winter lasts it is
impossible. Therefore let me dwell upon reality.
The Thirtieth Day of April in the Year of Our
Lord 1645.—I have had no courage to write down
my feelings or fancies since that grievous time
when our dear and saintly Fathers while on an apostolic mission to the tribes were seized, loaded with
irons, and sent over seas. This was done under
an iniquitous law concerning " Missionary Popish
Priests.'' My tears flow as I write; a word serves
to awaken the grief and indignation of Philip and
my father. I feel that we shall see our Father
White in Maryland no more, even if he bears up
under hardships and indignities.
Alas that this
should befall him upon that free soil, where his own
wise counsels of forbearance and toleration did so
happily prevail while Catholics were in the ascendant ! God grant us grace to pray for our enemies.
" There is but one weapon to be employed—
prayer," was Father White's last counsel to his
friends. My Lord Baltimore is righteously indignant and, it is said, will seek redress at the throne.
But it will not make good our loss.
The Third Day of the Month of
August.—Save
for a disturbance upon St. Ignatius' Day, peace has
been unbroken. Our Catholic citizens did desire tp

AfrNA

T.

SADLIER.

$ot

celebrate the patronal feast of the college by fireworks and discharge of artillery. A party of evildisposed Englishmen from a neighboring fortalice
attacked the dwellings of our Catholic gentry, much
damage being done. Our own was once more
defended by Philip, Master Gerard, and my father.
My father received a wound in the sword arm, which
being hastily dressed by Adelaide, he seized his
weapon in his left hand and returned to the attack.
Philip had like to have perished but for the timely
intervention of Master Gerard, whom I shall always
love. Surely never was home defended by more
gallant gentlemen.
The Eighth Day of September.
Feast of Our
Lady's Nativity.—Peace
hath returned. All upon
Kent Island have taken the oath of fealty to my
Lord Baltimore, who has appointed Sir Robert
Vaughn military governor there.
Peace! how
sweet after long disquiet! T h e sun lies upon the
lawn, as a loving hand stretched in benediction over
the spot, for sake of those who walked thereon, but
shall walk this earth no more. These troubles inclined my naturally light heart towards melancholy.
Father White's superiors have refused him permission to return, despite his desire. How I should
rejoice to see him stand once more, a venerable
figure, in cassock and beads, under the oaks he loved
so well!
The Ninth Day of September.—In
the dusk I
could perceive the red roof of Philip's house, soon
to be mine. It is a solemn thought. I, Rosamond

302

MISTRESS

ROSAMOND

TRRVOfi.

Trevor, shall leave this home which has been mine
since early childhood, and that before the festival
of Christmas. To me all change is unutterably sad,
though I must not let Philip divine my thoughts. I
shall even look upon the brighter side. How wondrous it will be to come and go without hindrance
from Adelaide, and to give my orders and have in
safe keeping a bunch of keys. There is a strange
fascination in that bit of roof outlined against the
sky and shadowed by an elm.
I shall miss old Adelaide, though she were severe
betimes. And my father would seem to grow less
stern.
Yestere'en he laid a caressing hand upon
my hair, saying that I grew like my mother. Father
White declared that he " was one of the noblesthearted gentlemen in St. M a r y ' s / ' Soon must I
bid farewell to many a familiar spot: my bed of
heart's-ease, planted when I first saw Philip; the
carnations that we tended together, the robin's
nest which he saved from destruction; and the elm
avenue, where Philip first spoke of love. Then there
is the confection-room, where Adelaide taught me
housewifery. It overlooks the stone court whence
Philip used to peep at me bedabbled with flour, or
anointed with the unguents I was engaged upon.
Lastly, I shall say good-bye to my mother's portrait. I shall stand before it in my wedding-dress,
with pearls about my throat. I shall look into her
silent eyes, seeking to read her thoughts, and from
the shadow of her presence go forth over the
threshold into the new life.

ANNA

T.

SADLIER.

303

Philip is approaching. How handsome and noble
he is! My sad thoughts fly at his approach. I
must put my whole heart into his hopes and aspirations to make them mine. How comical Adelaide
looks with her cap askew upon her head as she
gravely cites to Master Gerard, in yonder casement,
a text against the pursuance of warfare as a profession ! As if he could be other than a soldier!
From that day ends the journal of Mistress Rosamond Trevor, but mention occurs of her at a
banquet given to " His Most Honorable Excellency," Leonard Calvert, Governor of Maryland.
A t the head of the table presided the beautiful and
gracious Mistress Fairfax, who had been of late
given in marriage to the most honored gentleman
Master Philip Fairfax. This was in the manorhouse erected upon the lands granted in perpetuity
to Master Fairfax by the king's highness.

JOHN TALBOT SMITH.
REV. JOHN TALBOT SMITH is an original, forceful writer

who has selected as the scene of his many stories the
mountain towns bordering on Canada, with their rough,
uncultivated men and women as his characters.

No more

picturesque people is to be found in New England and New
York than the French Canadian with his happy disposition,
his wife, a model of thrift inherited with her French blood,
his large family, his church, and national feasts. Diametrically opposite to him in character and mode of life is his
Irish-American neighbor, his enemy at first, but subsequently

his friend and later his relative by marriage.

From a long

acquaintance with these people Father Smith has learned to
know them intimately, not only from daily association, but
through his priestly relations.

He has studied them and

describes them, their life and their surroundings, with wonderful fidelity.
Father Smith was born at Saratoga, New York, in 1855.
He went to the Christian Brothers' school in Albany, and
made his classical and seminary course at St. Michael's
College, with the Basilians at Toronto.

He was ordained

In 1881, and appointed curate in a little mission on Lake
Champlain, where he laid in the backgrounds of romantic
scenery and the characters to be found in his stories.

In

1883 he was made pastor in Rouse's Point, and subsequently
held an official office in the diocese of Ogdensburg.
the death of P. V. Hickey, the
The Catholic Review,
that

paper,

a

Father

position

Smith became

he

On

editor and founder of

filled

for

editor of

nearly

three

years; as a journalist he was masterful and brilliant, but
perhaps too independent in his ideas and his expression of
them.

Since his retirement from journalism he has lived

in New York as chaplain to the Sisters of Mercy on Madison Avenue, and has devoted himself entirely to literature
and journalism.

He contributes to the daily papers and to

the magazines, and at. regular intervals produces a volume
of fiction or more serious matter.

His published works are :

" A Woman of Culture," "Solitary Island," " H i s Honor
the Mayor," " Saranac," " T h e Prairie Boy," " History of
the Diocese of Ogdensburg," and " O u r Seminaries," an
essay on the training of young men for the priesthood.

Ube 3Baton of Cberubusco*
BY JOHN TALBOT SMITH.

I N some doubtful, untraced way history has left
upon me the impression that a baron of the early
ages when barons began to be was a hard, tyrannical,
ignorant man, who drank great quantities of spirits,
beat his wife and his daughters, was envious of his
growing sons, had a few streaks of generosity in
him, and, above all things, hated and oppressed the
poor. Whether the ancient average of barons justified this impression I have not yet had time to
discover. So much that was history twenty years
ago has since become fable, that he would be an imprudent man who would venture to defend the historical impressions of his youth before examining
the latest authorities; but I always acted on the
impression when speaking or thinking of Mr. Turnham of Cherubusco, the principal citizen of our
village, and the gracious friend who had appointed
me, a struggling lawyer and a pugnacious Catholic,
to the position ,of town-clerk. It was not a very
high distinction, to be sure, to be principal citizen
of Cherubusco—a hybrid, nondescript village on
Lake Champlain; but to the people who dwelt there
307

308

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

it was a deeply interesting position, and had a considerable deal to do with their personal comfort,
occasionally also with their material prosperity; and
it was one reason why I looked upon my patron as
a modern type of ancient baron that he made the
common people of the town as miserable as possible when the fit seized him, and sold them comfort
at the price of a degrading vassalage. It would not
be charitable to detail all the enormities, private
and public, personal and distributive, which he practised in a year. He was not such a monster as I
considered an old-time baron. H e drank spirits in
quantity, and enjoyed an occasional " t o o t / ' as my
neighbors name a period of intoxication, but it was
not a matter of scandal for any one; he swore in his
office, among his cronies, and promiscuously in the
absence of children and clergymen; he had no
religious belief of any definite character—in his own
expressive language being a " free nigger M —and
his morality was of a pattern with his religion,
clouded, uncertain, wavering, leaving him no better
than he should b e ; but he was the kindest, most
indulgent householder that ever lived, was deservedly loved by the members of his family, and
had an amiable wife and rather handsome children,
in spite of a discouraging personal appearance. For
Turnham, briefly, had a stiff leg and a face all hair
and spectacles. So much of his skin as was visible
above the tide of glass and hair was either muddily
pale or fiery with an erysipelous affection, always
shaded by the wide brim of a homely felt hat. A

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH,

3°9

more malignant appearing face I had never seen; a
fiercer expression no piratical pirate ever wore. As
he walked the street, dragging his stiff leg after him
like an evil genius or a familiar spirit, and bowed to
the passing villagers, I interpreted the looks he gave
them to mean, " Be careful, now; you know m e :
at any minute I might cut the earth from under
y o u ; " and the same look seemed to say to strangers,
"You don't know me; but I'm a terror, and I
might cut the solid earth from under you if you said
a cross word." He had cut happiness out of so
many persons' lives that my interpretation was
reasonable, and the title of baron, so far as it represented my idea, was clearly applicable to him.
Still, barons are men in spite of their odd characteristics and noble title, and are as apt to cry
when pinched as better men. Mr. Turnham had
his good points. One of his best was the fancy he
took for m e ; for this fancy, while not doing me
much good, brought him much annoyance from his
brother barons. It was urged against my appointment that I was a Catholic, that I was too young,
that I could not be trusted to keep business secrets
from the priest, that better men wanted the position of town-clerk; to which objections he replied,
with his malignant grin, that he loved Catholics
more than hypocritical Protestants, that he hated
old men, that no secrets were intrusted by him to
any one, and that he didn't care a button if Bishop
Potter was after the office of town-clerk—no one
should get it that year but me. By this declaration

3io

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

he unflinchingly stood. Furthermore, he made me
his confidant in most matters of business and politics—a position which I, being a very young fool
and having fifteen years before me in which to make
up for present blunders, accepted with confidence
and courage. Behold me, then, on a fine morning
in the month of June, seated in confidential discourse with my patron, our heels elevated in a
fashion plainly intended to keep our brains from
scattering, and he fairly glaring upon me for the
opposition which I offered to his plans concerning
the coming village election.
" S o you don't believe in buying votes," said he.
" On principle ? Or are you one of these Young
Men's Christian Associations, that shout for C. S.
Reform, in chorus, and in side streets, dark-night
solos buy up all the votes they can git ? "
I omit the baron's profanity.
" On principle," I answered benignantly. " It's
wrong. It's against the constitution and the law.
It's un-American. It's an injury to the poor fellows
who are tempted. George Washington wouldn't
approve of it. Neither will I . "
After sending the venerable Washington to a part
of the other world in which the baron seemed to
have a vested interest, judging from the authoritative way in which he assigned lots there, and glaring
at me several moments, he said:
" Do you mean to hold that principle all your
life?"
"I hope I shall,;' I replied, with the proper

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

311

humility of manner and an interior conviction that
hope was utterly crushed by certainty. I was only
twenty-one.
" Then let me tell y o u , " said he viciously,
" you'll never git a bigger office than town-clerk.
You might as well git out now as wait till yer
kicked out to make way for men that have purer
principles/V
' " That's* g o o d ! ' ' said I.
" T i l wait till I'm
kicked out, and it won't be the men with purer
principles that'll do all the kicking."
" And what do you propose to do at the election ?" irritably. " Sit 'round, an' talk, an' stare,
an' have old Whiting an' Stacy an' the rest of 'em
askin' what you're doin', and all the rest of
it ? "
" Don't mind m e , " I said. " Let me have my
own way, and I'll do as much work as the best man
among 'em, in my own fashion. If they find any
fault after election, I'll resign."
" Well, it's a satisfaction that all Catholics are
not so strict in their way of thinkin'."
." If they aren't they ought to be. They're not
Catholics. It must be a satisfaction to you to see
most Protestants acting as you do. I suppose you
will have the usual whiskey-barrel on tap in this
room for the poor Frenchmen and the thirsty gentry
of the town. I can read the future of America in
election whiskey."
H e glared for a few minutes and closed the conversation with a laugh, muttering some indistinct

312

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

thunders concerning papists, and flinging his books
and papers through the room savagely. I lost
myself presently in a sad meditation on vote-buying
as a means of political promotion. There was little
doubt of my inability to hold even so inferior a
position as town-clerk long while my principles
remained at variance with the universal practice of
Cherubusco politicians. If Catholic morality were
not quite so stern on that and some other points of
political and business life, how rapid would be the
rise of ambitious Catholic lawyers with a good stock
of principle and little cash on hand!
" I think/' said Turnham after a time, " you had
better hint to Joe Miron—he's a papist, you know
—that I don't" like his talk around town. He's
restive. It looks as if he wanted to bolt the straight
ticket."
" He has a right to bolt."
" And if he does," continued the baron, " let
him understand that he'll get no more work in this
town, if I can help it."
" He has a big family," I s a i d , " a good wife and
five children. They are not the kind to be left to
starve on account of a vote."
" Just let him know how it will b e , " he replied
indifferently. " They won't starve, you kin bet,
but they'll suffer some trouble. T h a t ' s good-for
papists.
It's the only thing keeps the critters
down."
Two persons entered the office in succession,
transacted some business, and departed. One was

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH,

313

a feeble, sickly woman in rags pathetically clean, the
otner a nervous, well-dressed business man.
" WelL Henriette! Good-morning, Sol Dotler!
Come to pay the rent, Henriette ? "—he knew very
well the day would never come when the poor
woman would be able to pay it. " Six months due
to date—eighteen dollars. I'll let you off for ten,
seem* it's a hard time for t h e poor."
Henriette looked at the spectacles and whiskers,
fumbled nervously with her rags, and began to
tremble.
" The same old s t o r y / ' he said, after she had made
a few vain efforts to speak. " No money, not able
to work! Weil, let it go for this time, Henriette!
I'll make it up out o' Sol Dotler."
T h e woman went out shedding grateful tears.
The nervous business man cursed the baron in a
friendly fashion, and was cursed in turn, as he asked
for the note which he intended to take up that
morning. I t was a small sum, one hundred dollars,
for the use ot which for one month the baron received the sum of thirty-five dollars,
" Not a bad j o b , " he said to me a moment later.
" A little business o' that sort would help you
along, my boy, if you have a few hundreds to
loan."
" Thus runs the world away," and a heavy heart
carries the young Catholic who tries to run after it
in our time, and I suppose in any time. H e must
strip himself of every principle of his faith, if he
wishes to Iceep up with it, of love of his neighbor,

314

THE BARON

OF CHERUBUSCO*

love of his country, and love of religion, carrying
only in his gripsack the shirt of convenience and
expediency, and the trunks and hose of pharisaical
morality. So the baron had often told m e ; nor
could I doubt his word after a thorough examination
of his and the wardrobes of all the other barons ol
the country! The items mentioned were not always
to be found in their entirety among these nobles,
but I observed that when their destruction left them
morally naked public opinion drove them either into
retirement or into business in the city on a large
scale. The baron, being a family man, still held
his scanty wardrobe together by dint of much
patching and darning, and with the help also of a
class of clients whose leader and mouthpiece was
just entering the office on the heels of the reflections which had passed through my mind after the
last remark of Mr. Turnham.
H e was a small man in working-clothes, wrinkled
rudely jointed, and old. His thick gray hair was
cut straight across his neck by the domestic scissors.
His whole appearance had the home-like finish
peculiar to old brooms and well-used furniture; so
that the natural dignity of his manner was more
remarkable by contrast, and left an agreeable impression. His wrinkled face was weighted with an
expression of sorrow. He bowed to us both in a
grave way, and, turning to the baron, opened his
mouth to speak, but the under-lip trembled so much
that he sat down suddenly and covered his eyes
with his hand to hide the tears that fairly spoutea

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

315

through his fingers. The baron's face grew a shade
paler at this sight.
" D u p u y , " said he, " your boy's dead."
" An' little gell, too," moaned Dupuy. " Bot'
die las' night."
T h e baron started up with a groan, and hopped
up and down a few times in real distress. He, too,
was the father of boys and girls.
" I t ' s too bad, too bad! " he said. '" This diphtheria is the worst thing in creation. How did it
happen, Cyriac ? I thought they were gittin' well
yesterday. I could swear the girl was all right."
H e came to the Frenchman's side and sat down
to listen to a father's details of his children's deathstruggle.
" M' ole 'oman," said Cyriac, with a visible
effort, "-watch Leah; I tek care o' Joe, me. I
clean de t'roat one, two, tree, much taime. She
git bettair, poor J o e ; mats lit'le gell he no git
bettair. Very weak all de taime—choke. O seigneur, c'est terrible! " as the memory of her suffering came back to him. " I mek him dhrink de wine
et de bif-tea, you see. All de sem ma little gell no
git vary sthrong—weaker, weaker, 'n' I t'ink, me,
his bre't' stop, raight up. Two o'clock d' ole
'oman cry 'loud, * O mon Dieu! Leah die.' I run
to him. It is so. Leah die, easy, easy, easy, laike
go to sleep—no pain, no scream, no not'ing'," finishing the description with a gesture of falling easily
to sleep. *' Poor Joe hear her moder say he die,
ir git frightened, you see, 'n' call me raight off.

316
1

THE BARON

OF CHERUB USCO.

Wot's de madder wid you, Joe ? You 'fraid ? *
' No, p'pa, no 'fraid me. Mek de pr'ers fo' de
soul. I go after Leah.' ' You go after Leah,petit
fou ? . Leah no die. Moder 'fraid laike you, 'n'
scream. You stay wid Leah, Joe.' Mais no fool,
Joe. She say all de taime, ' Mek de pr'ers, p'pa,
mek de pr'ers.' Purt' soon she go after Leah—
easy, easy, too, comme de raison. A h ! seigneur,
tout est perdu,"
H e spoke in broken tones, and with the last
words burst into a fit of sobbing. The baron
pressed his hand and turned his face away to hide
the tears that moistened his fierce eyes. When his
eyes were dry again he turned to me.
" Mighty hard, isn't it ? " said he. " An' they
were alone, too; no one with children 'ud go neaf
'em. It's the black diphtheria. Did you git any
one to lay the children out, Cyriac ?"
" I fix 'em tout seul," said Cyriac briefly, with
an expressive shrug of the shoulders.
" Well, I suppose it can't be helped, Cyriac.
I'm sorry for you—very sorry. It's hard to lose
your children after bringin' 'em to that age; but
it's the way things are done in this world, an' we
can't help ourselves."
" Mes enfants se reposent dans les bras du bon
Dieu," said Cyriac, clasping hfe hands tightly with
a sincere but painful effort at resignation. I translated the sentence for the baron, and was rewarded
with the usual glare. He could not presume to
dispute the existence of heaven at that moment,

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

317

and raged to have me find him temporarily muzzled.
Old Dupuy informed us that the children would be
buried that evening at sundown, and was made
happy by Mr. Turnham's promise to attend, as,
owing to the malignity of the disease, the ceremony
would be private and no services held in the church
until the next morning. The baron here saw fit to
mention a little matter of business. It would have
been in better taste to leave poor Cyriac to his
heavy misfortunes, only that Mr. Turnham was not
to be held back from any measure by the mere
dictum of good taste. And, to tell the truth, the
matter was not calculated to interfere with Cyriac's
sorrow. It was as if one had said to him, Your
hat is awry, or, Button your coat and it will sit
better, while he was wiping away his tears.
" To-morrow, Cyriac, if you don't mind," said
the baron casually, " we'll talk over that bolt of
the Duquette boys. It looks as if they mean to
hold off till the other party buys 'em."
A deeper shade settled on Dupuy's face, and I
saw that he looked at his horny fingers, as if a new
and startling difficulty had sprung suddenly from
the deformed brown joints.
" I t'ink, me, it is de pries'," he said slowly, with
a long-drawn sigh. The baron stared at him with
his mouth open, and Cyriac met the stare with a
cringing smile.
" Purt* bad boy dem Duquettes,
M'sieu'
T u ' n ' a m , " he said gravely, seeing that the baron
did not or would not understand the smile, whose

3i8

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBDSCO,

meaning was perfectly clear to me. " Bad Cat'lique, no go t' churc', all taime drunk, no spik
French—French no nice f r dem. Las' mont' big
change. Dey mek de confession, tek pew in de
enure*, no drink no more—big change. I t'ink,
me, it is de pries , . , ,
Now the baron understood, and his face showed
some such expression as must have rested on the
face of the first Roman emperor who discovered the
presence and the power of the Pope in Rome.
" That's the new priest," he said briefly. Cyriac
nodded. " Has he said anything to you ? "
Cyriac shrugged his shoulders doubtfully.
" Tell m e , " shouted the baron, bringing down
his fist with a crash on the desk, '' did he speak to
you ?"
" Turnham," I suggested gently, " let me remind
you—"
" You—" But it will not do to record his answer.
Had I said simply, remember his dead children,
and left myself out of the suggestion, its effect
would have cooled him instantly. Cyriac was frightened, but calm and polite.
" She say some word," he replied, " an' I t'ink,
me, she no say a word. ' Cyriac Dupuy ' "—imitating the tone and manner of the priest—" ' 'f you
see the mans to buy 'n* sell de vote, tell me, tell
me all taime.' "
" That's all ? " said the baron, holding his wrath
in check until he was bursting like a boy in smothered laughter.

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

3*9

' ' A l l , " , replied Cyriac briefly, standing up to
make his low, old-fashioned bow, with his hat
describing a circle in his hand.
'•' It's just as well, Cyriac," drawing a paper from
his open safe and shaking it at him with a most
baronial air.
" When the priest comes foolin'
around you and talkin' o' the wickedness o' buyin'
votes, just think o' that an' you're safe." An extra
shade of humility lodged in Cyriac's wrinkles. " I
won't stand no cure's nonsense. He may keep you
from voting as I want you to, but he can't stave off
a mortgage. I'll squeeze you, my boy—I'll squeeze
you.
" T u r n h a m , " I said, disgusted, ic remember his
children.'' The baron blushed. No one acquainted
with him would have noticed the purple current
stealing behind his hat, whiskers, and spectacles.
H e hopped over to Cyriac, going out of the door,
and slipped a bill into his hand while gently patting
his back.
" I t ' s all right," he said gently; " we'll settle
this another time, and I'll surely be at the
funeral."
My youth alone excused the antics in which I indulged after the door closed on the Canadian. I
gravely jumped over several chairs, walked around
them, stood on my head, and turned a boyish cartwheel to the musical accompaniment of the baron's
profanity. On this occasion he swore more like an
emperor than a baron, if we suppose that felicity
and fluency follow a person's rank. If verbal elec-

326

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO,

tricity could be stored in a material atmosphere, the
office would have exploded on the spot.
" That accounts," said he, " for the Duquettes "
—the only words which were not pure exclamation
in a five minutes* discourse.
" I'm glad of i t , " said I ; " I rejoice in it. I
don't know much about Father O'Shaughnessy_"
" W h a t ! " cried he, " is that his name ? "
" W h a t ' s in a name ? " said I. " Wait till you
see the man. H e ' s so small that it seems ridiculous
he should have so powerful a name. I'll tell you
what he did in Buckeye county two years a g o . "
The baron, who had been stupefied at the name,
looked interested. il A Democratic judge, who
lived across the way from him, had a sewer which
emptied into the priest's garden, and because it was
cut off brought the matter into court, meanly preferring that his neighbor should die of typhoid than
to dig a way for his sewerage. The judge was the
county head of his party. An election was near;
the priest went into it, and the county, for the first
time in sixteen years, went Republican. I'm glad
he's here. You won't buy any more Frenchmen.
You won't shake mortgages at them when they talk
of voting as they please. You won't see them
running like chickens at the cluck of a hen whenever
you crook your finger. Best of all, you will now
need me and my methods to hold these people on
your side. Influence now is more than money. I
can coax where you can't bribe or threaten. Do

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH,

321

you see ? Do you understand your position ?
Father O'Shaughnessy will skewer you like a fly on
a pin, and I say again Fm glad of i t . "
" Oh! you air" snapped he, with his most intense nasal drawl. " You air glad of it, you son
of a wild Irishman, you ignorant papist, — — !
Well, Til show you just what that priest amounts
t o ! I'll buy more Frenchmen than I ever did.
I'll buy your Irishmen; I'll buy the hull town, if I
need it. And the barrel of whiskey '11 stand jest
where you re standin'; and I'll set every p'isonous
Kanuck 's drunk as Noah, and I'll march 'em up to
the polls jest as usual, an' have 'em vote under my
eye; an' if they don't, the niggers!-—if they cut and
run, the sinners!—I'll, cut the earth from under
'em; I'll fling 'em out of the town into Canada as
poor as they came into it; an' as for you an' your
notions, if you want to stand by Father O'Shaughnessy—"
" That's my name, sir," said a thin, precise voice
at the door. The baron had been hopping about
the office, and, being close to the door when it
opened, fairly bawled the name into the visitor's
face. The little man was not as much surprised as
the baron, and his keen gray eyes studied the stupid
expression on Turnham's face as calmly as though
it were a brass door-knocker.
" Come in," said Turnham feebly, as he hopped
to his desk and mechanically struck a business attitude. " Won't you sit down ? "
" Thank y o u , " said the precise voice. " I want

322

THE

BARON

OF CHER UB US CO,

a ton of coal sent up to the house this afternoon, if
possible."
" I'll send it u p , " said the baron briskly. At
this point I ventured to introduce the two magnates.
" You have good work to do here," said Turnham roughly, as a salve to his recent confusion, " in
sendin' the children to school. They don't go, the
half of 'em."
" Pay their fathers decent wages," said the
priest, " and the children will attend. Can a dollar
a day eight months of the year support five persons
decently ? If the school is all they say it is, I don't
blame them for remaining away."
" How is that ? " said the baron angrily, for the
school was his pet device and chief diversion.
/ ' A n o t h e r time I'll explain, sir. Briefly, do you
believe in teaching Latin and physiology in a town
whose people are born to labor hard all their lives ?
I wonder you never asked yourself the question
before. Excuse me now, as I am in a hurry. I'll
give you a chance to answer in a day or two."
H e bade us good morning and went out hurriedly,
leaving the baron to chew his pen-holder and to
confide to me his impression that the priest was a
vain busybody and needed a good fright in order to
settle him in his proper position.
" Does he think," said he, " that priests only
should study Latin ?"
".Between you and his reverence/' I replied,
" Cyriac Dupuy will be torn to shreds at election
time."

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

323

Poor Cyriac! As he stood looking into the double grave which held the two bodies dearest to him
in this world, the fabled America of his childhood
seemed as desolate and bleak as Anticosti, and he
sighed in his quiet and polite way over the peace
enjoyed in his native Canadian village, where death
was never so violent and unkind, where great disasters by land and sea were heard of but once in a
lifetime, where mortgages were practically unknown,
and where votes, voting, bribery, and barons were
institutions that concerned only the rich and had
little concern with the sorrows and joys of the poor.
The peace that Cyriac dreamed of, although he
thought it a Canadian possession, was really the
natural peace of careless childhood; but because he
had left Canada a child, to begin his apprenticeship
to labor and sorrow in the States, it seemed to him
happiness was a growth of his native soil—as it
seems to all of us, whether success or sorrow meets
us in the last days. And Cyriac, had he been compelled to return to Canada, would have looked for
it as naturally as for the roses which grew in the
front yard and the delicious peas that covered the
paternal acre. Candidly, America, in the person of
the baron, had been kind, and yet unjust, to him.
H e had reached Cherubusco in his fifteenth year,
when the baron was a baby almost; but the baron's
father had given him work and encouragement and
favor, and had urged him to learn English well and
to become a citizen of the country. H e did not
succeed with the English, and, because party spirit

324

THE

BARON

OF CHERUB

CISCO.

was not very warm in earlier days, was not hurried
to the other. As a matter of business, Turnham,
junior, on succeeding his father, pointed out to him
that were he naturalized he might make a few
dollars on his vote at each election; whereupon
Cyriac went through the usual formalities, and, on
receiving a certain sum for depositing a bit of paper
in a box one election day, began to think that the
American Constitution was a great thing. H e spread
the news among his fellows, and immediately after
it became the French fashion to haggle on election
day with politicians, and to return home in the cool
midnight a few dollars ahead of the world or full to
the brim with bad whiskey. You can fancy the
astonishment with which I first heard an honest and
virtuous Canadian openly grumble on receiving for
his vote a dollar less than his neighbor, and the
deeper astonishment with which I listened to a committee of barons bemoaning the treacherous designs
of Catholics on the bulwarks of American freedom.
Yet this moral turpitude really existed, and the
defenders of the aforementioned bulwarks were
deepening it daily, adding to it, in fact, and were
bound to hold the ignorant, innocent Canadians to
their attacks on the bulwarks, if they had to send
half their forces to the enemy's rear and bayonet
them into battle.
How it happened that Cyriac became the scapegoat of his countrymen amid his bitter misfortunes
is accounted for by two circumstances: that he marshalled the hosts of bought voters for the baron,

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH,

325

and that he one day brought out the goose pimples
of patriotic horror on Father O'Shaughnessy by
artlessly mentioning how much he sold his vote for
each year. From that unguarded admission dated
Cyriac's woes. He had the duties of citizenship
sharply explained to him, and was made acquainted
with the criminality of his acts. The priest and the
baron both threatened him, the one with terrors of
the law, the other with the mortgage; and as he
looked at the steady alternatives he thought, with
the poet, " In truth, how am I straitened!'*
However, the mortgage was such a fixed, dread
certainty, and Father O'Shaughnessy's temper being
a still unknown quantity, Cyriac determined to
appeal to the priest for a milder interpretation of
the law. H e spoke to him after the funeral service
was over.
" M'sieu' le C u r e , " said he with grave politeness,
" I laike to spik de few word wid you, m'sieu',
'bout de v o t e . "
Monsieur le Cure bowed, with a very cold face—
so cold, in fact, that Cyriac hastened to
say:
" I know, me, you spik thrue, m'sieu'. I mek
mysel' vary sorry dat I sell de vote, mats I know
nottin' f'r de counthry, 'n' M'sieu' T u ' n ' a m say,
' All raight, all raight, Cyriac; you mek some
monay, I git some vote—all raight, all raight,
ALL raight.' I no t'ink, me, all wrong. M'sieu'
T u ' n ' a m big man f'r de counthry, m'sieu', vary
big man. Mek de work f'r poor pipple, mek de

326

THE BARON

OF CHERUBUSCO.

house, len* de monay, git de job—vary good neighbor, oh! vary good neighbor.
After this prologue Cyriac twisted his hat and
waited for a reply which might give him a chance
to declare the object of his visit. Monsieur le Cure
O'Shaughnessy, however, was as dumb as if he were
born so. Cyriac came to the point then desperateiy.
" Purt* soon, m'sieu', dey mek de vote f'r 'lection.
Some buy, some sell. No mattair f'r de raight or
de wrong; buy, sell all same. I t'ink, me, no
harm " — h e hesitated for the right words to express
a delicate and embarrassing thought, and then said
in tumultuous patois: '* If all others can buy and
sell, why not I, for this one time—only for this one
time ? '' It was his last hope, and Monsieur le
Cure" knew it and laughed rather heartlessly in his
face. Not for that—oh! no—but at his reasoning.
H e caught the emphasis on the last words and their
piteous eagerness.
" Why for this one time, Cyriac Dupuy ? " he
asked, and saw at once by the expression on the
man's face that it was the proper question to put.
" Why for this one time, Mr. Dupuy ? "
More hat-twisting and hesitation.
It was so
dead a certainty, that mortgage, why need the
priest be made acquainted with its existence ?
Cyriac looked out sadly on the green lawn where to
his mournful fancy the document which the baron
had menaced him with stalked like a sheriff outside
Congress awaiting his noble prey; and as his gaze

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

327

wandered up to the new-made graves, and he compared the grief of that day with the new griefs that
priest and baron were making for him, a few resistless tears streamed over his face. H e was a man,
and therefore ashamed of them; and because Father
O'Shaughnessy took his emotion coolly, being used
to tears, he sat down and in mingled English and
patois explained his straitened position.
" It is too b a d , " said the priest when he had
finished, " and I consider Turnham a cruel man.
But if worse were to happen you, Cyriac, if you
were to be thrown out naked, you could not engage
in this detestable traffic in votes. You must let
your fellows alone. You can vote as you please.
But to sell your vote, to buy others, to do this
dirty work—no! no! no! Let your house be sold,
let everything go; but be honest, Cyriac, and true
to the teachings of your C h u r c h / '
Cyriac knew somewhat of those teachings, but
saw no connection between religion and voting, and
was minded to tell the priest that the catechism
said nothing about it. Yet why dispute ? The
priest had pointed out the law and the right, and
he was bound to follow both at any cost. If there
were no mortgage the cost would be trifling; now
it included his little possessions, the savings of a
lifetime. H e rose to depart in silence, with his
despair and his resolution written on his seamed
face.
' ' You will do as I have advised ? ' ' said the priest
kindly.

328

THE

BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

" Purt* hard, m'sieu'; mats," shrugging the
shoulders, " I m u s t . "
" And if you suffer for i t , " added the priest,
" never fear but that I will do all I can for y o u . "
Which was small consolation to Cyriac, whose
business eye saw the immense disproportion between
his poverty and the baron's wealth.
" I lose de h o u s e , " he said briefly, and his Reverence felt the implied reproach without anger.
" Better to lose that than your honest name, Mr.
Dupuy. Better to be poor and to lose your dear
earnings than to be a shame to Canada and a danger
to this country. Better to have no house than to
own one at the price you are to pay for yours.''
His tone impressed the poor man, if his words did
not. Cyriac could not see the relation of vote-buying to shame and danger and dishonesty, and felt
no emotion on hearing these stately sentences; but
he knew " f'r sure " that the priest and the Church
regarded it as a great crime; he was therefore tied
to the necessity of avoiding it forever. What a dull
pain beat against his heart all that day! H e thought
with mournful satisfaction that, while himself and
his old wife would lose their home, the children
were never again to be in danger of losing theirs.
Who held a mortgage on a graveyard, or who would
throw the dead from their shelter ? Cyriac had
never read the annals of the Gironde.
The baron had been present at the funeral, and
had noted sourly the interview with the priest.
Was it that circumstance which tightened his ner-

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH,

329

vous, vicious grasp on Cyriac's arm at their next
meeting ? H e dared not look in the baron's face,
and would have given much to be able to forget the
many favors father and son had heaped on him.
They weighted him heavier than the mortgage.
Turnham was breathing hard, and the beads of
sweat started out on his forehead, as he came face
.to face with his henchman and with a terrible
thought which Cyriac's sad face suggested.
" Cyriac "—his voice shook like a leaf—" my two
boys have the diphtheria. What if they should
die ? "
" Mon Dieu! " cried Cyriac as the remembrance
of his own suffering rushed upon him, " c'est effrayante. Git de bes' doctor. Clean de t'roat vary
much, V pray on de bon D i e u / '
Pray to the good God! It was the very last
remedy which would occur to the baronial mind; but
in his excited state, recalling the number of faithcures which had taken place in certain parts of the
country, and knowing the depth and strength of
Cyriac's faith, he said, and to this day denies that
he said:
" Dupuy, you pray for 'em. If faith an' pra'er
kin save, you're the man for that business."
And his voice broke into a wail pathetic enough
to veil the ridiculousness of the remark from the
humorous ear.
Cyriac volunteered his services in nursing the boys,
and was brought to the house by the grateful baron.
In a village which had suffered much from the

33o

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

ravages of diphtheria it was difficult to secure the
services of a neighbor. The baron, indeed, would
not have asked so great a favor. H e was rather
anxious than otherwise that friends with children in
their family should remain away, and never opened
his door to a knock until the visitor was made
acquainted with the fatal presence within. His
haggard face would then be thrust through the
barely opened door and business transacted briefly.
In four days he did not once come to the office.
Day and night he and Cyriac haunted the sick-rooms
of the children, sleeping fitfully, talking mournfully
of life's chances, working with might and main to
fight off the disease. In the critical moments when
man and medicine could do no more, and nature
had hard work to assert itself, he stood in silent
agony, squeezing the old man's rough hand and
muttering:
" I know now what you suffered/' with his hard
eyes fixed on the young faces. Meanwhile Cyriac
was praying u o n d e bon Dieu,'' and the baron was
solicitous to know if he prayed still.
Occasionally pressing business of an unusual
nature made it necessary for me to intrude on his
grief. I was struck with the intensity of anguish
and anxiety expressed in his face, never having
credited him with a human feeling so deep and sincere. H e heard my account listlessly, and in like
fashion gave me my directions.
" How are the boys? " I asked when about to go.
" Would you like to see them ? " he said, with a

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

331

gesture of hopelessness. It was the fourth day—
the day of the crisis. " But I forgot. You have
brothers and sisters. It is not the place for y o u . "
And although I protested, he would not permit
me to enter the sick-room.
" I don't want any human being to suffer this
w a y , " said he, unconsciously laying his.hand on his
heart, while his eyes wandered drearily towards the
inner chambers. H e was suffering in all truth, and
I thought it best to defer some information concern •
ing the election until another time. Such tenderness! such affection! I could not believe it. And
yet in how many instances of his life had I seen the
baron as charitable and human-hearted as he was
often hard and cruel! Ten minutes after I left his
house four day-laborers presented themselves before
him to protest against a wage of ninety cents a day.
" How much do you pay for your board ? " said
he.
" Three dollars a week," said the laborers.
" That leaves you a hundred dollars a year, boys,
to dress on and spend. If you had any more you'd
drink it. You're all single, an' it's quite enough
for you. If you had women an' children to look
after I might raise you twenty c e n t s . "
Vainly they pleaded, argued, threatened. After
cursing him heartily for a stingy devil, and being
cursed uproariously in turn, they departed. It was
my good fortune to encounter him later in the day.
The information I held could not be longer kept
from him, humiliating as it was to my pride. The

33*

THE BARON- OF

CHERUBUSCO.

electioneering processes were all disordered. Father
O'Shaughnessy, in a quiet way, had sat on votebuying among the Canadians, and there was a general break along the line. Nor could I, with all
my persuasiveness, after all my boasting, induce
even a handful to promise their votes for the baron.
I humbly jexplained the situation to him. Cyriac
happened to be in the room looking for a medicinebottle.
" Do you hear that ? " said the baron. The old
man shrugged his shoulders and smilingly shook his
head. H e was out of politics this year.
" You've got to straighten things o u t , " said the
baron boldly., " Til let you off duty. Go an' see
the boys. Promise 'em anything they ask. Git
'em all into line, an' after they vote we'll settle
with ' e m . "
Cyriac listened to these directions, given with oldtime freedom and directness, as the condemned
listens to the Sheriff's legal reasons for taking away
his life; then he shook his head and continued his
search for the bottle.
" Cyriac, sit down h e r e , " shoving a chair towards
him. Cyriac sat down seriously. " What nonsense
has the priest been stuffin' ye with now? You
ain't goin* back on us at the last minnit without
warnin', be 3'ou ? If you were goin' to do that,
why didn't you let us know days back when we
could have filled yer place? Oh! no; you've got
to come to time this onct, an' next year, if you say
so, we'll count you o u t . "

JOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

333

" Counting-in is the fashion this y e a r , " said I,
referring to a recent political event.
" Just s o . "
And a smile glimmered for a
moment on the waste of beard. " You've got to
count me into office this year, Cyriac," patting his
knee kindly, " and after that stay at home. Your
priest is foolin' you. Everybody buys and sells
votes. I t ' s the custom of the country. It may be
wrong where the priest comes from; it is not wrong
here. I won't ask you to buy a vote. Go an' talk
to the boys. Square 'em up; straighten 'em out.
Git 'em to promise their votes; see that they vote
right, an' I'll do the rest. Ain't that fair ? "
It looked fair, but, as we all knew, the looks did
not here indicate the disposition.
" No u s e , " said Cyriac nervously. u I no more
buy de vote, m e . "
" Well, well," said the baron, with a patient sigh
and a curious inspection of the wrinkled face whose
owner so stubbornly defied him. " You don't see
what I mean. You needn't buy. Talk to the
boys. Why won't you do that ? "
" T o talk is to b u y , " answered Cyriac, with
shrewdness and dignity.
" I t ' s the last time I'll ask you to do it, Cyriac.
W e can't do without your influence now, an' if you
go back on me I'm fixed for this year. You won't
be able to stand this town if I lose an' the boys
know I lost through you. The place '11 git too hot
for you."
Cyriac felt the force of this statement, which the

334

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

baron proceeded to amplify, and his distress and
anguish were evident. He brushed his hair and
fidgeted woefully, and once or twice I thought he
was about to surrender, for this year at least. So
did the baron, who, when he had worked up the
old man's feelings to a proper pitch, pushed him
gently towards the door, saying, as if the matter
were settled:
" Do your best with the boys, Cyriac, an' the
hull thing '11 be forgotten to-morrow."
Houseless, childless, friendless, driven from the
town which had given him a home for forty years!
A more violent temptation was never thrust upon
any man, and Cyriac was not to be blamed for the
momentary yielding before these terrible consequences. H e walked to the door in a dream, seeing on one side his poverty and exile, his defiance
of Monsieur le Cur£ on the other. The thought of
crime did not occur to him, for he could see no
crime in vote-buying. Nor did he know how wrildly
consequences had been exaggerated by the baron,
and how determined a friend he had in Monsieur
O'Shaughnessy. His temptation was real, if its
circumstances were not, and so he turned submissively away, put on his hat, turned the knob, and
hesitated. It was a flash of baronial genius which
prompted Turnham to supplement that hesitation
as he did. He drew from his pocket the mortgage
on Cyriac's house, showed it to him silently, and
tore it into bits so small that no art could ever again
make it a legal instrument. T h e old man shook as

fOHN

TALBOT

SMITH.

335

if with an ague, stretched out his hand to protest,
while the unwilling tears streamed over his pallid
face.
" M'sieu' Tu'.n'am," said he, brokenly, " your
fader vary good, you bettair. Me go back on
Kennedy [Canada]. You 'ave de house raight off,
but no more buy de vote."
With these words he left the room, and the baron
stood gazing now at the door, now at the litter of
torn paper on the carpet, while the clock ticking on
the shelf seemed hammering the dead stillness into
the very furniture.
" Beaten by a damned Frenchman!" hissed my
patron as he threw himself and his leg out of the
room.
Beaten! Yes, the baron was beaten, routed,
horse, foot, and artillery, by the same power which
had beaten imperial Caesar; and he felt very sore
over it. Being a shrewd politician, however, he was
determined to make the most of altered circumstances, and my mock regrets at being compelled to
rank him with the judge of Buckeye County were
received with equanimity. His children were getting well, and when the election came off matters
went so very smoothly and prosperously that he
could afford to be chaffed about sacerdotal influence.
Cyriac came to the polls, deposited a vote for his
sometime master, and returned home to finish the
packing of his household goods. Quite enough
votes for any purpose were still to be purchased

336

THE BARON

OF

CHERUBUSCO.

in Cherubusco, and the baron was elected by a
reduced but still handsome majority.
Father
O'Shaughnessy voted for him on my recommendation—a fact which made his first visit of ceremony
to the baron's office an agreeable occasion. He
talked cordially on the questions of the day, read
the baron a lecture on bribery with a general application, and asked him to prevent gentlemen who
held mortgages on the property of the poor from
using said mortgages improperly; which my patron
promised to do, and consequently Cyriac did not
go to Canada. He resumed in time the old affectionate relations with Turnham, but no word was
ever spoken to him of vote-buying. The baron
was content with legitimate service from him, and
to this day falls into a deep melancholy when
reminded of the occasion of his henchman's victory
over him.

CHARLES W A R R E N STODDARD.
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD was born at

Rochester,

N. Y., on August 7th, 1843, and as a child of twelve
removed to California with his parents.

There he remained

for two years, when he returned to New York and attended
school till 1859; then he once more joined his family in
California.

In 1864 he made the first of five journeys to

Hawaii, a country to which, till then, comparatively few
foreigners had gone.

On his second voyage there, in

1868, five years before the advent of Father Damien, he
visited the Leper settlement at Molokai.

Fifteen years

later, at the time of his last journey to the Sandwich Islands,
he was the guest of the great Apostle of the Lepers.

In

1873 he was sent on an extended excursion to Europe as

special correspondent of the San Francisco Chronicle, and
in that character drifted about for four years, from place to
place, going as far as Asia and Africa. Thoroughly appreciating the genius and ability of its correspondent, the Chronicle
restricted him neither to time nor place, and it was while
acting for that journal he produced his " South Sea Idyls,"
than which there is nothing more beautiful of its kind in
English.

Weary of his wanderings, Mr. Stoddard at las:

determined to "settle down," and in 1885 he accepted the
position of Professor of English Literature at Notre Dame
University.

This he held for two years, when he was

obliged to resign through illness and seek renewed health in
the Blue Grass region of Kentucky.
In 1889, when the Catholic University of America was
opened in Washington, Mr. Stoddard was tendered the
chair of English Literature, which he has since filled to
entire satisfaction.
Mr. W. D. Howells, the distinguished author and critic,
speaks of the "South Sea Idyls " as " t h e lightest, sweetest,
wildest, freshest things that ever were written about the
life of that summer ocean ;

*

*

*

there are few such

delicious bits of literature in the language ; *

*

*

they

always seemed to me of the very make of the tropic spray
which • knows not if it be sea or sun.'
Mr. Stoddard's published works are : " Poems," " South
Sea Idyls,"

"Summer

Cruising in the South

Seas,"

" Marshallah, A Flight into Egypt," " A Trip to Hawaii,"
" T h e Lepers of Molokai." " A Troubled Heart, and How
it was Comforted at Last." and "Hawaiian
Lazy Letters from Low Latitudes."

Life, being

5oe of Xabaina*
BY CHARLES WARREN .STODDARD.

I.
I WAS stormed in at Lahaina. Now, Lahaina is
a little slice of civilization beached on the shore of
barbarism. One can easily stand that little of it, for
brown and brawny heathendom becomes more wonderful and captivating by contrast. So I was glad
of dear, drowsy little Lahaina, and was glad also
that she had but one broad street, which possibly
led to destruction, and yet looked lovely in the distance. It didn't matter to me that the one broad
street had but one side to it, for the sea lapped over
the sloping sands on its lower edge, and the sun
used to set right in the face of every solitary citizen
of Lahaina just as he went to supper.
I was waiting to catch a passage in a passing
schooner, and that's why I came there; but the
schooner flashed by us in a great gale from the
south, and so I was stormed in indefinitely.
It was Holy Week, and I concluded to go to
housekeeping, because it would be so nice to have
my frugal meals in private, to go to Mass and Vespers daily, and then to come back and feel quite at
339

340

JOE

OF

LAHAINA.

home. My villa was suburban—built of dried
grasses on the model of a haystack, dug out in the
middle, with doors and windows let into the four
sides thereof. It was planted in the midst of a
vineyard, with avenues stretching in all directions
under a network of stems and tendrils.
" Her breath is sweeter than the sweet winds
That breathe over the grape-blossoms of Lahaina."

So the song said; and I began to think upon the
surpassing sweetness of that breath as I inhaled the
sweet winds of Lahaina, while the wilderness of its
vineyards blossomed like the rose. I used to sit in
my veranda and turn to Joe (Joe was my private
and confidential servant), and I would say to Joe,
while we scented the odor of grape, and saw the
great banana leaves waving their cambric sails, and
heard the sea moaning in the melancholy distance,—
I would say to him, " Joe, housekeeping is good
fun, isn't it? " Whereupon Joe would utter a sort
of unanimous Yes, with his whole body and soul;
so that question was carried triumphantly, and we
would relapse into a comfortable silence, while the
voices of the wily singers down on the city front
would whisper to us and cause us to wonder what
they could possibly be doing at that moment in the
broad way that led to destruction. Then we would
take a drink of cocoa milk and finish our bananas
and go to bed, because we had nothing else to do.
This is the way that we began our co-operative
housekeeping: One night, when there was a riotous

CHARLES

WARREN

STODDARD

341

sort of a festival off in a retired valley, I saw in the
excited throng of natives who were going mad over
their national dance a young face that seemed to
embody a whole tropical romance. On another
night, when a lot of us were bathing in the moonlight, I saw a figure so fresh and joyous that I began to realize how the old Greeks could worship
mere physical beauty and forget its higher forms.
Then I discovered that face on this body,— a rare
enough combination,—and the whole constituted
Joe, a young scapegrace wTho was schooling at Lahaina, under the eye—not a very sharp one—of his
uncle. When I got stormed in and resolved on
housekeeping for a season, I took Joe, bribing his
uncle to keep the peace, which he promised to do,
provided I gave bonds for Joe's irreproachable conduct while with me. I willingly gave bonds—verbal
ones—for this was just what I wanted of J o e :
namely, to instil into his youthful mind those
counsels which, if rigorously followed, must result
in his becoming a true and unterrified American.
This compact settled, Joe took up his bed,—a roll
of mats,—and down we marched to my villa, and
began housekeeping in good earnest.
We soon got settled, and began to enjoy life,
though we were not without occasional domestic infelicities. For instance, Joe would wake up in the
middle of the night, declaring to me that it was
morning, and thereupon insist upon sweeping out
at once, and in the most vigorous manner. Having
filled the air with dust, he would rush off to the

342

JOE OF

LAHAINA.

baker's for our hot rolls and a pat of breakfast butter,
leaving me, meantime, to recover as I might. Having settled myself for a comfortable hour's reading,
bolstered up in a luxurious fashion, Joe would enter
with breakfast, and orders to the effect that it
be eaten at once and without delay. It was useless
forme to remonstrate with him: he was tyrannical.
He got me into all sorts of trouble. It was Holy
Week, and I had resolved upon going to Mass and
Vespers daily. I went. The soft night winds floated
in through the latticed windows of the chapel, and
made the candles flicker upon the altar. The little
throng of natives bowed in the impressive silence,
•and were deeply moved. It was rest for the soul
to be there ; yet, in the midst of it, while the Father
with his pale, sad face gave his instructions, to
which we listened as attentively as possible,—for
there was something in his manner and his voice
that made us better creatures,—while we listened,
in the midst of it I heard a shrill little whistle, a
sort of chirp, that I knew perfectly well. It was
Joe sitting on a cocoa-stump in the garden adjoining, and beseeching me to come out, right off.
When service was over, I remonstrated with him
for his irreverence. " J o e , " I said, " i f you have
no respect for religion yourself, respect those who
are more fortunate than you." But Joe was dressed
in his best, and quite wild at the entrancing loveliness of the night. " Let's walk a little," said Joe,
covered with fragrant wreaths, and redolent of
cocoanut-oil. What could I do? If I had tried to do

CHARLES

WARREN

STODDARD.

343

anything to the contrary, he might have taken me and
thrown me away somewhere into a well or a jungle,
and then I could no longer hope to touch the chord
of remorse,—which chord I sought vainly, and
which I have since concluded was not in Joe's physical corporation at all. So we walked a little. In
vain I strove to break Joe of the shocking habit of
whistling me out of Vespers. He would persist in
doing it. Moreover, during the day he would collect crusts of bread and banana skins, station himself in ambush behind the curtain of the window
next the lane, and, as some solitary creature strode
solemnly past, Joe would discharge a volley of ammunition over him, and then laugh immoderately at
his indignation and surprise. Joe was my pet elephant, and I was obliged to play with him very
cautiously.
One morning he disappeared. I was without the
consolation of a breakfast even. I made my toilet,
went to my portmanteau for my purse—for I had
decided upon a visit to the baker,—when, lo ! part
of my slender means had mysteriously disappeared.
Joe was gone and the money also. All day I
thought about it. In the morning, after a very
long and miserable night,, I woke up, and when I
opened my eyes, there, in the doorway, stood Joe,
in a brand-new suit of clothes, including boots and
hat. He was gorgeous beyond description, and
seemed overjoyed to see me, and as merry as
though nothing unusual had happened. I was quite
startled at this apparition. " Joseph V I said in my

344

JOE OF

LAHAINA.

severest tone, and then turned over and looked
away from him. Joe evaded the subject in the most
delicate manner, and was never so interesting as at
that moment. He sang his specialties, and played
clumsily upon his bamboo flute,—to soothe me, I
suppose,—and wanted me to eat a whole flat pie
which he had brought home as a peace-offering, buttoned tightly under his jacket. I saw I must strike
at once, if I struck at all; so I said, " Joe, what on
earth did you do with that money? " Joe said he
had replenished his wardrobe, and bought the flat
pie especially for me. " Joseph," I said, with great
dignity, " d o you know that you have been stealing, and that it is highly sinful to steal, and may
result in something unpleasant in the world to
c o m e ? " Joe said " Y e s " pleasantly, though I
hardly think he meant it; and then he added,
mildly, " that he couldn't lie,"—which was a glaring falsehood,—" but wanted me to be sure that he
took the money, and so had come back to tell m e / '
" Joseph," I said, " you remind me of our noble
Washington ;" and, to my amazement, Joe was mortified. H e didn't, of course, know who Washington was, but he suspected that I was ridiculing
him. He came to the bed and haughtily insisted
upon my taking the little change he had received
from his customers, but I implored him to keep it,
as I had no use at all for it, and, as I assured him,
I much preferred hearing it jingle in his pocket.
The next day I sailed out of Lahaina, and Joe
came to the beach with his new trousers tucked into

CHARLES WARREN

STODDARD.

345

his new boots, while he waved his new hat violently
in a final adieu, much to the envy and admiration
of a score of hatless urchins, who looked upon Joe
as the glass of fashion, and but little lower than the
angels. When I entered the boat to set sail, a tear
stood in Joe's bright eye, and I think he was really
sorry to part with m e ; and I don't wonder at it, because our housekeeping experiences were new to
him,—and I may add, not unprofitable.
II.
Some months of mellow and beautiful weather
found me wandering here and there among the
islands, when the gales came on again, and I was
driven about homeless, and sometimes friendless,
until, by and by, I heard of an opportunity to visit
Molokai,—an island seldom visited by the tourist,—
where, perhaps, I could get a close view of a singularly sad and interesting colony of lepers.
T h e whole island is green, but lonely. As you
ride over its excellent turnpike you see the ruins of
a nation that is passing like a shadow out of sight:
deserted garden-patches, crumbling walls, and roofs
tumbled into the one state-chamber of the house,
while knots of long grass wave at half-mast in the
chinks and crannies; a land of great traditions,
of magic and witchcraft and spirits; a fertile and
fragrant solitude. How I enjoyed it; and yet how
it was all telling upon me, in its own way! One
cannot help feeling sad there, for he seems to be

346

JOE

OF LA HA IN A,

living and moving in a long reverie, out of which he
dreads to awaken to a less pathetic life. I rode a
day or two among the solemn and reproachful ruins
with inexpressible complacence, and, having finally
climbed a series of verdant and downy hills, and
ridden for twenty minutes in a brisk shower, came
suddenly upon the brink of a great precipice, three
thousand feet in the air. My horse instinctively
braced himself, and I nervously jerked the bridle
square up to my breastbone, as I found we were
poised between heaven and earth, upon a trembling
pinnacle of rock. A broad peninsula was stretched
below me, covered with grassy hills; here and there
clusters of brown huts were visible, and to the right
the white dots of houses to which I was hastening,
for that was the leper village. To that spot were
the wandering and afHicted tribes brought home to
die. Once descending the narrow stairs in the cliff
under me, never again could they hope to strike
their tents and resume their pilgrimage; for the
curse was on them, and necessity had narrowed
down their sphere of action to this compass,—a
solitary slope between sea and land, with the invisible sentinels of Fear and Fate forever watching its
borders.
I seemed to be looking into a fiery furnace, wherein walked the living bodies of those whom Death
had already set his seal upon. What a mockery it
seemed to be, climbing down that crag,—through
wreaths of vine, and under leafy cataracts breaking
into a foam of blossoms a thousand feet below me;

CHARLES

WARREN

STODDARD.

347

swinging aside the hanging parasites that obstructed
the narrow way,-—entering the valley of death, and
the very mouth of hell, by these floral avenues!
A brisk ride of a couple of miles across the
breadth of the peninsula brought me to the gate of
the keeper of the settlement, and there I dismounted, and hastened into the house to be rid
of the curious crowd that had gathered to receive
me. T h e little cottage was very comfortable, my
host and hostess friends of precious memory; and
with them I felt at once at home, and began the
new life that every one begins when the earth seems
to have been suddenly transformed into some better
or worse world, and he alone survives the transformation.
Have you never had such an experience? Then
go into the midst of a community of lepers; have
ever before your eyes their Gorgon-like faces; see
the horrors, hardly to be recognized as human, that
grope about you; listen in vain for the voices that
have been hushed forever by decay; breathe the
tainted atmosphere; and bear ever in mind that,
while they hover about you,—forbidden to touch
you, yet longing to clasp once more a hand that is
perfect and pure,—the insidious seeds of the malady may be generating in your vitals, and your
heart, even then, be drunk with death!
I might as well confess that I slept indifferently
the first night; that I was not entirely free from
nervousness the next day, as I passed through the
various wards assigned to patients in every stage of

343

JOE OF LA HA IN A.

decomposition. But I recovered myself in time to
observe the admirable system adopted by the
Hawaiian Government for the protection of its unfortunate people. I used to sit by the window and
see the processions of the less afflicted come for little measures of milk morning and evening. Then
there was a continuous raid upon the ointment-pot,
with the contents of which they delighted to
anoint themselves. Trifling disturbances sometimes
brought the plaintiff and defendant to the front
gate for final judgment at the hands of their beloved keeper. And it was a constant entertainment to watch the progress of events in that singular little world of doomed spirits. They were not
unhappy. I used to hear them singing every evening: their souls were singing while their bodies
were falling rapidly to dust. They continued to
play their games, as well as they could play them
with the loss of a finger-joint or a toe, from week
to week: it was thus gradually and thus slowly that
they died, feeling their voices growing fainter and
their strength less, as the idle days passed over them
and swept them to the tomb.
Sitting at the window on the second evening, as
the patients came up for milk, I observed one of
them watching me intently, and apparently trying
to make me understand something or other, but
what that something was I could not guess. He
rushed to the keeper and talked excitedly with him
for a moment, and then withdrew to one side of the
gate, and waited till the others were served with

CHARLES

WARREN

STODDARD,

349

their milk, still watching me all the while. Then
the keeper entered and told me how I had a friend
out there who wished to speak to me—some one
who had seen me somewhere, he supposed, but
whom I would hardly remember. It was their way
never to forget a face they had once become familiar with. Out I went. There was a face I could
not have recognized as anything friendly or human.
Knots of flesh stood out upon it; scar upon scar
disfigured it. The expression was like that of a
mummy, stony and withered. The outlines of a
youthful face were preserved, but the hands and
feet were pitiful to look at. What was this ogre
that knew me and loved me still?
He soon told me who he had once been, but was
no longer—our little unfortunate " J o e , " my Lahaina charge. In his case the disease had spread
with fearful rapidity: the keeper thought he could
hardly survive the year. Many linger year after
year, and cannot die; but Joe was more fortunate.
His life had been brief and passionate, and death
was now hastening him to his dissolution.
Joe was forbidden to come near me, so he
crouched down by the fence, and pressing his hands
between the pickets sifted the dust at my feet, while
he wailed in a low voice, and called me over and
over, " d e a r friend," " g o o d friend/'and "master."
I wish I had never seen him so humbled. T o
think of my disreputable little protege, who was
wont to lord it over me as though he had been a
born chief,—to think of Joe as being there in his

35°

JOE OF

LAHAINA.

extremity, grovelling in the dust at my feet; forbidden to climb the great wall of flowers that towered between him and his beautiful world, while the
rough sea lashed the coast about him, and his only
companions were such hideous forms as would
frighten one out of a dream"!
How I wanted to get close to him! but I dared
not; so we sat there with the slats of the fence between us, while we talked very long in the twilight;
and I was glad when it grew so dark that I could
no longer see his face,—his terrible face, that came
to kill the memory of his former beauty.
And Joe wondered whether I still remembered
how we used to walk in the night, and go home at
last to our little house when Lahaina was as still as
death, and you could almost hear the great stars
throbbing in the clear sky! How well I remembered it, and the day when we went a long way
down the beach, and, looking back, saw a wide
curve of the land cutting the sea like a sickle, and
turning up a white and shining swath! Then, in
another place, a grove of cocoa palms and a melancholy, monastic-looking building, with splendid
palm-branches in its broad windows; for it was
just after Palm Sunday, and the building belonged to
a sisterhood. And I remembered how the clouds
fell and the rain drove us into a sudden shelter, and
we ate tamarind jam, spread thick on thin slices of
bread, and were supremely happy. In this connection I could not forget how Joe became very
unruly about that time, and I got mortified, and

CHARLES

WARREN

STODDARD.

351

found great difficulty in getting him home at all;
and yet the memory of it would have been perfect
but for this fate. O Joe, my poor, dear, terrible
cobra! to think that I should ever be afraid to look
into your face in my life!
Joe wanted to call to my mind one other reminiscence—a night when we two walked to the old
wharf, and went out to the end of it, and sat there
looking inland, watching the inky waves slide up
and down the beach, while the full moon rose over
the superb mountains where the clouds were heaped
like wool, and the very air seemed full of utterances
that you could almost hear and understand but for
something that made them all a mystery. I tried
then, if ever I tried in my life, to make Joe a little
less bad than he was naturally, and he seemed
nearly inclined to be better, and would, I think,
have been so but for the thousand temptations
that gravitated to him when we got on solid earth
again.
H e forgot my precepts then, and I'm
afraid I forgot them myself. Joe remembered that
night vividly. I was touched to hear him confess
it, and I pray earnestly that that one moment may
plead for him in the last day—if indeed he needs
any special plea other than that Nature has published for her own.
11
Sing for me, Joe,'V said I ; and Joe, still
crouching on the other side of the lattice, sang
some of his old songs. One of them—a popular
melody—was echoed through the little settlement,
where faint voices caught up the chorus, and the

35*

JOE OF

LAHAINA.

night was wildly and weirdly musical. W e walked
by the sea the next day and the day following that,
Joe taking pains to stay on the leeward side of me
—he was so careful to keep the knowledge of his
fate uppermost in his mind: how could I dismiss it
from my own, when it was branded in his countenance? The desolate beauty of his face plead for
measureless pity, and I gave it out of my prodigality, yet I felt that 1 could not begin to give
sufficient.
Link by link he was casting off his hold on life;
he was no longer a complete being; his soul was
prostrated in the miry clay, and waited, in agony,
its long deliverance.
In leaving the leper village I had concluded to
say nothing to Joe other than the usual "aloha"
at night, when I could ride off in the darkness,
and, sleeping at the foot of the cliff, ascend it in
the first light of morning, and get well on my journey before the heat of the day. We took a last
walk by the rocks on the shore, heard the sea
breathing its long breath under the hollow cones of
lava, with a noise like a giant leper in his asthmatic
agony. Joe heard it, and laughed a little, and then
grew silent, and finally said he wanted to leave the
place—he hated it; he loved Lahaina dearly: how
was everybody in Lahaina?—a question he had
asked me hourly since my arrival.
When night came I asked Joe to sing, as usual;
so he gathered his mates about him, and they sang
the songs I liked best. The voices rang, sweeter

CHARLES

WARREN

STODDARD.

353

than ever, up from the group of singers congregated a few rods off, in the darkness; and while
they sang, my horse was saddled, and I quietly
bade adieu to my dear friends the keepers, and,
mounting, walked the horse slowly up the grassgrown road. I shall never see little Joe again,
with his pitiful face, growing gradually as dreadful
as a cobra's, and almost as fascinating in its hideousness. I waited, a little way off, in the darkness—
waited and listened till the last song was ended,
and I knew he would be looking for me, to say
Good night.
But he didn't find m e ; and he will
never again find me in this life, for I left him sitting in the dark door of his sepulchre,—sitting and
singing in the mouth of his grave,—clothed all in
death.

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