——Enough to sorrow you have given;The purposes of wisdom ask no more:Nor more would she have craved as due to oneWho in her worst distress, had often feltThe unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soulFixed on the cross, that consolation springsFrom sources deeper far than deepest painFor the meek sufferer. Why then should we readThe forms of things with an unworthy eye?She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.
Then follow the beautiful lines about the weeds, the spear-grass, the mist and rain-drops, as quoted above; but the close of the passage is extended as follows:
——All the griefsThat passing shows of Being leave behind,Appeared an idle dream, that could maintainNowhere dominion o'er the enlightened spiritWhose meditative sympathies reposeUpon the breast of Faith. I turned away,And walked along my road in happiness.
It remains to be said that a certain number of Wordsworth's poems—and these were, as we might expect, among his best—have stood unchanged in all the editions from the first, running the gauntlet of their author's critical moods for half a century, and coming out untouched at last. I will not call them uncorrected poems, but rather poems in which all the needed corrections were made before their first publication, for they belong to that exquisite class of creations—too small a class, even in the works of the greatest masters—in which the poet has fused completely the refractory element of language before pouring it out into the mould of poetic form. Among these untouched poems are three from the "Lyrical Ballads"—"A slumber did my spirit seal," "Three years she grew in sun and shower," and "She dwelt among the untrodden ways"—all written at the age of twenty-nine; such are the "Yew Tree," written four years later, and "She was a phantom of delight." Several of the best sonnets, too, were unchanged; as that on "Westminster Bridge," and "Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour."
And lastly, I may mention one or two changes of text which Wordsworth did not make, but which belong to the class for which careless editors or proofreaders are responsible. An edition well known to the American public is especially peccant in this respect; that beautiful line, for instance, in "The Pet Lamb"—
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears,
becomes,
That green cord all day is rustling in thy ears.
And here is a really interestingerratum; it occurs in the poem of "The Idiot Boy," where it has stood unnoticed for twenty years and more. Wordsworth's stanzas, describing the boy's night-long ride under the moon, "from eight o'clock till five," hearing meanwhile "the owls in tuneful concert strive," originally put these words into his mouth, the actual words of his hero, as Wordsworth tells us in a note:
The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,And the Sun did shine so cold,Thus answered Johnny in his glory.
But this reading puzzled the proofreader. How could the sun shine at night? This being clearly impossible, he restored the idiot boy to partial sanity. He made him say:
The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,And the Moon did shine so cold;
and the only wonder is that he did not also read,
The cocks did crow cock-a-doodle-doo.
Some one proposes, I believe, a similar emendation in "As You Like It," intending to make the Duke speak better sense than Shakespeare put into his mouth. He is to say,
Sermons in books.Stones in the running brooks, and good in everything.
But while in the main the text of Shakespeare is bettering under criticism, Wordsworth is suffering miscorrection; and for the good that he has to give us we cannot quite dispense with the original editions.
Titus Munson Coan.
[B]After the early poems just mentioned and the "Lyrical Ballads," 1798 to 1802, the chief editions to be consulted for the changes of text are the complete editions of 1807, 1815, and 1836, and the original issues of "The Excursion" (1814), of "The White Doe of Rylston" (1815), of "Peter Bell," and of "The Waggoner" (1819). Unfortunately I have not been able to get access to Mr. W. Johnston's useful collection of Wordsworth's "Earlier Poems" (London, 1857): it would have lightened the task of collecting thevariantes, the more important of which, for the period covered by the collection, are given in it. But, having gone in nearly every case to the original texts, I need hardly say that I have been careful to quote them accurately in the present article.
[B]After the early poems just mentioned and the "Lyrical Ballads," 1798 to 1802, the chief editions to be consulted for the changes of text are the complete editions of 1807, 1815, and 1836, and the original issues of "The Excursion" (1814), of "The White Doe of Rylston" (1815), of "Peter Bell," and of "The Waggoner" (1819). Unfortunately I have not been able to get access to Mr. W. Johnston's useful collection of Wordsworth's "Earlier Poems" (London, 1857): it would have lightened the task of collecting thevariantes, the more important of which, for the period covered by the collection, are given in it. But, having gone in nearly every case to the original texts, I need hardly say that I have been careful to quote them accurately in the present article.
[C]"Prose Works," III., 302.
[C]"Prose Works," III., 302.
[D]"The Dial," Vol. III., p. 514.
[D]"The Dial," Vol. III., p. 514.
[E]"Prose Works," III., 381.
[E]"Prose Works," III., 381.
[F]"Edinburgh Review," October, 1807.
[F]"Edinburgh Review," October, 1807.
[G]I venture to note, in passing, a small class of corrections in which the poet has cleared his text from certain innocencies of expression that were liable to be misread by persons on the alert for double meanings. The following are among the Wordsworthian simplicities that have been amended in the later editions; the reference is made to the octavos of 1815, which may be compared with any of the editions since 1836:Vol. I., page 111, "The Brothers," passage beginning, "James, tired perhaps."Vol. I., page 210, "Michael," passage beginning, "Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms."Vol. I., page 223, "Laodamia," stanza beginning, "Be taught, O faithful Consort."
[G]I venture to note, in passing, a small class of corrections in which the poet has cleared his text from certain innocencies of expression that were liable to be misread by persons on the alert for double meanings. The following are among the Wordsworthian simplicities that have been amended in the later editions; the reference is made to the octavos of 1815, which may be compared with any of the editions since 1836:
Vol. I., page 111, "The Brothers," passage beginning, "James, tired perhaps."
Vol. I., page 210, "Michael," passage beginning, "Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms."
Vol. I., page 223, "Laodamia," stanza beginning, "Be taught, O faithful Consort."
GALERIE DE FLORENCE.
I saw a picture in a gallery:Go where I will, it still abides with me.The hair rich brown, one lovely golden tressStrayed from the braid and touched the lovelinessOf the fair neck, so smooth, so white, so young,It shamed the pearls a prince's hand had strung.The dress is white, with here and there a gleamOf amber brilliant, sunlight on a stream!And hanging on her arm, a scarf; the thingAbout that glorious head and neck to fling,Protecting from the night, scarlet and black and gold,And gems are woven in each gleaming fold.The picture has that gracious air which tellsThe hand that painted it was Raphael's.They know she's beautiful, and know no more.Thus questioned I, as many did before:"Why art thou sad, thou delicate, proud face?Thou art a Dame of bright and cheerful race,Thy fortunes grand, thy home this Florence fair.Does an unworthy heart thy palace share?Or with a soft caprice dost turn from joy,And play with sorrow as a costly toy?Or has thy page forgotten, or done worse—Failed he to find the fond expected verseThy lover promised thee? I know not whyI linger near thee, beautiful and sad,Yet with such sorrow, who would have thee glad?"(Is she not gifted with the anointed eyeThat sees the trouble of the passer-by?)"Is thine that great, that tender sympathyThat calls all heart-aches nearer unto thee?Or a great soul with aspirations rife,Feeling the insufficiency of this our life?Thou hast attraction of a grander tone,Some charm more subtle e'en than beauty's own!"Though woman throws no greater lure than this,The lip regretful which we fain would kiss,The eye made softer by the unfallen tear,And sunlight brighter for the shadow near.Why do I ask? will woman ever tellThe secret of the charm that fits her well?"She did not answer, sweet, mysterious Dame.I left her sadly, locked in gilded frame.
M. E. W. S.
On a knoll, not far from a running stream, was pitched a rough canvas tent. It was of the "wall" sort, and was pegged to the ground with strong fastenings. Inside were a hammock, a coarse table, two or three stools, and some boxes and barrels. There were likewise a gridiron, a "spider," an iron kettle, some tin dishes and cups, and a pair of candlesticks of the same material. Outside there was a trench dug, by way of drainage, so that the floor within was kept hard and dry; but the floor was of earth merely. There was not a flower, or a picture, or the least attempt at ornament whatever within the tent. Hence the interior looked bare, sordid, and forbidding. And yet, grim as it was, the tent had been the solitary abode of its occupant for many months. In the midst of gold, in quantity outstripping the wildest dreams of his boyhood, this man had chosen to be a miser. In the midst of a society whose reckless joviality and wild profusion were perhaps without precedent, he had chosen to be a recluse. For this self indulgence he had to pay a price. But he consoled himself, remembering that a price has to be paid for everything.
Chester Harding came to Bullion Flat about a year before. He had no friends and no money. The former he could do without, he thought, but the latter was indispensable. So he got work on the Flat, turning a spade and plying a rocker for five dollars a day. Such work was then better paid as a rule, but Harding, though diligent and strong, was not used to toil, and hence was awkward and comparatively inefficient. He improved with practice and strove doggedly on, never losing a day, saving every penny, spending nothing for drink or good fellowship, courting no man's smile, and indifferent to all men's frowns. He was savagely bent on achieving independence, and in no long time, after a fashion, he got it. Independence, in this sense, consisted in a share of a paying claim, and in the whole of a "wall" tent. In the former he dug and washed, morosely enough, with five or six partners; but he made up for this enforced and distasteful social attrition by living in his tent alone.
Harding was a man getting toward middle life, strongly built, but not tall, with a grave, handsome face and speech studiously reserved and cold. He seemed to fear lest he might be thought educated, and, as if to disarm such a suspicion, his few words were apt to be abrupt and homely. When he first came to the Flat he had two leathern trunks, and these in due time were bestowed in the tent on the knoll. One Sunday Harding opened them. The first contained some respectable garments, such as might belong to the ordinary wardrobe of a gentleman. There were white shirts among the rest, and some pairs of kid gloves. Of all these articles Harding made a pile in the rear of his tent and then deliberately set them on fire. "I couldn't afford it before," he muttered. "They might have bought a meal or two if need were; but now——" To be rich enough to gratify a caprice was clearly very agreeable to the man; for presently he brought out a number of books—old favorites obviously—and treated them in the same incendiary manner. The Shakespeare and the Milton, the Macaulay and the Buckle spluttered and crackled reproachfully in the flames; yet their destroyer never winced, but added to the holocaust heaps of letters, and at last two or three miniatures saved for the fire as a final tid-bit, and gazed with grim joy as the whole crumbled in the end to powdery ashes. Chester Harding reserved nothing but one little volume, bound in velvet with gilt clasps, and one faded old daguerreotype, which he replaced in his trunk side by side, and then covered quickly so that they should be out of sight. It seemed to be his wish to hide and to forget every trace of his past life.
That life had been a hard and bitter one. From his earliest childhood Harding had been a victim of the weakness and cruelty of others. A miserable home, made a hell by drink and contention, was at last broken up in ruin, and the young man went forth into the world to meet coldness and injustice at every turn. Suspicion and selfishness are among the almost certain fruits of an experience like this, and the world is naturally more ready to condemn such fruits than to find excuses for them. When Harding found himself unpopular and distrusted he as naturally shaped his conduct so as to justify its condemnation. Surrounded from the beginning of his life by bad influences, and by these almost exclusively, he found little to soften his harsh judgment of men or to mitigate his resentment for their ill treatment. In time he fell in with one who with greater strength and higher wisdom might perhaps have led him up to nobler views and a loftier destiny. For he loved her deeply and without reservation. But her charms of person found no counterparts in her mind or heart, and Harding was cheated and betrayed. To escape old thoughts and associations, and to mend if possible broken fortunes, he sought the Land of Gold. He had heard that men were more generous there than elsewhere, less cunning, tricky, and censorious. Perhaps even he might find average acceptance among new scenes and among a new people.
But on the day he landed at San Francisco Harding was robbed by a fellow traveller, whom he had befriended, of the last penny he had in the world. The man had shared his stateroom on board the steamer, and knew that he had a draft on the agent of the Rothschilds. When Harding cashed his draft he took the proceeds, in gold coin, to his hotel. That night he was visited by his shipmate, who contrived to steal the belt containing this little fortune, and to escape with it to the mines. Next morning Harding sought a near relative, an older man of known wealth, his sole acquaintance on the Pacific coast.
"I've come to you," he said, after receiving a somewhat icy greeting, "to ask you to help me. A serious misfortune has overtaken me, and——"
"If it's money you want," interrupted the other brusquely, "I've got none!"
This was not the usual fashion of the pioneers. Happily most of them were made of sweeter and kindlier stuff. But the fates had woven out poor Harding's earlier fortune, and it was all destined to be of the same harsh, pitiless web. He bowed his head when these words were said to him, and with the kind of smile angels must most hate to see on the faces of those so near and so little below them, he went forth in silence. Next morning he pawned his watch and made his way up into the mines.
* * * * *
"He's cracked; that's what he is," decided Jack Storm. Since the great find of gold at Bullion Flat there had been a great rush thither from the immediate neighborhood, and among the rest quite a deputation arrived from Boone's Bar. Jack was as great a dandy as ever, and still wore his gaudy Mexican jacket, with its silver bell buttons, his flapping trousers to match, and his gigantic and carefully nourished moustache.
"Cracked!" repeated Mr. Copperas suavely. "Not he. He takes too good care of his money for that. No, boys, that ain't the trouble. He's been 'chasing the eagle' in times past; the bird has been too many for him, and now he's playing to get even."
"Stuff!" gurgled Judge Carboy, unwilling to part by expectoration with even the smallest product of his favorite quid. "He's done sutthin' he's ashamed of. No trifle like that, Cop. He's proberly committed a murder out East. Bime by we'll hear all about it."
Jack Storm shook his head. "He's worked side by side with me for nigh a year, and he wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, it is his turn next week to go to 'Frisco for stores."
"What's that to do with it?" queried Mr. Copperas.
"A durned sight," returned the other. "Ain't they after these cusses with a sharp stick who've got in hot water at home? And ain't goin' to 'Frisco for such chaps jes' like walkin' into the lion's mouth? Why, there's honest miners—and them as ain't honest miners, Cop—who'd aleetlerather not go down to the Bay jes' now, even among the quiet folks over at Boone's Bar."
Mr. Copperas coughed uneasily. "So Harding's going down, is he?" he inquired. "Right off?"
"Sartain. You'd better take a trip and keep him company."
There was a murmur of amusement at this. Everybody at the "Bella Union" knew that something had been in the air touching chirographic exploits of Mr. Copperas a few years back at New Orleans, and before he kept the faro bank at Boone's Bar.
"For my part," put in Jim Blair, who liked to hear injustice done to no man, "I s'pose there's reasons why a chap might want to live alone, and yet mightn't a knifed anybody nor robbed 'em either."
"That's so, Jim," affirmed Judge Carboy oracularly. "No doubt on't. But when it's so we usually hear what them reasons is. Now, who knows air a word on 'em in the case afore us? Anyhow, I hope he's good—good as gold—only we've had our sheer of troubles in the county, and it's well to look sharp."
"When I was a little chap," proceeded Jim Blair with retrospective deliberation, "I lived in a village on the further side o' the Ohio. Most folks did their business on t'other bank, and went over generally by the eight o'clock ferry in the mornin.' Now, there was two or three that didn't; men whose work lay nigher home, or who went later. But the crowd went over reg'lar at eight. Arter awhile they got awful sot agin them who didn't go over at the same time. There weren't no hell's delights you could think of them fellers didn't lay to the men who didn't travel by the eight boat; and at last, damn me if they didn't want to lynch 'em!"
"Lynch 'em for not goin' in the eight boat!" cried the Judge, whose respect for the majesty of the law always asserted itself, as was meet, on hearing any tale of its infringement.
Jim Blair nodded. "Not so much, I reckon, for not goin' in the eight boat as for not doin' what other folks did. However, them who ever try to trouble Ches Harding'll have a rough time, I guess."
"You think he's sech a game fighter?" inquired Jack Storm with lively interest.
"That may be too. But what I meant was, there's them on the Flat who believe in Ches for all his lonesome ways, and won't see him put upon. For my part I reckon he's more sinned against than sinnin'."
"I guess you're half right, Jim," admitted Judge Carboy with diplomatic concession; "more'n half right. But mark my words"—and the Judge's voice rose to the orotund swell which denoted his purpose to be more than commonly impressive—"thar'll be the devil's own time on the Flat some day, and that air duck'll be king pin and starter of it. I never know'd no such silent, sulky cuss as that moonin' round but that he kicked up pettikiler h— in the long run."
It will be seen from this that there were differences of opinion respecting Chester Harding at Bullion Flat, and it cannot be denied that there was some reason for it.
It was in a magnificent theatre that Chester Harding first saw her—a theatre grand in size and tasteful in decoration. It had only lately been opened, and was one of the lions of the Golden City. Harding went there to while away an idle hour, and in order, perhaps, that he might see all there was to be seen before leaving San Francisco. His visit was one of merest chance, and no trifle had seemed lighter in all his California life than his straying that night into the Cosmopolitan Theatre.
And yet perhaps it was the turning-point in his existence. Others who were there from Bullion Flat said afterward that from that night Harding was transfigured. A blaze of chandeliers, with golden fretwork skirting the galleries and rich dark velvet framing the boxes, could hardly surprise him. Nor was there much to astonish—whatever there might be to admire—in the rows of handsomely dressed women who gave brilliancy to the audience. Neither could the drama itself, which the manager was pleased to style "a grand legendary fairy spectacle," move Harding seriously from his equilibrium. All these splendors, together with the resonant orchestra, the dazzling scenery, rich in Dutch metal and gold foil, the sanguinary and crested Baron, the villain of the play, the iridescent youth, its hero, the demons, who went through traps, vampire and other—one Blood-Red Demon with a long nose being especially conspicuous—the fairies, who brought order out of chaos—of whom the "Queen of the Fairy Bower" was the large-limbed and voluptuous principal—the "Amazonian Phalanx," who went through unheard-of manœuvres with massive tin battle axes and spears—all these failed, it must be owned, to startle Mr. Harding from his propriety. He had seen such things, or things very like them, before. And yet he was taken off his feet, to use the metaphor, and swept away captive by a very torrent of emotion excited by Miss Tinsel.
She was only acoryphée; that is, she was but one among the minor subordinates of the ballet. Her advent was accomplished as one of the "Sprites of the Silver Shower." She had to come chassezing down the stage, and she never raised her eyelids—before most demurely cast down—until she was close upon the footlights. But when those eyelidsdidgo up it was—well, as Judge Carboy afterward used to say, it was just like sunrise over the mountains at Boone's Bar! A girl with a mass of bright hair, almost red it looked by daylight, and large gray eyes that looked as black as soot by the gas, but took on more tender hues by day—a girl with a figure that was simply perfection, and yet one who with all her archness seemed to have no vanity. She had many dainty white skirts, one above another like an artichoke, of fluffy and diaphanous texture, and although these, it cannot be denied, were perilously short, somehow Miss Tinsel did not look in the least immodest.
All the men from Bullion Flat knew itwasMiss Tinsel, since the "Queen of the Fairy Bower" addressed this charming figure more than once as "Zephyrind," and a reference to the play-bill thereupon at once established her identity.
What strange magnetism there was about this girl Harding, and indeed all who looked at her, found it hard to define. Perhaps, apart from her lovely eyes and hair and her exquisite figure, it was because she always seemed to be drawing away that she proved so fascinating. Even when she advanced straight toward you she seemed for ever to retreat. By what subtle and skilful instinct of coquetry Miss Tinsel was enabled to convey this impression cannot here be explained. That she did convey it was universally admitted. It appeared, however, on inquiry, that her dramatic powers were of the slightest. Her beauty and charm were such that the manager would gladly have put her forward could he have seen his way to do so. But her success had been so moderate, when the experiment was tried, in one or two of the "walking ladies" of farces, that it was thought wisest to let her be seen as much and heard as little as possible.
When Harding last saw her that night she was going up to Paradise on one foot, the other pointing vaguely at nothing behind, the intoxicating eyes turned up with a charming simulation of pious joy, and the cherry lips curled into a smile that showed plenty of pearls below. She vanished from his gaze in a glory of red fire, amid the blare of gongs and trumpets, while the "Blood-Red Demon" went down to the bad place under the stage through a trap, and the "Queen of the Fairy Bower," with felicitous compensation, ascended to the heaven of the flies.
After this tremendous catastrophe Harding went to his hotel and reflected.
That a Timon like himself—a misogynist indeed of the first water—should fall in love at first sight with a ballet girl certainly furnished matter for reflection. But reflection did not prevent Timon from seeking an interview with his unconscious enslaver the next day. Even cold and soured natures may become under some incentives enthusiastic and ingenious.
Harding found out where Miss Tinsel lived, learned that she usually came from rehearsal at about two, called consequently at three, and coolly sent in his name, telling the servant that the young lady would know who he was. As he hoped, the device got him admittance. The girl supposed he was some one from the theatre whose name she had not caught or had forgotten.
It was a very plain and humble room, almost us bare and forbidding perhaps as the inside of Harding's tent on the knoll, and yet how glorified was the place with the purple atmosphere of romance!
Miss Tinsel was as simply equipped as her room: a gown of dark stuff with a bit of color at the throat, and that was all. Harding saw that she was not quite so perfect physically as he had thought, and this, strange as it may seem, instantly increased his passion for her. Nothing could make her figure other than beautiful, or impair the lustre of her eyes; but the fair creature had a little range of freckles across her delicate nose and cheeks, and her hair by day appeared, as has been said before, nearly red. Her natural smile, on the other hand, as distinguished from her stage smile, which was merely intoxicating, was almost heavenly; and it was not made less so by an occasional look that was grave almost to sadness.
"Sit down." He was standing stock still and silent in the middle of the room. "You come from the theatre, don't you?"
It was a sweet voice—sweet and low—too low, in truth, which was one of the reasons of its failure in the drama—one of those thrilling contralto voices, most magnetic and charming when heard by one alone, or close by, but which lost their magnetism and charm if strained to fill the ears of a crowd.
"No—yes—that is, I was there last night. I saw you there," he replies stupidly.
"Last night? Oh, yes. But why do you want to see me to-day?"
This is a hard question to answer; so he tries evasion.
"Did you get a bouquet?"
"A perfect love—a beauty—it was thrown at my feet; but I gave it to her of course."
"Gave it toher?"
"Miss De Montague—don't you know—the 'Queen of the Fairy Bower?' She gets all the bouquets."
"Oh, she does, does she?"
"Certainly. She is the principal, you know. Her engagement calls for all the bouquets."
"Even when they are plainly intended for somebody else?"
"Ah, but they oughtn't to be intended for somebody else. If any one is so silly as to think somebody else ought to have a bouquet, any one has to be punished. Then they forfeit him."
"Forfeit him?"
"Or his flowers. They always forfeit you in theatres—if you're late at rehearsal, you know, or if you keep the stage waiting. But then you needn't mind. Miss De Montague is a dear, good soul. She took the bouquet for the look of the thing, you know; that's business; but she gave me half the flowers when we got home."
"Does she live here then?"
"Why, to be sure. You know, we always go to the theatre together. Only for her I should be quite alone."
"And do you like this kind of thing?" he asks clumsily.
She bursts into a merry laugh. "Like it? Why, I get my living by it. We all have to live, you know, and I've no one to look out for me but myself, and——"
She pauses suddenly, having caught his eye fixed upon her with a gaze of passionate admiration. This first calls up the look of gravity we have spoken of, and then brings the color sharply to her face. It also reminds her of the somewhat peculiar character of the interview. The instant after she resumes, as if continuing her sentence, "Did you come here to ask me that?"
"No," he replies bluntly. "I never thought of the question until the moment before I asked it."
"Please tell me, then," she proceeds, with gathering surprise, "whatdidyou come for?"
He hesitates a moment, moved by the superstition or the honest feeling that he must tell her no word of untruth, and then quietly answers:
"I am not sure that I know."
"Not sure that you know?"
"No."
"Perhaps, then, you'll go away, and when youaresure——"
"Come back again?" hazards he.
"I didn't say that. You look and talk like a gentleman, and if, as I hope, you are one, you will know that I can't see strangers—people who have no business with me—and so you must excuse me." She has risen and moves with some dignity toward the door.
"One moment," he interposes. "Forgive me; you know for your part that it is impossible I should wish to offend——"
"How should I? You come here to me a stranger, and refuse to say what for."
"No. I did not refuse. I only said I was not sure that I knew why I came."
"Then you must be crazy!" she blurts out impulsively.
"Perhaps I am. I begin to think so."
"Then I wish you would go away!" she goes on with apprehension. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bellario is here, and he's—oh, terribly strong!"
"Mr. Bellario?" he echoes.
"Yes. The 'Blood-Red Demon,' you know. Didn't you see him go through the traps?"
Harding laughs, very much amused. "And you mean to threaten me with the 'Blood-Red Demon,' do you?"
"Oh, no," she responds gently, but again edging toward the door—"not threaten; but"—in a very conciliatory tone—"if you won't say what you come for and won't go away——"
"But I will," he says gravely.
"Will which?"
"Will both. I will say what I came for and then I will go away."
"I don't mean to be rude, you know," she puts in, softening.
"Nor I. Now I will tell you. I came because I could not possibly stay away—because you drew me toward you with an irresistible force——"
"I'm sure I didn't!" she protests indignantly.
"Unconsciously, of course. You may think me foolish—wild if you please. I can't help that. You will know better in time. I come to you saying not a wrong word, thinking not a wrong thought. There is nothing against me. At home I was a gentleman. I ask leave to visit you, respectfully as a friend, nothing more."
"But why?" she asks, bewildered.
"Because I admire you greatly, inexpressibly, and I must tell you so." She turns scarlet now. "But I shall never tell you this—not again—or anything else in words you do not choose to hear. All I ask is the leave now and then to see and to speak with you."
This was very embarrassing. Had he said he loved her, and at first sight, she would have turned him away. She would have distrusted both his sincerity and his motives. But he did not say this. On the contrary, he offered in explicit terms, it would seem, not to say it. She therefore naturally took refuge in generalities.
"But what you ask won't be possible. What would people say? This is a very bad, a scandalous country, I mean. What would Miss De Montague think, or Mr. Bellario?"
"What people will say or think hardly needs to be considered," said Harding steadily, "since in a week I shall have gone to my home in the mines. You won't be troubled with me long—twice more perhaps. Only once if you prefer it. All shall be exactly as you wish it. Is not that fair?"
Miss Tinsel was saved the present necessity for replying to a question or coping with a situation both of which she found extremely perplexing, since at this juncture the door opened and admitted the "Queen of the Fairy Bower" and the "Blood-Red Demon," who had apparently been out for a morning walk. To Harding's surprise, the "Queen" was a motherly looking woman of forty-five and the "Demon" a weak-eyed young man, with a pasty white face, and some fifteen years younger. Both were much overdressed, and both stared vigorously at Harding—the "Queen" with an air intended to represent fashionable raillery, the "Demon" with haughty surprise. But the visitor avoided explanations that might have been embarrassing by bowing low to the company and passing from the room.
Her real name was Jane Green. But Jane Green would never do for the play-bill; so the manager, exercising his peculiar and traditional prerogative, had rechristened the young lady for the histrionic world, and she appeared as "Aurora Tinsel." A poor, almost friendless girl, she had left the Atlantic States with an aunt who had been the wife of the "property man" in the theatre. Soon after the aunt died, and Jane had gladly accepted the offer of Miss De Montague to live with her, and, by helping that lady with her dresses, to render an equivalent for her society and protection.
Harding was a wise man in his generation, foolish as in some respects he may appear. We offer no explanation of his swift and unreasoning infatuation, because it is just such men who do just such rash and impulsive things. But he was sagacious enough to know that a man who really wants a woman is less likely to get her by being too quick than even by being too slow. Women who are interested always maintain the contrary; but this is because they want to bag their game instantly, whether they mean to throw it away afterward or not. The sex are not apt, however, to err by over-rating the value of what they get too easily, and this Harding was philosopher enough to know.
Hence, while he again sought Miss Tinsel twice before his departure, and while his admiration, although respectful, was not concealed, he did not go so far as to ask the girl to become his wife. It appeared that after the run of the current spectacle at the theatre a "great tragedian" was to play an engagement there, and the opportunity was to be taken for the ballet and pantomime troupe to make a tour of the mines. Miss De Montague was to go as a chief attraction, and Miss Tinsel was to go also, and among the places they were to visit was Bullion Flat.
These plans left open a space of three months, during which Harding could think of what he was at, and Miss Tinsel could think of what he meant, and several other persons who were interested could make up their minds what to do.
The first step taken by Harding on his return was highly confirmatory, in the judgment of the Flat, of the opinion expressed by Jack Storm some time before. A contract was made with a builder, and close by the tent on the knoll there speedily arose a cottage of fair proportions, which was evidently meant to supersede the humbler structure which for a year had formed Harding's home. No one doubted his ability prudently to incur such an outlay. He had been saving to parsimony, and he had been prosperous. But why, when a tent had so long sufficed to him, and when he so disliked to part with money, he should go to so needless an expense, was so obscure that to accept Jack Storm's solution impugning Harding's sanity was the easiest and consequently the most popular way of solving the enigma.
The cottage was built notwithstanding, and it was soon the subject of general remark that Harding was becoming more genial and "sociable" than before. He astonished Judge Carboy and Jim Blair by asking them to drink one night at the "Bella Union." He smiled affably and passed the time of day with Jack Storm and his other companions when they met to begin work on the claim for the day. He ordered champagne for the crowd on the evening when a green tree was lashed to the rooftree of his cottage on the knoll; and at last he raised wonder and surprise to their perihelion by actually giving a housewarming.
"I know'd it all along," affirmed Judge Carboy that night to his familiars. They were taking a cocktail at the "Bella Union" by way of preface to "bucking" against Mr. Copperas's bank—"I know'd it all along. He's got a wife out East, and she's a comin' out to jine him in the new house."
"Is that the 'suthin' you talked of that he was ashamed of, Judge?" laughed Jim Blair. "It looks like it, for sartin he never said nothin' about her."
"A man may git married," retorted the Judge with judicial acumen, "and yit do suthin' else to be ashamed of, mayn't he? There's been murderers and horse thieves stretched afore now who had wives, hain't there? And the last chap the boys hung to a flume up to Redwood, he had three wives, didn't he? And they all come to the funeral." And with this triumphant vindication of his position the Judge sternly deposited half a paper of fine-cut in his mouth and started for the luxurious apartment of Mr. Copperas.
Next morning Bullion Flat was in a flurry of excitement and pleasurable anticipation. The "Grand Cosmopolitan Burlesque, Ballet, and Spectacle Troupe" had arrived, and were to play in the theatre attached to the "Bella Union." It was not, however, until the succeeding afternoon that Chester Harding called upon Miss Tinsel at the same hotel.
It was a good sign that that young lady crimsoned at the first sight of him; what she first said was another:
"You have not been in a hurry," she pouted, "to come and see me."
"I supposed you would be very busy," said he smiling, and devouring her with his eyes. "Were you so anxious to have me come?"
"Anxious?" she repeated; and then added, illogically, "I supposed you would please yourself."
He nodded. "And how do you like Bullion Flat?"
"I think it ever so pretty—only I don't like the earth all torn up, and such ugly holes and scars."
"We have to get at the gold, you know," he explained, "even at such a cost. But the hilltops, anyhow, are spared."
She looked through a window and pointed at the most picturesque eminence in the neighborhood—the knoll. "That is your house?" she observed shyly.
"Yes. Do you like it?"
"I think it lovely—situation and all."
"And how did you know it was mine?"
"Oh," she said, laughing, "we show-folks see a great many people—besides being seen by them—and I've heard a lot about you."
Harding's face darkened a little. "Then you've heard that I'm not much liked?"
"I've heard that some say so. But what of that? Miss De Montague says she wouldn't give a fig for a man everybody speaks well of—and she quoted something from a comedy—the 'School for Scandal.'"
"Will you tell me what people say?" he inquired curiously.
"Oh, that you are gloomy, reserved, and live all alone, and that you are—are not extravagant, and that you haven't had a very happy life."
"That last at least, if true, is a misfortune rather than a fault."
"It's all misfortune, ain't it?" said the girl sagely. "People don't make themselves. There's Mr. Bellario now. He thinks nature really meant him for a great warrior—somebody like Napoleon, you know. And instead of that he's—well, he calls himself a professional gentleman, but the boys call him a tumbler. I suppose it would be much grander to kill people than to jump through 'vampire traps'; but you see he didn't get his choice—any more than I did."
"Then you didn't want to go on the stage?"
"No, indeed. It was just for bread. Aunty was a 'second old woman'—and they got me in for 'utility,' as they call it. There was no one to care for me, and I was glad to earn an honest living; but like it! Never!"
"You say there was no one to care for you?" said Harding gently. "Had you no friends—no parents?"
Jane reddened painfully, and the sad look came quickly into her face. "My mother is dead, you see," she replied, with hesitancy, "and—and—I'd rather not speak of this any more, please."
"Surely," he exclaimed hastily, "I've no right to catechize you. Pray forgive my asking at all. I ought to have been more careful. I know what trouble is, and how to feel for those who suffer."
She looked at him earnestly. "You have suffered yourself, then—they were right when they said yours had not been a happy life?"
"I have no right to whine—but happy—no, far from it."
Jane's lovely face took on its softest and tenderest expression.
"They said that lately you have been happier—gayer than ever before—and that people liked you—oh, ever so much better than they used to. Why is it that people like those the best who seem to need help and sympathy the least?"
Jane leaned from the window as she spoke and toyed with some running vine that clambered to the casement. The grace and beauty of her figure were made conspicuous by the movement, and Harding paused a moment before he replied:
"People like to be cheerful, I suppose, and people like others to be like themselves, I know. It is true that I have been unhappy—that my life has been morose and solitary. How much this has been my own fault and how much that of others, need not be said. But it is also true that of late I have been far happier. Shall I tell you why?"
His voice was deep and earnest, and something in his eyes made the girl crimson again, and turn her own to the distant hills.
"If you please," she faltered, in her low, musical contralto.
"Shall I tell you too why I have built that cottage you are looking at?" he went on with increasing earnestness. "It is because it has been my hope, my prayer, that this sad, lonely life of mine was nearly over. It is because I have believed that after much pain, and doubt, and bitterness my trust in men might be brought back through my love for a woman. The cottage—it is for you, Jane. I love you, Jane. Do you hear me? From the moment I saw you, I loved you. I resolved to ask you to marry me. Jane, will you do so?"
While he spoke the color had been fading steadily from her face, and when he stopped the girl was ashy pale. He looked at her anxiously and impatiently.
"I—I—am—so sorry," she muttered at last, as if each word were a separate pain.
"Sorry? God! Why?" Then with swift suspicion, "Jane, do you care for—are you engaged to some one?"
She shook her head mournfully.
"Do you see that sun going down over the hills?" She turned her beautiful eyes full upon Harding as she spoke, with a look of ineffable tenderness and sorrow. "Well, you must let what you have said go down with that sun, and never think of it—never speak of it again."
It was Harding's turn to blanch now, and the blood retreated from his swarthy cheeks until they looked almost ghastly.
"Why?" and his voice came involuntarily, almost in a whisper.
"Do not ask me—have pity—do not ask me."
"I must ask you," he cried impetuously, "but yet I need not perhaps. You care for no one else? Then it must be that you do not, you cannot, care for me. Is that it, Jane?"
"That is not it."
"Not it!" he cried joyfully. "Then youdocare for me a little—just a little, Jane?—a little which is to grow into a great deal by and by! Oh, child, child, think how wretched I have been all these years! Think how I have waited and waited. I lived for twelve long months, Jane, alone, without a soul, without even a dog, in a tent on that knoll; and so hungry, Jane—so hungry for sympathy, for love. It comes to me at last, dear Jane, what I have longed for and begged for so long. Don't, don't—as you hope for mercy, don't take it away again!"
"You are good," she said softly, "whatever they may say. It is good and noble of you. Why should I tell you lies? I do like you very much, for all," looking down with a faint blush, "we have met and known each other so little. But all the same, it cannot be."
"Cannot again," he cried impatiently. "Once more, I ask you, will you tell me why not?"
She looked at him half frightened, for there was something of mastery in his tone; then, standing erect, and with a positiveness as strong as his own, she answered, "Because I should disgrace you."
"Because you are on the stage!" he exclaimed disdainfully. "Is that it?"
"That is something," returned Jane humbly, "but perhaps not much. I am hardly important enough to be worth even that sort of reproach. And besides the people of California are too liberal to apply it. I know I am only a ballet dancer"—and the poor girl tried to smile here—"and a pretty bad one at that. But I work hard for an honest living, and no one can say I have ever disgraced myself."
"Then how can you disgrace me?"
"I have begged you not to ask me."
"I must!" cried Harding passionately; "and I have the right to do so. Would you have me take your cool 'no' when you care for no one else and do care for me, and to go my way satisfied? I can't—I won't!"
"You will be sorry," said Jane pitifully.
"Let me be. Anything rather than the doubt. Give me the truth."
"Well then." She turned her back now: and looked from the window with her grave, sad face, and spoke in a dull, measured way, like the swinging of a pendulum. "I am a convict's daughter. My father is in the State prison of New York at Auburn."
"For what crime?"
"Murder. It was in the first degree. The Governor commuted it to imprisonment for life. There were extenuating circumstances. I went down on my knees and prayed that he might be saved from the gallows."
"And his victim?"
"Was his wife—my mother."
The troupe of which Miss De Montague and Mr. Bellario were prime spirits made a profound impression at Bullion Flat; so profound, in truth, that before their three nights were over a fresh engagement was made for their return a fortnight later. It was agreed that at that time, and on their return from other points, they should appear for an additional three nights, and thus afford their admirers opportunities for which the first essay had been insufficient. This arrangement was highly agreeable to Miss De Montague and Mr. Bellario for reasons largely connected, respectively, with the excellent cuisine and bar of the Bella Union. "Why, my dear," observed the lady, "when I fust come up to do the 'legitimate,' fifteen months ago, love nor money could buy a morsel of supper after the play. We had to do with a pot of ginger, and dig it out with the Macbeth daggers, and wash it down with bad beer."
The arrangement was also satisfactory to Miss Tinsel. It seemed well to her that she should be absent for a time; and yet she could not deny a feeling of joy over the thought of returning. Her lover had been greatly shocked by the dismal tale she had recited; but, to the credit of his manliness, he had refused to accept the facts as conclusive arguments against his suit. "Was it her fault," argued he, "that her father was a scoundrel?" Why should stigma or disability of any sort attach to her for that which she had no hand in, and had been powerless to prevent? On the contrary, should not the world, or any part of it that might come in contact with her, treat a helpless and innocent girl with even greater tenderness and commiseration because of the undeserved and terrible misfortune that had befallen her?
Jane had resolved that she ought not to be moved by such arguments, and yet she could not help liking to hear them. It was in the end agreed between them—by Harding's earnest entreaties—that she should think the matter over, and that her final decision should be withheld until the return of the troupe to perform its second engagement. Jane had talked with Miss De Montague, who, in spite of some foibles, was a kind-hearted and right-minded woman, and Miss De Montague had strongly urged that Jane's sensitiveness was overstrained. If Mr. Harding had been told all the truth without reserve and he still wished to make Jane his wife, and Jane wished to marry him, that was enough. To stand about and moon over it, and wonder or care what people would say, was all fiddle-faddle, and all sensible people would call it so. Besides, California was different from other places. It was the custom there to give everybody a chance, and value them for what they did and what they werenow—and not for what other people, or even they themselves, had done before. It is right to admit that the amiable lady's passion for Mr. Bellario—whose similar feeling for Miss Tinsel was more than suspected—had something to do with inspiring all these sage suggestions; but the suggestions were not deprived of good sense by that.
During the fortnight that passed between Jane's departure and her return the cottage that Harding designed for her future home fast approached completion. Meanwhile its owner's claim was doing better, and his coffers were consequently fuller than ever before. He resolved that, come what might, Jane should become his wife; and it was in this frame of mind that Harding walked out by the riverside on the night the troupe returned. As before, he resolved not to hurry in his suit, and therefore determined to omit calling until the following day.
The night was clear, the stars shining brightly, and the stream ran gurgling forward with a pleasant sound. Suddenly, as Harding strolled musing along the bank, some one touched him on the shoulder from behind; and turning, he beheld the "Blood-Red Demon," Mr. Bellario. That gentleman wore a long cloak, tossed across his breast and left shoulder, and a slouched sombrero; and his white, pasty face wore a look of inscrutable mystery.
"Hist!" he enjoined in a stage whisper; "all is discovered!" Then he drew back, with finger on lip, as if to watch the effect of his revelation.
"What's the matter?" said Harding. "What do you mean?"
"Mean! Ha! ha!" and the "Demon" laughed witheringly. "He asks me what I mean! Mark me," proceeded he, with a sudden transition, "I know your secret!"
"Oh, you do, do you? Which one do you mean?" questioned Harding scornfully.
"I have neither time nor heart to trifle," said the "Demon," waving his arm with an air of ineffable majesty. "I shall be brief and to the point."
"You'll very much oblige me."
"Enough. What prompts me to this midnight deed, 'twere bootless now to ask, and idle to reveal. Therefore to my tale. You are in love with Aurora—with Miss Tinsel?"
"By what right——"
"Spare your reproaches. I am in love with her too!"
"You?"
"Is that so strange? Long ere you crossed our path I knew and loved her. But this is neither here nor there."
"I should think not."
"Professionally," continued the "Demon," with great dignity, "she is, of course, my inferior. Socially—well, you know, I think the damning family secret——"
"Whatever that may be, it is no sin of hers. I think you may wisely leave it a secret—so far, that is, as to omit crying it on the housetops."
"Save to yourself and Miss De Montague, no hint of the tragedy has passed my lips. But to the business between us——"
"My good sir," said Harding, with irritation, "I know of none, so far. If you have anything to say to me, I'll listen. If not, I'll pass on."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the "Demon" with bitter mockery. "I come to serve ye, and ye would spurn me from yer path! Poor, poor humanity! Why, why should I laugh when I should rather weep?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Harding simply, "and I don't want to be uncivil. But it certainly isn't asking too much to want to know what you mean."
"No," responded the "Demon," with melodious sadness—"not too much. Though every word be torture, yet I will e'en go through the ordeal. Sir, what I have to say—and it cuts me to the heart to say it—is that this lady—this young girl—this Aurora Tinsel—is worthy of neither of us."
"What!"
"She is unworthy—lost—and capable of the worst deception!"
"That's false!"
"How, sir?"
"That's false. And you or any one else who says it is a liar!"
The "Demon" drew suddenly back, clapped his hand to an imaginary sword hung at his left side—and then thought better of it.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed lightly, but keeping at a wary distance from Harding's reach. "Why should I yield to rage? My prowess is well known—and, after all, this worthy gentleman speaks in ignorance. Sir," he added, changing his tone with elaborate and chivalrous grace, "I speak of what I know, and speak only with the best of motives. But it is due to you that I offer to make good my words. I can absolutely prove that what I have said is true."
"Prove it, how?"
"By enabling you to witness for yourself that which justifies what I say."
"And you can do this?"
"Almost to a certainty, and probably this very night."
Harding hesitated. To take the course proposed seemed like doubt, and doubt was unworthy. To refuse to take that course might subject Jane to calumny, which he might on the other hand nip in the bud. Presently he spoke:
"What do you propose?"
"That you go with me at once, and judge for yourself. We may fail tonight, but if so, our success to-morrow will be all but certainty."
The man's air of conviction was impressive, and Harding, fearful, yet hoping that he might unearth some strange mistake or deception, agreed to the plan proposed. It was settled that the two should meet an hour later at the "Bella Union," and they parted now with that understanding. Bellario, however, took occasion before leaving his companion to make his insinuations so far specific as to tell him that Miss Tinsel had made the acquaintance of a certain handsome, dark-eyed man, who had followed the troupe ever since it had last been at Bullion Flat; that this man evidently admired the girl very much, and that she had encouraged his advances in the most unmistakable manner; that she had gone so far as to receive her admirer at her room in the hotel, and that at so late an hour as to excite the censure of the not over-prudish Miss De Montague; and that, in fine, Miss Tinsel's hitherto spotless name had been so tarnished by the events of the last fortnight as to make it certain none would ever again think her the pure girl she had always hitherto been held to be.
With the blood tingling through every vein, with nerves at extreme tension, and a heart full of bitterness, Chester Harding passed away. Something told him that the tale, black and dismal as it was, was likewise true. When Jane told him the story of her father's crime and its punishment, Harding felt as if there had fallen between him and his prospect of happiness a veil that made it look doubtful and unreal. The girl's firmness in telling him the truth, and the assertion of her opinion as to the proper bearing and consequence of that truth on her relations with Harding, had assuredly deeply impressed and comforted him. It was something to face, after all, and even in California, this wedding the child of a murderer and felon. Yet her own perfect goodness was the justification and would be the reward of such an act. But when Jane's goodness itself was in question it was no wonder that Harding's heart sank within him. He was no coward, but his experience had taught him distrust; and he waited for the stipulated hour to pass in an agony of doubt and pain.
The "Bella Union" had two long wings, perhaps thirty feet apart, running at right angles with its façade toward the rear. In the second story of one wing there were sleeping rooms. Both stories of the opposite wing were occupied by the theatre. The latter was quite dark, and hither Bellario conducted Harding after they had met in the saloon below.
"Be silent," whispered the "Demon," when they met—"be silent and follow."
Up two winding staircases, then through a long passage, and they stood in a gallery over the stage and directly facing the other wing.
"Look!" said the "Demon"; "he's there now!" He still whispered, for the night was hot and windows were everywhere open. Through one of these directly opposite Harding distinctly saw Miss Tinsel. She was talking earnestly with some one not in sight. Harding gazed breathlessly and listened. Presently a second figure came between the window and the light within. It was that of a tall, handsome man with dark eyes. He replied to the girl with earnestness equal to her own, but in tones as carefully suppressed. As the eyes of the observers got used to the situation, they descried a bed on the further side of the room. On this Miss Tinsel, after a time, sat down. The man followed and seated himself by her side. A moment or two more, and he took both her hands and clasped them in his own. They still talked, obviously with deep feeling, and at last Miss Tinsel threw her arms around her companion's neck and kissed him.
"Enough," hoarsely exclaimed Harding. "Enough—and more than enough!"
"You'll wait no longer?" asked the other.
"Not an instant. Can't you conceive, man—you who profess yourself to have cared for her—what a hell this is?"
"I've been through it before," muttered the "Demon," "and the wound isn't quite so fresh."
They descended in silence to the saloon, and there Harding spoke more freely:
"See here—you've saved me from a great peril—and although I think I had rather you had shot me outright, you deserve no less gratitude. If you want help—money—for instance——"
The "Demon" waved his hand in lofty refusal.
"As Claude Melnotte says, sir, I gave you revenge—I did not sell it. There are better men than I in the world, and lots of them. But I try to do as I would be done by—at least in a scrape like this. I wish you good night, and I hope you'll take comfort. After a little it'll seem easier to you. Certainly the ill news should come easier even now than it would afterward. As Othello says, ''Tis better as it is.'"
He bowed and passed away. Ascending to the apartment of Miss De Montague, he made himself so agreeable as to be able to borrow from that lady a dozen shining eagles; and, thus provided, descended promptly to Mr. Copperas's bank, where he whiled away the night—assisted by copious drinks and unlimited cigars—at the enlivening game of faro.
As for Harding, he went to the bar of the saloon and took what was for him a stiff glass of brandy. Then he turned abruptly on his heel, and without sending his name before him, marched straight up to Miss Tinsel's room.
She met him at the door with a glad cry—and then shrank back abashed.
"I see," she murmured, in her low, sweet voice, "you don't care to have me repulse you again. You have thought it over—and you agree that it is better not."
He came just inside the door, but did not sit, although she motioned him to a chair.
"I agree," he repeated mechanically—"I agree—with you that it is better not." Then he looked suspiciously around the room. There was no one there—but a door opened into another room beyond. Jane followed his eyes. "That is Miss De Montague's room," she said; "we are always next to each other."
"And she is there now?"
"Yes—with Mr. Bellario—he is calling on her."
Harding paused a minute, and then went on in a hard, constrained voice, like one who repeats a disagreeable lesson.
"I have thought it right to see you—now, for the last time—and say I think it best—and right—that we should part."
Jane turned very pale, and the old grave look of hopeless pain came over her face. But she answered with infinite softness and humility:
"It is right—you know I thought so from the first. You should not marry a—a convict's daughter."
"It is not because you are a convict's daughter."
"The reason is sufficient."
"I repel it," he cried vehemently—"I will have none of it—I told you so before—I repeat it now. Listen," and he crossed the room swiftly and closed both doors.
"I loved you for yourself—dearly—dearly. What did it matter to me—what fault was it of yours—what other people did, or what or where they were? In this grand, new country, men—some men, at least—have grown high enough and strong enough to shake off such paltry prejudices as those. To me they are as nothing."
"You led me to think so," Jane said gently.
"Why should I care for your being a ballet-dancer—or for the other thing, when you had never disgraced yourself? But now it is different."
"Now it is different!" she echoed in amazement.
"Different in this," pursued he with growing excitement, "that before you were a pure girl—pure as snow—everybody said that—and now you are—are—compromised."
The blood rushed in a torrent up to her hair.
"Who says it?" she demanded, now first showing warmth—"who dares say it?"
"Alas, Jane," he replied, "don't make things worse by deception at parting. Let us be at least as we have always been, honest and unreserved to each other."
"What you have said just now," said the girl' proudly, "is an insult. The time has been when you would not have heard another say such words—either to me or of me; and yet they are as little deserved now as they have ever been."
"They are, are they?" he retorted. "Then pray tell me who was that man you have had here within an hour?"
She turned deadly white, and opened her lips thrice to speak before the words would shape themselves.
"That—man?"
"Do you deny having a man with you?"
She shook her head piteously. "No—there was a man here—and with me."
"Ah, you confess it then," cried he, as if her admission made what he knew more heinous. "Who was this man? Confess all!"
"He—he—wanted help—asked for money. He saw me in the play at Boone's Bar—and thinking me richer than I am, asked me for money."
Harding laughed scornfully. "And do you expect me to believe this?"
"It is true," she hurried on nervously. "He said he was desperate and must have money to get away."
"Had he any claim upon you?" he asked, scanning her with cold, searching eyes.
She hesitated and made answer, "No—none."
"Yet he pushed his demand with eloquence?"
"He did."
"And with success?"
"I gave him all I had."
"Even although he had no claim on you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Jane—Jane!" he cried with a burst of bitter sorrow; "why couldn't you have been truthful to the end? Why—why must you make me look back—always and only to despise you!"
She looked at him stonily, but made no reply.
"Jane, it cuts me to the heart to say it—but I saw you—do you hear?—saw you. He took both your hands in his—you threw your arms about his neck and kissed him. Do you deny this?"
She still looked him straight in the face, but two tears brimmed into her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. "No, it is true," she then answered.
"You own this too," he cried furiously. "Jane, who is this man?"
She remained silent.
"I ask you again, Jane—and for the last time—who is this man?"
"I cannot tell you."
"You refuse?"
"I must."
"Then farewell. We can meet no more." He turned, and stood with his hand on the door, and with the action the girl's overstrained nerves gave way.
"Oh, no, no, no! Oh, Chester, I have loved you so! Don't—for mercy's sake—don't leave me in anger—when I so need comfort—help—and—p—pity!"
She fell on her knees by the bed, and with her face in her hands, sobbed aloud.
As she did so, a burst of strange, mocking laughter resounded from the adjoining room, and Harding started as if he had been stung.
"It must be!" he hissed, all that was hardest and worst in his nature suddenly possessing him. "After this it would only be torture—to both!" He bent suddenly and kissed—not her lips, no longer pure—but her forehead, once, twice, thrice, passionately, and then fled away into the darkness.