AINSLEE’S

Since early morning
nothing but sunshine
had entered the hospitable
doorway of The
Jolly Grig, a tavern not
a dozen miles from the
outer edge of London
town. Across the white,
sanded floor golden patches of light had
moved with measured tread, and merry
motes had danced in the golden beams,
but nothing else had stirred. On the
deep hearth were piled huge logs, ready
to spring into a flashing evanescent life
at the whim of some chance guest, for
October was drawing in his breath preparatory
to blowing it out over the land.

In front of the logs, sunk deep in his
chair, dozed old Marmaduke Bass, the
landlord of The Jolly Grig, granting
himself the joy of serving drams to
dream guests, since guests in the flesh
would not come to him. Round-bellied
as one of his own wine casks, he slept
heavily, nor was he disturbed when a
slight figure was framed for a second in
the doorway. A slender, girlish figure
it was, and the shadow of a heavily
plumed riding hat danced with the
motes in the sunbeams while the young
woman stood, warily, peering into the
room. Empty she knew it was, for she
had been full ten minutes reconnoitering
to discover the fact.

How sound did old Marmaduke sleep,
was the question she was asking herself.
She could see that the large hands
folded across his stomach rose and fell
with steady rhythmic ease. Then she
saw a fly—a huge, buzzing, bluebottle
fly—settle for a moment on the round,
bald pate of the innkeeper, and still the
sleeper did not stir. Surely if a fly
could not waken him, she would not.

Hurriedly, stealthily, lightly, she
scurried across the floor, her lifted riding
skirt displaying quite needlessly the
heavy boots she wore. The skirts were
held to her side by her elbows, for she
had need of both her hands. In one of
them she held a long silken scarf, and
not until this had been dexterously
twisted and tied over old Marmaduke’s
eyes did that worthy awake.

“Help! Murder!” he sputtered
through the gauntleted fingers that covered
his mouth, struggling in vain to
free himself from the detaining hands.

 “Quiet, quiet now, good Marmaduke,”
cried the young woman, in a
deep, full, contralto voice. “You know
well enough who I am.”

“Ay, sir, now you speak, I do know
you,” the innkeeper answered, settling
back into his chair once more; “but it’s
what mischief you’re up to that I’d like
to know.”

“No mischief this time, Marmaduke.
On my honor as a gentleman in his
majesty’s service, I swear it.” Laughter
was bubbling out of the girl’s eyes,
but her voice was deeper, gruffer, even
than before. “But it happens to be my
whim of the moment that you should sit
there just as you are for five full minutes.
I want you not to touch the scarf
that’s about your eyes for that long
time. Promise me that, Mr. Tavern-keeper,
and promise me, too, not to
shout again for help. I want a room
for the night. And I’ll have a cup of
wine with you. Ah! not so quick, good
Marmaduke. At the end of the five
minutes, I mean. And yet I’m thirsting,
too. You’ll not believe it, but I’ve
not tasted wine for a fortnight or more.
It matters not which room I take, I suppose?”

“Ay, matter it does, sir,” answered
Marmaduke. “In fact, it’s but poor accommodation
I can give you. Lord
Farquhart has the whole house engaged
for the night. He’s stopping here with
a party of friends to meet his lady, who’s
coming in from the north somewheres.
I’ve only the small closet back of the
wine room for my own use.”

“Then the small closet back of the
wine room will have to serve me,” she
answered, “and you’ll have to spend the
night in this chair ruminating on this
Lord What’s-his-name’s greediness in
claiming the whole house. Or, perchance,
I’ll go when these young lords
arrive, and leave you your room to yourself.
Now, remember, your life or mine
is forfeit if you raise that silken band
ere I return. And I’m watching you
every minute; mind that, too.”

She backed away from him, keeping
a wary eye on him, but there was, in
reality, no need for this. He sat quite
still, his hands peacefully crossed on his
stomach. Through the small doorway
she slipped, her trailing skirts still held
high, but her heavy boots now seemed
to swagger across the wooden floor.

“And who may this Lord Farquhart
be that he should require a whole house
and an empty house?” she asked, from
the threshold, and even as she spoke
she was hurriedly removing the heavily
plumed riding hat and replacing it with
a jaunty cap fringed with black, curling
locks of hair.

“Why, Lord Farquhart is—why, he’s
just the new Lord Farquhart that was
Mr. Percy Gordon not so long ago, before
he came into a title that carried no
wealth with it,” the innkeeper’s fat voice
answered. “You’ve surely not been deaf
to the gossip that’s going about! How
my Lord Farquhart’s going to marry
his cousin, old Gordon’s daughter, the
Lady Barbara Gordon, and with her,
old Gordon’s gold. The whole of London’s
ringing with it.”

“Ay, perhaps, my good Marmaduke,
but I’m not in London much of the time,
so London’s stalest gossip is news to
me.” The end of this sentence was muffled
in the folds of her riding skirt that
she was drawing off over her head, and
the landlord of The Jolly Grig took occasion
to soliloquize:

“Indeed, if it’s not mischief the lad’s
bent on, it’s nothing good, I’ll be bound.
Whatever he swears, he’s good for
naught save mischief. And I’ll swear,
too, that it’s less than a fortnight since
he was drinking wine here, in this very
place. Though, I must say, to his credit,
he’s a temperate fellow, and drinks less
than any man of his size that comes
here.”

“That’s just it! It’s a man of my
own size that I’m after.”

Marmaduke’s guest, now a youth in
riding coat and breeches, was seated in
the deep chair that faced his host. “A
man of my own size, and that’s not so
far under six feet high, and with a good
girth about the chest, and but small
paunch under it, and muscles like iron,
as you’ve occasion to know; a man of
my own size, to drink with me and sup
with me and love with me and fight
with me, if we happen to love the same
 girl. Put off your blindman’s kerchief
and fetch the wine I spoke for. What’s
the best your house affords, my jolly
grig? What wine will you offer this
Lord Farquhart? What wine have you
fit to serve to his lady?”

“I’ faith, I know not my Lord Farquhart’s
taste,” answered Marmaduke.
“But I’ve a royal port, lately brought
over from France. I’ve a Canary
Malmsey that his majesty himself’d find
hard to despise. And then, why, I’ve a
few bottles of Geldino’s sherris that—that
I’ll not open save on the rarest occasion.
I’ll bring you the port, if you
say so, though, to my seeming, port is
a heady wine for a lad like you.”

“Well, then, the port let it be,” answered
the youth. “I judge my wines
by the taste, not by the name.” When
the wine was brought, he raised his cup
with a swaggering laugh. “To the girls
you have loved. To the girls I will
love.” He emptied the cup at a single
draught. “There are two times
when a long throat is a good throat;
when you’re wetting it, and when you’re
cutting it. I’d have another, but I’m—I’m
sleepy, Marmaduke. I’ll—I’ll—I
guess I’ll sleep on that one. By your
leave, I’ll sleep here until my lord—was
it Lord Farquhart—you said was
coming?”

The stranger’s booted feet were
stretched far in front of him; his relaxed
hands lay under the folds of his
riding coat, and his head was nodding
now this way, now that, in search of a
resting place.

“Yes, my Lord Farquhart,” answered
Marmaduke. “But, sir, you told
me, the last time you were here, that
you’d tell me your own name soon, that
I’d know your name before so very
long.”

“Ah, in that last you are doubtless
right. You’ll know it some day, but I’m
not so sure that I’ll do the telling, and,
God on my side, that day’ll not be near.”
The last words drooled out in a sleepy
undertone. Then the voice roused once
more. “But who comes with Lord Farquhart?
He’s surely not taken the whole
house for himself, has he? And he
waits here, you say, for the Lady Barbara
Gordon, his cousin and his sweetheart?”

“She’s his cousin, right enough,” answered
the old gossip. “But if she’s
his sweetheart, she knows more of that
than the rest of the world. They’re going
to be married, though, in less than
a fortnight, and—and—— But you
asked who comes with Lord Farquhart?
Well, Mr. Clarence Treadway, for one.
They’re never twenty-four hours apart,
so London says. Then there is Mr.
Ashley, an old suitor of the Lady Barbara,
to whom her father forced her to
give a refusal willy-nilly. London
knows all about that. And—and there’s
one other. I’ve forgotten his name. It
matters not. And the gentlemen travel
with a servant apiece. Oh, the other’s
Mr. Lindley, Mr. Cecil Lindley. Why,
lad, what’s the matter with you?”

This query was in response to a sharp
“Aie, aie,” that had shot from the
stranger’s lips.

“I—I was dreaming that I was
caught in a trap, a—a mousetrap, I
think it was. Your—your voice is most
soothing, Marmaduke. Wake me in
time for me to retire to my own room
before my Lord Farquhart arrives with
his company.” The weary head had
finally lopped to rest. The sleepy voice
had trailed off into silence.

“Ay, ay, I’ll wake you, never fear!”
old Marmaduke answered the lad,
standing over him. Then he murmured:
“He’s a pretty boy! I’ll warrant I’d
be earning the thanks of some worthy
family by ferreting out his name and
telling tales on him. But I’ll not. Not
just yet, anyway.”

The lad’s short, black curls fell over
the upper part of his face, and as he sat,
slouched deep in the big chair, he
seemed quite lost in its shadows.

II.

It was not ten minutes thereafter that
the kindly innkeeper was thrown into
such a flutter by the arrival of his expected
guests, that he quite forgot to
rouse the stranger sleeping in the deep
chair by the hearth.

 “We’ve the house to ourselves, as I
commanded, good Marmaduke?” demanded
Lord Farquhart.

“Quite to ourselves, your honor,” answered
Marmaduke, “save, oh, bless my
heart! save for this idler asleep by the
chimney. I meant to send him about his
business ere you came!”

“Send him now, then,” said Farquhart,
indifferently, “and, gentlemen, I
can welcome you as to my own house.”

“Why waken the lad if he sleeps?” demanded
young Lindley, who had seated
himself astride of the arm of the chair
that the innkeeper had deserted. The
young man’s Irish blue eyes rested carelessly
on the sleeping lad. “Why throw
him out, Percy? Is he only a chance
patron or a friend, Marmaduke?”

“A friend,” answered that worthy—“leastwise
a friend of a year’s standing,
and he’s slept like that since his last
draught of wine.”

“Why not let him sleep, Percy?” It
was still young Lindley who was interceding
in the boy’s behalf. “Only two
things can induce sleep like that—one’s
good wine, the other’s a good conscience.
Why interfere with either?
Sure, we’re lacking in both ourselves.”

“Well, let him sleep for aught of me,”
answered Farquhart, nonchalantly. “In
truth, it’s so long since I’ve even seen
sleep like that, that it rests me somewhat
to be in the room with it.”

“If Marmaduke’ll vouch for the wine
the boy’s had, I’ll vouch for the conscience,”
asserted Lindley, again taking
sides with the unknown. He laid a careless
hand on the boy’s head. “He’s a
likely lad, and it seems to me that
neither wine alone nor conscience alone
could induce sleep so deep. What’s his
name?”

“That’s what I wish I could tell you,
gentlemen,” Marmaduke answered,
with some hesitation. “As I said, I’ve
known him for a year or more, and
he’s always promising me that next
time, or some time, he’ll tell me who he
is. But he’s only a lad, and I was
thinking just before your honors came
that perhaps I was doing wrong to let
him drink away his fortunes here—that
I ought to be telling his family, if I
could but find out where and what it
is.”

“But does he drink so heavily, then?”
demanded Ashley, crossing over and
looking down upon the lad. “A boy of
his age and girth could not carry much,
I should say.”

“No, not much, sir,” Marmaduke answered,
hastily; “leastwise not here,
but——”

“Oh, don’t bother your conscience
with a thing like that, my good man,”
cried Treadway. “Bring us another
round of wine, and charge me up a cup
or two for the lad when he wakes. Then
his bibulous fortune will not be all on
your head. And”—he turned to Farquhart—“if
the roads to Camberwell
be as good—God save the mark!—as
the roads from London here, Mistress
Babs will not be calling for our escort
until midnight. Gad! I never traversed
such mire. I thought my horse was
down a dozen times.”

“And, of course, the Lady Barbara’s
coach must move more heavily than we
did,” agreed Lindley. “As I remember
them, the old Gordon hackneys
move as deliberately as old Gordon himself—that
is, if horse flesh can move as
slowly as human flesh. Has your lady
a large escort from Camberwell,
Percy?”

“Only her servants, I believe.” Percy
Farquhart’s tone was quite lacking in a
lover’s interest. “Her father has no
faith in the Black Devil who has haunted
our London roads for the past six
months, and he declared that he’d not
insult the peace of his majesty’s kingdom
by sending an armed escort with
his daughter when she entered his majesty’s
town. That was why he asked
me to meet her here.”

“Oh, oh!” rallied his companions, and
one of them added: “So, it’s at the
father’s request that you meet the Lady
Barbara. Ah, Percy, Percy, can’t you
pretend affection, even if you have it
not, for Lord Gordon’s daughter and
her golden charms?”

“I’d pretend it to her if she’d let
me,” answered Farquhart, still indifferently.
“And I’d pretend it about her if
it were worth while. But I’m afraid
 that my friends know me too well to
suffer such pretense. I’m with friends
to-night”—he glanced only at Treadway
and at Lindley—“so why taint tone
or manner with lies? The Lady Barbara
Gordon knows as well as I know
that it’s her lands that are to be wed
to mine, that her gold must gild my title,
that her heirs and my heirs must be the
same. Old Gordon holds us both with
a grip like iron, and we are both puppets
in his hands. She knows it, and I know
it. She is as resentful of pretended affection
as she would be of love—from
me. But come, let us forget the Lady
Barbara while we may—after we have
drunk a measure of wine to her safe
conduct from Camberwell to The Jolly
Grig. From here to London her safety
will depend on our swords. To the
Lady Barbara, I say, to her daffodil
hair, to her violet eyes, to her poppy
lips, to her lily cheeks! Is that lover-like
enough? Eh, Clarence? And I’ll
add, to the icicle that incloses her heart.
May her peace be unbroken on the road
from Camberwell to London.”

He raised his wine cup high, glancing
frankly at Lindley and at Treadway,
but passing hurriedly over Ashley’s
scornful lips and hostile eyes. For
Dame Rumor had been right once in a
way, and The Jolly Grig tavern was
not the only stronghold that she had
invaded with the assertion that young
Ashley had found favor in the Lady
Barbara’s eyes; that he had possessed
her heart. And an onlooker might have
seen that Ashley’s nervous fingers had
played an accompaniment upon his
sword-hilt while the lady’s name had
been on the lips of her affianced lover
and his friends. But not only had the
Lady Barbara commanded Farquhart
to have Ashley much in his company,
but she had also commanded Ashley to
accept whatever courtesies were offered
him by Lord Farquhart. Each was
obeying strictly the lady’s commands,
one for the sake of policy, the other for
the sake of love.

A short silence fell after the toast
had been drunk. The men had ridden
hard and were tired.

“I’m sorry we did not meet the Black
Devil, or one of his imps, ourselves,” observed
Treadway, yawning and stretching
his arms above his head. “We’re
not in fashion if we can’t report a hold
up by this representative of his Satanic
majesty.”

“But he’d hardly attack a party as
large as ours,” cried Lindley. “Eight
against one would be too unequal a
fight, even if the one were the devil
himself.”

“Have a care, my good Cecil,”
laughed Farquhart. “You mention the
enemy’s name somewhat freely, seeing
that we are to escort a lady through his
haunts.”

“Ay, but my fingers are crossed, you
see, and that closes the devil’s ears. If
it really is the devil, we’ll have nothing
to fear from him.”

“The last report is that he held up the
bishop’s carriage, mounted escort and
all,” interrupted Treadway.

“No, no,” corrected Lindley; “the fellow
merely stopped the bishop’s carriage,
escort and all. Then he begged
for alms, and the episcopal blessing!
Then he drew the ring from the hand
that bestowed the alms and blessing,
and slipped away before the ponderous
escort perceived that the bishop had
fainted with terror.”

“They say he returned the ring the
following day,” added Treadway, “doubling
the alms bestowed by the bishop,
requesting that the gold be used for
the good of the church!”

“A devilish good joke, I call that,”
laughed Lord Farquhart. “And they
say, too, that the poor old bishop is actually
afraid to use the money for fear
it—why, I really believe he is afraid that
his Satanic majesty did have some part
in the prank.”

“And old Grimsby swears he saw the
fellow’s tail and cloven hoof when he
was waylaid by him,” commented Lindley.

“I’d not heard that Lord Grimsby
had been attacked by this highwayman.”
This was Ashley’s first entrance into the
conversation.

“Attacked!” the three men cried in
chorus.

 “Why, he was held up in his own
garden,” explained Treadway. “It was
just after it had been noised abroad that
he had disinherited Jack. Poor Jack
was bemoaning his luck and his debts
in prison, and they say that Lord Grimsby
spent all his time pacing the walks
of his garden cursing Jack and those
selfsame debts. That is to say, that is
what he did before the episode of the
highwayman. Then the man—or devil,
whatever he is—appeared quite close
behind Lord Grimsby, gagged him and
blindfolded him, and would not release
him until he had signed a promise to
reinstate Jack, pay all his debts and
present him with money enough to live
like a prince of the blood for a year.
Hard as it is to believe, old Grimsby
signed it, and afterward he was afraid
to go back on his signature, for fear—why,
simply for fear that the devil
would come for him if he did. Jack,
of course, is all for worshiping the devil
now, and swears if this gentlemanly
highwayman proves to be human, and
ever comes near the gallows, he’ll save
him or become highwayman himself.
So, in reality, old Grimsby will have to
use his power to save this thief, if ever
he’s caught, to keep his own son and
heir off the road.”

“And Lord Grimsby’s power is absolute,
is it not?” asked Ashley.

“As absolute as his majesty’s command,”
agreed Treadway.

“Has it not been whispered in certain
circles that this highwayman is
some well-known London gallant, merely
amusing himself with the excitement
and danger of the game of the road?”
asked Lindley.

“Somewhat too dangerous an amusement,
in spite of its profits,” sneered
Ashley.

“Ah, but that’s the most curious part
of it!” cried Treadway. “The fellow
never keeps anything that he takes.
There are some two-score robberies laid
to his account, and in each and every
case some poor fellow down on his luck
for want of funds has received, most
mysteriously, the stolen wealth.”

“He fights like a fiend, they say,”
commented Lord Farquhart, “whether
he is a gentleman or not. And yet he
has seriously wounded no one. Sir
Henry Willoughby confessed to me that
the fellow had pinked him twenty times
in a moonlit, roadside attack, then disarmed
him with a careless laugh and
walked off, taking nothing with him.
Sir Henry himself, mind you! The
most noted duelist in London!”

“Why not drink to the fiend and a
speedy meeting with him?” laughed
Lindley. “I promise you that if I meet
him I’ll unmask him and see if he be
man or devil. To the Black Devil himself!”
he cried, lifting high his wine
cup. “To this most honorable and fearless
gentleman of the highways!”

The four voices rose in chorus to the
brown rafters of the inn.

“To this most honorable and fearless
gentleman of the highways! To the
Black Devil himself!”

III.

Many a round of wine had been
served to the young revelers, and, under
its influence, each one was revealing a
little more of his real self. They had
all laid aside their muddy riding boots
and heavy riding coats, and were lounging
in picturesque undress. Lord Farquhart,
who was easily the leader of the
four, had thrown aside the cynical veneer
that had for some time marred the
dark, Oriental beauty of his face, and
was humming a love song. Lindley’s
comely Irish face was slightly flushed,
and he was keeping time on the white
table with the tip of his sword to the
ditty that floated from Lord Farquhart’s
lips. Treadway, London’s dapperest
beau, was smirking at his own reflection
in a small hand mirror he carried, while
Ashley, who had drunk more heavily
than any of the others, permitted a definite
scowl to contract his brows and
droop his lips.

“I’m trying—I’m trying,” murmured
Lord Farquhart, “to change that last
song I wrote for Sylvia into a song for
Barbara! The rhyme and the rhythm
go the same, I think.” He stood up and
sang the words out loud, repeating the
verses several times, inserting sometimes
 Sylvia’s name and sometimes Barbara’s.

Lips that vie with the poppy’s hue,

Eyes that shame the violet’s blue,

Hearts that beat with love so true,

Sylvia, sweet, I come to you!

Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!

His eyes questioned Treadway.

“Is it not quite the same? Does it not
go to one name as well as to the other?
To me it seems I’ve no need to write a
new verse for my new love.”

“How will the fair Sylvia take her
congé in a fortnight’s time?” demanded
Ashley, in an undertone, of Lindley.

And it was in the same tone that
Lindley answered: “Let’s wonder, rather,
if the fair Sylvia’ll be given her
congé in a fortnight’s time!” But the
sneer in Lindley’s voice was for Ashley,
who had asked the impertinent question,
not for Farquhart, whose honor he, apparently,
doubted. “Lord Farquhart’s
not to blame, as you know well enough.
The mess is of Lord Gordon’s making,
for Lord Gordon holds in trust even
the barren lands that came to Percy with
his title.”

Ashley’s resentment of Lindley’s tone
was apparent on his face, and his fingers
were again on his sword. He was under
no promise to his lady not to fight
with Lindley, and his blood cried out
for a fight with some one. But at that
instant there was a loud clamor in the
courtyard. A horse’s hoofs on the flags,
a fretted whinny, the oaths of stable
boys, all combined into an uproar.

“Can it be the Lady Barbara?” cried
Percy Farquhart, sobered suddenly, and
reaching for his plumed hat.

“Nay, my lord, ’tis but one horse,”
answered Marmaduke, hurrying to the
door. “’Tis a riderless horse,” he
added, in a second.

“A riderless horse!” echoed all of the
young men in chorus, springing to their
feet.

“Ay, a riderless horse,” called Marmaduke,
from the darkness without;
“’tis a woman’s horse, too; a woman’s
cushioned seat.”

The guests were crowding about the
door, all save the lad who had been
slumbering so deeply. He, roused by
the sudden clamor, and apparently
frightened by the sudden realization
that he had unwittingly trespassed upon
Lord Farquhart’s privacy, slipped softly
up the stairs.

“A woman’s horse!” cried Lindley.
“Is it possible that some woman has
fallen victim to the Black Devil? Here,
almost within earshot of our revelings?
To the rescue!”

“Nay, we must think first of the
Lady Barbara’s safety,” interrupted
Ashley, holding back and barring the
doorway with a peremptory arm. “We
must not risk the Lady Barbara for the
sake of some chance damsel. Rather
let us mount and ride to meet the Gordon
coach.”

“There is no sign whatsoever of foul
play,” reported Marmaduke, coming in
from the yard. “The lines are knotted
loosely, and a tethering strap is broken.
The beast has doubtless but strayed
from some neighboring house.”

“If ’tis from some neighboring house,
good Marmaduke, would you not know
the horse and trappings?” queried
Treadway. “Is there nothing to show
the lady’s name or rank?”

“There’s no mark of any kind,” answered
Marmaduke. “’Tis a white
horse with a black star between the eyes,
and the trappings are of scarlet. That
is all I can tell you, your honor. In all
likelihood some stable boy’ll be along
shortly to claim the creature.”

The young men were again sitting
about the table, and Ashley called for
another round of wine.

“I, for one, have had wine enough
and to spare,” declared Treadway.
“The Lady Barbara must be here soon,
and, to my thinking, ten minutes of
sleep would not be amiss. You, too, my
lord, could you not meet the lady with
a better grace after at least forty
winks?” He linked his arm in Lord
Farquhart’s and led him toward a door
at the side of the room. “Come to my
room and we’ll pretend to imitate the
lad with the good conscience and the
good wine atop of it. Why, the lad’s
gone! Slipped away like a frightened
shadow, doubtless, when he found the
company he’d waked into. Unless the
 Lady Barbara comes, give us fifteen
minutes, Marmaduke. Not a second
more, on your life. Fifteen minutes will
unfuddle a brain that’s—that’s not as
clear as it might be, but more than that
will make it dull.”

Together the two men entered Treadway’s
room, caroling aloud the love
song that had been writ to Sylvia and
changed to Barbara.

Ashley and Lindley, left alone over
the table, sat for a moment in silence.
Then the latter, forgetting his resentment
toward Ashley as easily as it had
been roused, spoke in a laughing, rallying
voice.

“Cheer up, Hal! A fortnight’s a
goodly time in which a slip may come
between unwilling lips and a lagging
cup. It seems to me that for a lover’s
heart, yours is a faint heart. The Lady
Barbara is unwon yet—by Percy, I
mean.” The last words were added
with a laugh at Ashley’s gloomy countenance.

“Yes, the lips are unwilling enough,”
Ashley agreed, in a grudging voice,
“and the cup lags, undoubtedly, but
there’ll be no slip; old Gordon will force
the lips, and old Gordon holds the handle
of the cup. Mistress Barbara is but
wax in her father’s hands, and as for
Farquhart—well, unless he marries the
Lady Barbara, Lord Gordon will ruin
him. The old man has sworn that he
will have his way, and have it he will,
or I’m much mistaken.”

“But,” remonstrated Lindley, “wax
can be molded by any hand that holds
it. If the lady is wax in her father’s
hands through fear, ’twould seem to me
that—why, that love is hotter than fear,
that love might mold as well, if not better,
than fear.”

“Ay, if love had a chance to mold,”
answered Ashley, with more animation,
but the mask of reserve fell quickly over
his features. “Enough of me and my
affairs, though. How is it with you?
Have you won the lady of your own
heart’s desire? When last I saw you,
you were lamenting, the obduracy of
some fair one, if I remember right.”

“Alas and alack, no, I’ve not won
her,” mourned Lindley, his Irish eyes
and his Irish lips losing their laughter.
“I’m in a fair way never to win her, I
think. In my case, though, it’s the father
that’s wax in the daughter’s hands.
’Tis a long time since he gave his consent
to my wooing the maid, but the
maid will not be wooed. She knows
how to have her own way, and has always
known it and always had it, too.
She tyrannized over me when she was
a lass of six and I was a lad of ten.
Now she will not even meet me. When
I visit at her house, she locks herself in
her own chamber, and even I lose heart
when it comes to wooing a maid through
a wooden door. Ay, I tried it once, and
only once. To my last letter, a hot, impassioned
love letter, her only reply was
to ask whether I still would turn white
at a cock fight. The minx remembers
well enough that I did turn white at a
fight between two gamecocks, which
she, mind you, had arranged in her father’s
barnyard at that same time, when
she was six and I was ten.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” answered
Ashley, who had given little heed to
Lindley’s words. “But to my mind such
a maid would not be worth the wooing.
’Tis to be hoped that Treadway has
cleared Farquhart’s addled wits as well
as he has cleared his voice,” he added,
after a moment’s silence.

Floating down from Lord Farquhart’s
room came the last words of
the song to Sylvia.

Hearts that beat with love so true!

Sylvia, sweet, I come to you!

Yet at that very instant, in young
Treadway’s room, Lord Farquhart was
snoring in unison with young Treadway.
Lord Farquhart’s head was pillowed
next to the head of young Treadway.
And, stranger yet, at that very
instant, too, there sprang from Lord
Farquhart’s window a figure strangely
resembling Lord Farquhart himself,
decked out in Lord Farquhart’s riding
clothes, that had been cast aside after
the miry ride from London town, and
tucked away in one corner of Lord Farquhart’s
room were the dark riding
coat and breeches of the youth who had
 slumbered before the hearth of The
Jolly Grig.

About the figure, as it sped along the
road, was a long black cloak, over its
head was drawn a wide French cap,
and over the face was a black mask, but
on the lips, under the mask, were the
words of Lord Farquhart’s song to
Sylvia, the song wherein the name of
Sylvia had so lately given place to Barbara.

Hearts that beat with love so true!

Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!

IV.

The exchange of confidences between
the two young men lasted for a few moments
more. Then Ashley, examining
the fastenings of his sword belt, exclaimed:

“Assuredly the Lady Barbara must
arrive soon, whatever the state of the
roads may be. I will go and look to the
men and horses. Doubtless the former
are as mad as their masters, and, doubtless,
too, they have consumed as much
of Marmaduke’s heady wine.”

Lindley, left to himself, drew a letter
from some place not far distant from
his heart and read it.

It was written in a clerkly hand, and
was, for the first part, clearly a dictation.

I regret to say, my dear Cecil, that I can
give you no better word from my daughter,
Judith. She declares roundly that she will
have nothing to do with you, that she will
not listen to your suit, and she commands me
to advise you to put her out of your head
for all time. I cannot, as you know, say
aught against my girl.

“I should not let him if he would.”

In her duty to me she is all that I could
ask, but in every other respect her madcap
moods seem but to grow upon her. She
spends much of her time shut up in her
own room, and I have discovered quite recently
that she rides much alone—through
our own forests only, however. I would not
for the world convey to you the idea that
Judith is indiscreet. She has stripped from
the trappings of her horse every sign of our
name and station—or so the stable boys have
reported to me. And not ten days since one
of the maids ran to me in a great pother and
told me that Mistress Judith was stamping
about her chamber, behind locked doors, conversing
at the top of her voice with herself
or with the empty air. When I took her to
task on the subject she explained that she
was merely rehearsing to join some play actors
she had seen performing on the common.
Neither locks nor bars will hold her,
for I have tried both. I would not dare to
coerce her in any smallest degree, for I
know not what might happen. So I hope
you will see, my dear Cecil, that it would be
indeed wise if you could take her advice and
put her out of your mind. I fear that, as she
says, she has given me all the love of which
she is capable.

From this point the letter ran on in
the same hand, but in another vein.

So far, dear coz, I’ve written according to
my revered father’s words. You know I’m
the only scholar in the family. The pen fits
his hand but sadly, while every implement of
love and war rests easily in mine. With the
foils I—— But, alas and alack, you care not
for tales of that sort. I hear you say: “Fie,
fie, Ju! Why play with a man’s toys?” To
return to the subject in hand. Will you put
me quite out of your mind and thoughts?
Can you? If so, I pray you do so. For I
love you not at all. ’Tis so absurd of you
to want to marry the little red-haired termagant
you used to play with. And believe me,
I’m naught now save a big red-haired termagant.
And I love you not one whit more
than I did in the old days when I used to
hate you. Perhaps ’twould be folly to say
that I never will love you. I might meet you
somewhere, at some odd chance, and find that
you were the man for my inmost heart.
And at that same meeting you might find that
you loved me not at all. You think, doubtless,
that I know nothing of love, and yet I
do know that it lies all in the chance of meeting.
If I might meet you in my mood of to-day
I’d hate you, whereas to-morrow I might
love you. To defend myself against my father’s
charges I’ll not try. Yet why should
I not ride alone? And am I alone with my
beloved Star? Ay, even though it is only
a black star between two starry eyes blacker
than night? Why should I not have stripped
my father’s name and rank from my horse’s
trappings when I go abroad? Suppose I
should join the play actors—and they do
tempt me sorely—why should my father’s
name and rank be known and defamed?
And, truly, I grant you, I’m as likely to join
the play actors as to enter a nunnery, the
one as the other and the other as the one.
Both draw me strangely, and I’m likelier to
do either than to marry you. Here’s my
hand and seal on that, or, rather, here’s my
hand and a kiss, for a kiss is more binding
than a seal. And now for the last word—will
you put me out of your mind? Or will
you wait for that chance meeting?

Judith, your Cousin. Also,
Judith, dutiful daughter
of James Ogilvie.

 Lindley’s lips had touched the paper
more than once, and half a dozen sighs
had crossed them, when suddenly he
sprang to his feet.

A black star! Judith’s horse, then,
had a black star on its forehead! And
the horse with the black star that had
but now strayed into the stable yard!
Could that be Judith’s horse? Was Judith
in danger or distress? In another
instant Lindley was out through the
door, calling aloud for the white horse
with the black star between its eyes.

“But, my master,” gasped a stable
lad, “a squire from Master Ogilvie’s led
the beast away not ten minutes ago.
’Twas Mistress Ogilvie’s horse, he said,
strayed from the woods where the lady
had been gathering wild flowers.”

And it was then at that moment that
the Lady Barbara’s mud-bespattered
outriders dashed into the courtyard,
crying out that their lady’s coach was
but a short distance behind them.

V.

The Lady Barbara’s coach was wobbling
slowly along the moonlit road that
led to The Jolly Grig. Fast enough it
traveled, however, according to Lady
Barbara’s way of thinking, in spite of
the fact that, at the tavern, she would
find a lover and love awaiting her; the
lover, Lord Percy Farquhart, to whom
she was betrothed, to whom she would,
indeed, be married in a fortnight’s time,
and love in the person of Harry Ashley,
who had loved her long, and whom she
thought she loved. Under her gauntlet
Lord Percy’s betrothal ring chafed her
finger. On her breast lay the red rose
she wore always, for no other reason
than that Ashley had asked her so to do.

Querulous to the ancient dame who
traveled with her she had been from the
start, and more than querulous to the
two black-eyed maids whose sole apparent
duties were to divine my lady’s
wishes before they could be expressed
in words.

“Absurd; I say it is absurd that I
should be dragged up to London in all
this mire,” Lady Barbara cried, in a
petulant, plaintive voice. “What do I
want with the latest fallals and fripperies
to catch my Lord Farquhart’s
fancy when he never so much as looks
at me? I know full as well as he that
his Mistress Sylvia in rags would be
more to him than I would be if I were
decked in the gayest gauds the town
could offer.”

“Sylvia!” gasped her attendant dame.

“Ay, Sylvia, I said,” answered the
Lady Barbara. “Don’t think that I’m
deaf to London gossip, and don’t imagine
that I’m the unsophisticated child
my father thinks me, merely because I
acquiesce in this brutal plan to marry
me to a man I hate. I know how my
Lord Farquhart entertains himself. Not
that I’d have his love, either. I’d hate
him offering love more than I hate him
denying it.”

The petulant voice ran on and on, its
only vehemence induced by the muddy
ruts in the road. Mistress Benton, using
every force to keep awake, interjected
monosyllabic exclamations and
questions. The two maids, exerting all
their powers to fall asleep, gave little
heed to their mistress’ railings.

The outriders, lured onward by an
imagined maltiness in the air, had permitted
an ever-increasing distance between
themselves and their lady’s coach.
It was certainly some several moments
after they had passed a moon-shadowed
corner that the lumbering coach horses
stumbled, wavered and stopped short.
Sleepy Drennins recovered his seat with
difficulty, the sleepy coach boys sprang
to the horses’ heads, Mistress Benton
squawked, and the young maids
squeaked with terror. Only the Lady
Barbara was quite calm. But it must
be remembered that the Lady Barbara
would welcome delay in any form. But
even she drew back in some alarm from
the masked face that appeared at the
coach door.

“Aaaaay! God help us!” screamed
Mistress Benton. “’Tis the Black Devil
himself.”

The two maids clung to each other
and scurried into an anguished unconsciousness.

The mask had opened the coach door,
 and his face was close to the Lady Barbara’s.

“A word in your ear, sweet cousin
Babs,” he whispered. “But first order
your men, on pain of death, to stand
each where they are.”

The Lady Barbara recognized dimly
a familiar tone in the voice. She saw
Lord Farquhart’s coat.

“Lord Farquhart! Percy!” The cry
was faint enough in itself, but it was
muffled, too, by the gauntleted hand of
the highwayman.

“Only for your eyes, my cousin,” he
answered. “Only for your ears.”

“What prank is this?” she demanded,
haughtily, and yet she had, indeed, given
her orders to her men to stand each
in his place on pain of death.

“A lover’s prank, perhaps, my sweetheart,”
the mask answered. “A prank
to have a word alone with you. Come,
step down upon my cloak and walk with
me out into the moonlight. I would see
by it your daffodil hair, your violet eyes,
your poppy lips, your lily cheeks.”

A mocking, rippling laugh crossed
the Lady Barbara’s lips. At once she
gave her hand to her strange cavalier.

“I thought my eyes and ears were not
mistaken,” she said. “Now I know in
very truth that you are my cousin
Percy, for that is the only lover-like
speech that ever came from his lips to
me. You believe in repetition, it seems.”

In spite of old Mistress Benton’s commands
and prayers, the Lady Barbara
had stepped from the coach and the
stranger had slammed the door upon
the gibbering dame.

“Ripening corn in a wanton breeze, I
should call the hair to-night,” he said.
“Bits of heaven’s own blue, the eyes;
roses red and white, the cheeks, and ripe
pomegranate the lips. Does that suit
you better, Lady Babs?”

The Lady Barbara’s laughter rang
back to Mistress Benton’s frenzied ears.

“The moonlight seems to infuse your
love with warmth, my cousin.” The
lady leaned with coquettish heaviness
upon the arm that supported her hand.

“The icicle that holds your heart has
chilled my love till now, my sweet,” the
mask answered.

“But why did you stop me in this
fashion?” The Lady Barbara had
drawn back from the ardor in her escort’s
voice. “What means this silly
masquerade? What words would you
speak to me here? In this fashion?”

“’Tis but a lover’s prank, as you
said,” he answered, lightly. Then, singing
softly Lord Farquhart’s song to
Sylvia, he swung her lightly from him,
and bowed low before her as though she
were his partner in a dance.

Hearts that beat with love so true!

Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!

She, falling in with his humor,
dropped him an answering courtesy,
and, drawing off her gauntlet, gave him
her bare hand. He fell on his knee before
her, and lightly touched the hand
with his lips.

“Give me the glove, sweetheart,” he
cried, “and the rose you wear on your
heart and—and all these rings that mar
your sweet, white hand with their
gaudy reds and blues. Leave only mine
to prove that you are only mine.”

He drew the jewels from her hand,
and, suddenly, she started from him.

“Take off your mask, Percy, and lift
your hat,” she cried, impulsively.

“You ask too much, sweet cousin.”
Still he answered lightly. He was still
on his knees before her. “My mask and
my hat proclaim my trade, if not to you,
at least to your servants.”

The roses in her cheeks faded, then
blossomed once again. Again she
laughed, but this time the rippling music
held a tremor. Her hand caught her
heart.

“For an instant,” she gasped—“oh!
for an instant I thought—I was afraid
that you might indeed be——”

“And for once you thought the truth,
sweet cousin. But you’ve naught to
fear.” The mask’s voice had grown serious.
He was on his feet and holding
both her hands in his. “I am he; I am
he in dread of whom all London shivers,
and it was to tell you that—that I
stopped you, Barbara. To tell you and
to test, if not your love, at least your
good intentions as my wife. The world
tells me that I cannot win your love,
 that it has been given irretrievably to
another. But your fidelity I must prove
before you wear my name. I am placing
my life, my safety, my honor, in the
sweet jeopardy of your hands. My life
is forfeit, as you know. My life is
henceforth in your hands.” She was
shrinking away from him, but he held
her fast. “My friends—your lover—await
us at The Jolly Grig. I shall be
with them before you arrive. You will
face them and me in ten minutes or less.
If you intend to keep faith with me as
my wife, you will meet me as your betrothed.
You will give no sign of this
new knowledge of me.”

“But—but——” she stammered.

“There are no buts, sweet cousin,
sweetheart.” Already he was leading
her back to the coach. “You may cry
out, if you will, when you see us, that
you were held up by the black highwayman.
In truth, there will be no need
for you to tell the tale. Your servants
will save you the trouble. In proof of
the story, the fellow has stolen your
rose and your glove and your rings.
In ransom of your life, you swore that
he should not be followed. We’ll hurry
you on to town. We’ll give the alarm,
and the constables and their men will
have a mad and a merry chase. But
from now on, this is our secret. We
are one in that already.”

Courteously and slowly he drew her
to the coach, pressing her forward as
she held reluctantly back. Denying her
all chance to answer, he handed her into
the coach and disappeared.

VI.

The Jolly Grig was empty. The
guests, all in the courtyard, were mounting
to meet the Lady Barbara. A shadowy
figure clambered to Lord Farquhart’s
window, a figure strangely like
Lord Farquhart. A moment later, a
shadowy figure, resembling, this time,
the lad who had slept by the hearth,
slipped down the stairs into the small
room at the back of the inn. Here it
stopped for an instant’s reverie.

“’Tis curious how jests grow,” the
red lips murmured. “At first I but
thought of frightening that haughty
cousin of mine, the Lady Barbara Gordon.
And now—heigh-ho! I hope I’ve
not stored up trouble for Lord Farquhart.
’Twould be a sad pity to vex so
fine a gentleman!”

Then the figure hurriedly caught up
the bundle of woman’s toggery that had
enswathed its entrance to the inn, and
through the dancing motes, over the
sun-flecked floor, the same slim shadow,
the shadow that resembled the lad
who had slept by the hearth, the shadow
that had slipped down the curving
stairs, crept through another window,
was off and away, lost in the other shadows
of the night.

VII.

Into the torch-filled courtyard rolled
the Lady Barbara’s coach. There was
little need for the lady to tell her own
story. Mistress Benton’s shrieks were
filling the air. The maids were squealing
and praying Heaven to save them.
Drennins and the shamed coach boys
were cursing roundly.

“Thieves! Murder! Robbery!”
screamed Mistress Benton. “We are
killed!”

Even the Lady Barbara’s white hand
could not quell the tumult, and, all the
time, her frightened eyes rested tremulously
everywhere save on Lord Farquhart’s
face.

“Here, here, not a hundred paces
from the inn,” screamed Mistress Benton.
“He robbed us. He stole our all.
Oh, just Heaven! We are all murdered.”

Here the Lady Barbara’s hand did
produce silence in one quarter by clasping
Mistress Benton’s mouth with its
long, slim fingers.

But from one and another the story
was soon out. They had, indeed, been
stopped at the points of a dozen pistols!
This version was told by one of the
coach boys.

“A dozen, man!” scoffed Barbara.
Even her voice was slightly tremulous.
“There was one lone highwayman, a
single highwayman in black mask and
coat and hat!”

 “’Twas the Black Devil himself!”
cried the chorus of men, who had
watched calmly at the inn while the
outrage was occurring.

“One man! And the horses’ legs
knotted in a haze of ropes strung over
the road!” cried Drennins, determined
to maintain the number to which he had
been willing to yield his own and his
lady’s life. “One man! God’s truth!
There must have been at least a dozen!”

“Ay, but ’twas Barbara’s own fault!”
Mistress Benton cried, but again Barbara’s
hand silenced her in the same
way, and now Barbara’s own voice
rang out clear and decisive.

“Why do we dally here?” she demanded.
“The story’s all told, and I’ve
given my word that the fellow should
go free. There’s little loss—a few jewels
and an old glove. Nay, nay, Lord
Percy. My word is given. You shall
neither go yourself nor send your servants
after the fellow. He is absolutely
safe from molestation from me and
mine.” Her eyes now rested with curious
insistence on Lord Farquhart’s
face, but he could not read the riddle
in them. “And now”—the lady leaned
back wearily—“if this clamor might all
cease! I am desperately weary. Get
me to my aunt’s house with as much
speed as possible.”

There was a short conference among
the men, and then the little group separated.
But the lady had only closed her
eyes. Her ears were eager. She sat
suddenly erect.

“No, Mr. Ashley,” she cried, summarily;
“a woman’s word is as weighty
as a man’s. Mine has been given. I
desire that you should all of you—all,
every one—ride with me to London.”

In spite of her peremptory commands,
there was still further parley
before the coach was once more in
progress, but the Lady Barbara, held in
converse by Mr. Ashley, did not hear
it, nor did she see that one of her escorting
cavaliers remained behind when
the coach moved on.

“I’ve reasons of my own for knowing
whether the fellow still lingers in this
vicinity,” Cecil Lindley had declared.
“I’ll promise not to harm him, not to
hold him; but I’ll search the spot where
Lady Barbara’s coach was stopped.”

“But not single-handed!” Lord Farquhart
had cried. “If you must stay,
if you must go on your fool’s errand,
at least take one or more of the men
with you.”

“Nay, I’ve no fear for myself, but—but——”
Lindley had hesitated. “Our
gentleman highwayman knows the
standing of his victims too well for me
to have fear for my own safety. But
I’ll go alone, for I’ll pass the night at
my cousin Ogilvie’s. His place is near
at hand, and I’d not care to quarter
men on him at this unseemly hour.
Good luck to you,” he had cried; “and
good luck to me,” he had added, as he
separated himself from them and rode
away.

VIII.

The night was so far advanced that
the moon was now directly overhead,
and it was not very long before Lindley
saw, not a hundred yards ahead of him,
a white horse, ridden negligently by a
somewhat slovenly lad—hooded, cloaked
and doubled up in the saddle, as though
riding were a newly acquired accomplishment.
The road was lonely enough
to instill an eerie feeling in the stoutest
heart, and yet the lad seemed quite unmoved
when Lindley, after one or two
vocal appeals, laid a heavy hand on his
horse’s bridle.

“Are ye stone deaf, my lad, or asleep,
or merely mooning over some kitchen
wench?” demanded Lindley, with asperity.

“Neither, my master,” answered the
lad, in the cracking voice that leaps unbidden
from piping youth to manly
depths. “I’m uncommonly good of
hearing. I’d sure fall off my horse if
I were asleep, and the wench who’s
most in my mind would be sadly out of
place in a kitchen.”

“Didn’t you hear me calling, then?”
Lindley was reining in his own steed to
keep pace with the white horse.

“Surely I heard your halloo”—the
boy’s hand drew his hood closer about
his face—“but I did not know that it
was addressed to me.”

 “You’re servant to Master James Ogilvie,
are you not?” Lindley’s tone implied
a statement rather than a question,
but the lad denied him.

“No, you’re wrong. I’m no servant
of Master James Ogilvie’s.”

“But it’s Mistress Judith Ogilvie’s
horse you ride!” Again Lindley made
an assertion.

“Ay, you’re right there,” answered
the boy. “Once wrong, once right. Try
again, my master.”

“It’s you who’ll be tried, I’m thinking,”
said Lindley, once again laying his
hand on the scarlet bridle of the white
horse. “What do you with Mistress
Judith’s horse at this hour of the night,
if you’re not Master Ogilvie’s servant?”

“I might be servant to Mistress Judith,”
hazarded the lad.

“No insolence, boy,” quoth Lindley,
working himself into a fine rage. “Mistress
Judith has no servants that are
not of her father’s household.”

“Ah, that proves that you’ve not seen
Mistress Judith Ogilvie.” A faint ripple,
that might have been laughter,
shook the boy’s words. “All men are
servants to Mistress Ogilvie, all men
who have laid eyes on the lady.”

“And so you’re serving Mistress Judith
by riding her horse from The Jolly
Grig to the Ogilvie stables?” The sneer
in Lindley’s voice was evident, and he
tried again to take possession of the
scarlet bridle that had slipped or had
been withdrawn from his fingers.

“Ay, my master, the horse had
strayed while Mistress Judith was gathering
wild flowers in the Ogilvie woods.
And since you may have reason for
your curiosity, I’ll add that the maid was
afraid her father would deprive her of
the horse if he knew of this mischance,
and she dared not trust one of the stable
boys to search for it, so she came to
me.”

“And thanking you for so much courtesy,
add but one more favor,” scoffed
Lindley. “Who and what may you be
that Mistress Judith should come to
you for aid?”

Lindley could see the careless shrug
of the lad’s shoulders as he answered:

“Why, as I told you to-night, I’m
servant to Miss Judith Ogilvie, servant
and lover of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.”

“Lover!” The word halted at Lindley’s
teeth, and his eyes rested superciliously
on the slouched figure beside him.

“Ay, lover,” answered the lad, ignoring
Lindley’s tone, unconscious of his
look. “As the brook loves the moon, as
the brook holds the moon in its heart
and cherishes her there, so hold I Mistress
Judith in my heart.”

“I like not your manner, boy, neither
your manner nor your conversation.”
Lindley’s anger expressed itself in his
voice.

“Alas! I cannot change my manner
so readily, my lord. But the conversation?
It is of your own seeking. It is
yours to end when you please. I am in
no hurry, and the road lies ahead of
you.” The lad halted his horse, but
Lindley also drew rein.

“Answer straight who and what you
are,” he cried. “I am cousin to Master
James Ogilvie, and I have a right to
demand an answer to those questions.”

“Ah! A straight question always
merits an answer, Master—Master——But
I know not your name,” said the
boy. “I’m called Johan, and I’m bonded
for a term of years to a man who has
many names, and who plays many
parts.”

“You are one of the play actors,
then!” burst from Lindley’s lips.

“Yes, one of the play actors.” The
lad’s words were simple, yet something
in his tone gave new offense.

“I’ll have my cousin whip you from
his lands before the morning’s an hour
old,” spluttered Lindley.

The boy’s laughter rang through the
woods.

“Master Ogilvie had already made
that threat, but Mistress Judith sent
him word that the day we were whipped
from the common, that day would she
whip herself from his house. Mistress
Judith is, I think, only too ready to sign
a bond with my master. She loves——She’d
make a good actor, would Mistress
Judith.”

There was a long silence. The two
horses were again pacing with well
 matched steps through the miry road.
Twice, when the moonlight shone full
upon them, Lindley tried to see the lad’s
face, but each time only the pointed
hood of the slouchy cape rewarded his
curiosity. From his voice he judged
his companion to be not more than fourteen
or fifteen years old, although his
words would have proved him older.

Suddenly the lad spoke.

“If you are cousin to Master James
Ogilvie, as you say, why you are, then,
cousin, too, to my Mistress Judith. You
have seen her lately? Possibly she has
confessed her plans, her ambitions, to
you!”

“Nay, I’ve not seen the girl since we
were children,” admitted Lindley, almost
against his will.

“Well, she has—why, she has grown
up since then. You would care to hear
what she is like? I see her constantly,
you know. Her face is as familiar as
my own—almost. She’s over tall for
a woman and over slight, to my way of
thinking. But with the foils—at the
butts—ay, and with the pistols, she’s
better than any man I know. She’s
afraid of naught, too—save stupidity.”

“She was afraid of naught when she
was a child,” agreed Lindley, his interest
in his cousin permitting his interest
in the lad’s words. “It’s to be hoped
that her temper has improved,” he
added, to himself. “But red hair begets
temper, and, if I am right, my cousin’s
hair is red.”

Again the boy’s laughter startled the
woods.

“Ay, red it is. Red as a fox, and her
eyes are red, too; red with glints of yellow,
save when she’s angry, and then
they’re black as night. She’s no beauty,
this Mistress Judith. Her skin’s too
white, and her mouth’s too small, and,
as I said, she’s over tall and over slight,
but no man can look at her without loving
her, and she—why, she cares nothing
for any man. She gives no man a
chance to woo her, and declares she
never will.”

A plan was forming itself immaturely
in Lindley’s mind, and he had given
small heed to the boy’s description of
his lady. Now he spoke shortly.

“I want your help, boy. I intend to
marry Mistress Judith, with or without
her consent. And I want all the assistance
you can give me. She trusts
you, it seems. Therefore I will trust
you. I would know more of Mistress
Judith than I do. You see her daily,
you say. Then you can meet me here
each night and report to me what Mistress
Judith does and says. The day she
marries me, a hundred English crowns
will be yours.”

“Ah, you go too fast, my lord,” cried
the lad. “I know full well that Mistress
Judith will never marry you. That I
can promise you, and if I agreed to this
proposition of yours I would be on a
fool’s errand as well as you.”

“But I’ll pay you well for your trouble
if I fail, never fear. And I know
that I’ll not fail,” boasted Lindley.
“But the day I speak first to Mistress
Judith, I’ll give you a quarter of the
sum. The day she consents to be my
wife, I’ll double that, and on our wedding
day I’ll double it once more. So
your errand will not be a fool’s errand,
whatever mine may be.”

The boy seemed to hesitate.

“And I’m to meet you here, each
night, at the edge of the Ogilvie
woods?” he questioned.

“Ay, each night for a fortnight, or a
month, however long my wooing may
take.”

“And I’m to spy on Mistress Judith
and tell you all her goings and her comings
and all?”

“No, not to spy,” retorted Lindley;
“merely to let me know her passing
moods and caprices, her whimsies, her
desires.”

“But if you should be detained, my
lord; if you cannot come, must I send
word to—to——”

“Ay, to Cecil Lindley, at——”

“Oh, my master, my master!” interrupted
the boy, his elfish laughter ringing
through the woods. “Had you told
me your name at first, we had been
spared all this foolish dickering. Why,
Lindley’s the man she detests; the man
whose very name throws her into a
frenzy of temper. There’s naught that
 you can do to win Mistress Judith.
Why, man, she despises you. Nay, she
told her father only to-day—I was
standing near the tree where they sat,
mind you—that if ever again your name
was mentioned to her, she would leave
her home or—or even kill herself—anything
to rid her ears forever of the hateful
sound. How can you hope to win
Mistress Judith?”

“Win her I will, boy,” answered Lindley.
“I’m not afraid of her temper,
either. For you, your part is to do as
you’re told. Leave the rest to me. But
you need go no further now. This road
leads to the stables. I’ll deliver Mistress
Judith’s horse with mine. A bargain’s
a bargain when it’s sealed with
gold.” He flung a sovereign onto the
road in front of him.

The two horses stood side by side,
and the lad sat contemplating the gold
where it shone in the moonlight.

“As you will, Master Lindley,” he
said. “And I’ll wager it would speed
your cause could I tell Mistress Judith
that you defy her will and her temper.
That, in itself, would go far toward
winning her. As for the horses, best let
me take the two of them. There are
none of the boys awake at this hour. It
must be near three. With your good
leave, I’ll stable yours when I put Mistress
Judith’s nag in its stall.”

Lindley, standing in the moonlight
on his cousin’s steps, watched the young
play actor as he walked somewhat unsteadily
away between the two horses.
He wished that he had seen the lad’s
face, and, curiously enough, it was this
wish, and the young play actor himself,
who filled the last thoughts in
Cecil Lindley’s brain before he fell
asleep, in his cousin’s house—the play
actor who was to be the go-between
in his wooing of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.

IX.

The following morning Judith Ogilvie
awoke later than was her usual custom.
She yawned as though she were
not fully refreshed by her night’s sleep.
She rubbed her eyes, then stretched
her arms high above her head. Then
she drew one hand back and looked
long and somewhat lovingly at a round
piece of gold that the hand held. Then
she kissed the gold and blushed rosy
red in the empty solitude of her own
room. At last, nestling down again
among the bed covers, she laughed—and
a gurgling, rippling melody it was.

“So he’ll win me in spite of my hatred,”
she murmured. “And yet—and
yet, methinks if any man could win me,
without much wooing either, ’twould
be no other than my cousin, Master
Cecil Lindley. Heigh-ho! He’s a taking
way with him, and who knows?—perhaps—yes,
perhaps, he’ll take even
me, after I’ve had out my play acting
with him.”

Doubtless, then, she drowsed again,
for she was awakened once more by a
voice and a vehement pair of knuckles
on her door.

“Master Ogilvie desires that you
should descend at once to speak with
your cousin, Mr. Lindley,” said the
voice, when Judith had sleepily ordered
the knuckles to be silent.

“My cousin, Mr. Lindley?” questioned
Judith. Even to the maid she
feigned surprise. “How and when
came my cousin, Mr. Lindley?”

“In the night, some time, I believe,”
the voice answered. “He must return
to London in an hour’s time, and he
desires to see you and speak with you.”

“Say to Mr. Lindley that both he and
Master Ogilvie, my father, know well
enough that Mistress Judith Ogilvie
will hold no communication whatsoever
with Mr. Lindley. Furthermore say
that—can you remember all this, Marget?—say
that if Mr. Lindley is unable
to read the letter lately written him
by Mistress Judith Ogilvie, doubtless
he will find some clerk in London more
versed in scholarly arts than he, who
will read it to him.” The footsteps retreated
slowly from the door. “And,
Marget, Marget,” Judith called again,
“when Mr. Lindley has departed you
may waken me again.”

On that selfsame morning, the Lady
Barbara Gordon also awoke late in the
 house of her aunt, the wife of Timothy
Ogilvie. She also seemed little refreshed
by her night’s sleep. She also
yawned and rubbed her eyes and
stretched her arms above her head.
She also laughed, but there was no
rippling melody in the sound. Then
she, too, held out one hand and looked
at it curiously, looked curiously at all
the ringless fingers, looked at the one
finger that held Lord Farquhart’s betrothal
ring.

The Lady Barbara had been seriously
considering the new aspect of the
situation. Indeed, the situation looked
serious, and yet Lady Barbara doubted
if it could in reality be as serious as it
seemed. Was it possible, she asked
herself, that Lord Farquhart had been
only jesting the night before, when he
had declared himself to be the highwayman
of whom all London stood in
dread? But jesting had hitherto held
no place in her intercourse with Lord
Farquhart. If he were indeed this
highwayman, why had he jeopardized
his life and honor by revealing the
secret to her? It was absurd for him
to say that he desired to test her loyalty
before he gave her his name and
title. Did he suppose for a moment
that she would betray him? And yet
by betraying him she could escape this
hateful marriage! But—was he trying
to frighten her so that she would refuse
to marry him—so that she alone
would incur old Gordon’s wrath—so
that he would still be free to love and
have his Sylvia?

Here she clinched her small fists and
declared that, highwayman or not, she’d
marry him! She would show him that
he could not disdain her for any Sylvia.
And then a tiny imp with immature
horns and a budding tail whispered
something in her ear, and she laughed
again, and again there was no melody
in the sound.

“Ay, I’ll show him,” she said aloud.
“It will not be so hard to marry him
now. I fancy he will find it difficult to
make objections to my comings and goings.”

All this, perhaps, will prove that the
Lady Barbara knew more of London
life than its gossip. Also it might prove
that there were other ingredients in the
Lady Barbara’s character than dutiful
submission to her father’s commands.
Undoubtedly, it shows that the devil’s
children are as subtle as the devil himself.

And yet, when the Lady Barbara
called for her maid and while she
waited for her, she looked at the hand
the highwayman had kissed so often the
night before. She blushed faintly and
smiled slightly. But that only shows
that every lover has a chance to win,
that Lord Farquhart, offering love,
might have wooed successfully. But to
the maid, the lady said only:

“When Mr. Ashley comes, I will see
him. To anyone else say that I desire
to be left to myself.”

Lord Farquhart’s awakening on that
same morning was the most curious, the
most unpleasant, of them all. It occurred
even later in the day than the
others, and there was no laughter of
any kind on his lips. Rather were they
framing curses. Another day and night
of freedom were gone. His marriage to
the Lady Barbara Gordon was a day
nearer. How could he laugh? Why
should he not curse?

Suddenly his eyes fell on a tabouret
that stood near his bed. On it lay a
withered rose and half a dozen jeweled
rings. The rose he had never seen before.
The rings he was almost sure he
had seen on Lady Barbara’s hands.

Hurriedly summoning a servant, he
demanded an explanation of how the
articles had come there.

The man, also unrefreshed by his
night’s sleep, admitted that he had
found the flower and the jewels in Lord
Farquhart’s coat, that he had placed
them on the tabouret himself.

“In my coat? In what coat?” demanded
Lord Farquhart.

“In your lordship’s riding coat,”
stammered the servant. “In the coat
that you wore yesterday when we rode
to The Jolly Grig. It seemed safer to
me to place the jewels near your lordship’s
bed than to leave them in the
coat.”

 And now it was Lord Farquhart’s
turn to rub his eyes. He wondered if
he was indeed awake. And then the
curses that had shaped his lips passed
the threshold and poured forth in volumes
upon the head of the luckless servant,
who was in no wise to blame, and
finally upon the Lady Barbara herself.
For to Lord Farquhart’s mind
came no other solution of the mystery
than that the Lady Barbara had met
with no highwayman at all, that the
whole story of the hold up had been
but a silly country girl’s joke gotten up
by herself and her servants. Doubtless
it was a joke on him that she had
planned, and he had been too dull to
see its point. The upshot of his
thoughts and the end of his ravings
were a command to the servant to return
the articles forthwith to the Lady
Barbara Gordon, to the lady herself, in
person, and to say to her that Lord
Farquhart would wait upon her late
that afternoon.

X.

The Lady Barbara, in the midst of
her interview with Mr. Ashley, was
disturbed by Lord Farquhart’s servant
bearing her rings and the rose that had
been stolen the night before. Her confusion
expressed itself in deep damask
roses on the cheeks that had, indeed,
been lily white before.

“Lord Farquhart returns these to
me?” she cried in her amazement.

“Yes, my lady, he said that they were
to pass into no other hands than yours,
that you would understand.”

“That I would understand?” she
questioned, and the damask roses had
already flown.

“How came they into Lord Farquhart’s
hands?” asked Ashley, but he
was vouchsafed no answer.

“That you would understand, my
lady, and that he would be with you
himself this afternoon.”

The servant was looking at the lady
respectfully enough, but behind the respect
lurked curiosity, for even a servant
may question the drolleries and
vagaries of his masters. And here, indeed,
was a most droll mass of absurdities.

But the lady was not looking at the
servant at all. Rather was she looking
at Mr. Ashley, and something that she
read in his narrowing eyes, in the
smile that curved but one corner of his
lips, caused her cheeks to blossom once
again into damask roses—nay, not in
damask roses; rather were they peonies
and poppies that dyed her cheeks. She
spoke no word at all, and only with a
gesture of her hand did she dismiss the
servant, a gesture of the hand that
held the withered rose and the jeweled
rings.

There was a long silence in the boudoir.
My Lady Barbara was playing
nervously with the rings Lord Farquhart’s
servant had returned to her. Mr.
Ashley was watching the girl.

“So my Lord Farquhart masqueraded
as our gentleman of the highways?”
Mr. Ashley’s voice was full of
scorn.

A quick gleam shone in Barbara’s
eyes. Her breath fluttered.

“Masqueraded!” she whispered.

There was another silence, and then
Mr. Ashley spoke again, his voice, too,
but little above a whisper.

“You mean, Barbara, that Lord Farquhart
is this gentleman of the highways?”

“Oh, why, why do you say so?” she
stammered.

“Ah, Barbara, Barbara, why do you
not deny it if it is deniable?” His voice
rang with triumph.

But he was answered only by the
Lady Barbara’s changing color, by her
quivering lips.

“Why do you not admit it, then?”
he asked again.

“Why should I admit it or deny it?”
she asked, faintly. “What do I know
of Lord Farquhart’s movements, save
that I am to marry him in less than a
fortnight’s time?”

“To marry Lord Farquhart!” Mr.
Ashley laughed aloud. “To marry a
highwayman whose life is forfeit to the
crown! Say rather that you are free
 for all time from Lord Farquhart! Say
rather, sweetheart, that we are free!”

“But why do you take it so easily for
granted that my cousin is this highwayman?”
asked Barbara.

“Why, it has long been whispered
that this highwayman was some one
of London’s gallants seeking a new
amusement. Surely it is easy to fit that
surmise to Lord Farquhart. ’Twould
be easy with even less assistance than
Lord Farquhart has given us.”

“But what would it profit us to be
rid of Lord Farquhart—granting that
he is this—this gentleman of the highways?”
The Lady Barbara’s eyes were
still on her rings. She did not lift
them to the man who stood so near
her.

“Profit us!” he cried. “It would give
you to me. It would permit you to
marry me—if Lord Farquhart were out
of the way. What else stands between
us?”

“No,” she murmured, in a low, faint
voice, her eyes still on the jewels in her
hands. “’Tis not my Lord Farquhart
stands between us, but your poverty
and my father’s will. How can we
marry when you have nothing, when I
would have less than nothing if I defied
my father? No, I intend to marry Lord
Farquhart, whatever he may be.”

Ashley’s eyes questioned her, but his
lips did not move. And she, although
she did not raise her eyes to his, knew
what his asked. And yet, for several
moments, she did not answer. Then,
flinging the rings from her, she sprang
to her feet.

“Why not take this chance that’s
flung to us, Hal?” she cried. “Can’t you
see what we have won? Why, Lord
Farquhart’s life is forfeit to us so long
as we hold his secret. A pretty dance
we can lead him at the end of our own
rope, and we’ll have but to twitch a
finger to show him that we’ll transfer
the end to the proper authority if he
dares to interfere with our pleasures!”

“But, Barbara!” The man was, indeed,
as shaken as his voice. He had
found it hard enough to credit the evidence
of ears and eyes that proved to
him that Lord Farquhart was the Black
Devil of the London highways, but
harder yet was it to believe that Barbara,
the unsophisticated country girl,
was versed in all the knowledge and
diplomacy of a London mondaine.

“Don’t ‘but Barbara’ me,” she cried,
impatiently. “I’ll not be tied down any
longer. I must be free, free, free! All
my life long I’ve been in bondage to
my father’s will. Now, in a fortnight’s
time I can be free—controlled by no
will but my own. Can you not see how
this act of Lord Farquhart’s throws
him into my power? How it gives me
my freedom forever?”

“But you’d consent to marry this
common highwayman?” Incredulity
held each of Ashley’s words.

“Ay, I’d marry a common highwayman
for the same gain.” The Lady
Barbara’s violet eyes were black with
excitement. “But Lord Farquhart’s not
a common highwayman, as you call
him. You know well enough that this
Black Devil has never once stolen aught
for himself. My Lord Farquhart, if he
is, in reality, this gentleman highwayman,
doubtless loves the excitement of
the chase. ’Tis merely a new divertisement—a
hunt, as it were, for men instead
of beasts. In truth, it almost
makes me love Lord Farquhart to find
he has such courage, such audacity,
such wit and spirit!”

“But what if he is caught?” demanded
Ashley. “Think of the disgrace if
he is caught.”

“Ah, but he won’t be caught,” she
answered, gayly. “’Tis only your laggards
and cowards that are caught, and
Lord Farquhart has proved himself no
coward. What can you ask of fortune
if you’ll not trust the jade? How can
you look for luck when you’re blind to
everything save ill luck? Trust fortune!
Trust to luck! And trust to me,
to Lady Barbara Farquhart that’ll be in
less than a fortnight!” She swept him
a low curtsey and lifted laughing lips
to his, but he still held back. “Trust
me because I love you,” she cried, still
daring him on. “Though I think you’ll
make me a willing bride to Farquhart if
you show the white feather now.”

“But you can see, can you not, that
 it’s because I love you that I fear for
you?” Ashley’s tone was still grave.

“Well, but then there are two loves to
back luck in the game,” she cried. Then
she echoed the gravity in his voice.
“What else can we do, Hal? Have
you aught else to offer? Can you marry
me? Can I marry you? There’s naught
to fear, anyway. Lord Farquhart’ll
tire of the game. What has he ever
pursued for any length of time? And
he’s been at this for six months or
more. Nay, we can stop him, if we
will. Is he not absolutely in our
power?”

For a lady to win a lover to her way
of thinking is easy, even though her
way be diametrically opposed to his.
Love blinds the eyes and dulls the ears;
it lulls the conscience to all save its
words. And Ashley yielded slowly,
with little grace at first, wholly and
absolutely at last, accepting his reward
from the Lady Barbara’s pomegranate
lips.

XI.

To the Lady Barbara, the game that
she had planned seemed easy, and yet,
in her first interview with her fiancé,
certain difficulties appeared. Lord
Farquhart presented himself, as in
duty bound, late that first afternoon.
Lady Barbara received him with chilly
finger tips, offering him her oval cheek
instead of her lips. He, ignoring the
substitute, merely kissed the tapering
fingers.

“I am glad to see that you are none
the worse for last night’s encounter,”
he said.

Wondering why his voice rang
strangely, she answered, gayly:

“Rather the better for it, I find myself,
thank you.”

“You told your tale of highway robbery
so well that it deceived even my
ears.” Lord Farquhart spoke somewhat
stiffly. “I had not realized that you
were so accomplished an actor.”

“Ay, did I not tell it well?” Her
agreement with him held but a faint
note of interrogation.

“I failed to catch your meaning,
though, if meaning there was,” he said.
And now his tone was so indifferent
that the Lady Barbara might have been
forgiven for thinking that he cared not
to understand her meaning.

“I think I expressed my meaning
fairly well last night,” she answered,
her indifference matching his.

“Shall we let it pass at that, then?”
he asked. “At that and nothing more?”
If the Lady Barbara did not care to
explain her joke, why should he force
her?

“Ay, let us call it a jest,” she answered,
“unless the point be driven in
too far. A too pointed jest is sometimes
a blunt weapon, my Lord Farquhart.”

Lord Farquhart heard the words that
seemed so simple. He realized, also,
that the tone was not so simple, but, as
he told himself, the time would come
soon enough when he would have to
understand the Lady Barbara’s tones
and manners. He would not begin until
necessity compelled him. He had
quite convinced himself that the story
of the robbery, and the rings and rose
in his coat, were naught save some silly
joke of the unsophisticated schoolgirl
he supposed his cousin to be. He
moved restlessly in his chair. It was
hard to find a simple subject to discuss
with a simple country girl.

“You received the rings in safety?”
he asked, merely to fill in the silence.

“Quite,” she answered, “quite in
safety, my Lord Farquhart.” She was
consuming herself with a rage that even
she could not wholly understand. Her
intended victim’s indifference angered
her beyond endurance, and yet she
dared not lose the hold she had not
fully gained. A jest, indeed! He chose
to call the whole thing a jest! A sorry
jest he’d find it, then! And yet, surely,
now was not the time for her to prove
her power. Tapping her foot impatiently,
she added in a thin, restrained
voice: “Suppose we let the rings close
the incident for the moment, my cousin!”

Again Lord Farquhart questioned
the tone and manner, but he answered
both with a shrug. The Lady Barbara
 was even more tiresome than he
had feared. He would have to teach
her that snapping eyes and quarrelsome
speech were out of place in a mariage
de convenance such as they were
making. Doubtless he had failed to
please her in some way. How he knew
not. But how could he please a lady
to whom he was quite indifferent, who
was quite indifferent to him, and yet a
lady to whom he was to be married in
less than a fortnight, a whole day less
than a fortnight. Lord Farquhart
sighed far more deeply than was courteous
to the lady.

“If I can do aught to please you,
Barbara, during your stay——” he began,
with perfunctory deference, but
she interrupted him hotly.

“Barbara!” she had been fuming inwardly.
And only the night before it
had been “Babs” and “sweetheart” and
“sweet cousin”! Her wrath rose quite
beyond control and her voice broke
forth impetuously.

“I beg of you not to give me your
time before it is necessary, my Lord
Farquhart. And—and I beg you will
excuse me now. I go to-night to Mistress
Barry’s ball, and I—I—would rest
after last night’s fatigues.”

She flounced from the room without
further leave-taking, and as she fled
on to her own chamber her anger
escaped its bounds.

“He talks to me of jests,” she cried,
with angry vehemence. “A sorry jest
he’ll find it, on my word. Aie! I hate
his insolent indifference. One would
think I was a simple country fool to
hear him talk. He—he—when I can
have him hung just when it suits my
good convenience! I’ll not marry him
at all! Ay, but I will, though. I’ll
make it worse for him by marrying
him. And then I’ll show him! Just
wait, my lord, until I’m Lady Farquhart
and you’ll dance to a different tune,
I’m thinking. Oh, I hate him, I hate
him! I suppose he goes now to his
Sylvia, or—or, perchance, out onto the
road again.” The Lady Barbara’s tantrum
had carried her into her own room
and she had slammed the door. Now
she found herself stopped by the opposite
wall, and suddenly her tone
changed. It grew quite soft, almost tender.
“I wonder if his Sylvia is fairer
than I am,” she said. “I wonder if he
might not come to look upon me as
worthy of something more than that
sidewise glance.”

As for Lord Farquhart, left alone in
the boudoir, he was still indifferent and
still somewhat insolent, for, as he sauntered
out from the room, he muttered:

“May the devil take all women save
the one you happen to be in love with!
And yet she’s a pretty minx, too, if she
hadn’t such a vixenish temper!”

And then he hummed the last line of
his song to Sylvia.

XII.

Five times had Johan, the player’s
boy, met young Lindley at the edge of
the Ogilvie woods. Five times he had
reported nothing of any interest concerning
Mistress Judith Ogilvie, or,
rather, the sum of the five reports had
amounted to naught. Once he said that
Mistress Judith was, if anything, quieter
than usual. Again he told that her
maids had said that she had been in a
fine rage when Master Lindley had
braved her wrath by appearing at her
home and demanding an interview with
her. But when her father had taxed
her with her rudeness in refusing to
descend and speak with her cousin, she
had merely shrugged her shoulders and
said that Master Lindley was of too little
consequence even to discuss. She
had been little with the players. Johan
himself had had much trouble in
gaining any interviews with her. She
had spent more time than usual sewing
with the maids. She had spent more
time with her father, giving as an excuse
that she could not ride abroad because
her horse was lame. But Johan
averred that he had seen one of the
stable lads exercising Star and there
had been nothing wrong with the horse.

On the sixth night Johan, peering
up at Lindley from under his black
curls, asked if any inference could be
gathered from aught that he had reported
and Lindley was obliged to confess
 that he saw none. The shadows of the
trees fell all about them.

“If Mistress Judith knew that I was
watching her to make report to you,”
hazarded the lad, “it might almost seem
as though she were playing some part
for your benefit, so different is all this
from her former ways, but——”

“But she does not know,” Lindley
concluded the sentence.

“Nay, how could she know?” the lad
asked. “If she knew she would but
include me in her hatred of you. She
would deny me all access to her, and
that I could not bear. ’Tis all of no
use, my master. Mistress Judith is
quite outside of all chance of your winning
her. So little have I done that I’ll
gladly release you from your bargain
if you’ll but give up all hope of winning
her.”

“I’ve no faint heart, boy,” answered
Lindley. “Your Mistress Judith will
come to my call yet, you’ll see.”

“I’m not so sure I’d like to see that
day, my master,” answered the lad, in a
whimsical tone. “But, in all honesty,
I should tell you—I mean I’m thinking——”
He hesitated.

“Well, boy, you’re thinking what?”
questioned Lindley, impatiently.
“Though I offered not to pay you for
your thoughts.”

“No, I give you my thoughts for no
pay whatsoever.” Johan’s voice was
still full of a restrained mirth. “And
you must remember, too, that I told
you at the first that I myself was a
lover of Mistress Judith Ogilvie. That,
perhaps, gives me better understanding
of the maid. That, perhaps, makes my
thoughts of value.”

“Well, and what do you think?” demanded
Lindley.

“I—I was going to say”—the boy
spoke slowly—“it seems to me that—that
Mistress Judith may already be in
love.”

“In love!” echoed Lindley. “And
with whom, pray you, might Mistress
Judith be in love? Whom has she seen
to fall in love with? Where has she
been to fall in love? It was only last
week that you told me that Mistress
Judith had sworn that she would never
be in love with any man—that she
would never be won by any man.”

“Ay, but maids—some maids—change
their minds as easily as their
ribbons, my master,” quoth the boy,
somewhat sententiously.

“What reason have you for your
opinion that Mistress Judith may be in
love?” Lindley’s question broke a short
silence, and he bit his lip over the obnoxious
word.

“I—why, it seems to me that her docility
might prove it, might it not? I—it’s
a lover’s heart that speaks to you,
remember—a heart that loves mightily,
a heart that yearns mightily. But is not
docility on a maid’s part a sign of love?
Might it not be? It seems to me that
if I were a maid and I’d fallen desperately
and woefully in love, I’d be
all for gentleness and quiet, I’d sew
with my maids and dream of love, I’d
give all of my time to my father
from whom love was so soon to take
me. That’s what I should think a maid
would do, and that is what Mistress
Judith has done for a week past. And
then to-day, as I hung about outside
her windows, I heard her rating her
maids. Mistress Judith’s voice can be
quite high and shrill when she is annoyed,
you may remember; and the one
complete sentence that I heard was
this: ‘Am I always to be buried in a
country house, think ye, and what
would town folk think of stitches such
as those if they could see them? But
see them they’ll not, for you’ll have to
do some tedious ripping here, my girls,
and some better stitches.’ Now”—the
boy’s lips curled dolorously—“does not
that sound to you as though Mistress
Judith were contemplating some change
in her estate, as though she had already
given her heart to some town gallant?”

Lindley’s brows were black and his
lips, too, were curled. But curses were
the rods that twisted them.

“What devil’s work is the girl up to
now?” he demanded, savagely. “She’s
doubtless met some ne’er-do-well unbeknown
to Master Ogilvie. I must see
Mistress Judith at once, on the very instant,
and have it out with her.”

 “Oh, no, no!” cried Johan, the player’s
boy. “You’ll but drive her on in
any prank she’s bent on.”

“Then it’s Master Ogilvie I’ll see,”
declared Lindley. “Where have all
your eyes been that the girl could have
met a lover; that she could have seen
anyone with whom to fall in love?
She must not fall in love with anyone
save me. Do you hear, boy? I love
her. I love her.”

“Ah, then it is your heart that’s engaged
in this matter,” commented Johan.
“I thought, perhaps—why, perhaps
it was merely Mistress Judith’s
defiance of her father’s wishes that led
you on to wish to marry her. You—you
really do love Mistress Judith, for
herself? Really love her as a lover
ought to love?”

“You’re over curious, my lad,”
growled Lindley. “And yet ’tis my
own fault, I suppose. I’ve given you
my confidence.”

“But how know you that you love
Mistress Judith?” persisted the boy.

“I love her—I love her because I’ve
loved her always,” answered Lindley,
passionately. “I loved her when I was
ten, when she was six, when her golden
head was no higher than my heart.”

“’Tis somewhat higher now, I think.”
The boy’s words were very low. “More
like her heart would match to yours.
Her eyes are as high above the ground
as your own. Her lips would not be
raised to meet your lips.”

Lindley’s face had grown scarlet.

“Be silent, boy,” he cried. “You
speak over freely of sacred things.”

The lad, backing away from under
Lindley’s upraised arm, still murmured,
echoing Lindley’s words: “Sacred
things!” and added: “Mistress Judith’s
heart! Her eyes! Her lips!”

What Lindley’s answer might have
been from lips and hand the lad never
knew. It was checked by a sudden onslaught
from behind. Out from the low
bushes that hedged the woods sprang
two figures in hoods and cloaks. The
foremost was tall and burly, though
agile enough. The second seemed but
a clumsy follower. In an instant Lindley’s
sword was engaged with that of
the leader. For only an instant Johan
hesitated. Drawing a short sword from
under his cloak, he sprang upon the
second of the highwaymen. Their battle
was short, for the fellow’s clumsiness
made him an easy victim for the
slender youth. Pinked but slightly in
the arm, he gave vent to an unearthly
howl and, turning away, he fled through
the dark aisles of the woods, his diminishing
shrieks denoting the speed and
length of his flight.

But Johan’s victory came not a second
too soon, for just at that moment
Lindley’s sword dropped from his hand,
the blood spurting from a deep wound
in his shoulder. With a low snarl of
victory, the highwayman drew back his
arm to plunge his sword into his victim’s
breast, but Johan, springing forward
and picking Lindley’s weapon
from the ground, hurled himself upon
their assailant.

“Not so fast, my friend,” he cried,
and in another second blades were
again flashing. Lindley, who for a moment
had been overwhelmed by the
shock of his wound, raised a useless
voice in protest. Johan’s own voice
drowned every sound as he drove his
antagonist now this way, now that,
quite at his own will.

The moon, in its last quarter, was
just rising above the trees, and the narrow
glade was lighted with its weird,
fantastic glow. From one side of the
road to the other, the shadowy figures
moved, the steel blades flashing in the
glinting light, Johan’s short, sharp cries
punctuating the song of the swords.
Lindley could hear the ruffian’s heavy
breathing as Johan forced him up the
bank that edged the road. He heard
his horse’s nervous whinny as the
fight circled his flanks. But Lindley
was so fascinated by the brilliancy of
the lad’s fighting that he had no thought
of the outcome of the fray until he
heard a sudden sharp outcry. Then
he saw Johan stagger back, but he saw
at the same instant that the highwayman
had fallen, doubled over in a heap,
upon the ground. He saw, too, that
Johan’s sword, trailing on the ground,
was red with blood.

 “You’re hurt, lad!” Lindley, faint
from loss of blood, staggered toward
the boy.

“Ay, ay, hurt desperately,” moaned
Johan. His voice seemed weak and
faltering.

“But how? But where? I did not
see him touch you!” Lindley’s left arm
encircled the lad, his right hung limp
at his side.

Johan’s head sank for an instant onto
Lindley’s shoulder.

“No, he did not touch me, ’tis no
bodily hurt,” he moaned; “but I’ve—I’ve
killed the man.”

Lindley’s support was withdrawn
instantly and roughly.

“After such a fight, are you fool
enough to bemoan a victory?” His
words, too, were rough. “Why, man,
it was a fight to the death! You’d
have been killed if you had not killed.
Did you think you were fighting for the
fun of it? You’re squeamish as a
woman.”

Johan tried to recover his voice. He
tried to stand erect.

“I did it well, did I not?” An unsteady
laugh rang out. “The play acting,
I mean. You forget, Master Lindley,
that I’m a player, that in my parts
I’m more often a woman than a man.
And we actors are apt to grow into the
parts we oftenest counterfeit.” Suddenly
he staggered and the sword clattered
from his hand. But again he
straightened himself. “Would I gain
applause as a woman, think you?”

“If it’s play acting, have done with
it,” growled Lindley, whose wound
was hurting; who, in reality, was almost
fainting from loss of blood. “You’ve
saved my life as well as your own, Johan.
But we’ll touch on that later.
There’s no fear, is there, that your dead
man will come to life?”

The boy for the first time raised
his eyes to Lindley’s face. Even in
the darkness he could see that it was
ghastly white and drawn with pain. A
nervous cry burst from his lips, and he
stretched both arms toward Lindley.

“Da—damn your play acting, boy,”
sputtered Lindley. “Nay, I mean not to
be so harsh. I’ll—I’ll not forget the
debt I owe you either. But you must
help me to The Jolly Grig, where Marmaduke
has skill enough to tend my
wound until I can reach London.”

“But Master Ogilvie has skill in the
care of wounds,” cried Johan. “Surely
we are nearer Master Ogilvie’s than
The Jolly Grig. And Mistress Judith
will——”

“Nay, I’ll not force myself on Mistress
Judith in this way,” answered
Lindley, petulantly.

“You are over considerate of Mistress
Judith’s feelings, even for a lover,”
returned the boy.

“Ah, it’s not Mistress Judith’s feelings
I’m considerate of,” replied Lindley.
“She’s capable of saying that I got
the wound on purpose to lie in her
house, on purpose to demand her care.”

Here Johan’s unsteady laugh rang
out once more.

“Indeed she’s capable of that very
thing, my master,” he said, and as he
spoke he began to tear his long coat
into strips.

“What are you doing that for?” demanded
Lindley, leaning more and
more heavily against his horse’s side.

“It’s a bandage and a sling for your
arm,” answered the boy. “If you will
persist in the ride to The Jolly Grig,
your arm must be tied so that it will
not bleed again.”

“’Twill be a wonder if you do not
faint away like a woman when you
touch the blood,” scoffed Lindley.

“’Twill be a wonder, I’m thinking
myself,” answered the boy, unsteadily.

And then, the bandage made and adjusted,
Johan offered his shoulder to assist
the wounded man into the saddle.
But Lindley, pressing heavily yet tenderly
against the lad, said gently:

“I’ve been rough, Johan, but believe
me, this night’s work will stand you in
good stead. Hereafter your play acting
may be a matter of choice, but never
again of necessity.”

“Heaven grant that the necessity will
never again be so great!” murmured
Johan, indistinctly.

“I—I did not understand,” faltered
 Lindley, reaching the saddle with difficulty.

“I said—why I said,” stammered
Johan, “Heaven be praised that there
would be no more necessity for play
acting.”

Arrived at The Jolly Grig, Master
Marmaduke Bass’ perturbed face boded
ill for his surgical skill.

“Hast heard the news, my master?”
he cried, before he saw the condition
of his guest. “Ah, Mr. Lindley, ’tis
about a friend of your own, too—a
friend who was with you here not a
week ago.”

“I—I care not for your news, whatever
it may be, whomever it may be
about,” groaned Lindley, who was near
the end of his endurance.

“Master Lindley’s met with highwaymen,”
interrupted Johan. “Perchance
’tis the Black Devil himself.
He’s wounded and has need of your
skill, not of your news.”

“Met with my Lord Farquhart!”
cried honest Marmaduke. “But that’s
impossible. My Lord Farquhart’s been
in prison these twelve hours and more,
denounced by his cousin, the Lady Barbara
Gordon!”

It would have been hard to say which
was the whiter, Master Lindley or Johan,
the player’s boy. It would have
been difficult to distinguish between
their startled voices.

“Lord Farquhart! In prison!”

“Ay, Lord Farquhart. The Black
Devil. The Black Highwayman. Denounced
at a festival at my Lord Grimsby’s
by the Lady Barbara Gordon.”

XIII.

The worthy Marmaduke’s gossip
was indeed true, for as strange a thing
as that had really happened. Lady
Barbara Gordon, in open company, had
announced that she knew positively that
Lord Farquhart was no other than the
Black Highwayman who for a twelvemonth
had been terrorizing the roads
round about London town. He had
confessed it to her, himself, she said.
She had seen him guised as the highwayman.
Mr. Ashley, the Lady Barbara’s
escort at the moment, had corroborated
her statements, vouchsafing on
his own account that he had been with
the Lady Barbara when Lord Farquhart’s
servants had returned her rings
and a rose that had been stolen from
her by the Black Highwayman only the
night before.

Just a moment’s consideration of the
conditions and incidents, the chances
and mischances, that led up to this denouncement
will show that it was not
so strange a thing, after all. To take
the Lady Barbara, first. Up to the
time of her visit to London, Lord Farquhart
had been to her something of a
figurehead. She had considered him
merely as a creature quite inanimate
and impersonal, who was to be forced
upon her by her father’s will just as she
was to be forced upon him. But Lord
Farquhart in the flesh was a young
man of most pleasing appearance, if
of most exasperating manners. When
the Lady Barbara compared him with
the other gallants of the society she frequented
she found that he had few
peers among them, and as she accepted
his punctilious courtesies and attentions
she began to long to see them infused
with some personal warmth and interest.
She saw no reason why Lord
Farquhart should be the one and only
gentleman of her acquaintance who discerned
no charm in her. It piqued
something more than her vanity to see
that she alone of all the ladies whom
he met could rouse in him no personal
interest whatsoever. And, almost unconsciously,
she exerted herself to win
from him some sign of approbation.

Also, in addition to her awakened
interest in Lord Farquhart—or possibly
because of it—the Lady Barbara
thought she saw in Mr. Ashley’s devotion
some new, some curious, some
quite displeasing quality. It was not
that he was not as courteous as ever.
It was not that he was not as attentive
as ever. It was not that he did not
speak his love as tenderly, as warmly,
as ever. All this was quite as it had
been. But in his courtesies the Lady
Barbara recognized a thinly veiled—it
was not contempt, of course, but there
 was the suggestion of the manner one
would offer to a goddess who had advanced
a step toward the extreme edge
of her pedestal. And this Barbara resented.
In his attentions he was quite
solicitous, but it was a solicitude of
custom—of custom to be, perhaps, as
much as of custom that has been. To
this Barbara objected. Already, too,
his love savored of possession. Against
this Barbara chafed. She would give
her favors when she was ready to give
them. They would be gifts, though—not
things held by right.

Her resentments, her objections, her
chafings, she tried to hold in check.
She endeavored to show no sign of
them to Ashley, with the result that in
her manner to him he saw only the endeavor.
So he, in turn, was piqued by
the change in his lady. He was angry
and annoyed, and asked himself occasionally
what right the Lady Barbara
had to change toward him when she
and her Lord Farquhart were so absolutely
in his power. All of which
strained, somewhat, the relations between
the Lady Barbara and Mr. Ashley.

To come to Lord Farquhart: he
loved or thought he loved—he had
loved or had thought he loved Sylvia—Sylvia,
the light o’ love, one of the
pretty creatures on whom love’s hand
falls anything but lightly. To his
prejudiced eyes, the Lady Barbara, cold
and colorless in the gloom of Gordon’s
Court, had seemed quite lacking in all
charm. But when he had sauntered from
her presence to that of Sylvia on the
afternoon when the jest of the highway
robbery had been discussed, he
found that his curiosity, nay, his interest,
had been aroused by the Lady Barbara.
He found that his unsophisticated
cousin was not altogether lacking
in color and spirit, and Sylvia, for
the first time, seemed somewhat over
blown, somewhat over full of vulgar
life and gayety. Later, that same night,
when he saw the future Lady Farquhart
dimpling and glowing, the central
star in a galaxy of London beaux, he
wondered if the Lady Barbara might
not be worth the winning; he wondered
if the mariage de convenance might not
be transformed into the culmination of
a quick, romantic courtship. To win the
Lady Barbara before the Lady Barbara
was his without the winning! Might
not that be well worth while?

To give just a passing word to Sylvia;
for it was to Sylvia that the main
mischance was due. Sylvia saw that
her reign was over, that she had lost all
hold on Lord Farquhart, and, in her
own way, which, after all, was a very
definite and distinct way, poor Sylvia
loved Lord Farquhart.

For six days these conditions had
been changing, with all their attendant
incidents and chances, and the time was
ripe for a mischance. Lord Farquhart,
lounging in the park, hoping to meet
the Lady Barbara, even if it was only
to be snubbed by the Lady Barbara,
saw that young lady at the end of a
long line of trees with Mr. Ashley. For
Barbara had consented to walk with
Mr. Ashley, partly so that she might
have the freedom of open air and sunshine
in which to express a belated
opinion to Mr. Ashley concerning his
new manner and tone, and partly in
hopes that she would encounter Lord
Farquhart and pique his jealousy by
appearing with his rival.

“I tell you I’ll not stand it, not for
an instant,” she was saying, the roses
in her cheeks a deep, deep damask and
the stars in her eyes beaming with unwonted
radiance. “To hear you speak
the world would think that we had
been married a twelvemonth! That you
demanded your rights like a commonplace
husband, rather than that you
sought my favor. I’ll warn you to
change your manner, Mr. Harry Ashley,
or you’ll find that you have neither
rights nor favors.”

It was at this instant that the Lady
Barbara caught sight of Lord Farquhart
at his own end of the lime-shaded
walk. Instantly her manner changed,
though the damask roses still glowed
and the stars still shone.

“Nay, nay, Hal”—she laid a caressing
hand on his arm—“forgive my lack
of manners. I’m—I’m—perchance I’m
over weary. We country maids are not
 used to so much pleasure as you’ve
given me in London.” She leaned languorously
toward Ashley and he, made
presumptuous by her change of tone,
slipped his arm about her slender waist.

The Lady Barbara slid from his
grasp with a pretty scream of amazement
and shocked propriety. Then
there might have followed a bit of
swordplay; indeed, the Lady Barbara
hoped there would—the affianced lover
should have fought to defend his rights,
the other should have fought for the
privileges bestowed by the lady, and all
the time the lady would have stood
wringing her hands, moaning perchance,
and praying for the discomfiture of the
one or the other. But, unfortunately,
none of this came to pass because, just
at the critical moment, just when Lord
Farquhart, watched slyly by Lady Barbara’s
starry eyes, was starting forward
to defend his rights, Sylvia slipped
from behind a tree and flung herself
with utter abandon upon Lord Farquhart.

Now, in reality, Lord Farquhart tried
to force the woman away from him, but
the Lady Barbara saw only that his
hands were on her arms, that, in very
truth, he spoke to the girl! Turning
on her heel, she sped from the lime
walk, followed by Mr. Ashley.

What ensued between Lord Farquhart
and his Sylvia concerns the story
little, for he had already told her that
her reign was over, that a new queen
had been enthroned in his heart. What
ensued between the Lady Barbara and
her escort cannot be written, for it was
but a series of gasps and sharp cries on
the lady’s part, interspersed with imploring
commands on the lover’s part
to tell him what ailed her. The interview
was brought to a summary conclusion
when the Lady Barbara reached
her aunt’s house, for she flung the door
to in his face and left him standing
disconsolate on the outside.

XIV.

It was on that night that the Lady
Barbara received an ovation at Lord
Grimsby’s rout as the belle of London
town. Most beautiful she was, in reality,
for the damask roses in her cheeks
were dyed with the hot blood of her
heart; her eyes, that were wont to be
blue as the noonday sky, were black as
night, and the pomegranates of her lips
had been ripened by passion. Surrounded
by courtiers, she flung her favors
right and left with impartial prodigality.
All the time her heart was crying
out that she would be avenged for the
insult that had been offered her that
afternoon. Harry Ashley, approaching
her with hesitating deference, was joyously
received, although to herself she
declared that she loathed him, abhorred
him and detested him.

Jack Grimsby, toasting the Lady
Barbara for the dozenth time, exclaimed
to his crony:

“’Pon my honor, though, I know not
if I envy Lord Farquhart or not. His
future lady seems somewhat unstinting
in her favors.”

“To me it seems that Lord Farquhart
asks but little from his future
lady,” laughed the crony.

“Is not that Lord Farquhart now?”
asked young Grimsby. “Let us watch
him approach the lady. Let us see if
she has aught left for him.”

A narrow opening in the court that
surrounded Lady Barbara permitted
Lord Farquhart to draw near her.
There was a sudden lull in the chatter
that encompassed her, for others beside
Jack Grimsby were questioning what
the Lady Barbara had reserved for her
future lord. Possibly the Lady Barbara
had drawn a little aloof from her
attendant swains, for she seemed to
stand quite alone as she measured her
fiancé with her eyes from his head to
his feet and back again to his eyes. And
all the while her heart was beating
tempestuously and her brain was crying
passionately: “If only he had loved
me! If only he had loved me the least
little bit!”

On Lord Farquhart’s lips was an appeal
to his lady’s forbearance, in his
eyes lay a message to her heart, but she
saw them not. His face flushed slightly,
for he knew that all eyes were bent
upon him. Then it paled under Barbara’s
 cold glance. For a full moment
she looked at him before she turned
from him with a shiver that was visible
to all, with a shrug that was seen by all.
And yet, when she spoke, it was after a
vehement movement of her hand as
though she had silenced a warning
voice.

“My lords and ladies,” she cried, her
voice ringing even to the corners of
the hushed room, “I—I feel that I must
tell you all that this man, this Lord
Farquhart, who was to have been my
husband in less than a week, is—is your
gentleman highwayman, your Black
Devil who has made your London roads
a terror to all honest men.”

For an instant there was absolute
silence. Then surprise, amazement
and consternation rose in a babel of
sound, but over all Lady Barbara’s
voice rang once more.

“I am positive that I speak only the
truth,” she cried. “No, Lord Farquhart,
I’ll not hear you, now or ever
again. I’ve seen him in his black disguise.
He told me himself that he was
this Black Devil of the roads. He confessed
it all to me.”

The lady still stood alone, and the
crowd had edged away from Lord Farquhart,
leaving him, also, alone. On
every face surprise was written, but in
no eyes, on no lips, was this so clearly
marked as on Lord Farquhart’s own
face.

And yet he spoke calmly.

“Is this the sequel to your jest, my
lady, or has it deeper meaning than a
jest?”

“Ah, jest you chose to call it once
before, and jest you may still call it,”
she answered, fiercely, but now her
hand was pressed close against her
heart.

“For a full week I have known this
fact,” exclaimed Ashley, stepping to the
Lady Barbara’s side. “Unfortunately, I
have seen with my own eyes proofs convincing
even me that my Lord Farquhart
is this highway robber. I cannot
doubt it, but I have refrained from
speaking before because Lady Barbara
asked me to be silent, asked me to protect
her cousin, hoping, I suppose, that
she could save him from his fate, that
she could induce him to forego this
perilous pursuit; but——”

Lord Farquhart’s hand was closing
on his sword, but he did not fail even
then to note the disdain with which
Lady Barbara turned from her champion.
She hurriedly approached Lord
Grimsby, who was looking curiously at
this highwayman who he himself had
had reason to think was the devil incarnate.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Grimsby”—Lady
Barbara was still impetuous—“for
this interruption of your fête, but,
to me, it seemed unwarranted that this
man should longer masquerade among
you as a gentleman.”

She swept away from Lord Grimsby.
She passed close to Lord Farquhart,
lingering long enough to whisper for
his ear alone: “You see I can forgive a
crime, but not an insult.” Then, sending
a hurried message to her aunt, she
paced on down the room, her head held
high, the damask roses still blooming
brilliantly, the stars still shining
brightly.

A score of officious hands held her
cloak, a dozen officious voices called
her chair. And my Lady Barbara
thanked her helpers with smiling lips
that were still pomegranate red, and yet
the curtains of her chair caught her first
sob as they descended about her, and it
seemed but a disheveled mass of draperies
that the footmen discovered when
they set the lady down at her own door,
so prone she was with grief and despair.

XV.

Lord Farquhart seemed to recover
himself but slowly from the shock of
Lady Barbara’s denunciation, from the
surprise of her whispered words. At
last he raised his eyes to Lord Grimsby,
who was still looking at him curiously.

“I fear that I should also ask your
pardon, my Lord Grimsby, for this confusion.”
Lord Farquhart’s words came
slowly. “My cousin, the Lady Barbara,
must be strangely overwrought.
 With your permission, I will follow her
and attend to her needs.”

He turned and for the first time
looked definitely at the little knot of
men that surrounded him. The women,
young and old, had been withdrawn
from his environment by their escorts.
His eyes traveled slowly from one to
another of the familiar faces.

“Surely, my Lord Grimsby,” clamored
Ashley, “you will not let the fellow
escape!”

“Surely my Lord Grimsby is going
to place no reliance on a tale like this
told by a whimsical girl!” retorted Lord
Farquhart before Lord Grimsby’s slow
words had fallen on his ears.

“We will most assuredly take all
measures for safeholding my Lord Farquhart.”

“But, Lord Grimsby,” cried Farquhart,
realizing for the first time that
the situation might have a serious side,
“you surely do not believe this tale!”

“I would like to see some reason for
doubting the lady’s word,” answered
the older man. “And you forget that
her story is corroborated by Mr. Ashley.
Neither must you overlook the
fact that for some time the authorities
have been convinced that this highwayman
was no common rogue, that he is
undoubtedly some one closely connected
with our London life, if—if indeed——”
But this was no place for Lord Grimsby
to assert his own opinion that the highwayman
was indeed the devil incarnate.

“Why, the whole thing is the merest
fabrication,” cried Lord Farquhart, impatiently.
“It is all without reason,
without sense, without possible excuse.
The Lady Barbara’s imagination has
been played upon in some way, for some
reason that I cannot understand. You
heard her declare that she’d seen me in
the fellow’s disguise. That is an absolute
impossibility. I’ve never seen the
rogue, much less impersonated him.”

“You shall, of course, have the benefit
of any doubt, Lord Farquhart.” Lord
Grimsby’s voice had assumed its judicial
tones and fell with sinister coldness
on every ear. “But, innocent or
guilty, you must admit that the safety
of his majesty’s realm demands that the
truth be proved.”

“Ay, it shall be proved, too,” cried
Jack Grimsby, who had been so warmly
befriended in time of direct need by
the Black Highwayman. “And you
shall have the benefit of every doubt
there may be, Percy. Rest assured of
that. And in the event that there is no
doubt, if it is proved that you are our
Black Devil, you’ll still go free. Your
case will be in my father’s hands, and I
here repeat my oath that if the Black
Devil goes to the gallows, I go on the
road, following as close as may be in his
footsteps.”

Farquhart shuddered out from under
the protecting hand young Grimsby had
laid on his shoulder.

“You speak as though you half believed
the tale,” he cried. His eyes
traveled once again around the little
circle. Then his face grew stern. “Let
Mr. Ashley repeat his tale,” he said,
slowly. “Let him tell the Lady Barbara’s
story and his own corroboration
as circumstantially as may be.”

“Yes, let Harry Ashley tell his story,”
echoed Jack Grimsby, “and when he
has finished let him say where and
when he will measure swords with me,
for if he lies he lies like a blackguard,
and if he spoke the truth he speaks it
like a liar.”

Ashley’s sword was half out of its
sheath, but it was arrested by Lord
Grimsby’s voice.

“I will consent that Mr. Ashley
should tell his story here and now,” he
said. “It’s unusual and irregular, but
the circumstances are unusual and irregular.
I request your appreciation
of this courtesy, my Lord Farquhart,
and as for you, my son, a gentleman’s
house may serve strange purposes, but
it’s no place for a tavern brawler. So
take heed of your words and manners.”

Lord Farquhart had merely bowed
his head in answer to Lord Grimsby’s
words; Jack still stood near him, his
hand on his shoulder, but Ashley looked
in vain for a pair of friendly eyes to
which he might direct his tale. And
yet he knew that everyone was waiting
avidly for his words.

 “The story is short and proves itself,”
he began. “A week ago the Lady Barbara
Gordon was traveling toward London
attended only by her father’s servants.
My Lord Farquhart, with a party
of his friends, among whom I was included
at that time, awaited her at Marmaduke
Bass’ tavern, The Jolly Grig.
A short time before the Lady Barbara
was to arrive, Lord Farquhart withdrew
to his room, presumably to sleep,
until——”

“Ay, and sleep he did,” interrupted
young Treadway, who spoke for the
first time. “We both slept in my room
on the ground floor of the tavern.”

“You slept, no doubt, Mr. Treadway,”
answered Lord Grimsby. “But,
if so, how can you vouch for the fact
that Lord Farquhart slept?”

“I can vouch for it—I can vouch for
it because I know he slept,” spluttered
Treadway.

“I fear me much that your reasoning
will not help to save your friend,” answered
the councillor, a little scornfully.
“Let me beg that Mr. Ashley be not
again interrupted to so little purpose.”

“While, according to his own account,
Mr. Treadway slept,” continued
Ashley, “while he supposed Lord Farquhart
was also sleeping, I heard Lord
Farquhart singing in his room overhead.
At the time I paid little heed to
it. In fact, I did not think of it again
that night, although, if I remember
rightly, I commented on Lord Farquhart’s
voice to Mr. Cecil Lindley, who
sat with me in the tavern. It was full
fifteen minutes after that when the
Lady Barbara drove into the inn, crying
that she had been waylaid by the
Black Highwayman. Her rings had
been stolen, her rings and a jeweled
gauntlet and a rose. She was strangely
confused and would not permit us to
ride in pursuit of the villain, averring
that she had promised him immunity
in exchange for her own life.”

“A pretty tale,” Jack Grimsby again
interrupted, in spite of his father’s commands.
“It’s a lie on its own face. ’Tis
well known that the Black Devil has
never taken a life, has never even
threatened bodily injury.”

“Be that as it may”—Ashley’s level
voice ignored the tone of the interruption,
although his nervous fingers were
on his sword—“when the Lady Barbara’s
companion, Mistress Benton, tried
to say that the Lady Barbara had recognized
her assailant, that the Lady Barbara
had willingly descended from the
coach with the highwayman, the Lady
Barbara silenced her peremptorily and
ordered that we hurry with all speed to
London. ’Twas the following morning,
my Lord Grimsby, that the truth was
revealed to me, for Lord Farquhart’s
own servant returned to the Lady Barbara,
in my presence, the jewels that
had been stolen the night before, the
jewels and the rose the highwayman
had taken from her.”

“You forget the jeweled gauntlet,
Mr. Ashley.” Again it was Jack Grimsby’s
sneering voice that interrupted
Ashley’s tale. “Did my Lord Farquhart
keep his lady’s glove when he returned
the other baubles?”

Ashley’s face flushed, but he looked
steadily at Lord Grimsby; he directed
the conclusion of his story to Lord
Grimsby’s ears.

“It was then that the Lady Barbara
confessed, much against her will, I will
admit, that it was indeed her cousin
and her fiancé who had waylaid her,
merely to confess to her his identity
with this bandit whose life is, assuredly,
forfeit to the crown.”

Lord Farquhart had listened in tense
silence. Now he started forward, his
hand on his sword, but his arms were
caught by two of Lord Grimsby’s men.
“You will admit, my Lord Farquhart,
that the matter demands explanation,”
said the councillor, dryly. “How came
you by the jewels and rose? Can you
tell us? And what of the missing
gauntlet?”

“The rings and the rose my servant
found in my coat,” answered Farquhart,
his eyes so intent on his questioner’s
face that he failed to see the smile
that curved the lips of those who heard
him. “The gauntlet I never saw, I
never had it in my possession for a
moment.”

“How did you account for the jewels
 in your coat if you did not put them
there yourself?” demanded Lord Grimsby.

“At first I was at a loss to account
for them at all.” Lord Farquhart’s
voice showed plainly that he resented
the change in his questioner’s manner.
“I recalled my cousin’s confusion when
she had told her tale of highway robbery,
and all at once it seemed to me
that the whole affair was an invention
of her own, some madcap jest that she
was playing on me, perchance to test
my bravery, to see if I would ride forthwith
after the villain. If so, I had failed
her signally, for I had accepted her
commands and gone with her straight
to London. I supposed, in furtherance
of this idea, that she had hired her
own servant, or bribed mine, to hide the
jewels in my coat. I never thought
once of the gauntlet she had claimed
to lose, never remembered it from that
night until now. I sent the jewels to
her, and later in the day I taxed her
with the jest, and she agreed, it seemed
to me, that it had been a jest and asked
that the return of the rings might close
the incident. I have not spoken of it
since, nor has she, until to-night.”

There was a long silence, and then
Lord Grimsby spoke.

“Your manner carries conviction,
Lord Farquhart, but Mr. Ashley’s tale
sounds true. Perchance some prank is
at the bottom of all this, but you will
pardon me if I but fulfill my duty to the
crown. The case shall be conducted
with all speed, but until your name is
cleared, or until we find the perpetrator
of the joke, if joke it be, I must hold
you prisoner.”

There was a short scuffle, a sharp
clash of arms. But these came from
Lord Farquhart’s friends. Lord Farquhart
himself stood as though stunned.
He walked away as though he were in
a dream, and not until he was safely
housed under bolt and bar in the sheriff’s
lodge could he even try to sift the
matter to a logical conclusion.

For an instant only did he wonder if
Barbara and Ashley had chosen this
way to rid themselves of him. He remembered
with a gleam of triumph
Barbara’s disdainful manner toward
Ashley when he had stepped to her side,
vouching for the truth of her statement.
He remembered, too, that Barbara had
had short moments of kindness toward
him in the last few days, that there had
been moments when she had been exceeding
sweet to him; when he had even
hoped that he was, indeed, winning her
love.

Then, like a flash, he remembered
Sylvia’s presence under the trees that
afternoon. Undoubtedly Barbara had
seen her, and if Barbara had grown to
care for him ever so little, she would
have resented bitterly a thing like that.
That might have been the insult to
which she referred. But the crime! Of
what crime had he been guilty? Assuredly
she did not believe, herself, the
tale she had told. She did not believe
that he was this highwayman.

Here Lord Farquhart caught a gleam
of light. Ashley might have convinced
her that such a tale was true. Ashley
might have arranged the highway robbery
and might have placed the jewels
in his coat to throw the guilt on him.
Ashley was undoubtedly at the bottom
of the whole thing. Then he remembered
Ashley’s flush when the gauntlet
had been referred to. Had Ashley kept
the gauntlet, then?

Following fast upon this question
was another flash of light even brighter
than the first. To Farquhart the truth
seemed to stand out clear and transparent.
Ashley was the gentleman of the
highways! Ashley was the Black Devil.
Farquhart threw back his head and
laughed long and loud. If only he had
used his wits, he would have denounced
the fellow where he stood.

And in this realization of Ashley’s
guilt, and in the consciousness that Barbara
must love him at least a little if
she had been jealous of Sylvia, Lord
Farquhart slept profoundly.

XVI.

All this merely brings the narrative
back to the announcement made by
Marmaduke to Lindley and Johan when
 they entered the courtyard of The Jolly
Grig after the fight with the highwaymen.

As may be supposed, it was several
nights before Lindley was sufficiently
recovered from his wound to again keep
tryst with Johan, the player’s boy.
When at last he could ride out to the
edge of the Ogilvie woods, he found the
lad sitting on the ground under an oak,
apparently waiting for whatever might
happen. He did not speak at all until
he was accosted by Lindley, and then he
merely recited in a listless manner that
Mistress Judith was gone to London
with her father.

The boy’s manner was so changed,
his tone was so forlorn, that Lindley’s
sympathy was awakened. He wondered
if the lad really loved Judith so
devotedly.

“And that has left you so disconsolate?”
he asked.

“Ay, my master!” Indeed the youth’s
tone was disconsolate, even as a true
lover’s might have been.

“And when went Mistress Judith to
London?” asked Lindley. “This afternoon?
This morning?”

“But no. She went some four days
ago, all in a hurry, as it seemed,” Johan
answered.

“Four days ago!” echoed Lindley.
“But why did you not send me word?”
He was thinking of the days that had
been wasted with his lady near him, all
unknown to him, in London.

“She—I mean—I thought you would
be here each night,” stammered the boy,
contritely, and yet his tone was listless.
“I’ve but kept the tryst with you.”

Lindley looked at the boy curiously.
Preoccupied as he was with his own
thoughts, he still recognized the change
in his companion.

“What’s the matter, Johan?” he
asked. “You were not hurt the other
night, were you? Are you still brooding
on the fact that you killed your
man? Are you ill? Or do you fear that
I’ve forgot my debt? What ails you?
Can’t you tell me?” The questions hurried
on, one after another. “Or is it
Mistress Judith’s absence, alone, that
hurts you thus? Is she to be long in
London?”

“N—no. That is, I do not know,”
the boy made answer to the last question.
“We, my master and I and all his
company, go ourselves early to-morrow
to London. Doubtless I shall see Mistress
Judith there.”

“Why, then, ’tis only that the scene
will shift to London,” cried Lindley.
“Cheer up, my lad, we’ll name a tryst
in London. Besides, there’s news waiting
you in London; news for you and
your master concerning your bond to
him. You hardly look the part of a
lad who’s won to freedom by a pretty
bit of swordplay. You should have
learned ere now to fit your countenance
to the parts you perform.”

“But I’ve performed so few parts,
Master Lindley. I am only Johan, the
player’s boy, and, by your leave, I’ll go
now, and for a tryst—she—for our tryst,
say at ten o’clock, in front of Master
Timothy Ogilvie’s mansion, where Mistress
Judith and her father lodge. I’ll
have surely seen Mistress Judith then,
and can report to you any change, if
change there be.”

The slender lad slipped back into the
shadows of the Ogilvie woods, but for
full ten minutes he held Lindley’s
thoughts away from the lady of his
heart’s desire. What could ail the lad
to be so changed, so spiritless? Was his
love so deep that to be weaned from Judith
for even a few short hours could
break his spirit thus? Or was it possible
that the duel and the fatigues of that
midnight encounter had been too much
for his strength? Lindley could answer
none of these questions, so the lover’s
thoughts soon strayed back to Mistress
Judith, and the player’s lad was forgot.

But even Mistress Judith held not all
of Lindley’s thoughts that night, for
Lord Farquhart’s fate was resting heavily
on his mind. That Farquhart was,
indeed, the gentleman of the highways
Lindley knew to be impossible, and yet
all the facts seemed to be against the
imprisoned lord. Even Lindley’s word
had gone against him, for Lindley had
been questioned, and had been obliged
to admit that he had heard Lord Farquhart
 singing in his room above the stairs
at the very time when Clarence Treadway,
when Farquhart himself, swore
that he was asleep belowstairs in Treadway’s
room. There was no evidence,
whatsoever, for Lord Farquhart save
his own words. All the evidence was
against him.

And the affair that had savored more
of a jest than of reality seemed gradually
to be settling down to a dull, unpleasant
truth. Farquhart could and would
tell but the one tale. Ashley would tell
but one tale, and he, in truth, had convinced
himself of Farquhart’s guilt, absurd
as it seemed. The Lady Barbara
could only lie on her bed and moan and
sob, and cry that she loved Lord Farquhart;
that she wished she could unsay
her words. She could not deny the
truth of what she had told, though nothing
could induce her to tell the story
over. But all of her stuttering, stammering
evasions of the truth seemed
only to fix the guilt more clearly upon
Lord Farquhart. Even to Lindley, who
had been with him on the night in question,
it did not seem altogether impossible
that Lord Farquhart had had time
to ride forth, waylay his cousin and rejoin
his friends at the inn ere the lady
drove into the courtyard.

Another point that stood out strongly
against Lord Farquhart—a point that
was weighing heavily in public opinion—was
that since the night of Lady Barbara’s
arrival in London, since which
time Lord Farquhart had been obliged
to be in close attendance upon his cousin,
there had been no hold ups by this
redoubtable highwayman. The men
who had attacked Lindley and the player’s
lad had been but bungling robbers
of the road. That they could have had
any connection with the robbery of the
Lady Barbara, or with the other dashing
plays of the Black Devil, had been
definitely disproved.

So all of Farquhart’s friends were
weighed down with apprehension of the
fate in store for him, whether he was
guilty or not. The only hope lay in
Lord Grimsby, the old man who had
been convinced that the highwayman
was in league with the devil, if he was
not the devil himself; the old man
whose only son had vowed to take to
the road if the Black Highwayman met
his fate at his father’s hands. But the
hopes that were based on the demon-inspired
terror, and the paternal love of
Lord Grimsby, seemed faint, indeed, to
Lindley as he rode toward London that
night.

XVII.

Lindley was first at the tryst in London,
but Johan soon slipped from the
shadow of Master Timothy Ogilvie’s
gateway.

“I can stop but a moment,” he whispered,
nervously. “I must not be seen
here. My—my master must not know
that I—I am abroad in London.”

“And Mistress Judith?” questioned
Lindley. “Have you seen her? Is she
still here? Is she well?”

“I have seen Mistress Judith for a
moment only,” answered the lad. “She
is well enough, but she is worn out with
the care of her cousin, Lady Barbara,
and she is sadly dispirited, too.”

“’Tis a pity Lady Barbara cannot
die,” muttered Lindley, “after the confusion
she’s gotten Lord Farquhart into.
A sorry mess she’s made of things.”

“The poor girl——” Johan shuddered.
“Mistress Judith says the poor
girl is in desperate straits, does
naught but cry and sob, and vows she
loves Lord Farquhart better than her
life.”

“Ay, she may well be in desperate
straits,” shrugged Lindley. “And she’ll
be in worse ones when she finds she’s
played a goodly part in hanging an innocent
man!”

“Hanging!” Johan’s exclamation
was little more than a shrill, sharp cry.

“Ay, hanging, I said,” answered
Lindley. “What other fate does she
think is in store for Lord Farquhart?”

“But—but this Lord Farquhart is a
friend of yours, too, is he not, Master
Lindley?” The boy’s question was slow
and came after a long silence.

“Yes, a good friend and an honest
man, if ever there was one,” answered
Lindley.

 “An—an honest man!” Johan shuddered
again. “That’s it, an honest man
he is, isn’t he?”

“As honest as you or I!” Lindley’s
thoughts were so preoccupied that he
hardly noticed his companion’s agitation.

“But there must be some way of escape,”
Johan whispered, after another
silence. “Some way to save him! If
nothing else, some way to effect his escape!”

“Nay, I see no way,” gloomed Lindley.

In the darkness Johan crept closer to
Lindley.

“Is it only grief for Lord Farquhart
that fills your heart,” he asked, “or is
it your wound that still hurts? Or—or
has Mistress Judith some place in your
thoughts? You seem so somber, so depressed,
my master!”

“Ah, lad!” Lindley’s sigh was deep
and long. “Even Mistress Judith herself
might fail to comprehend. She still
fills all of me that a woman can fill, but
a man’s friend has a firm grip on his
life. If harm comes to Lord Farquhart,
the world will never again be so bright
a place as it has been!”

“But harm cannot come to Lord
Farquhart!” Johan’s voice was suddenly
soft and full. “He must be helped.
There are a hundred ways that have
not been tried. There is one way—oh,
there is one way, in all those hundred
ways—I mean, that must succeed.
Think, Master Lindley. Cannot I help?
Cannot I help in some way—to—to save
your friend?”

Lindley was touched by the earnestness
of the boy’s tone, and laid a kindly
hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll think, my lad, but to what purpose
I cannot promise you. This is no
place for swordplay, however brilliant
it may be.”

Johan had drawn roughly away from
Lindley’s side. Now he leaned against
the gate, dejection in every line of his
drooping figure.

“There is one way,” he muttered,
slowly. “There is always one way,
but——”

“You need not take it so to heart,
boy,” Lindley urged. “You’re sadly
worn and tired now. I saw last night
that you were quite spiritless and lacking
in heart! To-night, I see it even
plainer.”

“Oh, ’tis naught but the work I have
to do,” Johan answered, wearily.

“The work?” questioned Lindley. “Is
it a new part you have to play?”

“Ay, that’s it,” sighed Johan; “a new
part, a man’s part and a woman’s part
all in one! It’s a most difficult part,
indeed.” He was muttering the words
to himself, and, under his cloak, Lindley
could see his hands twisting nervously.

“Forgive me, lad!” Lindley’s tone
was conscience-stricken. “I’d not forgotten
the debt I owed you, though I
seem to have forgot the promised payment.
There’s been over much on my
mind these last few days. But I’ll buy
your freedom now, to-night, from this
master player of yours. Where lies he?
Let us go to him at once. Then you can
give up this part and take the rest you
need.”

“Oh, no, no, I must play this part,”
answered the player’s boy, hurriedly.
“I—I——Let me win to success before
I speak to him of leaving him. I
must, must succeed now. Then, perhaps,
we can talk of freedom, not before.”

“Well, as you like!” Lindley’s voice
had grown careless once again. He was
again absorbed in his own affairs.
“Think you I might see Mistress Judith
to-morrow, if I had a message from
Lord Farquhart for the Lady Barbara?”

“But have you access to Lord Farquhart?”
The boy spoke quickly, so quickly
that Lindley failed to notice the
change in voice and manner.

“Why, I suppose I can gain access
to him,” answered Lindley.

“But then surely I—surely we can
rescue him,” cried Johan. “I’d not supposed
that we could see Lord Farquhart,
that we could gain speech with
him. Now I know that I can help you
free him. Think, think from now until
to-morrow night at this time of some
feasible plan, some way of taking Johan,
 the player’s boy, into Lord Farquhart’s
presence. But wait! Why could you
not take me to him disguised as the
Lady Barbara? Mistress Judith would
provide me with Lady Barbara’s cloak
and veil and petticoats. She could coach
me in her looks and manners. Have
you forgotten how well I can impersonate
a woman? And then, if I could
pass the jailer as the Lady Barbara,
what would hinder Farquhart from
passing out as the Lady Barbara? I—I
could personate Lord Farquhart, at a
pinch, until rescue came to me. Or if
it came to a last extremity, why I could
still go to the gallows as Lord Farquhart!
But that extremity would not
come. There would be no difficulty in
saving a worthless player’s lad, and they
say that ’tis only Mr. Ashley’s work
that is telling against the prisoner; that
he is using this public means to wreak
a private vengeance. Oh, if I can but
see Lord Farquhart! If I can but speak
to him! Much might be done, even if
he refused the disguise of hood and
cloak. Be here to-morrow night, with
permits for yourself and Lady Barbara
to see Lord Farquhart. Leave all the
rest to me!” Johan’s impetuous voice
had grown stronger, more positive, as
his thoughts had formed themselves.
His last words savored of a command.
They were uttered in the tone that expects
obedience, but Lindley ignored
this.

“’Twould be but a waste of time,”
he answered, gloomily.

“Well, what of that?” demanded Johan.
“Perhaps it would be but a waste
of one night. But of what value is your
time or my time when there is even a
chance of safety for Lord Farquhart?”

“I suppose you’re right in that,”
agreed Lindley. “I’ll be here with the
permits, as you say, to-morrow night.
But what think you of my ruse to speak
to Mistress Judith in the morning? If
I were to present myself here at the
house with a message from Lord Farquhart
to the Lady Barbara, would not
Judith speak with me? Remember, boy,
that twenty-five crowns are yours the
day I speak with Mistress Judith!”

“Oh, Mistress Judith, Mistress Judith!”
cried the lad, impatiently. “Your
thoughts are all for Mistress Judith.
She will see no one, she will speak to
no one, so she said to-day, until the
Lady Barbara is recovered, until Lord
Farquhart is free. It will be all that I
can do to gain access to her to make
my demand for the Lady Barbara’s
clothes. And she is—she says that she
is sick of the whole world. Her cousin’s
plight, Lord Farquhart’s danger, have
sickened her of the whole world. It’s
for her sake that I would free Lord
Farquhart. Until Lord Farquhart is
released, Judith Ogilvie’s mind cannot
rest for a single second. So for her
sake you must work to free him, for
Judith’s sake, for the sake of the woman
you love!”

Without further word Lindley was
left standing alone in the empty street,
and his entire mind was absorbed in
amazement at the impetuosity of the
lad’s voice and manner.

XVIII.

The following night it was again
Lindley who was first at the tryst under
Master Timothy Ogilvie’s gateway. A
gusty wind blew down the street, and
there was little comfort to be found in
any shelter that was near at hand. Just
as Lindley’s patience was about exhausted,
though, he saw a slender shadow
move with hesitating steps out from
the gate, then scurry back to its protection.
A voice, muffled in the folds
of a cloak that covered the figure, a
voice sweet as a silver bell, called softly:

“Master Lindley, Master Lindley, are
you not here? Are you not waiting?”

Lindley advanced somewhat slowly
until he saw that a woman stood half
in, half out, of the shadow.

“But is it not you, Johan?” he asked,
with some hesitation.

“Nay, ’tis I, Lady Barbara Gordon,”
a girl’s voice answered. “Judith—Johan,
the lad that came to Judith, told me
that you were to take him to-night in
my guise to Lord Farquhart. But I
would speak to Lord Farquhart myself.
 I must see Lord Farquhart myself. I
may not have another chance. You have
the permits of which the boy spoke?
You will take me in his place?”

She advanced slowly, still hesitating,
her manner pleading as her words had
pleaded; her trembling voice seeming
but an echo of the tremors that shook
her frame.

Lindley hurriedly tried to reassure
her. Yes, he said, he had the permits.
Assuredly he would take her. And yet,
even as he spoke, he chafed at the woman’s
interference with Johan’s plan of
rescue. Why could she not have let the
boy offer Lord Farquhart a chance to
escape? But nothing of this was in his
manner. Instead he soothed her fears,
assuring her that ’twas but a short distance
to the place where Farquhart was
lodged, and, undoubtedly, the stormy
night would aid their purpose, for few
inquisitive stragglers would be abroad.

With faltering steps the lady moved
by his side. Once he thought he heard
a sob, and he laid a hand on her arm to
comfort her.

“You must have courage, my lady,”
he muttered. “You must take courage
to Lord Farquhart.”

Once in the flare of a passing torch
he saw the girl quite distinctly. She
was draped all in scarlet, a scarlet velvet
coat and hood, and, underneath, a
scarlet petticoat. One hand held a corner
of the cloak about her chin and
lips, and, under the drooping hood, he
saw a black silk mask. She shrank toward
him as the light fell on her and
caught his arm with her free hand. He
laid his hand protectingly on hers, and
after that, until they reached the sheriff’s
lodge, she held fast to him.

Even when Lindley showed his permits
to the guard on duty, she still held
him fast, and it was well that she did,
for she seemed almost to swoon when
their entry was denied.

All permits to see the prisoner had
been revoked at sundown, the fellow
said. The prisoner’s case had come before
the court that afternoon. He was
to be sentenced in the morning at ten
o’clock. No, Lord Grimsby had not
been present. Lord Grimsby had been
summoned from Padusey, however, to
pronounce the highwayman’s doom.

For an instant the Lady Barbara
seemed about to fall forward. Her entire
weight hung on Lindley’s arm. He
supported her as best he could, but his
own voice shook as he whispered once
more:

“Courage, courage, my lady!”

Then his anger vented itself upon the
guard.

“Have you no sense, blockhead?” he
cried. “How dare you blurt out your
tidings in such a careless fashion? Do
you not see the lady? Did I not tell
you that it was the Lady Barbara Gordon’s
name in that permit? You’ve likely
killed her with your words.”

For, indeed, it seemed a dead weight
that he held in his arms. The guard
thrust forward a bench, and Lindley
tried to place the lady down upon it,
but she clung to him almost convulsively.
When he attempted to take the cloak
from over her mouth, he heard her
whispered words.

“Ah, get me away from here, away
from here—anywhere. I can walk,
I——Indeed I can walk!”

Then she stood erect and turned
away from the guarded door, but Lindley
still hesitated there.

“At ten o’clock you said the prisoner
would be sentenced?” he asked.

“Ay, at ten o’clock, they said.”

Then Lindley heard the Lady Barbara’s
voice.

“You said Lord Grimsby would
come to-night from Padusey?” she
asked, faintly.

“Yes, from Padusey, to-night,” the
guard answered once again.

Why did she care from where Lord
Grimsby would come, Lindley demanded,
savagely, of himself. Was this
a time to think of trivial things like
that? And although he supported her
as tenderly, as courteously, as he could,
he felt in every fiber of him that it was
this woman alone who was responsible
for Lord Farquhart’s fate, and he
longed to be free from her. Monotonously
he was counting the distance that
must be traversed with her clinging to
 his arm, when suddenly she drew away
from him and stopped short.

“Enough of this, Master Lindley!”
It was Johan’s voice that came from the
hidden hooded face.

“Johan!” cried Lindley, now in a
frenzy of indignation. “What do you
mean by bringing your cursed play acting
into a tragedy like this? Have you
no heart whatsoever?”

“Nay, I’ve heart enough and to
spare,” the boy returned. “And ’tis
not all play acting, by any means. Did
I not tell you that I would personate the
Lady Barbara? Did I not have to practice
my part before I passed the guards?
Did you not serve me as well for that
as anyone? But there’s no time for
more of it. And I’ve no time for foolish
words and explanations, either.”
He had thrown aside the mask, the
scarlet coat and hood, and at last he
stepped from the scarlet petticoat,
standing slim and long in black silk hose
and short black tunic, his black curls
that fringed his small black cap alone
shading his eyes. “Listen to me, Master
Lindley, and save your reproaches until
I’ve time for them. There are still
more chances to save Lord Farquhart,
and not one must be lost. Not one second
can be wasted. Take these woman’s
togs and throw them inside Master
Timothy Ogilvie’s gate, where they’ll
be found in the morning. I—I leave
you here.”

“But where are you going?” demanded
Lindley. “You cannot cross
London at night in that guise, with no
coat or cloak about you. You’ve woman’s
shoes on your feet. You’re mad,
boy, and you’ll be held by the first sentry
you pass.”

Johan, who had turned away, stopped
and came back to Lindley’s side.

“Ay, perhaps you’re right,” he said.
“Give me your coat and lend me your
sword. I may have need of it, and
you’ve but to pass Master Ogilvie’s, and
then to reach your own lodging, a safer
transit than mine by many odds. And—and,
Master Lindley, wait in your
lodgings until you hear from me. Wait
there unless it nears ten o’clock. If
you’ve not heard from me by then,
you’ll find me there, where Lord Farquhart
is to be sentenced, and—and be on
the alert for any signal that may be
made to you by anyone, and—and——”
He had buckled Lindley’s sword about
his waist, he had wrapped himself in
Lindley’s coat, and still he hesitated.
Suddenly he dashed his hand across his
eyes. “Ah, I’ve no time for more,” he
cried, “save only—only good-by.”

He was gone into the darkness, and
Lindley was left alone—coatless and
swordless—with a bundle of scarlet garments
under his arm, and, in his heart,
an inexplicable longing to follow the
boy, Johan, into the night.

XIX.

It seemed as though fate had decreed
that there should be but two more acts
in the career of Lord Farquhart. All
London knew that he was to be condemned
to death for highway robbery
at ten o’clock on the Friday morning.
All London knew that his hanging
would quickly follow its decree, and all
London, apparently, was determined to
see, at least, the first act in the melodrama.
The court was crowded with
society’s wits and beaux, with society’s
belles, many of the latter hooded and
masked, but many revealing to all the
world their ardent sympathy for the
prisoner at the bar.

Lord Farquhart’s habitual pose of indifference,
of insolent indifference to
the world and its opinions, stood him in
good stead on that October morning. He
had passed through moments of blackest
agony, of wild rebellion against the
doom in store for him. He had gibed
and mocked and railed at fate, at the
laws of his country that could condemn
an absolutely innocent man to so grewsome
a death. He had struggled and
fought with his jailers; he had appealed
in vain to man and God, but now he sat
quite calm and still, determined only
that the world that had so incomprehensibly
turned from him should not
gloat over his despair. Only once had
his lips twitched and his eyelids contracted,
and that was when he recognized
in a figure hooded, cloaked and
 masked in black, the Lady Barbara Gordon.
He had turned his eyes from her
instantly, but not quickly enough to
miss, the sight of the pathetic white
hands she’d stretched toward him. Was
she asking for pardon, he wondered.
No word from Barbara had reached him
in his confinement.

A moment later a faint smile flickered
across Lord Farquhart’s face. He
had caught sight of Harry Ashley occupying
a prominent place near the
judge’s stand, and his conviction that
Ashley was responsible for his imprisonment
and for the sentence that was
so soon to be pronounced strengthened
his determination to hide his anguish
from the world. For the rest, his eyes
traveled impersonally over the crowded
room. He would greet no one of the
intimate friends who crowded as close
as they dared to the place where he sat.

Lord Grimsby had not yet entered
the room, but from behind the curtains
that covered the door of Lord Grimsby’s
private apartment rolled Lord
Grimsby’s sonorous voice. It reached
the first circle of inquisitive ears, and
the meaning of his words slipped
through the courtroom.

“Ay, but I tell you it was the same.
I’ve had dealings with the fellow before.
I’ve seen him at close quarters before.
I know his voice and his touch and his
manner. He’s like enough to Lord
Farquhart in size and build, but he’s
not like him altogether.”

“And you say he stopped you, my
lord?”

“Stopped me not two hours’ ride from
Padusey!” roared Lord Grimsby. “On
the darkest bit of the road, the fellow
sprang from nowhere and brandished
his sword in front of my horse. And
then he took my purse and my seal and
my rings. You’ve questioned all the
guards most carefully? They’re sure
that the prisoner did not leave his quarters
last night? That no one entered
his room or left it?”

“Why, yes.” The answer was low
and deferential. “He had visitors asking
for him in plenty, some with permits
and some without, but no one saw him
save the guard.”

“And the guard is sure he did not
leave his room?” Lord Grimsby’s roar
was heard again.

“They’re sure, my lord. And, in very
truth, would the prisoner have returned
had he once escaped? Lord Farquhart’s
presence here argues Lord Farquhart’s
innocence of this latest outrage.”

“One can argue little of the devil’s
doings,” raged Lord Grimsby.

“But will this not free Lord Farquhart?”
asked the deferential voice.

“How can it free him, fool?” demanded
the roaring voice. “How
could I prove that the fellow I met was
not the devil trying to save one of his
own brood? And would there not be
fools a-plenty to say that I’d met no
one, that I’d invented the tale to save
myself from the devil’s clutches, if I
freed Lord Farquhart on such evidence?
The whole affair from the beginning
has savored of the devil’s mixing. Who
else would have driven his majesty on
to demand such hot haste against the
fellow? ’Tis all most uncanny and most
unwholesome. I’ll be thankful, for one,
when my part in it’s over.”

“I wonder on what we wait. ’Tis
surely long after ten o’clock!”

It was Ashley’s voice that made this
statement loud enough for all the room
to hear, loud enough to penetrate even
to Lord Grimsby’s ears; loud enough to
force that timorous jurist back into a
judicial calm.

It was then that Lord Farquhart’s
lips parted in a second smile. It was
then that some fifty hands sprang to
their swords, for there were fifty gentlemen
there who resented Ashley’s
unseemly eagerness to hurry on Lord
Farquhart’s fate.

“And ’tis like the devil, too, to make
me finish his black work,” commented
Lord Grimsby’s natural voice, ere his
judicial voice took up the opening formalities
of the sentence he was to pronounce.

’Twas well known that the crown
left naught to the court save the announcement
of the crown’s decree.
Thus was Lord Grimsby hiding himself
behind his majesty, the king, in order
to protect himself from his majesty, the
 devil, when he was interrupted by a
commotion that would not be downed,
by the cries of silence from the court’s
servants.

“I tell you I must speak! I will be
heard! I will speak! Will you all
stand by and hear an innocent man sentenced
to be hanged merely for the sake
of custom, of courtesy to the court;
merely on a question of privilege to
speak? I should have been here before.
I was detained. Now I will speak. I
will be heard, I say. Will be, will be,
will be!”

It was a girl’s voice that rang out
sharp and clear. To Lindley it seemed
faintly familiar, and yet the girl who
spoke was a stranger to him; a stranger,
apparently, to everyone in the room.
She stood in front of Jack Grimsby. It
was Jack Grimsby she was haranguing.
She was, evidently, a woman of rank
and quality, for she carried herself as
one accustomed to command and to be
obeyed. She was gowned in blue velvet,
and her russet hair, drawn high in
a net—a fashion in favor in France—was
shaded by a blue velvet hat, over
which drooped heavy white plumes. A
thin lace mask veiled her eyes. Only
her small, red mouth and delicate chin
were visible.

“Is an oath nothing to you, then?”
she cried, impetuously, still addressing
Jack Grimsby. “You’ve sworn to do all
in your power to save this highwayman.
Now is your chance! Gain me but five
minutes and I’ll have Lord Farquhart
freed from, this absurd charge against
him.”

And then it was Lord Grimsby’s
voice that answered her.

“Ay, madam, the court will willingly
grant you five minutes. Nay, I will
grant you ten, in the cause of justice,
for I like not the way this matter has
been handled.” And even Lord Grimsby
himself could not have told whether
it was the devil who had prompted him
to so interfere with the decorum of the
law.

The girl bowed her thanks with informal
gratitude, then hurried from the
room. She passed so close to Lindley
that he seemed enveloped in a strange
perfume that floated from her, and
after she had passed he, and he alone,
saw a tiny scrap of paper lying at his
feet. As carelessly as possible he picked
it up, and saw that it was written on.
He read as follows:

Mistress Judith’s Star is at Cavanaugh’s
inn, three squares away. Fetch him to the
end of the lane with what speed you may.

Johan.

In the tumult that followed the curious
interruption of the morning’s work,
Lindley’s exit was unnoticed. It was
less than five minutes before he returned,
and in that time he had delivered
the white horse, with its starred
forehead, to Johan, who was waiting,
apparently at ease, at the end of the
lane. Lindley stopped not to question
the boy, so anxious was he to see what
was happening in the court.

There were a clamor of voices, a rustle
of silks, a clanking of spurs and
swords. Many averred that the lady was
some well-known beauty infatuated by
Lord Farquhart, playing merely for
time. Others thought she might be lady
to the real highwayman, whoever he
was, and that she was about to force him
to reveal himself. Some suggested that
she might even be the highwayman himself.
Lord Grimsby was trying to recall
if ever he had heard of the devil guising
himself as a young red-headed girl, covering
himself, from horned head to
cloven hoof, in azure velvet. Lord
Farquhart still sat quite unmoved, seemingly
as indifferent as ever to the world,
apparently unmindful of his champion.
Ashley’s face was black with rage, and
he stood all alone in the midst of the
crowd. Lady Barbara had flung aside her
mask; her loosened cloak and its hood
had fallen from her, but her white face
was hidden behind her white hands. Jack
Grimsby, Treadway, all of Farquhart’s
friends, were watching eagerly, intently,
the door through which the woman had
disappeared, through which she or the
real highwayman must reappear. There
had been a movement to follow her, but
this had been checked by Lord Grimsby’s
voice. The word of the court had
been given. Its word was not to be
violated. The stranger should not be
 followed or spied upon. Lord Grimsby’s
lips were working feverishly, and
those nearest to him heard muttered imprecations
and prayers, but prayers and
imprecations were alike addressed to
the ruler of the nether world.

Through the window that faced Lord
Farquhart fluttered a faint breeze, and,
suddenly, on its wings, floated a song
caroled gayly by careless lips.

Lips that vie with the poppy’s hue,

Eyes that shame the violet’s blue,

Hearts that beat with love so true,

Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!

As the last line was reached, the window
framed a figure; a figure that
seemed as familiar to all as the voice
that crossed the figure’s lips. And yet
the figure was cloaked and hatted and
masked in black.

“Lord Farquhart!” shouted a hundred
voices, looking from the motionless
prisoner to the picture in the window.

“Percy, Percy!” screamed the Lady
Barbara, and it was to the window that
her arms were stretched.

“The devil!” shouted Lord Grimsby,
wavering back from the thrice encountered
fiend.

“Yes, the devil, the Black Devil,”
laughed the voice in the window. “But
not Lord Farquhart, not your Percy,
Lady Barbara. For he sits there as innocent
as all the rest of you. But there’s
your purse, Lord Grimsby; your purse
and your seal and your rings that I took
last night!” He flung the articles toward
Lord Grimsby. “And there’s your
broidered gauntlet, that you gave somewhat
easily, my Lady Barbara.” The
glove fell at Lady Barbara’s feet. “And
here’s one of my lord bishop’s rings
that I sent not back with the rest. I
have five minutes more by your own
word, Lord Grimsby. After that I’m
yours—if you can take me!”

XX.

The king’s guards, and the motley
crowd that followed them, found no
one on any road round about the court
save Johan, the player’s boy, riding in
most ungainly fashion on Mistress Judith’s
nag in the direction of the Ogilvie
woods. He had seen naught, he had
heard naught, of any fugitive highwayman.
He shivered and crossed himself
when the Black Devil’s name was mentioned.
He even begged one of the
guards to mount and ride behind him
until they should be beyond the danger
zone, assuring the fellow that Mistress
Judith would reward him well if he
saved her favorite horse from the highwayman’s
clutches.

At practically the same moment,
Master Lindley came upon Johan, the
player’s boy, stupidly asleep at the end
of the lane, quite unmindful of the commotion
that surged about him.

When Lindley had shaken him into
some semblance of wakefulness, he only
stammered:

“Ay, ay, Master Lindley, I know you.
But I know naught of last night save
that I sat late over my supper. I’ve
not seen Mistress Judith to-day, at all.
Yes, she’s spoken much of Lord Farquhart,
but I know naught of him. Now
I——” And he had already drowsed
off into sleep.

It was the first time that Lindley had
ever seen the player’s boy by the light
of day, and he was shocked by the sickly
pallor of the lad’s face. The thin
lips were feverishly bright and his black
curls straggled across his brow. It was
a stupid face, too, but Lindley could
not stop then to marvel at the discrepancy
between the clever brain and its
covering. Instead he hurried eagerly
after the throng that was in vain pursuing
the gentleman highwayman, who
seemed to possess the devil’s luck, if he
were not, in reality, the devil himself.

XXI.

Lord Farquhart’s imprisonment, his
trial, his escape, had suffered the fate
of all nine day wonders. There were
some busybodies in London who occasionally
commented on the fact that
the Black Devil no longer frequented
the highways, but they were answered
by others who declared that, doubtless,
the gentleman was otherwise amused.
 And those who commented and those
who answered might and might not
have had double meanings in their
words.

As it happened, Lord Farquhart was
otherwise engaged. His marriage to
the Lady Barbara had been solemnized
quite simply down at Gordon’s Court,
and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying
a honeymoon on the continent.
Harry Ashley was balked not only of
his lady but also of his revenge, and his
own black looks seemed to encounter
naught save black looks in others, so he
had taken himself out of the way. No
one knew or cared whither.

Otherwise, the life and gossip of the
town had returned to its wonted serenity.
Everyone was moving on quietly
and calmly in dead level ruts save Cecil
Lindley. He found serenity in nothing.
He could do nothing quietly or
calmly. Twice he had communicated
directly with his cousin, Mistress Judith,
and twice she had returned his
communications unread. In a personal
interview with his uncle, Master James
Ogilvie, he fared no better. Judith’s
father shook his head over Judith’s obstinacy,
but declared he could not shake
her will.

There seemed nothing in all the
world for Lindley to do save to wander
back and forth on the roads that lay
between Ogilvie’s woods and London,
hoping to meet thereon some chance
that would lead him to his lady’s feet
or something that would open his lady’s
heart to him. And then, quite suddenly,
when he had almost given up hope
of ever winning word with her or look
from her, he received a note written
in her round, clerkly hand, saying that
she would meet him at two o’clock of
the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth
day of November, at the tavern
known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern
hosted by Marmaduke Bass.

As it happened, by chance or by
Mistress Judith’s own will, the lady was
first at the inn. The room was quite
empty and deserted. The hour named
for the tryst savored little of conviviality.
The rotund innkeeper slumbered
peacefully in front of his great hearth,
and small patches of November sunshine
lay on the floor, while merry
November motes danced in the yellow
beams.

Johan, the player’s boy, had said that
Mistress Judith was no beauty; but no
one in all England would have agreed
with that verdict had they seen her
lightly poised on the threshold of the
old inn, the gray plumes of her high
crowned riding hat nodding somewhat
familiarly to the motes in the sunshine.
Her gray velvet riding skirt was lifted
high enough to reveal her dainty riding
boots; her hair, bright and burnished
as a fox’s coat, fell in curls about her
shoulders, and mischief gleamed from
her tawny eyes, even as mischief parted
her red lips over teeth as white as pearl.
It almost seemed as though she were
about to cross the room on tiptoe, and
yet she stopped full in the doorway,
sniffing the air with dainty nostrils, before
she turned back to meet her father,
who followed close on her footsteps.

“Faugh!” she cried, shrugging her
shoulders, holding a kerchief to her
nose. “Why, the place reeks of wine
and musty ale. A pretty place, I must
say, for a lover’s tryst.”

“But, Judith, my love,” remonstrated
her father, “the place is of your own
choosing. You stated that ’twas here
you’d meet your cousin Lindley, and
nowhere else. Surely you’re not going
to blame him if a tavern reeks of a tavern’s
holdings.”

“In truth, I fancy I’ll blame my cousin
Lindley for whatsoever I choose to
blame him,” answered the girl, her
small mouth seeming but a scarlet line
over her dainty chin, under her tilting
nose. She was still standing in the
black frame of the doorway, her merry
eyes noting each detail of the room
within, still excluding her father from
the place.

“I hope, Judith, my dear, as I’ve said
a hundred times, that you’ve not induced
your cousin to meet you here
merely that you may flout him.” The
words evidently cost Master Ogilvie
great effort. “For my sake——”

“Flout him!” laughed the girl. “Flout
my cousin Lindley!” Then her voice
 grew suddenly serious. Turning, she
put both hands caressingly on her
father’s shoulders. “Let us pray
Heaven, rather, that there be no flouting
on either side!” She bent her head
slightly and kissed him on either cheek.
Then her serious mood fled as quickly
as it had come. “Though I’m in no way
bound to give my reason for choosing
a wayside inn for this meeting with my
cousin—you’ll admit, sir, that I’m not
bound so to do? Well, I’ve no objection
to telling you that I meet him here so
that, if I like him not, I can leave him
on the instant. If I had him come to
my own house, if I met him anywhere
save on the common ground of a public
place, and liked him not, or saw that he
liked me not at all—why, there would
be certain courtesies due from a lady
to a gentleman, and I choose not to be
held by those. And—and I may have
had another reason for choosing The
Jolly Grig, and then—I may not. But
I think, sir, that the innkeeper solicits
your attention.”

Marmaduke Bass had, for several
moments, been hovering officiously in
the wake of Master James Ogilvie.

“It’s many a day since I’ve seen your
honor at The Jolly Grig,” murmured
Marmaduke, with a certain obsequious
familiarity that he reserved for old and
well-known patrons.

“Ay, I’ve had little time for jollity
this many a year,” agreed Master Ogilvie,
with a ponderous wink behind his
daughter’s back. “My hands and my
head have been full.”

Judith’s small nose was still sniffing
the air while she moved lightly about
the long, dark room.

“I—I like not the smell of your
place, Master—Master——”

“’Tis Marmaduke Bass, my love,”
interrupted her father.

“Ah, yes,” she assented. “I’d forgotten
for the moment. This hearth has
an air of comfort, though, and as for
this chair——” She had seated herself
in the chair that fronted Marmaduke’s
settle. “Ah, Master Bass, I should say
that your chair would induce sleep.”
She yawned luxuriously, and her feet,
in their dainty riding boots, were
stretched over far in front of her for a
well-brought-up damsel. But it must
not be forgotten that Mistress Judith
Ogilvie had been brought up quite
apart from other girls, quite without a
woman’s care. “If I were only a man,
now,” she continued, “I’d call for a
glass of—what would I ask for, Master
Bass? Would it be Geldino’s sherris
or Canary Malmsey, or would I have
to content myself with a royal port lately
brought from France?” She sprang
to her feet, laughing gayly, while old
Marmaduke scratched his head, wondering
of what her words reminded
him. She touched his shoulder lightly
and added: “If my father calls for wine,
later—later, mind you, we’ll have the
sherris, Geldino’s own.”

Her words and Marmaduke’s efforts
to collect his thoughts were interrupted
here by the clatter of horse’s hoofs in
the court. The next instant Lindley
was entering the room.

“I’m not late?” he cried. “Surely, I’m
not late?”

“No, my boy, ’tis not yet two,” Master
Ogilvie answered, hurriedly, but Judith
answered nothing. She still stood
in front of the deep hearth. “Come,
come, Judith, girl,” cried her father,
“surely you need no introduction to
Cecil Lindley?”

“No, surely I know my cousin well.”
The girl’s voice fell soft and full of
singing notes as a meadow lark’s. “But
I think he questions if he knows me.”

Her brown eyes were on a level with
his, and he was remembering at that
instant that Johan had said Mistress
Judith’s lips would be level with his.
Ay, they were level with his, and they
were near his, too, for she had come
straight to him and given him both her
hands.

“Judith!”

That was all he said, and it seemed
to the girl that he drew back, away from
her. And possibly he did, for he knew
that he must not draw her close, not
yet, oh, not yet, anyway.

And after he had spoken that one
word, after he had said her name, he
seemed to find no words to offer her,
and she looked for none. He still held
 her hands, however, and she still looked
straight and deep into his eyes.

Once the red line of her mouth widened
into a smile, once it twisted into a
mutinous knot. But she would not
speak, nor would she help him to find
words.

Master Ogilvie and Marmaduke Bass
had passed into the room behind the
hearth. The girl and the man were
alone.

“You are as familiar to me as my
own self, Judith,” he said at last. “It
seems to me that I have known you always,
that we have never been apart.”

“And even to me, we seem not quite
strangers,” answered the soft, singing
voice that held the meadow lark’s notes.

“You wrote me that love lay all in
the chance of meeting, Judith!” The
man’s voice was tremulous with desire.

“Ay, so I believe it does,” she answered,
her eyes falling for an instant
before his.

“You said that you might meet me
and find me the man of your heart’s desire,
Judith.”

“Well, if love lies in chance, why
might I not chance to love you?” Her
words were brave, her eyes were again
steady, were again deep in his, but the
red line of her mouth was tremulous.

“When will you know, when will you
tell me that I am the man of your
heart’s desire, Judith? I—I love you,
Judith.”

“Must I tell you unasked? Might
you not ask me now and see?”

Her white lids drooped over her
tawny eyes, and just for an instant the
red lips that were level with his met his.

But suddenly the girl drew back,
withdrew her hands from his. She
had not meant to yield so easily.
She had not meant to give so much.
She had not meant to yield at all until
Cecil knew—until he knew—why, certain
things that he must know before he
could take what she so longed to give.

“I—I must speak, my cousin, there is
something I must tell you,” she faltered,
and no one would have known the
trembling voice for that of Mistress Judith
Ogilvie.

“Ah, sweetheart, speak, speak all you
will,” cried Lindley. “Your voice is
music in my ears. Say that you love
me, say it over and over, for whatever
else you say, whatever else you tell me,
that is all I’ll hear.”

“Nay, but, Master Lindley——”

Cecil’s brain sprang to the sound,
and all at once he seemed to recognize
a perfume familiar, yet all unfamiliar.

But then there fell upon their ears a
clash of swords in the court. Lindley
and the girl, standing near the window,
were thrust aside by Master Ogilvie
and the innkeeper.

“Mr. Ashley and his servant are
quartered here,” sputtered the latter,
“and like as not ’tis one of them. The
man’s as quarrelsome as his master.”

“Aie!” cried Judith, suddenly, “’tis
Johan, the player’s boy, and Johan cannot
fight. He will be killed! Stop it,
good Marmaduke. Have a care, boy!
Protect yourself! Hit under! Ay,
now, to the left! ’Fend yourself, Johan!”

“But if ’tis Johan, the player’s boy,”
cried Lindley, “he needs no instructions.
He’s master of the art of fighting.”

But Judith was heedless of the meaning
in his words.

“He knows not one end of the sword
from t’other,” she cried, impetuously,
the hot blood in her cheeks. Leaning
far from the window, it seemed almost
as though she fought with Johan’s
sword, so fast her instructions followed
one the other, so exactly her motions
portrayed what he should do.

The fight in the yard was summarily
stopped by the intervention of Marmaduke
and Master Ogilvie. Then Judith,
drawing back into the room, met
Lindley’s eyes for just a second.

“Ah, what have I done?” she cried.

“Oh, Judith, Judith!” he exclaimed.
“Johan, Johan, and I never for an instant
knew it!”

“Ay, Johan, the player’s boy,” she
answered. The words were almost a
sob, and yet Lindley heard the same
tremulous laugh that had rung through
the woods the night when Johan had
 killed the highwayman. “Johan, the
player’s boy, and Judith, the play actor!”

“But——”

“No, there is no but,” she answered,
quickly. “’Twas that, too, that I was
trying to tell you. But I’ve been Johan
to you for all this time, though I’ve
had to play so many parts. And love
did lie in the chance of meeting, too.
I loved you when first I laid eyes on
you, when I lay feigning sleep in that
chair by the hearth, when Lord Farquhart
entertained his guests, when you
took my part and begged that I might
be let to sleep, when you vouched for
my conscience. And I think my conscience
should have wakened then, but
it did not. And I loved you even
more that same night when we rode
through the moonlit roads together,
when you vowed to win Judith’s love
in spite of Judith’s hate. See, I’ve the
golden crown you threw to Johan to
bind your bargain with him.” She drew
from her bosom the golden piece of
money strung on a slender chain.

Her words had poured forth so tumultuously
that Lindley had found no
chance to interrupt. Now he said, almost
mechanically, the first words that
had occurred to him.

“You were the lad asleep in the chair
that night?” He was holding her close,
as though she might escape him.

“Ye-es,” she answered, faintly, “and—and,
oh, Cecil, shall I tell you all? I
was Johan all the time, you know. You
only saw the real Johan twice; once
that night at the edge of our woods,
when he told you that I had gone to
London, and—and once on the day of
the trial, when you saw him asleep at
the end of the lane. And—and—of
course you know that I disguised myself
as the Lady Barbara that night in
hopes of gaining a word with Lord
Farquhart. I did that well, did I not,
Cecil?” There was a touch of bravado
in the voice for a second, but it quickly
grew tremulous once more. “’Tis
harder to be a woman than a man, I
think, harder to play a woman’s part
than a man’s. And—well, I was the
woman in the court who stopped Lord
Grimsby’s sentence. ’Twas Lady Barbara’s
gown that she had ready for
her wedding journey with Lord Farquhart.
It was a beautiful gown, did you
not think so?” Again the bravado
quivered in and out of her voice. “I
ruined it outright, for Johan and I
shoved it, gown and hat and all, under
Star’s saddle cloth, and I rode on it all
the way from London to Ogilvie’s
woods, with a king’s guard mounted behind
for part of the way. I’ve played
all those parts, Cecil, and it’s been a
wearying, worrisome thing, part of the
time, with quick work and rapid
changes, but it’s all over now. I’ve
learned my lesson and I’ve done with
mumming forever.”

“And those are all the parts you’ve
played?” Lindley’s question was almost
careless, for he was tasting again
the girl’s sweet lips.

“No,” she answered, slowly, with
long hesitations between the words.
“There was one other. But—but must
you know all, every one?” For an instant
the eyes and lips were mutinous.

“All, every one, sweetheart,” he answered.

“Well,” she said, slowly again and
with still longer hesitations, “there
was one other, but—but ’twas—well, the
blackest kind of a black devil that
tempted me, that led me on, that
showed me the excitement of it all, that
taught me the ease of escape and
flight!”

“A—a—black devil!” Cecil was
echoing her words, and yet Judith was
well aware that not yet did he know
the truth.

“Ay, a black devil,” she answered.
“The Black Devil himself. I was the
Black Devil. I was that black highwayman.
But ’twas only a joke of a
highwayman, Cecil, only a joke when
I held up all those stupid, cowardly
lords. Only a joke when I frightened
the poor old bishop. Only a joke when
I made Grimsby come to poor Jack’s
rescue. Only a joke to frighten Barbara.
It was all a joke, until I knew
what a scrape I’d got Lord Farquhart
into. And then I knew I had to rescue
Farquhart. And rescue him I did.
 So I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never
injured anyone. I robbed no one really,
you know, and, oh, Cecil, Cecil, can’t
you see that ’twas only done for fun, all
of it? And it’s all gone from me now,
gone from me forever, every bit of it.
And, Cecil, it’s love, love for you, that’s
exorcised it. Even the devil himself
can be exorcised by love. Even the
Black Devil himself can be exorcised
by the kind of love I have for you.”

It was not only her words that pleaded.
Love itself pleaded in the tawny
eyes, on the tender lips, with the clinging
hands, and in very truth it is doubtful
if the devil himself could have found
place between her lips that clung to his,
within his arms that clasped her close.

And in Geldino’s sherris, opened by
Marmaduke Bass, Lindley only repeated
a former toast, offered in the same
place; for, with laughing eyes on Judith’s,
he said:

“Shall we drink once more, and for
the last time, to the Gentleman of the
Highways?”

FROM GARDENS OVER SEAS

(A Rondel After Catulle Mendes)

Thomas Walsh.

AN EDITORIAL

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS I-XV OF “THE DELUGE,” BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

Matthew Blacklock, the central figure of the story, is essentially a self-made man, who has made
himself a power to be reckoned with. He is a man of great natural force, immense egotism, insatiable
greed for notoriety and unswerving adherence to his own standards of morality. He has two devouring
ambitions: First to become one of the inner circle that controls high finance and second to become
one of the elect in society.

The opening chapters explain these ambitions. The magnate of the financial world is Roebuck,
who has from time to time made use of Blacklock’s peculiar abilities and following. The latter has
become dissatisfied with his role as a mere instrument and demands of Roebuck that he shall be given
a place among the “seats of the mighty.” Roebuck makes a pretense of yielding to the demand.

Blacklock’s social ambition is awakened and stimulated by his meeting with Anita Ellersly, a
young society girl whose family have been the recipients of many financial favors from him.

Using these obligations as a lever, he secures the entree to the Ellersly home, though it is soon
made plain to him that his intentions with respect to Anita are extremely distasteful to her.

His first impulse is to regard his plans as hopeless, but his vanity comes to his rescue and strengthens
his resolution to succeed. For assistance he turns to Monson, the trainer of his racing stable, an
Englishman of good birth and breeding. Under Monson’s tuition he makes rapid progress in adapting
himself to the requirements imposed upon aspirants for social distinction.

Blacklock persists in his attention to Anita and finally becomes engaged to her, though it is perfectly
understood by both that she does not love him and accepts him only because he is rich and her
family is poor.

Meantime, he has to some extent lost his hold upon his affairs in Wall Street and suddenly
awakens to the fact that he has been betrayed by Mowbray Langdon, one of Roebuck’s trusted lieutenants,
who, knowing that Blacklock is deeply involved in a short interest in Textile Trust stock, has
taken advantage of the latter’s preoccupation with Miss Ellersly to boom the price of the stock. With
ruin staring him in the face, Blacklock takes energetic measures to save himself.

He sees Anita, tells her the situation and frees her, but she refuses to accept her release when she
hears of Langdon’s duplicity.

With the aid of money loaned to him by a gambler friend, he succeeds the next day, by means
of large purchases of Textile Trust, in postponing the catastrophe.

Calling at the house of the Ellerslys, he has a violent scene with Mrs. Ellersly, who attempts to
break the engagement between him and Anita, but it ends in his taking her with him from the house.

They go to the house of Blacklock’s partner, Joseph Ball, where they are married, after which
Blacklock takes his wife to his own apartments, despite her protest that she wishes to go to her uncle’s.

Anita plainly shows her aversion to her husband, though he treats her with the greatest delicacy
and consideration.

After some days the young wife receives a call from her parents, who seek to persuade her to
leave Blacklock, telling her that they have private information that he will soon be a bankrupt. Anita
refuses to go unless they will return to her husband all the money they have obtained from him.

All this she frankly tells Blacklock, who scoffs at the idea that he is in sore straits financially,
though in his secret heart he knows that his position is indeed precarious.

In his extremity he goes to Roebuck, to ascertain, if he can, if he too is in the plot to ruin him.

[FOR SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS SEE PRECEDING PAGE]

XV—(Continued).

When Roebuck lived
near Chicago, he
had a huge house,
a sort of crude palace
such as so
many of our millionaires
built for
themselves in the
first excitement of their new wealth—a
house with porches and balconies
and towers and minarets and
all sorts of gingerbread effects to
compel the eye of the passer-by. But
when he became enormously rich, so
rich that his name was one of the synonyms
for wealth, so rich that people said
“rich as Roebuck” where they used to
say “rich as Crœsus,” he cut away every
kind of ostentation, and avoided attention
more eagerly than he had once
sought it. He took advantage of his
having to remove to New York, where
his vast interests centered; he bought a
small and commonplace and, for a rich
man, even mean house in East Fifty-second
Street—one of a row and an almost
dingy looking row at that. There he
had an establishment a man with one-fiftieth
of his fortune would have felt
like apologizing for. The dishes on his
table, for example, were cheap and almost
coarse, and the pictures on his
walls were photographs or atrocious
bargain-counter paintings. To his few
intimates who were intimate enough to
question him about his come-down from
his Chicago splendors, he explained that
with advancing years he was seeing with
clearer eyes his responsibilities as a
steward of the Lord, that luxury was
sinful, and no man had the right to
waste the Lord’s gifts that way.
The general theory about him was
that advancing years had developed
his natural closeness into the stingiest
avariciousness. But my notion
is he was impelled by the fear of
exciting envy, by the fear of assassination—the
fear that made his
eyes roam restlessly whenever strangers
were near him, and so dried
up the inside of his body that his
dry tongue was constantly sliding
along his dry lips. I have seen a
convict stand in the door of his cell
and, though it was impossible that anyone
could be behind him, look nervously
over his shoulder every moment or so.
Roebuck had the same trick—only his
dread, I suspect, was not the officers
of the law, even of the divine law, but
the many, many victims of his merciless
execution of “the Lord’s will.” This
state of mind is more common than is
generally supposed, among the very
rich men, especially those who have
come up from poverty. Those who have
inherited great wealth, and have always
been used to it, get into the habit of
looking upon the mass of mankind as
inferiors, and move about with no
greater sense of peril than a man has in
venturing among a lot of dogs with tails
wagging. But those who were born
poor and have risen under the stimulus
of a furious envy of the comfortable and
the rich, fancy that everybody who isn’t
rich has the same savage hunger which
they themselves had, and is ready to use
the same desperate methods in gratifying
it. Thus, where the rich of the
Langdon sort are supercilious, the rich
of the Roebuck sort are nervous and
often become morbid on the subject of
 assassination as they grow richer and
richer.

The door of Roebuck’s house was
opened for me by a maid—a manservant
would have been a “sinful” luxury,
a manservant might be an assassin or
might be hired by plotters against his
life. I may add that she looked the
cheap maid-of-all-work, and her manners
were of the free and fresh sort
which indicates that a servant feels he
or she should get as high, or higher,
wages, and less to do, elsewhere. “I
don’t think you can see Mr. Roebuck,”
she said.

“Take my card to him,” I ordered,
“and I’ll wait in the parlor.”

“Parlor’s in use,” she retorted, with
a sarcastic grin, which I was soon to
understand.

So I stood by the old-fashioned coat
and hat rack while she went in at the
hall door of the back parlor. Soon Roebuck
himself came out, his glasses on
his nose, a family Bible under his arm.
“Glad to see you, Matthew,” said he,
with saintly kindliness, giving me a
friendly hand. “We are just about to
offer up our evening prayer. Come
right in.”

I followed him into the back parlor.
Both it and the front parlor were lighted;
in a sort of circle extending into
both rooms were all the Roebucks and
the four servants. “This is my friend,
Matthew Blacklock,” said he, and the
Roebucks in the circle gravely bowed.
He drew up a chair for me, and we
seated ourselves. Amid a solemn hush,
he read a chapter from the big Bible
spread out upon his lean lap. My glance
wandered from face to face of the Roebucks,
as plainly dressed as were their
servants. I was able to look freely,
mine being the only eyes not bent upon
the floor. It was the first time in my
life that I had witnessed family prayers.
When I was a boy at home, my mother
had taken literally a Scriptural injunction
to pray in secret—in a closet, I
think the passage of the Bible said.
Many times each day she used to retire
to a closet under the stairway and
spend from one to twenty minutes shut
in there. But we had no family prayers.
I was therefore deeply interested
in what was going on in those countrified
parlors of one of the richest and
most powerful men in the world—and
this right in the heart of that district
of New York where palaces stand in
rows and in blocks, and where such few
churches as there are resemble social
clubs for snubbing climbers and patronizing
the poor.

It was astonishing how much every
Roebuck in that circle, even the old
lady, looked like old Roebuck himself—the
same smug piety, the same underfed
appearance that, by the way, more
often indicates a starved soul than a
starved body. One difference—where
his face had the look of power that
compels respect and, to the shrewd, reveals
relentless strength relentlessly
used, the expressions of the others were
simply small and mean and frost-nipped.
And that is the rule—the second
generation of a plutocrat inherits,
with his money, the meanness that enabled
him to hoard it, but not the greatness
that enabled him to make it.

So absorbed was I in the study of the
influence of his terrible master-character
upon those closest to it, that I
started when he said: “Let us pray.”
I followed the example of the others,
and knelt. The audible prayer was offered
up by his oldest daughter, Mrs.
Wheeler, a widow. Roebuck punctuated
each paragraph in her series of
petitions with a loudly whispered amen.
When she prayed for “the stranger
whom Thou hast led seemingly by
chance into our little circle,” he whispered
the amen more fervently and repeated
it. And well he might, the old
robber and assassin by proxy! The
prayer ended and us on our feet, the
servants withdrew, then all the family
except Roebuck. That is, they closed
the doors between the two rooms and
left him and me alone in the front
parlor.

“I shall not detain you long, Mr. Roebuck,”
said I. “A report reached me
this evening that sent me to you at
once.”

“If possible, Matthew,” said he, and
he could not hide his uneasiness, “put
 off business until to-morrow. My mind—yours,
too, I trust—is not in the
frame for that kind of thoughts now.”

“Is the Coal reorganization to be announced
the first of July?” I demanded.
It has always been, and always shall be,
my method to fight in the open. This,
not from principle, but from expediency.
Some men fight best in the
brush; I don’t. So I always begin battle
by shelling the woods.

“No,” he said, amazing me by his instant
frankness. “The announcement
has been postponed.”

Why did he not lie to me? Why did
he not put me off the scent, as he might
easily have done, with some shrewd
evasion? I suspect I owe it to my luck
in catching him at family prayers. For
I know that the general impression of
him is erroneous; he is not merely a
hypocrite before the world, but also a
hypocrite before himself. A more profoundly,
piously conscientious man
never lived. Never was there a truer
epitaph than the one implied in the sentence
carved over his niche in the magnificent
Roebuck mausoleum he built:
“Fear naught but the Lord.”

“When will the reorganization be announced?”
I asked.

“I cannot say,” he answered. “Some
difficulties—chiefly labor difficulties—have
arisen. Until they are settled,
nothing can be done. Come to me tomorrow,
and we’ll talk about it.”

“That is all I wished to know,” said
I. And, with a friendly, easy smile, I
put out my hand. “Good-night.”

It was his turn to be astonished—and
he showed it, where I had given not a
sign. “What was the report you
heard?” he asked, to detain me.

“That you and Mowbray Langdon
had conspired to ruin me,” said I,
laughing.

He echoed my laugh rather hollowly.
“It was hardly necessary for you to
come to me about such a—a statement.”

“Hardly,” I answered, dryly. Hardly,
indeed. For I was seeing now all
that I had been hiding from myself
since I became infatuated with Anita,
and made marrying her my only real
business in life.

We faced each other, each measuring
the other. And as his glance quailed
before mine, I turned away to conceal
my exultation. In a comparison of resources
this man who had plotted to
crush me was to me as giant to midget.
But I had the joy of realizing that man
to man, I was the stronger. He had
craft, but I had daring. His vast wealth
aggravated his natural cowardice—crafty
men are invariably cowards, and
their audacities under the compulsion of
their insatiable greed are like a starving
jackal’s dashes into danger for food.
My wealth belonged to me, not I to it;
and, stripped of it, I would be like the
prize-fighter stripped for the fight.
Finally, he was old while I was young.
And there was the chief reason for his
quailing. He knew that he must die
long before me, that my turn must
come, that I could dance upon his
grave.

As I drove away, I was proud of myself.
I had listened to my death sentence
with a face so smiling that he
must almost have believed me unconscious;
and also, it had not even entered
my head, as I listened, to beg for
mercy. Not that there would have been
the least use in begging—as well try
to pray a statue into life as try to soften
that set will and purpose. Still, another
sort of man than I would have weakened,
and I felt—justly, I think—proud
that I had not weakened. But
when I was once more in my apartment—in
our apartment—perhaps I did
show that there was a weak streak
through me. I fought against the impulse
to see her once more that night;
but I fought in vain. I knocked at the
door of her sitting room—a timid
knock, for me. No answer. I knocked
again, more loudly—then a third time,
still more loudly. The door opened
and she stood there, like one of the angels
that guarded the gates of Eden after
the fall. Only, instead of a flaming
sword, hers was of ice. She was in a
dressing gown or tea gown, white and
clinging and full of intoxicating hints
and glimpses of all the beauties of her
figure. Her face softened as she continued
to look at me, and I entered.

 “No—please don’t turn on any more
lights,” I said, as she moved toward the
electric buttons. “I just came in to—to
see if I could do anything for you.”
In fact, I had come, longing for her to
do something for me, to show in look
or tone or act some sympathy for me in
my loneliness and trouble.

“No, thank you,” she said. Her
voice was that of a stranger who
wished to remain a stranger. And she
was evidently waiting for me to go.
You will see what a mood I was in
when I say I felt as I had not since I, a
very small boy indeed, ran away from
home—it was one evening after I had
been put to bed; I came back through
the chilly night to take one last glimpse
of the family that would soon be realizing
how foolishly and wickedly unappreciative
they had been of such a
treasure as I; and when I saw them
sitting about the big fire in the lamp
light, heartlessly comfortable and unconcerned,
it was all I could do to keep
back the tears of self-pity—and I never
saw them again.

“I’ve seen Roebuck,” said I to Anita,
because I must say something, if I was
to stay on.

“Roebuck?” she inquired. Her tone
reminded me that his name conveyed
nothing to her.

“He and I are in an enterprise together,”
I explained. “He is the one
man who could seriously cripple me.”

“Oh,” she said, and her indifference,
forced though I thought it, wounded.

“Well,” said I, “your mother was
right.”

She turned full toward me, and even
in the dimness I saw her quick and full
sympathy—an impulsive flash that was
instantly gone. But it had been there!

“I came in here,” I went on, “to say
that—Anita, it doesn’t in the least matter.
No one in this world, no one and
nothing, could hurt me except through
you. So long as I have you, they—the
rest—all of them together—can’t touch
me.”

We were both silent for several minutes.
Then she said, and her voice was
like the smooth surface of the river
where the boiling rapids run deep:

“But you haven’t me—and never shall
have. I’ve told you that. I warned
you long ago. No doubt you will pretend,
and people will say, that I left
you because you lost your money. But
it won’t be so.”

I was beside her instantly, was looking
into her face. “What do you
mean?” I asked, and I did not speak
gently.

She gazed at me without flinching.
“And I suppose,” she said, satirically,
“you wonder why I—why you—are repellent
to me. Haven’t you learned
that, while I may have been made into
a moral coward, I’m not a physical
coward? Don’t bully and threaten. It’s
useless.”

I put my hand strongly on her shoulder—taunts
and jeers do not turn me
aside. “What do you mean?” I repeated.

“Take your hand off me,” she commanded.

“What did you mean?” I repeated,
strongly. “Don’t be afraid to answer
me.”

She was very young—so the taunt
stung her. “I was about to tell you,”
said she, “when you began to bluster.”

I took advantage of this to extricate
myself from the awkward position in
which she had put me—I took my
hand from her shoulder.

“I am going to leave you,” she went
on. “I am ready to go at any time.
But if you wish it, I shall not go until
my plans are arranged.”

“What plans?” I demanded.

“That is no concern of yours.”

“You forget that you are my wife,”
said I, my brain on fire.

“I am not your wife,” was her answer,
and if she had not looked so
young and childlike, there in the moonlight
all in white, I could not have held
myself in check, so insolent was the
tone and so hopeless of ever being able
to win her did she make me feel.

“You are my wife, and you will stay
here with me,” I reiterated.

“I am my own, and I shall go where
I please, and do what I please,” was
her contemptuous retort. “Why won’t
 you be reasonable? Why won’t you
see how utterly unsuited we are? I
don’t ask you to be a gentleman—but
just a man, and be ashamed even to
wish to detain a woman against her
will.”

I drew up a chair so close to her that,
to retreat, she was forced to sit in the
broad window seat. Then I seated myself.
“By all means, let us be reasonable,”
said I. “Now, let me explain my
position. I have heard you and your
friends discussing the views of marriage
you’ve just been expressing.
Their views may be right, may be more
civilized, more ‘advanced,’ than mine.
No matter. They are not mine. I hold
by the old standards—and you are my
wife—mine. Do you understand?” All
this as tranquilly as if we were discussing
fair weather. “And you will live
up to the obligation which the marriage
service has put upon you.”

She might have been a marble statue
pedestaled in that window seat.

“You married me of your own free
will—for you could have protested to
the preacher, and he would have sustained
you. You put certain conditions
on our marriage. I assented to them.
I have respected them. I shall continue
to respect them. But—when you married
me, you didn’t marry a dawdling
dude chattering ‘advanced ideas’ with
his head full of libertinism. You married
a man. And that man is your husband.”

I waited, but she made no comment—not
even by gesture or movement.
She simply sat, her hands interlaced in
her lap, her eyes straight upon mine.

“You say, let us be reasonable,” I
went on. “Well, let us be reasonable.
There may come a time when a woman
can be free and independent, but that
time is a long way off yet. The world
is organized on the basis of every woman
having a protector—of every decent
woman having a husband, unless she
remains in the home of some of her
blood relations. There may be women
strong enough to set the world at defiance.
But you are not one of them—and
you know it. You have shown it
to yourself again and again in the last
forty-eight hours. Further, though
you do not know it, your bringing up
has made you more of a child than
most of the inexperienced women. If
you tried to assert your so-called independence,
you would be the easy prey of
a scoundrel or scoundrels. When I,
who have lived in the thick of the fight
all my life, who have learned by many
a surprise and defeat never to sleep except
sword and gun in hand, and one
eye open—when I have been trapped as
Roebuck and Langdon have just
trapped me—what chance would a
woman like you have?”

She did not answer, or change expression.

“Is what I say reasonable or unreasonable?”
I asked, gently.

“Reasonable—from your standpoint,”
she said.

She gazed out into the moonlight, up
into the sky. And at the look in her
face, the primeval savage in me strained
to close round that slender white throat
of hers and crush and crush until it
had killed in her the thought of that
other man which was transforming her
from marble to flesh that glowed and
blood that surged. I pushed back my
chair with a sudden noise that startled
her; by the way she trembled, I gauged
how tense her nerves must have been.
I rose and, in a fairly calm tone, said:
“We understand each other?”

“Yes,” she answered. “As before.”

I ignored this. “Think it over,
Anita,” I urged—she seemed to me so
like a sweet, spoiled child again. I
longed to go straight at her about that
other man. I stood for a moment with
Tom Langdon’s name on my lips, but I
could not trust myself. I went away to
my own rooms.

I thrust thoughts of her from my
mind. I spent the night gnawing upon
the ropes with which Mowbray Langdon
and Roebuck had bound me, hand
and foot.

XVI.

No sane creature, not even a sane
bulldog, will fight simply from love of
fighting. When a man is attacked, he
 may be sure he has excited either the
fear or the cupidity of his assailants, for
men fight either to protect that which
they have or to gain that which they
feel they must have. So far as I could
see, it was absurd that cupidity was inciting
Langdon and Roebuck against
me. I hadn’t enough to tempt them.
Thus, I was forced to conclude that I
must possess a strength of which I was
unaware, and which stirred even Roebuck’s
fears. But what could it be?

Besides Langdon and Roebuck and
me, there were six principals in the
proposed Coal combine, three of them
richer and more influential in finance
than even Langdon, all of them except
possibly Dykeman, the lawyer or navigating
officer of the combine, more formidable
figures than I. Yet none of
these men was being assailed. “Why
am I singled out?” I asked myself, and
I felt that if I could answer, I should
find I had the means wholly or partly to
defeat them. But I could not even explain
to my satisfaction Langdon’s activities
against me. I felt that Anita
was somehow the cause; but, even so,
how had he succeeded in convincing
Roebuck that I must be clipped and
plucked into a groundling?

“It must have something to do with
the Manasquale mines,” I decided. “I
thought I had given over my control of
them, but somehow I must still have a
control that makes me too powerful for
Roebuck to be at ease so long as I am
afoot and armed.” And I resolved to
take my lawyers and search the whole
Manasquale transaction—to explore it
from attic to underneath the cellar
flooring. “We’ll go through it,” said
I, “like ferrets through a ship’s hold.”

As I was finishing breakfast, Anita
came in. She had evidently slept well,
and I regarded that as ominous. At
her age, a crisis means little sleep until
a decision has been reached. I rose,
but her manner warned me not to advance
and try to shake hands with her.

“I have asked Alva to stop with me
here for a few days,” she said, formally.

“Alva!” said I, much surprised. She
had not asked one of her own friends;
she had asked a girl she had met less
than two days before, and that girl my
partner’s daughter.

“She was here yesterday morning,”
Anita explained. And I now wondered
how much Alva there was in Anita’s
firm stand against her parents.

“I’m glad you like her,” said I. “Why
don’t you take her down to our place on
Long Island? Everything’s ready for
you there, and I’m going to be busy the
next few days—busy day and night.”

She reflected. “Very well,” she assented,
presently. And she gave me a
puzzled glance she thought I did not
see—as if she were wondering whether
the enemy was not hiding a new and
deeper plot under an apparently harmless
suggestion.

“Then I’ll not see you again for several
days,” said I, most business-like.
“If you want anything, there will be
Monson out at the stables, where he
can’t annoy you. Or you can get me
on the ‘long distance.’ Good-by. Good
luck.”

And I nodded carelessly and friendlily
to her, and went away, enjoying the
pleasure of having startled her into visible
astonishment. “There’s a better
game than icy hostility, you very young
lady,” said I to myself, “and that game
is friendly indifference.”

Alva would be with her. So she
was secure for the present, and my
mind was free for “finance.”

At that time the two most powerful
men in finance were Galloway and Roebuck.
In Spain I once saw a fight between
a bull and a tiger—or, rather, the
beginning of a fight. They were released
into a huge iron cage. After
circling it several times in the same
direction, searching for a way out, they
came face to face. The bull tossed the
tiger; the tiger clawed the bull. The
bull roared; the tiger screamed. Each
retreated to his own side of the cage.
The bull pawed and snorted as if he
could hardly wait to get at the tiger;
the tiger crouched and quivered and
glared murderously, as if he were going
instantly to spring upon the bull.
But the bull did not rush, neither did
 the tiger spring. That was the Roebuck-Galloway
situation.

How to bait tiger Galloway to attack
bull Roebuck—that was the problem I
must solve, and solve straightway. If
I could bring about war between the
giants, spreading confusion over the
whole field of finance and filling all men
with dread and fear, there was a chance,
a bare chance, that in the confusion I
might bear off part of my fortune.
Certainly, conditions would result in
which I could more easily get myself
intrenched again; then, too, there
would be a by no means small satisfaction
in seeing Roebuck clawed and bitten
in punishment for having plotted
against me. Mutual fear had kept these
two at peace for five years, and most
considerate and polite about each other’s
“rights.” But while our country’s
industrial territory is vast, the interests
of the few great controllers who determine
wages and prices for all are equally
vast, and each plutocrat is tormented
incessantly by jealousy and suspicion;
not a day passes without conflicts of interest
which adroit diplomacy could
turn into ferocious warfare. And in
this matter of monopolizing the Coal,
despite Roebuck’s earnest assurances to
Galloway that the combine was purely
defensive, and was really concerned
only with the labor question, Galloway,
a great manufacturer, or, rather, a huge
levier of the taxes of dividends and
interest upon manufacturing enterprises,
could not but be uneasy.

Before I rose that morning I had a
tentative plan for stirring him to action.
I was elaborating it on the way downtown
in my electric. It shows how
badly Anita was crippling my brain,
that not until I was almost at my office
did it occur to me: “That was a tremendous
luxury Roebuck indulged his
conscience in last night. It isn’t like
him to forewarn a man, even when he’s
sure he can’t escape. Though his
prayers were hot in his mouth, still, it’s
strange he didn’t try to fool me. In
fact, it’s suspicious. In fact——”

Suspicious? The instant the idea
was fairly before my mind, I knew I
had let his canting fool me once more.

I entered my offices, feeling that the
blow had already fallen; and I was surprised,
but not relieved, when I found
everything calm. “But fall it will within
an hour or so—before I can move
to avert it,” said I to myself.

And fall it did. At eleven o’clock,
just as I was setting out to make my
first move toward heating old Galloway’s
heels for the warpath, Joe came
in with the news: “A general lockout’s
declared in the coal regions. The operators
have stolen a march on the men,
who, so they allege, were secretly getting
ready to strike. By night every
coal road will be tied up and every mine
shut down.”

Joe knew our coal interests were
heavy, but he did not dream his news
meant that before the day was over we
should be bankrupt and not able to pay
fifteen cents on the dollar. However,
he knew enough to throw him into a
fever of fright. He watched my calmness
with terror. “Coal stocks are
dropping like a thermometer in a cold
wave,” he said, like a fireman at a
sleeper in a burning house.

“Naturally,” said I, unruffled, apparently.
“What can we do about it?”

“We must do something!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, we must,” I admitted. “For
instance, we must keep cool, especially
when two or three dozen people are
watching us. Also, you must go and
attend to your usual routine.”

“What are you going to do?” he
cried. “For God’s sake, Matt, don’t
keep me in suspense.”

“Go to your desk,” I commanded.
And he quieted down and went. I
hadn’t been schooling him in the fire
drill for fifteen years in vain.

I went up the street and into the
great banking and brokerage house of
Galloway & Co. I made my way
through the small army of guards,
behind which the old beast of prey was
intrenched, and into his private den.
There he sat, at a small, plain table, in
the middle of a room without any article
of furniture in it but his table and
his chair. On the table was a small inkstand,
perfectly clean, a steel pen, equally
 clean, on the rest attached to it. And
that was all—not a letter, not a scrap
of paper, not a sign of work or an intention
to work. It might have been
the desk of a man who did nothing; in
fact, it was the desk of a man who had
so much to do that his only hope of
escape from being overwhelmed was to
dispatch and clear away each matter the
instant it was presented to him. Many
things could be read in the powerful
form, bolt upright in that stiff chair,
and in the cynical, masterful old face.
But to me the chief quality there revealed
was that quality of qualities, decision—the
greatest power a man can
have, except only courage. And old
James Galloway had both.

He respected Roebuck; Roebuck
feared him. Roebuck did have some
sort of a conscience, distorted though
it was, and the dictator of savageries
Galloway would have scorned to commit.
Galloway had no professions of
conscience—beyond such small glozing
of hypocrisy as any man must put on
if he wishes to be intrusted with the
money of a public that associates professions
of religion and appearances of
respectability with honesty. Roebuck’s
passion was wealth—to see the millions
heap up and up. Galloway had that
passion, too—I have yet to meet the
millionaire who is not avaricious and
even stingy. But Galloway’s chief passion
was power—to handle men as a
junk merchant handles rags, to plan
and lead campaigns of conquest with
his golden legions, and to distribute the
spoils like an autocrat who is careless
how they are divided, since all belongs
to him, whenever he wishes to claim it.

He pierced me with his blue eyes,
keen as a youth’s, though his face was
seamed with the scars of seventy tumultuous
years. He extended toward
me over the table his broad, stubby
white hand—the hand of a builder, of a
constructive genius. “How are you,
Blacklock?” said he. “What can I do
for you?” He just touched my hand
before dropping it, and resuming that
idol-like pose. But although there was
only repose and deliberation in his manner,
and not a suggestion of haste, I,
like everyone who came into that room
and that presence, had a sense of an
interminable procession behind me, a
procession of men who must be seen
by this master-mover, that they might
submit important and pressing affairs
to him for decision. It was unnecessary
for him to tell anyone to be brief
and pointed.

“I shall have to go to the wall today,”
said I, taking a paper from my
pocket, “unless you save me. Here
is a statement of my assets and liabilities.
I call to your attention my Coal
holdings. I was one of the eight men
whom Roebuck has got round him for
the new combine—it is a secret, but I
assume you know all about it.”

He laid the paper before him, put on
his nose-glasses and looked at it.

“If you will save me,” I continued,
“I will transfer to you, in a block, all
my Coal holdings. They will be worth
double my total liabilities within three
months—as soon as this lockout is settled
and the reorganization is announced.
I leave it to your sense of
justice to decide whether I shall have
any part of them back when this storm
blows over.”

“Why didn’t you go to Roebuck?”
he asked, without looking up.

“Because it is he that has stuck the
knife into me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I suspect the Manasquale
properties, which I brought into
the combine, have some value, which
no one but Roebuck, and perhaps Langdon,
knows about—and that I in some
way was dangerous to them through
that fact. They haven’t given me time
to look into it.”

A grim smile flitted over his face.
“You’ve been too busy getting married,
eh?” And I then thought that the grim
smile was associated with his remark.
I was soon to know that it was an affirmation
of my shrewd guess about
Manasquale.

“Exactly,” said I. “It’s another case
of unbuckling for the wedding feast
and getting assassinated as a penalty.
Do you wish me to explain anything on
 that list—do you want any details of the
combine—of the Coal stocks there?”

“Not necessary,” he replied. As I
had thought, with that enormous machine
of his for drawing in information,
and with that enormous memory of his
for details, he probably knew more
about the combine and its properties
than I did.

“You have heard of the lockout?” I
inquired—for I wished him to know
that I had no intention of deceiving him
as to the present market value of those
stocks.

“Roebuck has been commanded by
his God,” he said, “to eject the free
American labor from the coal regions
and to substitute importations of coolie
Huns and Bohemians. Thus the wicked
American laborers will be chastened
for trying to get higher wages and
cut down a pious man’s dividends;
and the downtrodden coolies will be
brought where they can enjoy the blessings
of liberty and of the preaching of
Roebuck’s missionaries.”

I laughed, though he had not smiled,
but had spoken as if stating colorless
facts. “And righteousness and Roebuck
will prevail,” said I.

He frowned slightly, a sardonic grin
breaking the straight, thin, cruel line
of his lips. He opened his table’s one
shallow drawer, and took out a pad and
a pencil. He wrote a few words on the
lowest part of the top sheet, folded it,
tore off the part he had scribbled on,
returned the pad and pencil to the
drawer, handed the scrap of paper to
me. “I will do it,” he said. “Give this
to Mr. Farquhar, second door to the
left. Good-morning.” And in that atmosphere
of vast affairs, speedily dispatched,
his consent without argument
did not stir suspicion in me.

I bowed. Though he had not saved
me as a favor to me, but because it fitted
in with his plans, whatever they were,
my eyes were dimmed. “I shan’t forget
this,” said I, my voice not quite
steady.

“I know it,” said he, curtly. “I know
you.”

I saw that his mind had already
turned me out. I said no more, and
withdrew. When I left the room it was
precisely as it had been when I entered
it—except the bit of paper torn from
the pad. But what a difference to me,
to the thousands, the hundreds of thousands,
directly and indirectly interested
in the Coal combine and its strike and
its products, was represented by those
few, almost illegible scrawlings on that
scrap of paper.

Not until I had gone over the situation
with Farquhar, and we had signed
and exchanged the necessary papers,
did I begin to relax from the strain—how
great that strain was I realized a
few weeks later, when the gray appeared
thick at my temples and there
was in my crown what was for such a
shock as mine a thin spot. “I am
saved!” said I to myself, venturing a
long breath, as I stood on the steps of
Galloway’s establishment, where hourly
was transacted business vitally affecting
the welfare of scores of millions of human
beings, with James Galloway’s personal
interest as the sole guiding principle.
“Saved!” I repeated, and not
until then did it flash before me, “I
must have paid a frightful price. He
would never have consented to interfere
with Roebuck as soon as I asked him
to do it, unless there had been some
powerful motive. If I had had my wits
about me, I could have made far better
terms.” Why hadn’t I my wits
about me? “Anita,” was my instant answer
to my own question. “Anita
again. I had a bad attack of family
man’s panic.” And thus it came about
that I went back to my own office feeling
as if I had suffered a severe defeat,
instead of jubilant over my narrow escape.

Joe followed me into my den. “What
luck?” asked he, in the tone of a mother
waylaying the doctor as he issues from
the sick room.

“Luck?” said I, gazing blankly at
him.

“You’ve seen the latest quotation,
haven’t you?” In his nervousness his
temper was on a fine edge.

“No,” replied I, indifferently. I sat
down at my desk and began to busy myself.
Then I added: “We’re out of the
 Coal combine, I’ve transferred our
holdings. Look after these things,
please.” And I gave him the checks,
notes and memoranda of agreement.

“Galloway!” he exclaimed. And
then his eye fell on the totals of the
stock I had been carrying. “Good
God, Matt!” he cried. “We were
ruined!”

And he sat down, and buried his face
and cried like a child—and it was then
that I measured the full depth of the
chasm I had escaped. I made no such
exhibition of myself, but when I tried
to relight my cigar my hand trembled
so that the flame scorched my lips. I
registered a vow never to gamble again—not
with stocks, not with cards, not at
all. And I’ve kept faith with myself.

“Ruined?” I said to Joe, easily
enough. “Not at all. We’re back in
the road, going smoothly ahead—only,
at a bit less stiff a pace. Think, Joe, of
all those poor devils down in the mining
districts. They’re out—clear out—and
thousands of ’em don’t know where
their families will get bread. And
though they haven’t found it out yet,
they’ve got to leave the place where
they’ve lived all their lives, and their
fathers before them—have got to go
wandering about in a world that’s as
strange to them as the surface of the
moon, and as bare for them as the Sahara
desert.”

“That’s so,” said Joe. “It’s hard
luck.” But I saw he was thinking only
of himself and his narrow escape from
having to give up his big house and all
the rest of it; that, soft-hearted and
generous though he was, to those poor
chaps and their wives and children he
wasn’t giving a thought. Wall Street
never does—they’re too remote, too
vague. It deals with columns of figures
and slips of paper. It never thinks of
those abstractions as standing for so
many hearts and so many mouths, just
as the bank clerk never thinks of the
bits of metal he counts so swiftly as
money with which things and men
could be bought. I read somewhere
once that Voltaire—I think it was Voltaire—asked
a man what he would do
if, by pressing a button on his table, he
would be enormously rich and at the
same time would cause the death of a
person away off at the other side of
the earth, unknown to him, and probably
no more worthy to live, and with
no greater expectation of life or of happiness,
than the average sinful, short-lived
human being. I’ve often thought
of that dilemma as I’ve watched our
great “captains of industry.” Voltaire’s
dilemma is theirs. And they
don’t hesitate; they press the button.
I leave the morality of the performance
to moralists; to me, its chief feature
is its cowardice, its sneaking, slimy
cowardice.

“You’ve done a grand two hours’
work,” said Joe.

“Grander than you think,” replied I.
“I’ve set the tiger on to fight the bull.”

“Galloway and Roebuck?”

“Just that,” said I. And I laughed.
Then I started up—and sat down again.
“No, I’ll deny myself the pleasure,” said
I. “I’ll let Roebuck find out when the
claws catch in that tough old hide of
his.”

XVII.

On about the hottest afternoon of
that summer I had the yacht take me
down the Sound to a point on the Connecticut
shore within sight of Dawn
Hill, but seven miles further from New
York. I landed at the private pier of
Howard Forrester, the only brother of
Anita’s mother. As I stepped upon the
pier I saw a fine looking old man in the
pavilion overhanging the water. He
was dressed all in white except a sky-blue
tie that harmonized with the color
of his eyes. He was neither fat nor
lean, and his smooth skin was protesting
ruddily against the age proclaimed
by his wool-white hair. He rose as I
came toward him, and, while I was still
several yards away, showed unmistakably
that he knew who I was and that
he was anything but glad to see me.

“Mr. Forrester?” I asked.

He grew purple to the line of his
thick white hair. “It is, Mr. Blacklock,”
said he. “I have the honor to
wish you good-day, sir.” And with that
he turned his back on me.

 “I have come to ask a favor of you,
sir,” said I, as polite to that hostile back
as if I had been addressing a cordial
face. And I waited.

He wheeled round, looked at me
from head to foot. I withstood the inspection
calmly; when it was ended I
noted that in spite of himself he was
somewhat relaxed from the opinion of
me he had formed upon what he had
heard and read. But he said: “I do
not know you, sir, and I do not wish to
know you.”

“You have made me painfully aware
of that,” replied I. “But I have learned
not to take snap judgments too seriously.
I never go to a man unless I have
something to say to him, and I never
leave until I have said it.”

“I perceive, sir,” retorted he, “you
have the thick skin necessary to living
up to that rule.” And the twinkle in
his eyes betrayed the man who delights
to exercise a real or imaginary talent
for caustic wit. Such men are like nettles—dangerous
only to the timid touch.

“On the contrary,” replied I, easy in
mind now, though I did not anger him
by showing it, “I am most sensitive to
insults—insults to myself. But you are
not insulting me. You are insulting a
purely imaginary, hearsay person who
is, I venture to assure you, utterly unlike
me, and who doubtless deserves to
be insulted.”

His purple had now faded. In a far
different tone he said: “If your business
in any way relates to the family
into which you have married, I do not
wish to hear it. Spare my patience and
your time, sir.”

“It does not,” was my answer. “It
relates to my own family—to my wife
and myself. As you may have heard,
she is no longer a member of the Ellersly
family. And I have come to you
chiefly because I happen to know your
sentiment toward the Ellerslys.”

“I have no sentiment toward them,
sir,” he exclaimed. “They are non-existent,
sir—non-existent! Your wife’s
mother ceased to be a Forrester when
she married that scoundrel. Your wife
is still less a Forrester.”

“True,” said I. “She is a Blacklock.”

He winced, and it reminded me of the
night of my marriage and Anita’s expression
when the preacher called her
by her new name. But I held his gaze,
and we looked each at the other fixedly
for, it must have been, full a minute.
Then he said, courteously: “What
do you wish?”

I went straight to the point. My
color may have been high, but my voice
did not hesitate as I explained: “I wish
to make my wife financially independent.
I wish to settle on her a sum of
money sufficient to give her an income
that will enable her to live as she has
been accustomed. I know she would
not take it from me. So I have come
to ask you to pretend to give it to her—I,
of course, giving it to you to give.”

Again we looked full and fixedly each
at the other. “Come to the house,
Blacklock,” he said at last in a tone
that was the subtlest of compliments.
And he linked his arm in mine. Halfway
to the rambling stone house, severe
in its lines, yet fine and homelike, quaintly
resembling its owner, as a man’s
house always should, he paused. “I
owe you an apology,” said he. “After
all my experience of this world of envy
and malice, I should have recognized
the man even in the caricatures of his
enemies. And you brought the best possible
credentials—you are well hated.
To be well hated by the human race and
by the creatures mounted on its back,
is a distinction, sir. It is the crown of
the true kings of this world.”

We seated ourselves on the wide veranda;
he had champagne and water
brought, and cigars; and we proceeded
to get acquainted—nothing promotes
cordiality and sympathy like an initial
misunderstanding. It was a good hour
before this kind-hearted, hard-soft, typical
old-fashioned New Englander reverted
to the object of my visit. Said
he: “And now, young man, may I venture
to ask some extremely personal
questions?”

“In the circumstances,” replied I,
“you have the right to know everything.
I did not come to you without first making
sure what manner of man I was to
find.” At this he blushed, pleased as a
 girl at her first beau’s first compliment.
“And you, Mr. Forrester, cannot be expected
to embark in the little adventure
I propose, until you have satisfied yourself.”

“First, the why of your plan.”

“I am in active business,” replied I,
“and I shall be still more active. That
means financial uncertainty.”

His suspicion of me started up from
its doze and rubbed its eyes. “Ah!
You wish to insure yourself.”

“Yes,” was my answer, “but not in
the way you hint. It takes away a man’s
courage just when he needs it most, to
feel that his family is involved in his
venture.”

The old man settled back, partially reassured.
“Why do you not make the
settlement direct?” he asked.

“Because I wish her to feel that it is
her own, that I have no right over it
whatever.”

He thought about this. His eyes
were keen as he said: “Is that your
real reason?”

I saw I must be unreserved with him.
“Part of it,” I replied. “The rest is—she
would not take it from me.”

The old man smiled cynically. “Have
you tried?” he inquired.

“If I had tried and failed, she would
have been on the alert for an indirect
attempt.”

“Try her, young man,” said he,
laughing. “In this day there are few
people anywhere who’d refuse any sum
from anybody for anything. And a
woman—and a New York woman—and
a New York fashionable woman—and
a daughter of old Ellersly—she’ll
take it as a baby takes the breast.”

“She would not take it,” said I.

My tone, though I strove to keep angry
protest out of it, because I needed
him, caused him to draw back instantly.
“I beg your pardon,” said he. “I forgot
for the moment that I was talking
to a man young enough still to have
youth’s delusions about women. You’ll
learn that they’re human, that it’s from
them we men inherit our weaknesses.
However, let’s assume that she won’t
take it. Why won’t she take your
money? What is there about it that
repels Ellersly’s daughter, brought up
in the sewers of fashionable New York—the
sewers, sir?”

“She does not love me,” I answered.

“I have hurt you,” he said, quickly,
in great distress at having compelled me
to expose my secret wound.

“The wound does not ache the
worse,” said I, “for my showing it—to
you.” And that was the truth. I looked
over toward Dawn Hill, whose towers
could just be seen. “We live there.” I
pointed. “She is—like a guest in my
house.”

When I glanced at him again, his
face betrayed a feeling which I doubt
if anyone had thought him capable in
many a year. “I see that you love her,”
he said, gently as a mother.

“Yes,” I replied. And presently I
went on: “The idea of anyone I love
being dependent on me in a sordid way
is most distasteful to me. And since
she does not love me, does not even
like me, it is doubly necessary that she
be independent.”

“I confess I do not quite follow you,”
said he.

“How can she accept anything from
me? If she should finally be compelled
by necessity to do it, what hope could
I have of her ever feeling toward me
as a wife should feel toward her husband?”

At this explanation of mine his eyes
sparkled with anger—and I could not
but suspect that he had at one time in
his life been faced with a problem like
mine, and had settled it the other way.
My suspicion was not weakened when
he went on to say:

“Boyish motives again! They show
you do not know women. Don’t be deceived
by their delicate exterior, by
their pretenses of super-refinement.
They affect to be what passion deludes
us into thinking them. But they’re clay,
sir, just clay, and far less sensitive than
we men. Don’t you see, young man,
that by making her independent you’re
throwing away your best chance of
winning her? Women are like dogs—like
dogs, sir! They lick the hand that
feeds ’em—lick it, and like it.”

 “Possibly,” said I, with no disposition
to combat views based on I knew
not what painful experience; “but I
don’t care for that sort of liking—from
a woman or from a dog.”

“It’s the only kind you’ll get,” retorted
he, trying to control his agitation.
“I’m an old man. I know human nature—that’s
why I live alone. You’ll
take that kind of liking, or do without.”

“Then I’ll do without,” said I.

“Give her an income, and she’ll go.
I see it all. You’ve flattered her vanity
by showing your love for her—that’s
the way with the women. They go
crazy about themselves, and forget all
about the man. Give her an income
and she’ll go.”

“I doubt it,” said I. “And you would,
if you knew her. But, even so, I shall
lose her in any event. For, unless she
is made independent, she’ll certainly go
with the last of the little money she has,
the remnant of a small legacy.”

The old man argued with me, the
more vigorously, I suspect, because he
found me resolute. When he could
think of no new way of stating his case—his
case against Anita—he said:
“You are a fool, young man—that’s
clear. I wonder such a fool was ever
able to get together as much property
as report credits you with. But—you’re
the kind of fool I like.”

“Then—you’ll indulge my folly?”
said I, smiling.

He threw up his arms in a gesture
of mock despair. “If you will have it
so,” he replied. “I am curious about
this niece of mine. I want to see her.
I want to see the woman who can resist
you.”

“Her mind and her heart are closed
against me,” said I. “And it is my own
fault—I closed them.”

“Put her out of your head,” he advised.
“No woman is worth a serious
man’s while.”

“I have few wants, few purposes,”
said I. “But those few I pursue to the
end. Even though she were not worth
while, even though I wholly lost hope,
still I’d not give her up. I couldn’t—that’s
my nature. But—she is worth
while.” And I could see her, slim and
graceful, the curves in her face and figure
that made my heart leap, the azure
sheen upon her petal-like skin, the mystery
of her soul luring from her
eyes.

After we had arranged the business—or,
rather, arranged to have it arranged
through our lawyers—he walked
down to the pier with me. At the gangway
he gave me another searching look
from head to foot—but vastly different
from the inspection with which our interview
had begun. “You are a devilish
handsome young fellow,” said he.
“Your pictures don’t do you justice.
And I shouldn’t have believed any man
could overcome in one brief sitting such
a prejudice as I had against you. On
second thought, I don’t believe I care to
see her. She must be even below the
average.”

“Or far above it,” I suggested.

“I suppose I’ll have to ask her over
to visit me,” he went on. “A fine hypocrite
I’ll feel.”

“You can make it one of the conditions
of your gift that she is not to
thank you or speak of it,” said I. “I
fear your face would betray us, if she
ever did.”

“An excellent idea!” he exclaimed.
Then, as he shook hands with me in
farewell: “You will win her yet—if you
care to.”

As I steamed up the Sound, I was
tempted to put in at Dawn Hill’s harbor.
Through my glass I could see
Anita and Alva and several others, men
and women, having tea on the lawn
under a red and white awning. I could
see her dress—a violet suit with a big
violet hat to match. I knew that costume.
Like everything she wore, it was
both beautiful in itself and most becoming
to her. I could see her face, could
almost make out its expression—did I
see, or did I imagine, a cruel contrast
to what I always saw when she knew
I was looking?

I gazed until the trees hid lawn and
gay awning, and that lively company
and her. In my bitterness I was full
of resentment against her, full of self-pity.
I quite forgot, for the moment,
her side of the story.

 XVIII.

It was the next day, I think, that I
met Mowbray Langdon and his brother
Tom in the entrance to the Textile
Building. Mowbray was back only a
week from his summer abroad; but
Tom I had seen and nodded to every
day, often several times in the same
day, as he went to and fro about his
“respectable” dirty work for the Roebuck-Langdon
clique. He was one of
their most frequently used stool-pigeon
directors in banks and insurance companies
whose funds they staked in their
big gambling operations, they taking
almost all the profits, and the depositors
and policy holders taking almost all the
risk. It had never once occurred to me
to have any feeling of any kind about
Tom, or in any way to take him into
my calculations as to Anita. He was,
to my eyes, too obviously a pale understudy
of his powerful and fascinating
brother. Whenever I thought of him
as the man Anita fancied she loved, I
put it aside instantly. “The kind of
man a woman really cares for,” I would
say to myself, “is the measure of her
true self. But not the kind of man
she imagines she cares for.”

Tom went on; Mowbray stopped. We
shook hands, and exchanged commonplaces
in the friendliest way—I was
harboring no resentment against him,
and I wished him to realize that his assault
had bothered me no more than the
buzzing and battering of a summer fly.
“I’ve been trying to get in to see you,”
said he. “I wanted to explain about
that unfortunate Textile deal.”

This, when the assault on me had
burst out with fresh energy the day
after he landed from Europe! I could
scarcely believe that his vanity, his confidence
in his own skill at underground
work, could so delude him. “Don’t
bother,” said I. “All that’s ancient history.”

But he had thought out some lies he
regarded as particularly creditable to
his ingenuity; he was not to be deprived
of the pleasure of telling them. So I
was compelled to listen; and, being in
an indulgent mood, I did not spoil his
pleasure by letting him see or suspect
my unbelief. If he could have looked
into my mind, as I stood there in an attitude
of patient attention, I think even
his self-complacence would have been
put out of countenance. You may admire
the exploits of a “gentleman”
cracksman or pickpocket, if you hear
or read them with only their ingenuity
put before you. But see a “gentleman”
liar or thief at his sneaking, cowardly
work, and admiration is impossible.
As Langdon lied on, as I studied
his cheap, vulgar exhibition of himself,
he all unconscious, I thought: “Beneath
that very thin surface of yours, you’re
a poor cowardly creature—you and all
your fellow bandits. No; bandit is too
grand a word to apply to this game of
‘high finance.’ It’s really on the level
with the game of the fellow that waits
for a dark night, slips into the barnyard,
poisons the watch dog, bores an
auger hole in the granary, and takes
to his heels at the first suspicious
sound.”

With his first full stop, I said: “I understand
perfectly, Langdon. But I
haven’t the slightest interest in crooked
enterprises now. I’m clear out of all
you fellows’ stocks. I’ve reinvested my
property so that not even a panic would
trouble me.”

“That’s good,” he drawled. I saw
he did not believe me—which was natural,
as he thought I was laboring in
heavy weather, with a bad cargo of coal
stocks and contracts. “Come to lunch
with me. I’ve got some interesting
things to tell you about my trip.”

A few months before, I should have
accepted with alacrity. But I had lost
interest in him. He had not changed;
if anything, he was more dazzling than
ever in the ways that had once dazzled
me. It was I that had changed—my
ideals, my point of view. I had no desire
to feed my new-sprung contempt by
watching him pump in vain for information
to be used in his secret campaign
against me. “No, thanks. Another day,”
I replied, and left him with a curt nod.
I noted that he had failed to speak of
my marriage, though he had not seen
me since. “A sore subject with all the
 Langdons,” thought I. “It must be
very sore, indeed, to make a man who is
all manners neglect them.”

My whole life had been a series of
transformations so continuous that I
had noted little about my advance, beyond
its direction—like a man hurrying
up a steep that keeps him bent, eyes
down. But, as I turned away from
Langdon, I caught myself in the very
act of transformation. No doubt, the
new view had long been there, its horizon
expanding with every step of my
ascent; but not until that talk with him
did I see it. I looked about me in
Wall Street; in my mind’s eye I saw
the great rascals of “high finance,”
their respectability stripped from them,
saw them gathering in the spoils which
their cleverly trained agents, commercial
and political and legal, filched with
light fingers from the pockets of the
crowd, saw the crowd looking up to
these trainers and employers of pickpockets,
hailing them “captains of industry”!
They reaped only where and
what others had sown; they touched industry
only to plunder and to blight it;
they organized it only that its profits
might go to those who did not toil and
who despised those who did. “Have I
gone mad in the midst of sane men?” I
asked myself. “Or have I been mad,
and have I suddenly become sane in a
lunatic world?”

I did not linger on that problem. For
me action remained the essential of life,
whether I was sane or insane. I resolved
then and there to study out a
new course. By toiling like a sailor at
the pump of a sinking ship, I had taken
advantage to the uttermost of the respite
Galloway’s help had given me.
My property was no longer in more or
less insecure speculative “securities,”
but was, as I had told Langdon, in
forms that would withstand the worst
shocks. The attacks of my enemies, directed
partly at my fortune, or, rather,
at the stocks in which they imagined it
was still invested, and partly at my personal
character, were doing me good
instead of harm. Hatred always forgets
that its venomous shafts, falling round
its intended victim, spring up as legions
of supporters for him. My business
was growing rapidly; my daily letter
to investors was read by hundreds of
thousands where tens of thousands had
read it before the Roebuck-Langdon
clique began to make me famous by
trying to make me infamous.

“I am strong and secure,” said I to
myself as I strode through the wonderful
canyon of Broadway, whose walls
are the mighty palaces of finance and
commerce from which business men
have been ousted by the cormorant
“captains of industry.” I must use my
strength. How could I better use it
than by fluttering these vultures on their
roosts, and perhaps bringing down a
bird or two?

I decided, however, that it was better
to wait until they had stopped rattling
their beaks and claws on my shell in
futile attack. “Meanwhile,” I reasoned,
“I can be getting good and ready.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

In the region of South
Washington Square
there are many ancient
dwellings which have
fallen into uses which
would make their original
owners, who were
the solid men of old
New York, turn over in their narrow
vaults in Trinity churchyard if they
could know of them. Alien peoples,
swarthy of skin and picturesque of
dress, occupy and surround them, and
strange industries are carried on under
the roofs which once sheltered the families
of the dignified old Knickerbockers
who formed the aristocracy of the city.

In many of these transformed residences
of the wealthy, after climbing
many flights of stairs, whose quaint
old mahogany balustrades have been
marred by generations of careless movers,
one comes to apartments which are
provided with skylights and northern
windows, and these, being classified as
studios, command relatively high rents,
considering the lack of every modern
convenience and comfort. They are occupied
by the younger and unknown
artists, who cannot afford the rents demanded
in the more fashionable studio
buildings, and the reek of the oil stove
and odor of cooking, mingling with the
smell of paint and turpentine, which
pervades the hallways, indicate that they
are used as living quarters and work
rooms combined.

The whole quarter abounds in cheap
restaurants, places where one may obtain
a full course dinner, of sorts, and
a small bottle of alleged claret included,
for an absurdly small sum; but a carton
of biscuits, a tin of sardines and a can
of condensed milk are usually in evidence
on the littered tables of the
studios, and, together with the odor of
stale coffee, bespeak an economy of diet
which is incompatible with the good
work which comes of the well-fed body.

It was in one of these small rooms,
perched at the top of the tallest among
the houses, that a girl lay on a couch,
her face buried in her hands, as the
early dusk of a winter’s afternoon softened
the tawdriness of the furnishings.
A curtain of burlaps screened one corner,
hiding the toilet arrangements,
which would have suggested that the
couch served as a bed by night; and the
flowering plants at the window, the arrangement
of artistic posters and
sketches on the walls, and, above all,
the neatness and orderliness of the
room, proclaimed feminine occupancy.

Her attitude was that of dejection,
and she had not waited to remove coat
or hat before seeking consolation in the
refuge of tears; but there was determination
in her expression and in the set
of her shoulders when she sat up and
looked resentfully at the flat package
lying on the table. The imprint of a
well-known publishing house was on
the wrapping paper, and in her hand
was a letter from the same firm, thanking
her for the privilege of examining
the sketches and regretting that they
were not fitted to their immediate needs.
She lighted a gas jet and re-read the
letter, trying to derive some comfort
from the courtesy of the declination,
but when she unwrapped the sketches,
she was forced to acknowledge to herself
that they did not seem so strong as
when she hopefully submitted them a
fortnight before.

These two weeks had been a time of
anxiety for Elizabeth Thornton, for so
 much depended upon the sale of the
sketches, the results of months of labor,
that she had alternately built castles in
the air and wondered what was to become
of her, as her mood made her
hopeful or despondent of their acceptance.
She had sold some of her work
during her three years of study in New
York, but not enough to pay even her
very modest living expenses, and these,
together with the fees for tuition at the
art school and the purchase of material,
had diminished almost to the vanishing
point the few hundreds of dollars which
she possessed when she commenced her
studies.

A knock on the door caused her to
glance hastily around the room, to be
sure that evidences of domestic occupancy
were not scattered about, before
opening it to the tall, good-looking
young fellow who stood hat in hand,
his fur-lined coat thrown open and an
expectant smile on his face.

“I have climbed so many stairs that I
am not sure whether I have reached
heaven or the studio of Miss Elizabeth
Thornton,” he said, breathlessly, in a
cheery voice; but the girl, whose face
was in the shadow while his was in the
light, extended her hand and greeted
him warmly.

“Tom, you irreverent boy! Come inside
this minute, before you scandalize
my neighbors,” she exclaimed. “And
now that you are in, tell me how you
found me out and how you happen to
be in New York.”

“In the first place, I am fortunate
enough not to find you out, and, secondly,
I don’t happen to be in New
York; I just live here, as I have done
any time these past three years. But I
didn’t know that you did until I met
old Oliver, who gave me your address.
I didn’t know whether it was your place
of business or your dwelling; but I
came on the chance of finding you.”

“And I don’t think you appreciate
yet that it is both,” she said, an amused
expression on her face, as she saw him
glance around the room.

“Do you really live here, too?” he
asked. The evidence of the studio was
there, but none of the delicate and
dainty traces of a feminine bedchamber.

“Indeed I do, and when it comes
‘by-low’ time, there is a grand transformation
scene,” she answered, laughing;
and, although he joined in her
laughter, there was sadness in his heart
as he realized the import of the meager
accommodations.

“I don’t see a kitchen, at any rate,
so I suppose there is no reason why
you can’t come out to dinner with me
this evening,” he said.

“Nothing but your presence, which
prevents me from changing my gown,”
she replied, doubtfully. “You can
choose between walking the streets and
sitting on the stairs outside while I get
ready.”

“Don’t make it as long a proceeding
as in the old days, then,” he said, as he
stood by the table and carelessly turned
over the sketches, and she smiled a little
bitterly as she promised to hurry,
realizing how little she had to select
from as compared to the days when the
choice from many gowns demanded due
consideration. A flood of recollections
came to her as she made her hasty toilet,
and she appreciated, from the cheer and
life which Tom Livingston’s brief presence
had brought into the studio, how
terribly lonely her life had been for the
past few months. Before that there
had been the companionship of her fellow
students in the art school, many of
the women struggling along like herself,
living on the bare necessities of life and
oftentimes knowing what it meant to
lack for them, but stimulated and kept
at their work by the hope of ultimate
success in their painting.

The small glass told her that her face
was still very attractive, although it had
lost much of the girlish prettiness it
possessed in the days when Tom had
known and loved her; but then—thank
Heaven!—she had never cared for such
things, and all she wanted was success
in her chosen profession, the one thing
which she loved in life.

And Tom, on the other side of the
door, was also thinking of her career
and the visible results of her work since
he had seen her; the small, cheap studio
 in the dilapidated old house and the lack
of comfort in her mode of living, and
he contrasted it with the home he had
known her in and the things he could
have surrounded her with, had she accepted
his offer when the crash came
which threw her on her own resources.
She had elected to remain independent,
to devote what little money had been
saved from the wreck of her fortunes to
pursuing her studies in painting; encouraged
in her decision by the praise
which her amateurish efforts had gained
from sympathetic friends. But while
the studies of the daughter of John
Thornton, one of the most influential
men of the city where they lived, might
be praised by the good-natured reporters
of the home papers at local exhibitions,
the works of Elizabeth Thornton, of
whose parentage and social position the
critics neither knew nor cared, were
judged on their merits when she asked
that they be taken seriously, and they
were found sadly wanting.

Tom could imagine the girl’s latter
history from what he knew of the artists’
colony in New York; the years in
the art school, where she had worked
hard and no one had been sufficiently ill-natured
or had cared enough for her
to tell her to give it up, and then the
misguided judgment which had led her
to take a studio for herself. He had
tactfully said nothing when he had
looked over the sketches; but he knew
that they were bad, and his sharp eyes
had not missed the traces of tears on
her face; so he easily made two, by the
old process of putting one and one together,
and formed a pretty accurate
guess as to what had happened.

Elizabeth was all smiles when she
joined him, and they went down the
long stairs together. The dinner was
a delight to her; the well-cooked and
daintily served food, the pretty table
appointments, and the music from the
balcony, all seemed like a breath from
the past—from the time before she became
absorbed in what she called her
“life work.”

“It is so long since I have been in
such a delightful place as this, with the
prospect of such a dinner, that you must
not expect me to talk,” she said, when
he had given the order, after due consultation
with her over the menu. “But
I am a good listener, and you can tell
me about what you have been doing.”

“It is neither a very long nor a very
exciting narration,” he replied, laughing.
“You gave me such a very decided
answer, three years ago, that I haven’t
had the courage to look at a woman
since, and if you can’t find a woman in
three years of a man’s life, it is safe to
say that it has been uneventful.” She
looked at him apprehensively, for there
was one topic which she had determined
to avoid, and here he was rushing into
it before the oysters were served.

“No, no. It isn’t that which I wish
to know about,” she said, hastily. “But
tell me what you have been doing; what
you are doing now.”

“This evening I am dining with some
one whom I have thought of every day
since I saw her last,” he answered, gallantly.
“During the day I spend most
of my time in a disagreeable office,
working for money which I do not
need, because that seems to be the custom
of American men. That has been
my life for half of each of these three
years; the alternate six months I have
spent in Florence with my mother.”

“I envy you the Florentine portion of
the year,” she said, looking at him a
little wistfully. “Some day, when my
ship comes in, I hope to spend a long
time there.”

“I go back in two months,” he said,
eagerly. “My mother would be delighted
to see you, if you would come
over with me.”

“Ah, but my ship may be delayed
longer than that and——”

“There is a ship always at your disposal,
now as it was three years ago,”
he interrupted, but she made a gesture
of protest.

“It is good to see you again, Tom; it
is nice to be with you. Please don’t
make it necessary for me to send you
away again. Let’s just be friends, and
let me feel that I have your sympathy
and affection in the struggle I am having
with my life work.”

“You have both, always, little girl;
 but is it worth it, this ‘life work’? Is it
enough to repay you for sacrificing all
that other women find good in life? I
wish that you would tell me about your
troubles in it; your struggles and disappointments
and what you hope for.”
It was no easy recital which the girl entered
upon, and her pride made her conceal
a great deal; but from what Tom
knew of her circumstances before she
started in, and the conclusions he had
drawn from what he had seen, he was
able to read between the lines of her
story.

“And so, you see, I am not able to do
as good work as I should,” she faltered
over the coffee. “I am ‘faking’ it all,
because I cannot afford to use models,
and what talent I may have is in the line
of portraiture. But sitters don’t flock
to South Washington Square, and it is
hard to get a start.”

“Have you ever done portraits?” he
asked, anxious to find a way to help
her.

“No—that is, no paying ones. I have
painted only two, and, like the country
storekeeper, taken my pay in kind; but
they were good, Tom—really they were,
and I feel that if I could get such work
to do I could make a name for myself.”

“Why not paint my portrait?” he
asked, suddenly. “I have always longed
to have my phiz, labeled ‘Portrait of a
Gent,’ staring from the wall at an exhibition.”

“I’m afraid it would be from near
the skyline, if my signature were on
it,” she answered, laughing. “That is,
if it were accepted at all; but you must
understand, Tom, old boy, that I can’t
accept your offers of help, even under
the thickest of veils.”

“That is the beastly part of the conventions
of this miserable world,” he
answered, irritably. “Here am I, strong,
healthy and with more of its goods than
I can use, and yet you can’t accept from
my surplus enough to tide you over a
lean year or two, because Mrs. Grundy
forbids.”

“But she is a very real and very terrible
person; even to bachelor maids,
Tom. If, like a sensible boy, you had
married a sensible girl, whom you could
send to me for her portrait, it would be
different, for you would receive full
value, and at the same time assist a
struggling young artist.”

“By Jove, I have it!” he exploded.
“I have not committed matrimony myself,
but a lot of my friends have, and
I am going to demand payment for all
the teething rings, caudle cups and other
baby truck I have been distributing, and
make ’em all send their kids to you for
their portraits.”

“Oh, Tom, you are a dear, but remember
the size of my studio, and let
them come one at a time,” she answered,
laughing at his enthusiasm. “Remember
that two babies would crowd it
dreadfully, and I wouldn’t know how
to get on with even one.”

“Never fear, you will pick that up fast
enough, Betsy, and if you can deliver
the goods, your fortune is made. What
do you charge for the life-sized portrait
of a baby?”

“Why, really, I haven’t a fixed price,”
she answered, realizing that he was in
earnest. “As I told you, I have painted
but two portraits, and the payment for
the last was the making of this gown.
It was my dressmaker’s picture.” He
looked her over critically.

“Well, it’s mighty becoming. I suppose
that is equivalent to about five hundred
dollars, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Tom! You are a greater baby
than the sitters whom you propose to
send to me,” she exclaimed. “If I become
famous, I may ask that much
years and years from now.”

“Young woman, you are to understand
that you are ‘personally conducted’
in your new field, and I am your
manager. It won’t do to cheapen your
work by putting a small price on it.
Make ’em pay, and they will think that
you are great.”

“Not when they see my studio,” she
answered, but his enthusiasm was comforting
to her.

The little studio was not satisfying to
Elizabeth as she transformed it into a
bedroom by the simple process of bringing
the bedclothes out from their place
of concealment and sliding back the
curtain. The unaccustomed luxury of
 the dinner had awakened old memories
of the comfort and daintiness which had
been unknown to her in her later life,
and the rejection of her sketches had
shattered the dreams of acquiring them
again, which had comforted her when
she sent them out. And Tom, bowling
up the avenue in a hansom, felt uncomfortable
at the thought of her being in
such a place alone and unprotected, for
the dinner had awakened memories in
his mind, too, and renewed the old longing
for Elizabeth which he thought the
years of separation had conquered.

“But she is not the kind of a woman
to come to me because she has made a
failure, and, if she were, she would not
be worth the winning,” he thought, bitterly,
as he lighted his cigar. “A little
more of the life she is leading now, a
few more disappointments, and the
woman that is in her, the part of herself
which she has crushed back for the past
three years, will be annihilated. I must
find some way to rescue it, to rouse it,
and when she has achieved, at least, a
semblance of success, trust to my own
good fortune to make her look at things
as I want her to see them.”

It was a new proposition to him, and
he racked his brain to find a way out,
and by the time he reached his club he
was in a mood to resort to physical violence,
if necessary, to make any one of
his married friends promise to deliver
up a child for portrait purposes. But
the club was deserted, and he went to
bed to spend a wakeful night in seeking
a solution of his problem.

Elizabeth smiled grimly the next day
as she was preparing her frugal luncheon.
A bunch of violets, whose value
represented a half month’s rent of her
tiny studio, was diffusing fragrance
through it, and a basket of fruit, which
would last a month, was on the table;
but the necessaries were represented by
a pot of tea, a package of biscuits and
a small pat of butter. Even the last was
an unwonted extravagance at midday,
but, after the dinner of the night before,
she could not descend too suddenly to
dry biscuits, and, after all, Tom’s confidence
had given her more courage for
the future. She had even tried to work
over the rejected sketches with a certain
degree of hopefulness, but her heart
was not in it, and she was gazing at one
of them disconsolately, when there was
a sharp knock at the door, and Tom,
disregarding all studio ethics, burst in
before she could open it. He seized
both of her hands and whirled her
about the room, to the grave peril of
her modest bric-à-brac, his face beaming
and his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

“Betsy, things are coming your way;
I’ve caught one for you,” he almost
shouted, and she implored him to be
quiet and tell her what he meant.

“Why, a subject—a victim, or whatever
you call people who have their portraits
painted. No end of money and
fame undying—but I haven’t time to
tell you about it all now. Just let me
know when you can commence, and I
will have her here.”

“Are you in earnest, Tom?” she
asked, incredulously; for the sudden
realization of his prophecies of the night
before seemed too good to be true.

“In earnest? Well, rather. Young
woman, your foot is on the first rung
of the ladder of fame, and the day is
coming when I shall be proud to know
you.”

“But who is it?” she persisted.

“Her name wouldn’t mean anything
to you, and I haven’t time to tell you
the story, but I will take you out to
dinner to-night and tell you all about
it.”

“But how old is she, Tom? I must
know what to prepare for.”

“I wasn’t indiscreet enough to ask
the lady’s age, but I should say about
four years. I can see that there is no
chance of getting anything but questions
out of you; but I will make the
appointment for ten to-morrow morning,
and call for you at six-thirty tonight
for dinner. Please be ready, so
that I will not have to camp on those
confounded stairs.”

Tom’s story at dinner was as delightful
as a fairy tale to her, and if the first
one had been made pleasant by anticipation,
the feast of realization transported
her to the realm of air castles.
 The arrival of the Italian family which
had come from Florence to settle in
New York, bearing letters of introduction
to Tom from his mother, just in
time to fit into his plans to make her a
painter of children, seemed a harbinger
of good fortune. The father had been
most enthusiastic when Tom mentioned
the “rising young artist” to him, and
was anxious that the sittings should
commence immediately, before her time
was all taken up.

“There is only one drawback, Betsy,”
said Tom, as he finished his story. “Little
Carlotta speaks only Italian, so I will
have to be there a lot to translate.”

“But won’t the mother, or some one,
come with her?” she asked, in surprise.

“You would be no better off, for they
can’t any of ’em speak English. I have
promised to bring her and fetch her
away, anyway.”

“Tom, I don’t know how to thank
you for what you are doing for me; but
it is awful to be under such an obligation
to anyone,” she said, the tears
coming to her eyes.

“If you think it’s any hardship to
ride around in a cab with the young
lady, just wait until you see her. She
is a raving, tearing beauty,” he answered,
laughing, but Elizabeth was
none the less grateful.

Tom’s enthusiastic description of the
child was borne out by the facts, and
it was a very beautiful and very dainty
little lady whom he carried into the
studio the next morning. She was typically
Italian, and the dark hair, warm,
brown skin and large, soft eyes, gave
her almost an Oriental expression, in
spite of the conventional frills and furbelows
in which she was dressed.

“Here she is, Betsy,” said Tom, gayly,
as he sat down with the youngster
on his lap. “Now tell me what you
want her to do, and I will translate for
you, for I must leave her with you while
I go to the office.” Elizabeth looked
at the child, who was gravely inspecting
the studio with wise-looking eyes.

“But, Tom, suppose she should cry
or anything; what am I to do? She
can’t understand me, and I shouldn’t
know what to say, anyway.”

“And this is what comes of being an
independent woman,” he said, looking
at her in disapproval. “Well, you will
have to take a chance, and get on the
best you know how, but I shall have
luncheon sent in here, and come back
to eat it with you, for I can’t trust the
child’s diet to a bachelor maid.”

Carlotta was frightened when Tom
left, and Elizabeth began, rather timidly,
to comfort her; but she found it an
easier task than she had imagined. The
feeling of the warm young body against
her breast, the sweet perfume of the
child’s hair and the caressing touch of
the little hands as they crept about her
neck, were grateful to the lonely artist,
and somewhere in the womanhood within
her, she found words which Carlotta
could understand, although they belonged
to no language known to grownups.
After the first feeling of strangeness
had worn off, the child was quite
contented with her, and so comfortable
and comforting in her arms that but
little progress had been made with the
portrait when a waiter brought in the
luncheon which Tom had ordered from
a neighboring restaurant. Tom came
back to eat it with them, and he was
entirely satisfied with the friendship
which had sprung up between the woman
and the child.

“I was asked to give you this; it
seems that it is an Italian custom to
pay part in advance,” he said, handing
her an envelope as he left her, and when
she opened it she found a crisp and substantial
bank note. He took the little
girl home that night, and when he returned
to take Elizabeth out to dinner,
she was so elated that she seemed to be
walking on air; but she insisted that
they go to a little Italian restaurant,
where she had been in the habit of dining.

“I was getting awfully tired of it,
Tom, but Carlotta has given me a liking
for everything Italian,” she said, merrily,
and Tom, in the happiness which
the change in her brought to him, ate
the indifferent food and drank the
doubtful wine contentedly. A few days
later he heard singing when he
knocked on Elizabeth’s door for luncheon,
 and recognized an old nursery
rhyme, which he had not heard since
his childhood, and when he came in he
found her seated on the floor with Carlotta,
in the midst of a collection of toys,
which must have made a decided hole
in her advance payment.

“Is this the way you attend to your
‘life work,’ young woman?” he asked,
with mock severity, and she seemed a
little shamefaced; but when the waiter
brought the luncheon, he found all
three of them on the floor, and Elizabeth
not at all pleased with the fickle
Carlotta’s preference for the house
which Tom had built with the blocks.
But nothing could disturb Tom’s good
nature these days, for he realized that
Elizabeth was growing fonder of the
child each day, and with it all she
seemed happier and more feminine.
About a week after the sittings commenced,
he noticed that her hair was
arranged in the fluffy, loose way he had
admired so much three years before,
giving her face more of the girlish expression
it had lost, and a bright ribbon
at the throat relieved the somberness
of her working gown.

“Why, Betsy, you are growing
younger,” he said, looking at her in admiration,
and she blushed in confusion.

“You mean my hair and the ribbon,”
she replied, with a little trace of self-consciousness
in her manner. “Well,
you see, Carlotta is of a race which likes
bright colors, so I thought it would
please her.”

“And incidentally you have given me
great pleasure,” he said, smiling at her,
approvingly, and a song was in his
heart as he went down the stairs.

Sunshine is not abundant in a New
York winter, and none of it enters the
northern windows of a studio; but
Elizabeth’s tiny apartment came to have
an entirely different atmosphere while
the child spent her days in it. The
program remained the same as on the
first day; but Elizabeth employed so
much of her time in petting and playing
with the child, that the portrait did not
advance rapidly, although enough had
been accomplished to show that it promised
to be, by far, the best thing which
she had ever done. The jolly luncheons
were a joy to both of them, and
Carlotta always gave a crow of delight,
which Elizabeth’s heart was beginning
to echo, when Tom’s merry whistle heralded
his arrival.

But on the day he had noticed the
change in Elizabeth’s hair, there was a
marked restraint in her manner when
he came in for luncheon, and Carlotta,
with the sensitiveness which makes children
so quick to recognize the moods
of their elders, was sitting on the
couch, finger in mouth, and with widely
opened eyes, which threatened tears.

“Tom, I must have a talk with you,”
said Elizabeth, her voice trembling a
little as he looked inquiringly from
one to the other.

“Have you two had a falling out?”
he asked, laughing, but Elizabeth’s expression
checked his merriment.

“No, but I will tell you just what has
happened, and then I want an explanation.
Let me speak without interruption,
and then I will hear what you have
to say.” He took off his coat and sat
down without speaking, and Elizabeth
faced him.

“The Italian woman who cleans this
place came in this morning with her
mop and pail, and Carlotta commenced
chattering with her at once, and the
woman laughed, so that I asked her
what she was saying. She told me that
Carlotta said she looked like her mother,
and that she had the same kind of
mop and pail. Of course, judging from
the appearance and expensive clothing
of the child, she thought it was absurd;
but I got her to question Carlotta for
me, and she persisted in her story, and
described their home, which seems to
consist of two overcrowded rooms on
Mulberry Street.” She paused, and
Tom looked at her with no trace of embarrassment.

“Well, what of it?” he asked, defiantly.
“The child was telling the truth,
and there is no reason to punish her.”

“Punish her!” exclaimed Elizabeth,
taken aback. “It is not a question of
what she has said or done; but of your
conduct. Rich Italians do not live in
two rooms on Mulberry Street, and
 you have deceived me and humiliated
me by using this means to give me
money.”

“Nothing of the sort,” he replied.
“I haven’t deceived you; although I will
admit that you deceived yourself, and
I did not set you right. The child’s
father was one of my mother’s gardeners
in Florence, and when he decided to
bring his large family over here, she
gave him a letter to me. He came to
my office the morning after we dined
together, and I went to see his family,
and fell in love with Carlotta at once.
The father was delighted to have her
portrait painted, and I thought it would
be better to get fresh clothes for such
an important occasion.”

“But immigrants are not making advance
payments which are more than I
should have charged for a half-dozen
portraits, and you have done this simply
to cloak an advance of money to
me,” she said, indignantly. “I suppose
that you meant it in kindness, but you
have put me under an obligation which
I hate and which it will take me years
to repay.”

“There is no question of obligation,”
he replied, gently. “If I, as the child’s
foster father, wish a portrait of her, it
is my own business whom I get to paint
it, and how much I pay for it. I have
made arrangements to care for Carlotta,
and I wish you to finish the portrait for
me, so that I may have something to remember
her and this happy time by,
when she grows up and leaves me.”

“Oh, Tom, you must not take her
away from me!” exclaimed Elizabeth,
in dismay. “If you will let me finish
this portrait and exhibit it, I am sure
that it will bring me other orders, and
then I can repay you and keep her with
me.”

“Do what? Keep the child with
you?” asked Tom, in amazement.

“Yes, if you will help that much,”
she faltered. “I have thought it all out
since the woman translated for me. I
know that I can get other orders from
this portrait, and I will be able to keep
her, if the parents will permit it, and
they have so many children that I am
sure they will. Oh, Tom, it has been
so lonely here, and now I can’t let you
come any more—and I want her so!”
She covered her face with her hands,
and, although Tom was not a man to
be amused by a woman’s tears, he
smiled and winked solemnly at the
frightened looking child, before he took
them and held them in his own.

“Elizabeth Thornton,” he said, seriously,
“I will not relinquish my claim
on Carlotta, and if you want her, you
must take me, too. It is time to stop
this foolishness about ‘life work,’ and to
remember that you are a woman, with
all the weaknesses of the sex, which we
condone, and with all of its sweetness,
which we love.”

Carlotta looked at them wonderingly
as Elizabeth put her arms around his
neck and her head on his breast; but
when he raised Elizabeth’s face and
kissed her lips, she clapped her tiny
hands and gave a crow of joy; for she
knew that her friends had found happiness.

SONG

Charlotte Becker.

It was the boast of the
summer dwellers in
Roscoe that they had
not spoiled the place.
Mr. William Bangs was
reiterating this to his
wife’s niece, who stood
regarding his potato
patch rather disdainfully through the
glamour of a lorgnette.

“You see, Annie, my house is no better
than my neighbors’, my land not so
good,” he went on. “We keep no servants,
in the accepted sense, only the
girls whom you have seen—farmers’
daughters from the mountain road—or,
as your aunt Mary will put it, ‘We
look to the hills whence cometh our
help.’ And the outside work is done by
Paterson Roscoe and myself, with occasional
aid in haying time. The Smiths
live in quite the same fashion, the Jacksons,
with all their money, just as simply,
and the Babbits and Thomases follow
the lead. As a result”—he dug his
hoe into a hill of potatoes and Miss
Jenkins drew back a high-heeled slipper
from the contact—“we have an
ideal community. The villagers haven’t
lost their proper sense of democracy
and equality. And we—the outsiders—have
learned much from meeting
these plain, simple folk on their own
ground. So I don’t really approve of
this plan of yours. It’s a tremendous
innovation. We’ve got on quite well
enough for nearly four years without
entertainments, save those which are,
so to speak, indigenous and natural. I
don’t at all like the idea of vaudeville,
and I abhor a raffle!”

“But the church does need the money
so much, Uncle William,” the girl interrupted,
“and it’s a Unitarian church,
so the raffle doesn’t matter. Mr. Blythe
says he sees no objection to it if it’s conducted
properly, and everyone is so interested.
All the Pungville people will
come in quite a procession, and Tom
Mason is to drive the performers over
on his coach.”

“Oh, if Tom Mason’s the reason”—uncle
William’s hoe rested helplessly—“there’s
nothing more to be said.” Annie
frowned behind a smile. “But we’ve
been thanking Heaven every night of
our lives that nineteen stiff miles lay
between us and that barbarous Pungville.”

He picked up a handful of warm,
brown potatoes and threw them into the
basket.

“My dear girl, you’re a wonder!
You’ve been here five days, and you’ll
tear down in just that time what it has
taken us four years to build up.”

“Then have I your blessing?”

The girl showed roguish under her
insistence, but uncle William shook his
head. “The best you’ll get from me,
young woman, is a most reluctant sufferance.
You are hopeless. I don’t see
why you asked me at all, with the thing
as good as settled. Go on; but don’t
come back to your old uncle with the
demoralization of an entire village on
your conscience.”

“Nonsense!” laughed the other. “That
won’t trouble me one bit. Just now I’m
much more concerned as to what you’re
to do for us at the fair—something that
will be popular and yet entail no loss of
dignity.” She regarded him quizzically.
“Ah! I have it! Fortunes told by
the cards! A magician in gown and
fez, behind a curtain. Slight extra
charge, flattering and profitable alike.”
She clapped her hands and Mr. Bangs
groaned.

“Don’t make me face details yet.”

 He struck at another potato hill, and
Annie turned to the road. “Wait a
minute,” he called after her; “this is serious.
Have you spoken to Miss Pamela
yet?”

“Miss Pamela Roscoe, you mean?
No, of course not; why should I?”

“Why should you?” Uncle William
leaned on his hoe and fixed her with
stern eye. “Easier a brick without
straw, a law without a legislature, than
to foist an idea, a plan, a measure on
this village save in one way. My dear
Annie, haven’t you found out in five
days that Miss Pamela is chief of the
clan? Sister, aunt, cousin, in varying
degrees, to every Roscoe and Collamer
in the township—and there are no others
worthy the count. Don’t you know
that she lives in the biggest house, has
money in the bank, owns railroad stock,
preserves opinions and never goes out
of doors? That last is enough to surround
her with a wall of mystery, and
her own personality does the rest. Her
position is almost feudal; the others
may be jealous, most of the women are,
for she is as acquisitive as she is dogmatic,
and somehow she has been able
to deflect nearly all the family possessions
to her own line of inheritance;
but, though they scold behind her back,
they bend the knee, every one of them.

“You really must see her and get her
consent, or gradually you will have the
whole village backing out of its agreements.
You’d better go before she
hears of the plan from anyone else. I
dare say you’re too late already. You’ll
need all your diplomacy, and I wouldn’t
attempt it till after dinner. Get some
points from your aunt Mary. We’ll
talk it over by and by. Now, speaking
of dinner, do you mind taking these potatoes
to Cassandra as you go by the
kitchen door? They’re my very first.
They’re late enough, but I guess I’m
a week ahead of Smith, anyway. Thank
you.” He turned to his work again.

Miss Pamela Roscoe lived in a large
house freshly painted white, with dark
green blinds, chronically closed. To
the front door wandered a box-bordered
gravel path, and up this avenue
Annie Jenkins walked in the red radiance
of the September afternoon. Like
a good soldier, she had donned her
brightest armor, and her muslin skirts
flicked in a friendly yet business-like
way against the green. She raised the
heavy brass knocker, its rattle shook
the door and echoed through an empty
hall.

Miss Pamela Roscoe heard the sound,
and went softly, with no show of haste,
to a window that commanded what is,
in local parlance, known as a handsome
view of the front porch, from which
vantage she remarked her visitor through
peeping shutters.

But she waited—it is not considered
good form in Roscoe to admit a
stranger too eagerly—for a decent interval
to elapse. Thanks to aunt Mary’s
coaching, Annie did not knock again,
but stood in pretty decision with her
eyes straight before her. A leisurely
footstep sounded within; the latch lifted
with dignity, the door opened a crack
at first, then more widely; and, outlined
against a blacker background,
stood the tall, stern, forbidding figure
of Miss Pamela Roscoe herself!

She was a lady of fateful appearance,
black-haired and pale, with a marvelous
impression of preservation. Her manner
was of the nil admirari sort, and her
voice what Annie afterward described
as mortuary. The girl murmured her
name, a wan smile welcomed her.

“Come right in, Miss Jenkins,” the
gloomy voice began, “only I don’t want
you should step off that oilcloth. I
ain’t going to get that carpet all tracked
up. You go right on into the front
room”—a gaunt arm pushed her toward
a darker space—“and I’ll open up
there in a minute.”

Miss Pamela, at the window, threw
back the shutter, rolled up a curtain
and the western sunlight filled the place.
Annie took the chair which her hostess
dusted ostentatiously, a stout, wooden
rocker with a tidy—Bo-Peep in outline
stitch in red—flapping cozily at its back
but Miss Roscoe still stood.

“It ain’t hospitable, I know,” her
monotone apologized; “a first visit, too—but
I’m going to ask you to excuse
 me a minute right at the set-off. When
you knocked, I was buying some berries
of the Collamer twins, and just
a-measuring of them. I don’t allow no
one to measure in my house but myself,
if they are my grand-nephews, and I
most ought to go back to the summer
kitchen to finish and pay ’em—if you
don’t mind. There’s the album and
last week’s paper, and you just make
yourself to home till I get back.”

Left alone, in somewhat austere comfort,
Miss Jenkins’ eyes wandered over
the room, from the strips of bunting at
the windows—black alternating with
red, white and blue, which a card in
pale, cramped writing explained: “In
Memory of Garfield, 1881”—to two
elaborate fly-catchers which did duty as
chandeliers from vantage points of the
ceiling. The simpler, made of straw
tied with bows of red worsted, paled
before the glories of the other—a
structure of silver cardboard in cubes,
the smaller depending from the corners
of the larger in diminishing effect, ribbon-bound,
with a gleaming pearl bead
in the center of each.

A pair of strange tables, laden with
still stranger ornaments, filled the larger
spaces of the floor and bore testimony
to the prowess of some pioneer in the
line of industrial adornment.

“Poor soul,” thought the girl, “here
is the decorative instinct untrammeled
by imitation. Individuality inherent!
Unkind fate, furnishing no models, has
produced originality.” She walked toward
the larger table for closer scrutiny
just as Miss Pamela re-entered the
room. A faint accent of gratification
colored the latter’s voice.

“I see you looking at them stands,”
she said; “mosaic, I call ’em. I made
every stitch of ’em myself. Soft pine
they are; my brother Nathan gave me
the wood, and I’d been saving the
pieces of crockery for years. You cut
places in the wood and stick ’em in
close in patterns with colors that look
pretty together—sometimes you have to
use a hammer—and then you sandpaper
the rough places—it’s terrible on the
hands—and put on a couple of coats o’
shellac. I call ’em pretty handsome.
Cousin Parthenia Roscoe was here the
day I was finishing them, and I tell you
she admired ’em. Those crackle ware
pieces were from an old pitcher of her
mother’s that came to me—it got
broken, and I worked ’em in at the corners.
I don’t set no great store by that
alum cross. They’re kind o’ common,
but it turned out so nice I let it stand
there. How did I make it? Why you
just take a cross of wood and wind it
with yarn and let it hang overnight in a
solution of alum and water, and in the
morning it’s all crystal. ’Tain’t no
work; but, land’s sakes! there’s enough
to make up in those wax autumn leaves;
I call that a likely spray of woodbine.
It took me the bigger part of three
mornings to get it done, and ’twas in
the winter I made it, so I didn’t have
nothing to go by but my memory.”

She pinched the stiff little garland
into a more aggressive attitude, and
turned, with a sort of caress, to a jar
of colored pampas grass that flaunted
itself in the corner. Annie’s eyes followed
the motion, and Miss Pamela answered
the question in them by handing
her the jar for a closer inspection.

There was pride in her voice as she
spoke, though her tone was casual. “It’s
just one of my what-not vases, I call
’em. I invented it myself. ’Twas a
blacking bottle, to begin with, but I
covered it with putty, good and thick,
and then I stuck all them things on it.
Here’s a peach-stone basket and a
couple of Florida beans and some seashells
that were brought me from down
East. The sleeve buttons on the front
were broken, but I think they stand up
well, and that gold paint does set off the
whole. It’s been imitated, you’ll find,”
she added, dismally, “but the idea’s
original with me.”

She replaced the jar in its corner.
Then, as a sudden realization of the
duty of a hostess seized her, she seated
herself decorously in a stiff-backed
chair opposite her visitor, and, adjusting
primly what is technically known
as a “front breadth,” gave herself unreservedly
to polite inquiry.

“Is your health good?” she asked,
with an air of expecting the worst.

 “Oh, very good, indeed,” said Annie,
conscious that she brought disappointment
on the wings of her voice.

“It has been a sickly season,” remarked
the elder lady.

“I am always well,” laughed Annie,
but it was the ghost of a laugh.

“And is Mr. Bangs well, and your
aunt?” The voice rose at the last word—expectantly.
And Annie clutched at
the fact that she had left aunt Mary
lying down at home.

“My uncle? Yes. But my aunt has
a headache. Otherwise she’d have come
with me this afternoon.”

“She’d better keep quiet.” Miss Pamela
shook her head. “A cousin of
mine, over Rutland way—Andromeda
Spear, you’ve heard of her, maybe—your
aunt always puts me in mind of
her—she used to have headaches like
that, and she wouldn’t hear to reason
about ’em. So she kept on her feet
when she’d ought to be lyin’ down, and
one day—’twas a fall day, like this, I
remember—she had a seizure in the
hen house, and she never got over it—though
she lingered for years,” she
added, by way of consideration.

“But, you see, Miss Roscoe, we have
no hen house,” retorted Annie, with a
sort of flippant desperation.

“Well, there’s plenty of places,” remarked
the other, sententiously. “Bed’s
not the only place to die in, and I’ve always
believed in proper precautions.
You give Miss Bangs my respects, and
tell her that she can’t be too careful.”

Then followed a fusillade of questions—the
length of her stay, her graduation
from college in June, her likelihood of
marriage, and her religious beliefs.

Dazed, depleted, the girl’s answers
grew monosyllabic, in spite of an air of
forced gayety which she strove hard to
maintain. Somehow the inherent and
masterful depression of her hostess was
weighing her down. Outside the sun
had settled in clouds, and a somber twilight
stole in through the window. The
voice opposite droned on, engrossing,
dominating, hypnotic. Annie realized
that unless she roused herself she
would relapse into permanent silence,
and so, in a lucky pause, as her eyes
fell upon a strange object hanging
above the mantelpiece, she grew aggressive
for the moment, and boldly asked
a question herself.

“Pardon my interrupting, Miss Roscoe,
but do you mind telling me what is
that mysterious and interesting—thing?”

Miss Pamela’s gaze followed the turn
of Annie’s head. She rose grimly from
her seat and went to the further corner
of the room, whence she abstracted a
yardstick and stood before the fire-board.
Deftly she pushed off a cloth
that enshrouded the object, and disclosed
what had evidently been, at one
time, a chromo of vast dimensions; its
bright gilt frame remained intact, but
the picture itself was entirely obliterated
by successive coatings of her useful
gold paint, and to the center was affixed
half of a flower basket—the flaring
kind—cut longitudinally. This basket,
also gilded heavily, was filled with
a varied profusion of artificial fruits.

Annie turned her chair. Miss Pamela
cleared her throat and pointed with the
yardstick.

“It’s not a thing, Miss Jenkins,” she
began, with some severity, “but a sort of
monument that I have made—I call it
my ‘Memorial Fruit Piece.’” There was
about Miss Roscoe something of the
pride of the discoverer, and she warmed
to her subject.

“You see, ours was a large family,
and, from time to time, many of us
were taken away—‘called home,’ you
might say—and those that went left to
those that remained a good many relics
and keepsakes like. They came to
mother first, and after mother’s death
they came to me, and I had ’em round
in bureau drawers and bandboxes and
trunks, and they was in the way when
I was cleaning house or making changes
of arrangements, and I won’t say that
such as was fabrics wasn’t attracting
moths. But I couldn’t think of no way
to remedy it. Till suddenly—let’s see,
’twas eleven weeks ago last Tuesday—the
idea came to me, and I grouped
’em together, like you see ’em here—this
tribute.”

Her yardstick touched the basket lovingly,
 as she went on: “That banana,
on the extreme left, contains my grandfather’s
gold-bowed spectacles, jest as
he used to wear ’em. Gran’pa grew terrible
deaf when he got to be an old man,
and so he never heard a team coming
up behind him one day when mother’d
sent him down to the store for a loaf
of bread. Miss Jenkins, them glasses
was on his nose just as lifelike when
they brought him in to us! My mother’s
wedding ring is in that greengage
plum next to the banana, and aunt
Sophia Babcock’s is in that damson, a
little below to the right.

“You see that peach? Pretty lifelike,
I call it—well, there ain’t anything
in it yet, but my great-uncle
Bradly’s shirtstuds are in the Bartlett
pear, just beyond, and that orange contains
a Honiton lace collar that my
mother wore the day she was married.

“And this Baldwin apple”—her voice
grew intimate—“has in it some little
relics of my own uncle Aaron Roscoe.
He was a good man, and he felt the
call early, and he journeyed to heathen
lands to carry the glad tidings, and we
never heard from him again—till quite
recent, when these little relics was sent
back.

“Do you remember my brother
Willy? Gracious, no! What was I
thinking of? Of course you don’t—your
aunt Mary’d remember him,
though. He was my youngest brother,
and a great hand for all sorts of frolic
and fun. Well, it’s more’n thirty years
ago, but it seems just yesterday that he
fell in the mill pond. Sister Coretta
was with him, and she’d let him get out
of her sight—which she hadn’t ought to—but,
childlike, she’d got to playing
with the shavings, and sticking ’em over
her ears, and when she sensed things
Willy wa’n’t nowhere to be found.
They drawed off the water, and there
he was, poor little thing, and they
brought him home and laid him on the
kitchen table, and then mother and I, we
went through his pockets to see what
there was, and there we found a bag of
marbles, just as he’d had ’em—and he
was a great hand for marbles. Well,
mother she kept ’em in her bureau
drawer for years, and whenever she’d
open the bureau drawer it would make
her feel bad, ’cause she’d think of Willy,
and after mother’s death it made me
feel bad to see ’em, ’cause I’d think of
Willy and mother, too. Yet, somehow,
I couldn’t think of no way to put ’em
in here till suddenly it occurred to me
in the night—’twas three weeks ago
come Friday—and I got up then and
there and I covered ’em each with purple
silk and made ’em into that bunch of
grapes on the extreme right.”