Stories in Light and Shadow by Bret HarteFrom: “Argonaut Edition” of the Works of Bret Harte, Vol 13 (page 2)

“There!” said Uncle Jim, as he hurriedly slurred over the French substantive at the close, “did ye ever see such God-forsaken foolishness?”

Uncle Billy lifted his abstracted eyes from the current, still pouring its unreturning gold into the sinking sun, and said, with a deprecatory smile, “Never!”

Nor even in the days of prosperity that visited the Great Wheat Ranch of “Fall and Foster” did he ever tell his secret to his partner.

SEE YUP

I don’t suppose that his progenitors ever gave him that name, or, indeed, that it was a NAME at all; but it was currently believed that–as pronounced “See UP”–it meant that lifting of the outer angle of the eye common to the Mongolian. On the other hand, I had been told that there was an old Chinese custom of affixing some motto or legend, or even a sentence from Confucius, as a sign above their shops, and that two or more words, which might be merely equivalent to “Virtue is its own reward,” or “Riches are deceitful,” were believed by the simple Californian miner to be the name of the occupant himself. Howbeit, “See Yup” accepted it with the smiling patience of his race, and never went by any other. If one of the tunnelmen always addressed him as “Brigadier-General,” “Judge,” or “Commodore,” it was understood to be only the American fondness for ironic title, and was never used except in personal conversation. In appearance he looked like any other Chinaman, wore the ordinary blue cotton blouse and white drawers of the Sampan coolie, and, in spite of the apparent cleanliness and freshness of these garments, always exhaled that singular medicated odor–half opium, half ginger–which we recognized as the common “Chinese smell.”

Our first interview was characteristic of his patient quality. He had done my washing for several months, but I had never yet seen him. A meeting at last had become necessary to correct his impressions regarding “buttons”–which he had seemed to consider as mere excrescences, to be removed like superfluous dirt from soiled linen. I had expected him to call at my lodgings, but he had not yet made his appearance. One day, during the noontide recess of the little frontier school over which I presided, I returned rather early. Two or three of the smaller boys, who were loitering about the school-yard, disappeared with a certain guilty precipitation that I suspected for the moment, but which I presently dismissed from my mind. I passed through the empty school-room to my desk, sat down, and began to prepare the coming lessons. Presently I heard a faint sigh. Looking up, to my intense concern, I discovered a solitary Chinaman whom I had overlooked, sitting in a rigid attitude on a bench with his back to the window. He caught my eye and smiled sadly, but without moving.

“What are you doing here?” I asked sternly.

“Me washee shilts; me talkee ‘buttons.'”

“Oh! you’re See Yup, are you?”

“Allee same, John.”

“Well, come here.”

I continued my work, but he did not move.

“Come here, hang it! Don’t you understand?”

“Me shabbee, ‘comme yea.’ But me no shabbee Mellican boy, who catchee me, allee same. YOU ‘comme yea’–YOU shabbee?”

Indignant, but believing that the unfortunate man was still in fear of persecution from the mischievous urchins whom I had evidently just interrupted, I put down my pen and went over to him. Here I discovered, to my surprise and mortification, that his long pigtail was held hard and fast by the closed window behind him which the young rascals had shut down upon it, after having first noiselessly fished it outside with a hook and line. I apologized, opened the window, and released him. He did not complain, although he must have been fixed in that uncomfortable position for some minutes, but plunged at once into the business that brought him there.

“But WHY didn’t you come to my lodgings?” I asked.

He smiled sadly but intelligently.

“Mishtel Bally [Mr. Barry, my landlord] he owce me five dollee fo washee, washee. He no payee me. He say he knock hellee outee me allee time I come for payee. So me no come HOUSEE, me come SCHOOLEE, Shabbee? Mellican boy no good, but not so big as Mellican man. No can hurtee Chinaman so much. Shabbee?”

Alas! I knew that this was mainly true. Mr. James Barry was an Irishman, whose finer religious feelings revolted against paying money to a heathen. I could not find it in my heart to say anything to See Yup about the buttons; indeed, I spoke in complimentary terms about the gloss of my shirts, and I think I meekly begged him to come again for my washing. When I went home I expostulated with Mr. Barry, but succeeded only in extracting from him the conviction that I was one of “thim black Republican fellys that worshiped naygurs.” I had simply made an enemy of him. But I did not know that, at the same time, I had made a friend of See Yup!

I became aware of this a few days later, by the appearance on my desk of a small pot containing a specimen of camellia japonica in flower. I knew the school-children were in the habit of making presents to me in this furtive fashion,–leaving their own nosegays of wild flowers, or perhaps a cluster of roses from their parents’ gardens,–but I also knew that this exotic was too rare to come from them. I remembered that See Yup had a Chinese taste for gardening, and a friend, another Chinaman, who kept a large nursery in the adjoining town. But my doubts were set at rest by the discovery of a small roll of red rice-paper containing my washing- bill, fastened to the camellia stalk. It was plain that this mingling of business and delicate gratitude was clearly See Yup’s own idea. As the finest flower was the topmost one, I plucked it for wearing, when I found, to my astonishment, that it was simply wired to the stalk. This led me to look at the others, which I found also wired! More than that, they seemed to be an inferior flower, and exhaled that cold, earthy odor peculiar to the camellia, even, as I thought, to an excess. A closer examination resulted in the discovery that, with the exception of the first flower I had plucked, they were one and all ingeniously constructed of thin slices of potato, marvelously cut to imitate the vegetable waxiness and formality of the real flower. The work showed an infinite and almost pathetic patience in detail, yet strangely incommensurate with the result, admirable as it was. Nevertheless, this was also like See Yup. But whether he had tried to deceive me, or whether he only wished me to admire his skill, I could not say. And as his persecution by my scholars had left a balance of consideration in his favor, I sent him a warm note of thanks, and said nothing of my discovery.

As our acquaintance progressed, I became frequently the recipient of other small presents from him: a pot of preserves of a quality I could not purchase in shops, and whose contents in their crafty, gingery dissimulation so defied definition that I never knew whether they were animal, vegetable, or mineral; two or three hideous Chinese idols, “for luckee,” and a diabolical fire-work with an irregular spasmodic activity that would sometimes be prolonged until the next morning. In return, I gave him some apparently hopeless oral lessons in English, and certain sentences to be copied, which he did with marvelous precision. I remember one instance when this peculiar faculty of imitation was disastrous in result. In setting him a copy, I had blurred a word which I promptly erased, and then traced the letters more distinctly over the scratched surface. To my surprise, See Yup triumphantly produced HIS copy with the erasion itself carefully imitated, and, in fact, much more neatly done than mine.

In our confidential intercourse, I never seemed to really get nearer to him. His sympathy and simplicity appeared like his flowers–to be a good-humored imitation of my own. I am satisfied that his particularly soulless laugh was not derived from any amusement he actually felt, yet I could not say it was forced. In his accurate imitations, I fancied he was only trying to evade any responsibility of his own. THAT devolved upon his taskmaster! In the attention he displayed when new ideas were presented to him, there was a slight condescension, as if he were looking down upon them from his three thousand years of history.

“Don’t you think the electric telegraph wonderful?” I asked one day.

“Very good for Mellican man,” he said, with his aimless laugh; “plenty makee him jump!”

I never could tell whether he had confounded it with electro- galvanism, or was only satirizing our American haste and feverishness. He was capable of either. For that matter, we knew that the Chinese themselves possessed some means of secretly and quickly communicating with one another. Any news of good or ill import to their race was quickly disseminated through the settlement before WE knew anything about it. An innocent basket of clothes from the wash, sent up from the river-bank, became in some way a library of information; a single slip of rice-paper, aimlessly fluttering in the dust of the road, had the mysterious effect of diverging a whole gang of coolie tramps away from our settlement.

When See Yup was not subject to the persecutions of the more ignorant and brutal he was always a source of amusement to all, and I cannot recall an instance when he was ever taken seriously. The miners found diversions even in his alleged frauds and trickeries, whether innocent or retaliatory, and were fond of relating with great gusto his evasion of the Foreign Miners’ Tax. This was an oppressive measure aimed principally at the Chinese, who humbly worked the worn-out “tailings” of their Christian fellow miners. It was stated that See Yup, knowing the difficulty–already alluded to–of identifying any particular Chinaman by NAME, conceived the additional idea of confusing recognition by intensifying the monotonous facial expression. Having paid his tax himself to the collector, he at once passed the receipt to his fellows, so that the collector found himself confronted in different parts of the settlement with the receipt and the aimless laugh of, apparently, See Yup himself. Although we all knew that there were a dozen Chinamen or more at work at the mines, the collector never was able to collect the tax from more than TWO, –See Yup and one See Yin,– and so great was THEIR facial resemblance that the unfortunate official for a long time hugged himself with the conviction that he had made See Yup PAY TWICE, and withheld the money from the government! It is very probable that the Californian’s recognition of the sanctity of a joke, and his belief that “cheating the government was only cheating himself,” largely accounted for the sympathies of the rest of the miners.

But these sympathies were not always unanimous.

One evening I strolled into the bar-room of the principal saloon, which, so far as mere upholstery and comfort went, was also the principal house in the settlement. The first rains had commenced; the windows were open, for the influence of the southwest trades penetrated even this far-off mountain mining settlement, but, oddly enough, there was a fire in the large central stove, around which the miners had collected, with their steaming boots elevated on a projecting iron railing that encircled it. They were not attracted by the warmth, but the stove formed a social pivot for gossip, and suggested that mystic circle dear to the gregarious instinct. Yet they were decidedly a despondent group. For some moments the silence was only broken by a gasp, a sigh, a muttered oath, or an impatient change of position. There was nothing in the fortunes of the settlement, nor in their own individual affairs to suggest this gloom. The singular truth was that they were, one and all, suffering from the pangs of dyspepsia.

Incongruous as such a complaint might seem to their healthy environment,–their outdoor life, their daily exercise, the healing balsam of the mountain air, their enforced temperance in diet, and the absence of all enervating pleasures,–it was nevertheless the incontestable fact. Whether it was the result of the nervous, excitable temperament which had brought them together in this feverish hunt for gold; whether it was the quality of the tinned meats or half-cooked provisions they hastily bolted, begrudging the time it took to prepare and to consume them; whether they too often supplanted their meals by tobacco or whiskey, the singular physiological truth remained that these young, finely selected adventurers, living the lives of the natural, aboriginal man, and looking the picture of health and strength, actually suffered more from indigestion than the pampered dwellers of the cities. The quantity of “patent medicines,” “bitters,” “pills,” “panaceas,” and “lozenges” sold in the settlement almost exceeded the amount of the regular provisions whose effects they were supposed to correct. The sufferers eagerly scanned advertisements and placards. There were occasional “runs” on new “specifics,” and general conversation eventually turned into a discussion of their respective merits. A certain childlike faith and trust in each new remedy was not the least distressing and pathetic of the symptoms of these grown-up, bearded men.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Cyrus Parker, glancing around at his fellow sufferers, “ye kin talk of your patent medicines, and I’ve tackled ’em all, but only the other day I struck suthin’ that I’m goin’ to hang on to, you bet.”

Every eye was turned moodily to the speaker, but no one said anything.

“And I didn’t get it outer advertisements, nor off of circulars. I got it outer my head, just by solid thinking,” continued Parker.

“What was it, Cy?” said one unsophisticated and inexperienced sufferer.

Instead of replying, Parker, like a true artist, knowing he had the ear of his audience, dramatically flashed a question upon them.

“Did you ever hear of a Chinaman having dyspepsy?”

“Never heard he had sabe enough to hev ANYTHING,” said a scorner.

“No, but DID ye?” insisted Parker.

“Well, no!” chorused the group. They were evidently struck with the fact.

“Of course you didn’t,” said Parker triumphantly. “‘Cos they AIN’T. Well, gentlemen, it didn’t seem to me the square thing that a pesky lot o’ yellow-skinned heathens should be built different to a white man, and never know the tortur’ that a Christian feels; and one day, arter dinner, when I was just a-lyin’ flat down on the bank, squirmin’, and clutching the short grass to keep from yellin’, who should go by but that pizened See Yup, with a grin on his face.

“‘Mellican man plenty playee to him Joss after eatin’,’ sez he; ‘but Chinaman smellee punk, allee same, and no hab got.’

“I knew the slimy cuss was just purtendin’ he thought I was prayin’ to my Joss, but I was that weak I hadn’t stren’th, boys, to heave a rock at him. Yet it gave me an idea.”

“What was it?” they asked eagerly.

“I went down to his shop the next day, when he was alone, and I was feeling mighty bad, and I got hold of his pigtail and I allowed I’d stuff it down his throat if he didn’t tell me what he meant. Then he took a piece of punk and lit it, and put it under my nose, and, darn my skin, gentlemen, you migh’n’t believe me, but in a minute I felt better, and after a whiff or two I was all right.”

“Was it pow’ful strong, Cy?” asked the inexperienced one.

“No,” said Parker, “and that’s just what’s got me. It was a sort o’ dreamy, spicy smell, like a hot night. But as I couldn’t go ’round ‘mong you boys with a lighted piece o’ punk in my hand, ez if I was settin’ off Fourth of July firecrackers, I asked him if he couldn’t fix me up suthin’ in another shape that would be handier to use when I was took bad, and I’d reckon to pay him for it like ez I’d pay for any other patent medicine. So he fixed me up this.”

He put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a small red paper which, when opened, disclosed a pink powder. It was gravely passed around the group.

“Why, it smells and tastes like ginger,” said one.

“It is only ginger!” said another scornfully.

“Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn’t,” returned Cy Parker stoutly. “Mebbe ut’s only my fancy. But if it’s the sort o’ stuff to bring on that fancy, and that fancy CURES me, it’s all the same. I’ve got about two dollars’ worth o’ that fancy or that ginger, and I’m going to stick to it. You hear me!” And he carefully put it back in his pocket.

At which criticisms and gibes broke forth. If he (Cy Parker), a white man, was going to “demean himself” by consulting a Chinese quack, he’d better buy up a lot o’ idols and stand ’em up around his cabin. If he had that sort o’ confidences with See Yup, he ought to go to work with him on his cheap tailings, and be fumigated all at the same time. If he’d been smoking an opium pipe, instead of smelling punk, he ought to be man enough to confess it. Yet it was noticeable that they were all very anxious to examine the packet again, but Cy Parker was alike indifferent to demand or entreaty.

A few days later I saw Abe Wynford, one of the party, coming out of See Yup’s wash-house. He muttered something in passing about the infamous delay in sending home his washing, but did not linger long in conversation. The next day I met another miner AT the wash- house, but HE lingered so long on some trifling details that I finally left him there alone with See Yup. When I called upon Poker Jack of Shasta, there was a singular smell of incense in HIS cabin, which he attributed to the very resinous quality of the fir logs he was burning. I did not attempt to probe these mysteries by any direct appeal to See Yup himself: I respected his reticence; indeed, if I had not, I was quite satisfied that he would have lied to me. Enough that his wash-house was well patronized, and he was decidedly “getting on.”

It might have been a month afterwards that Dr. Duchesne was setting a broken bone in the settlement, and after the operation was over, had strolled into the Palmetto Saloon. He was an old army surgeon, much respected and loved in the district, although perhaps a little feared for the honest roughness and military precision of his speech. After he had exchanged salutations with the miners in his usual hearty fashion, and accepted their invitation to drink, Cy Parker, with a certain affected carelessness which did not, however, conceal a singular hesitation in his speech, began:–

“I’ve been wantin’ to ask ye a question, Doc,–a sort o’ darned fool question, ye know,–nothing in the way of consultation, don’t you see, though it’s kin er in the way o’ your purfeshun. Sabe?”

“Go on, Cy,” said the doctor good-humoredly, “this is my dispensary hour.”

“Oh! it ain’t anything about symptoms, Doc, and there ain’t anything the matter with me. It’s only just to ask ye if ye happened to know anything about the medical practice of these yer Chinamen?”

“I don’t know,” said the doctor bluntly, “and I don’t know ANYBODY who does.”

There was a sudden silence in the bar, and the doctor, putting down his glass, continued with slight professional precision:–

“You see, the Chinese know nothing of anatomy from personal observation. Autopsies and dissection are against their superstitions, which declare the human body sacred, and are consequently never practiced.”

There was a slight movement of inquiring interest among the party, and Cy Parker, after a meaning glance at the others, went on half aggressively, half apologetically:–

“In course, they ain’t surgeons like you, Doc, but that don’t keep them from having their own little medicines, just as dogs eat grass, you know. Now I want to put it to you, as a fa’r-minded man, if you mean ter say that, jest because those old women who sarve out yarbs and spring medicines in families don’t know anything of anatomy, they ain’t fit to give us their simple and nat’ral medicines?”

“But the Chinese medicines are not simple or natural,” said the doctor coolly.

“Not simple?” echoed the party, closing round him.

“I don’t mean to say,” continued the doctor, glancing around at their eager, excited faces with an appearance of wonder, “that they are positively noxious, unless taken in large quantities, for they are not drugs at all, but I certainly should not call them ‘simple.’ Do YOU know what they principally are?”

“Well, no,” said Parker cautiously, “perhaps not EXACTLY.”

“Come a little closer, and I’ll tell you.”

Not only Parker’s head but the others were bent over the counter. Dr. Duchesne uttered a few words in a tone inaudible to the rest of the company. There was a profound silence, broken at last by Abe Wynford’s voice:–

“Ye kin pour me out about three fingers o’ whiskey, Barkeep. I’ll take it straight.”

“Same to me,” said the others.

The men gulped down their liquor; two of them quietly passed out. The doctor wiped his lips, buttoned his coat, and began to draw on his riding-gloves.

“I’ve heerd,” said Poker Jack of Shasta, with a faint smile on his white face, as he toyed with the last drops of liquor in his glass, “that the darned fools sometimes smell punk as a medicine, eh?”

“Yes, THAT’S comparatively decent,” said the doctor reflectively. “It’s only sawdust mixed with a little gum and formic acid.”

“Formic acid? Wot’s that?”

“A very peculiar acid secreted by ants. It is supposed to be used by them offensively in warfare–just as the skunk, eh?”

But Poker Jack of Shasta had hurriedly declared that he wanted to speak to a man who was passing, and had disappeared. The doctor walked to the door, mounted his horse, and rode away. I noticed, however, that there was a slight smile on his bronzed, impassive face. This led me to wonder if he was entirely ignorant of the purpose for which he had been questioned, and the effect of his information. I was confirmed in the belief by the remarkable circumstances that nothing more was said of it; the incident seemed to have terminated there, and the victims made no attempt to revenge themselves on See Yup. That they had one and all, secretly and unknown to one another, patronized him, there was no doubt; but, at the same time, as they evidently were not sure that Dr. Duchesne had not hoaxed them in regard to the quality of See Yup’s medicines, they knew that an attack on the unfortunate Chinaman would in either case reveal their secret and expose them to the ridicule of their brother miners. So the matter dropped, and See Yup remained master of the situation.

Meantime he was prospering. The coolie gang he worked on the river, when not engaged in washing clothes, were “picking over” the “tailings,” or refuse of gravel, left on abandoned claims by successful miners. As there was no more expense attending this than in stone-breaking or rag-picking, and the feeding of the coolies, which was ridiculously cheap, there was no doubt that See Yup was reaping a fair weekly return from it; but, as he sent his receipts to San Francisco through coolie managers, after the Chinese custom, and did not use the regular Express Company, there was no way of ascertaining the amount. Again, neither See Yup nor his fellow countrymen ever appeared to have any money about them. In ruder times and more reckless camps, raids were often made by ruffians on their cabins or their traveling gangs, but never with any pecuniary result. This condition, however, it seemed was destined to change.

One Saturday See Yup walked into Wells, Fargo & Co.’s Express office with a package of gold-dust, which, when duly weighed, was valued at five hundred dollars. It was consigned to a Chinese company in San Francisco. When the clerk handed See Yup a receipt, he remarked casually:–

“Washing seems to pay, See Yup.”

“Washee velly good pay. You wantee washee, John?” said See Yup eagerly.

“No, no,” said the clerk, with a laugh. “I was only thinking five hundred dollars would represent the washing of a good many shirts.”

“No leplesent washee shirts at all! Catchee gold-dust when washee tailings. Shabbee?”

The clerk DID “shabbee,” and lifted his eyebrows. The next Saturday See Yup appeared with another package, worth about four hundred dollars, directed to the same consignee.

“Didn’t pan out quite so rich this week, eh?” said the clerk engagingly.

“No,” returned See Yup impassively; “next time he payee more.”

When the third Saturday came, with the appearance of See Yup and four hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of gold-dust, the clerk felt he was no longer bound to keep the secret. He communicated it to others, and in twenty-four hours the whole settlement knew that See Yup’s coolie company were taking out an average of four hundred dollars per week from the refuse and tailings of the old abandoned Palmetto claim!

The astonishment of the settlement was profound. In earlier days jealousy and indignation at the success of these degraded heathens might have taken a more active and aggressive shape, and it would have fared ill with See Yup and his companions. But the settlement had become more prosperous and law-abiding; there were one or two Eastern families and some foreign capital already there, and its jealousy and indignation were restricted to severe investigation and legal criticism. Fortunately for See Yup, it was an old- established mining law that an abandoned claim and its tailings became the property of whoever chose to work it. But it was alleged that See Yup’s company had in reality “struck a lead,”– discovered a hitherto unknown vein or original deposit of gold, not worked by the previous company, and having failed legally to declare it by preemption and public registry, in their foolish desire for secrecy, had thus forfeited their right to the property. A surveillance of their working, however, did not establish this theory; the gold that See Yup had sent away was of the kind that might have been found in the tailings overlooked by the late Palmetto owners. Yet it was a very large yield for mere refuse.

“Them Palmetto boys were mighty keerless after they’d made their big ‘strike’ and got to work on the vein, and I reckon they threw a lot of gold away,” said Cy Parker, who remembered their large- handed recklessness in the “flush days.” “On’y that WE didn’t think it was white man’s work to rake over another man’s leavin’s, we might hev had what them derned Chinamen hev dropped into. Tell ye what, boys, we’ve been a little too ‘high and mighty,’ and we’ll hev to climb down.”

At last the excitement reached its climax, and diplomacy was employed to effect what neither intimidation nor espionage could secure. Under the pretense of desiring to buy out See Yup’s company, a select committee of the miners was permitted to examine the property and its workings. They found the great bank of stones and gravel, representing the cast-out debris of the old claim, occupied by See Yup and four or five plodding automatic coolies. At the end of two hours the committee returned to the saloon bursting with excitement. They spoke under their breath, but enough was gathered to satisfy the curious crowd that See Yup’s pile of tailings was rich beyond their expectations. The committee had seen with their own eyes gold taken out of the sand and gravel to the amount of twenty dollars in the two short hours of their examination. And the work had been performed in the stupidest, clumsiest, yet PATIENT Chinese way. What might not white men do with better appointed machinery! A syndicate was at once formed. See Yup was offered twenty thousand dollars if he would sell out and put the syndicate in possession of the claim in twenty-four hours. The Chinaman received the offer stolidly. As he seemed inclined to hesitate, I am grieved to say that it was intimated to him that if he declined he might be subject to embarrassing and expensive legal proceedings to prove his property, and that companies would be formed to “prospect” the ground on either side of his heap of tailings. See Yup at last consented, with the proviso that the money should be paid in gold into the hands of a Chinese agent in San Francisco on the day of the delivery of the claim. The syndicate made no opposition to this characteristic precaution of the Chinaman. It was like them not to travel with money, and the implied uncomplimentary suspicion of danger from the community was overlooked. See Yup departed the day that the syndicate took possession. He came to see me before he went. I congratulated him upon his good fortune; at the same time, I was embarrassed by the conviction that he was unfairly forced into a sale of his property at a figure far below its real value.

I think differently now.

At the end of the week it was said that the new company cleared up about three hundred dollars. This was not so much as the community had expected, but the syndicate was apparently satisfied, and the new machinery was put up. At the end of the next week the syndicate were silent as to their returns. One of them made a hurried visit to San Francisco. It was said that he was unable to see either See Yup or the agent to whom the money was paid. It was also noticed that there was no Chinaman remaining in the settlement. Then the fatal secret was out.

The heap of tailings had probably never yielded the See Yup company more than twenty dollars a week, the ordinary wage of such a company. See Yup had conceived the brilliant idea of “booming” it on a borrowed capital of five hundred dollars in gold-dust, which he OPENLY transmitted by express to his confederate and creditor in San Francisco, who in turn SECRETLY sent it back to See Yup by coolie messengers, to be again openly transmitted to San Francisco. The package of gold-dust was thus passed backwards and forwards between debtor and creditor, to the grave edification of the Express Company and the fatal curiosity of the settlement. When the syndicate had gorged the bait thus thrown out, See Yup, on the day the self-invited committee inspected the claim, promptly “salted” the tailings by CONSCIENTIOUSLY DISTRIBUTING THE GOLD-DUST OVER IT so deftly that it appeared to be its natural composition and yield.

I have only to bid farewell to See Yup, and close this reminiscence of a misunderstood man, by adding the opinion of an eminent jurist in San Francisco, to whom the facts were submitted: “So clever was this alleged fraud, that it is extremely doubtful if an action would lie against See Yup in the premises, there being no legal evidence of the ‘salting,’ and none whatever of his actual allegation that the gold-dust was the ORDINARY yield of the tailings, that implication resting entirely with the committee who examined it under false pretense, and who subsequently forced the sale by intimidation.”

THE DESBOROUGH CONNECTIONS

“Then it isn’t a question of property or next of kin?” said the consul.

“Lord! no,” said the lady vivaciously. “Why, goodness me! I reckon old Desborough could, at any time before he died, have ‘bought up’ or ‘bought out’ the whole lot of his relatives on this side of the big pond, no matter what they were worth. No, it’s only a matter of curiosity and just sociableness.”

The American consul at St. Kentigorn felt much relieved. He had feared it was only the old story of delusive quests for imaginary estates and impossible inheritances which he had confronted so often in nervous wan-eyed enthusiasts and obstreperous claimants from his own land. Certainly there was no suggestion of this in the richly dressed and be-diamonded matron before him, nor in her pretty daughter, charming in a Paris frock, alive with the consciousness of beauty and admiration, and yet a little ennuye from gratified indulgence. He knew the mother to be the wealthy widow of a New York millionaire, that she was traveling for pleasure in Europe, and a chance meeting with her at dinner a few nights before had led to this half-capricious, half-confidential appointment at the consulate.

“No,” continued Mrs. Desborough; “Mr. Desborough came to America, when a small boy, with an uncle who died some years ago. Mr. Desborough never seemed to hanker much after his English relatives as long as I knew him, but now that I and Sadie are over here, why we guessed we might look ’em up and sort of sample ’em! ‘Desborough’ ‘s rather a good name,” added the lady, with a complacency that, however, had a suggestion of query in it.

“Yes,” said the consul; “from the French, I fancy.”

“Mr. Desborough was English–very English,” corrected the lady.

“I mean it may be an old Norman name,” said the consul.

‘Norman’s good enough for ME,” said the daughter, reflecting. “We’ll just settle it as Norman. I never thought about that DES.”

“Only you may find it called ‘Debborough’ here, and spelt so,” said the consul, smiling.

Miss Desborough lifted her pretty shoulders and made a charming grimace. “Then we won’t acknowledge ’em. No Debborough for me!”

“You might put an advertisement in the papers, like the ‘next of kin’ notice, intimating, in the regular way, that they would ‘hear of something to their advantage’–as they certainly would,” continued the consul, with a bow. “It would be such a refreshing change to the kind of thing I’m accustomed to, don’t you know–this idea of one of my countrywomen coming over just to benefit English relatives! By Jove! I wouldn’t mind undertaking the whole thing for you–it’s such a novelty.” He was quite carried away with the idea.

But the two ladies were far from participating in this joyous outlook. “No,” said Mrs. Desborough promptly, “that wouldn’t do. You see,” she went on with superb frankness, “that would be just giving ourselves away, and saying who WE were before we found out what THEY were like. Mr. Desborough was all right in HIS way, but we don’t know anything about his FOLKS! We ain’t here on a mission to improve the Desboroughs, nor to gather in any ‘lost tribes.'”

It was evident that, in spite of the humor of the situation and the levity of the ladies, there was a characteristic national practicalness about them, and the consul, with a sigh, at last gave the address of one or two responsible experts in genealogical inquiry, as he had often done before. He felt it was impossible to offer any advice to ladies as thoroughly capable of managing their own affairs as his fair countrywomen, yet he was not without some curiosity to know the result of their practical sentimental quest. That he should ever hear of them again he doubted. He knew that after their first loneliness had worn off in their gregarious gathering at a London hotel they were not likely to consort with their own country people, who indeed were apt to fight shy of one another, and even to indulge in invidious criticism of one another when admitted in that society to which they were all equally strangers. So he took leave of them on their way back to London with the belief that their acquaintance terminated with that brief incident. But he was mistaken.

In the year following he was spending his autumn vacation at a country house. It was an historic house, and had always struck him as being–even in that country of historic seats–a singular example of the vicissitudes of English manorial estates and the mutations of its lords. His host in his prime had been recalled from foreign service to unexpectedly succeed to an uncle’s title and estate. That estate, however, had come into the possession of the uncle only through his marriage with the daughter of an old family whose portraits still looked down from the walls upon the youngest and alien branch. There were likenesses, effigies, memorials, and reminiscences of still older families who had occupied it through forfeiture by war or the favoritism of kings, and in its stately cloisters and ruined chapel was still felt the dead hand of its evicted religious founders, which could not be shaken off.

It was this strange individuality that affected all who saw it. For, however changed were those within its walls, whoever were its inheritors or inhabiters, Scrooby Priory never changed nor altered its own character. However incongruous or ill-assorted the portraits that looked from its walls,–so ill met that they might have flown at one another’s throats in the long nights when the family were away,–the great house itself was independent of them all. The be-wigged, be-laced, and be-furbelowed of one day’s gathering, the round-headed, steel-fronted, and prim-kerchiefed congregation of another day, and even the black-coated, bare-armed, and bare-shouldered assemblage of to-day had no effect on the austerities of the Priory. Modern houses might show the tastes and prepossessions of their dwellers, might have caught some passing trick of the hour, or have recorded the augmented fortunes or luxuriousness of the owner, but Scrooby Priory never! No one had dared even to disturb its outer rigid integrity; the breaches of time and siege were left untouched. It held its calm indifferent sway over all who passed its low-arched portals, and the consul was fain to believe that he–a foreign visitor–was no more alien to the house than its present owner.

“I’m expecting a very charming compatriot of yours to-morrow,” said Lord Beverdale as they drove from the station together. “You must tell me what to show her.”

“I should think any countrywoman of mine would be quite satisfied with the Priory,” said the consul, glancing thoughtfully towards the pile dimly seen through the park.

“I shouldn’t like her to be bored here,” continued Beverdale. “Algy met her at Rome, where she was occupying a palace with her mother–they’re very rich, you know. He found she was staying with Lady Minever at Hedham Towers, and I went over and invited her with a little party. She’s a Miss Desborough.”

The consul gave a slight start, and was aware that Beverdale was looking at him.

“Perhaps you know her?” said Beverdale.

“Just enough to agree with you that she is charming,” said the consul. “I dined with them, and saw them at the consulate.”

“Oh yes; I always forget you are a consul. Then, of course, you know all about them. I suppose they’re very rich, and in society over there?” said Beverdale in a voice that was quite animated.

It was on the consul’s lips to say that the late Mr. Desborough was an Englishman, and even to speak playfully of their proposed quest, but a sudden instinct withheld him. After all, perhaps it was only a caprice, or idea, they had forgotten,–perhaps, who knows?–that they were already ashamed of. They had evidently “got on” in English society, if that was their real intent, and doubtless Miss Desborough, by this time, was quite as content with the chance of becoming related to the Earl of Beverdale, through his son and heir, Algernon, as if they had found a real Lord Desborough among their own relatives. The consul knew that Lord Beverdale was not a rich man, that like most men of old family he was not a slave to class prejudice; indeed, the consul had seen very few noblemen off the stage or out of the pages of a novel who were. So he said, with a slight affectation of authority, that there was as little doubt of the young lady’s wealth as there was of her personal attractions.

They were nearing the house through a long avenue of chestnuts whose variegated leaves were already beginning to strew the ground beneath, and they could see the vista open upon the mullioned windows of the Priory, lighted up by the yellow October sunshine. In that sunshine stood a tall, clean-limbed young fellow, dressed in a shooting-suit, whom the consul recognized at once as Lord Algernon, the son of his companion. As if to accent the graces of this vision of youth and vigor, near him, in the shadow, an old man had halted, hat in hand, still holding the rake with which he had been gathering the dead leaves in the avenue; his back bent, partly with years, partly with the obeisance of a servitor. There was something so marked in this contrast, in this old man standing in the shadow of the fading year, himself as dried and withered as the leaves he was raking, yet pausing to make his reverence to this passing sunshine of youth and prosperity in the presence of his coming master, that the consul, as they swept by, looked after him with a stirring of pain.

“Rather an old man to be still at work,” said the consul.

Beverdale laughed. “You must not let him hear you say so; he considers himself quite as fit as any younger man in the place, and, by Jove! though he’s nearly eighty, I’m inclined to believe it. He’s not one of our people, however; he comes from the village, and is taken on at odd times, partly to please himself. His great aim is to be independent of his children,–he has a granddaughter who is one of the maids at the Priory,–and to keep himself out of the workhouse. He does not come from these parts– somewhere farther north, I fancy. But he’s a tough lot, and has a deal of work in him yet.”

“Seems to be going a bit stale lately,” said Lord Algernon, “and I think is getting a little queer in his head. He has a trick of stopping and staring straight ahead, at times, when he seems to go off for a minute or two. There!” continued the young man, with a light laugh. “I say! he’s doing it now!” They both turned quickly and gazed at the bent figure–not fifty yards away–standing in exactly the same attitude as before. But, even as they gazed, he slowly lifted his rake and began his monotonous work again.

At Scrooby Priory, the consul found that the fame of his fair countrywoman had indeed preceded her, and that the other guests were quite as anxious to see Miss Desborough as he was. One of them had already met her in London; another knew her as one of the house party at the Duke of Northforeland’s, where she had been a central figure. Some of her naive sallies and frank criticisms were repeated with great unction by the gentlemen, and with some slight trepidation and a “fearful joy” by the ladies. He was more than ever convinced that mother and daughter had forgotten their lineal Desboroughs, and he resolved to leave any allusion to it to the young lady herself.

She, however, availed herself of that privilege the evening after her arrival. “Who’d have thought of meeting YOU here?” she said, sweeping her skirts away to make room for him on a sofa. “It’s a coon’s age since I saw you–not since you gave us that letter to those genealogical gentlemen in London.”

The consul hoped that it had proved successful.

“Yes, but maw guessed we didn’t care to go back to Hengist and Horsa, and when they let loose a lot of ‘Debboroughs’ and ‘Daybrooks’ upon us, maw kicked! We’ve got a drawing ten yards long, that looks like a sour apple tree, with lots of Desboroughs hanging up on the branches like last year’s pippins, and I guess about as worm-eaten. We took that well enough, but when it came to giving us a map of straight lines and dashes with names written under them like an old Morse telegraph slip, struck by lightning, then maw and I guessed that it made us tired.

“You know,” she went on, opening her clear gray eyes on the consul, with a characteristic flash of shrewd good sense through her quaint humor, “we never reckoned where this thing would land us, and we found we were paying a hundred pounds, not only for the Desboroughs, but all the people they’d MARRIED, and their CHILDREN, and children’s children, and there were a lot of outsiders we’d never heard of, nor wanted to hear of. Maw once thought she’d got on the trail of a Plantagenet, and followed it keen, until she found she had been reading the dreadful thing upside down. Then we concluded we wouldn’t take any more stock in the family until it had risen.”

During this speech the consul could not help noticing that, although her attitude was playfully confidential to him, her voice really was pitched high enough to reach the ears of smaller groups around her, who were not only following her with the intensest admiration, but had shamelessly abandoned their own conversation, and had even faced towards her. Was she really posing in her naivete? There was a certain mischievous, even aggressive, consciousness in her pretty eyelids. Then she suddenly dropped both eyes and voice, and said to the consul in a genuine aside, “I like this sort of thing much better.”

The consul looked puzzled. “What sort of thing?”

“Why, all these swell people, don’t you see? those pictures on the walls! this elegant room! everything that has come down from the past, all ready and settled for you, you know–ages ago! Something you haven’t to pick up for yourself and worry over.”

But here the consul pointed out that the place itself was not “ancestral” as regarded the present earl, and that even the original title of his predecessors had passed away from it. “In fact, it came into the family by one of those ‘outsiders’ you deprecate. But I dare say you’d find the place quite as comfortable with Lord Beverdale for a host as you would if you had found out he were a cousin,” he added.

“Better,” said the young lady frankly.

“I suppose your mother participates in these preferences?” said the consul, with a smile.

“No,” said Miss Desborough, with the same frankness, “I think maw’s rather cut up at not finding a Desborough. She was invited down here, but SHE’S rather independent, you know, so she allowed I could take care of myself, while she went off to stay with the old Dowager Lady Mistowe, who thinks maw a very proper womanly person. I made maw mad by telling her that’s just what old Lady Mistowe would say of her cook–for I can’t stand these people’s patronage. However, I shouldn’t wonder if I was invited here as a ‘most original person.'”

But here Lord Algernon came up to implore her to sing them one of “those plantation songs;” and Miss Desborough, with scarcely a change of voice or manner, allowed herself to be led to the piano. The consul had little chance to speak with her again, but he saw enough that evening to convince him not only that Lord Algernon was very much in love with her, but that the fact had been equally and complacently accepted by the family and guests. That her present visit was only an opportunity for a formal engagement was clear to every woman in the house–not excepting, I fear, even the fair subject of gossip herself. Yet she seemed so unconcerned and self- contained that the consul wondered if she really cared for Lord Algernon. And having thus wondered, he came to the conclusion that it didn’t much matter, for the happiness of so practically organized a young lady, if she loved him or not.

It is highly probable that Miss Sadie Desborough had not even gone so far as to ask herself that question. She awoke the next morning with a sense of easy victory and calm satisfaction that had, however, none of the transports of affection. Her taste was satisfied by the love of a handsome young fellow,–a typical Englishman,–who, if not exactly original or ideal, was, she felt, of an universally accepted, “hall-marked” standard, the legitimate outcome of a highly ordered, carefully guarded civilization, whose repose was the absence of struggle or ambition; a man whose regular features were not yet differentiated from the rest of his class by any of those disturbing lines which people call character. Everything was made ready for her, without care or preparation; she had not even an ideal to realize or to modify. She could slip without any jar or dislocation into this life which was just saved from self-indulgence and sybaritic luxury by certain conventional rules of activity and the occupation of amusement which, as obligations of her position, even appeared to suggest the novel aspect of a DUTY! She could accept all this without the sense of being an intruder in an unbroken lineage–thanks to the consul’s account of the Beverdales’ inheritance. She already pictured herself as the mistress of this fair domain, the custodian of its treasures and traditions, and the dispenser of its hospitalities, but–as she conscientiously believed–without pride or vanity, in her position; only an intense and thoughtful appreciation of it. Nor did she dream of ever displaying it ostentatiously before her less fortunate fellow countrywomen; on the contrary, she looked forward to their possible criticism of her casting off all transatlantic ties with an uneasy consciousness that was perhaps her nearest approach to patriotism. Yet, again, she reasoned that, as her father was an Englishman, she was only returning to her old home. As to her mother, she had already comforted herself by noticing certain discrepancies in that lady’s temperament, which led her to believe that she herself alone inherited her father’s nature–for her mother was, of course, distinctly American! So little conscious was she of any possible snobbishness in this belief, that in her superb naivete she would have argued the point with the consul, and employed a wit and dialect that were purely American.

She had slipped out of the Priory early that morning that she might enjoy alone, unattended and unciceroned, the aspect of that vast estate which might be hers for the mere accepting. Perhaps there was some instinct of delicacy in her avoiding Lord Algernon that morning; not wishing, as she herself might have frankly put it, “to take stock” of his inheritance in his presence. As she passed into the garden through the low postern door, she turned to look along the stretching facade of the main building, with the high stained windows of its banqueting-hall and the state chamber where a king had slept. Even in that crisp October air, and with the green of its ivied battlements against the gold of the distant wood, it seemed to lie in the languid repose of an eternal summer. She hurried on down the other terrace into the Italian garden, a quaint survival of past grandeur, passed the great orangery and numerous conservatories, making a crystal hamlet in themselves–seeing everywhere the same luxury. But it was a luxury that she fancied was redeemed from the vulgarity of ostentation by the long custom of years and generations, so unlike the millionaire palaces of her own land; and, in her enthusiasm, she even fancied it was further sanctified by the grim monastic founders who had once been content with bread and pulse in the crumbling and dismantled refectory. In the plenitude of her feelings she felt a slight recognition of some beneficent being who had rolled this golden apple at her feet, and felt as if she really should like to “do good” in her sphere.

It so chanced that, passing through a small gate in the park, she saw walking, a little ahead of her, a young girl whom she at once recognized as a Miss Amelyn, one of the guests of the evening before. Miss Desborough remembered that she played the accompaniment of one or two songs upon the piano, and had even executed a long solo during the general conversation, without attention from the others, and apparently with little irritation to herself, subsiding afterwards into an armchair, quite on the fringe of other people’s conversation. She had been called “my dear” by one or two dowagers, and by her Christian name by the earl, and had a way of impalpably melting out of sight at times. These trifles led Miss Desborough to conclude that she was some kind of dependent or poor relation. Here was an opportunity to begin her work of “doing good.” She quickened her pace and overtook Miss Amelyn.

“Let me walk with you,” she said graciously.

The young English girl smiled assent, but looked her surprise at seeing the cynosure of last night’s eyes unattended.

“Oh,” said Sadie, answering the mute query, “I didn’t want to be ‘shown round’ by anybody, and I’m not going to bore YOU with asking to see sights either. We’ll just walk together; wherever YOU’RE going is good enough for me.”

“I’m going as far as the village,” said Miss Amelyn, looking down doubtfully at Sadie’s smart French shoes–“if you care to walk so far.”

Sadie noticed that her companion was more solidly booted, and that her straight, short skirts, although less stylish than her own, had a certain character, better fitted to the freer outdoor life of the country. But she only said, however, “The village will do,” and gayly took her companion’s arm.

“But I’m afraid you’ll find it very uninteresting, for I am going to visit some poor cottages,” persisted Miss Amelyn, with a certain timid ingenuousness of manner which, however, was as distinct as Miss Desborough’s bolder frankness. “I promised the rector’s daughter to take her place to-day.”

“And I feel as if I was ready to pour oil and wine to any extent,” said Miss Desborough, “so come along!”

Miss Amelyn laughed, and yet glanced around her timidly, as if she thought that Miss Desborough ought to have a larger and more important audience. Then she continued more confidentially and boldly, “But it isn’t at all like ‘slumming,’ you know. These poor people here are not very bad, and are not at all extraordinary.”

“Never mind,” said Sadie, hurrying her along. After a pause she went on, “You know the Priory very well, I guess?”

“I lived there when I was a little girl, with my aunt, the Dowager Lady Beverdale,” said Miss Amelyn. “When my cousin Fred, who was the young heir, died, and the present Lord Beverdale succeeded,–HE never expected it, you know, for there were two lives, his two elder brothers, besides poor Fred’s, between, but they both died,– we went to live in the Dower House.”

“The Dower House?” repeated Sadie.

“Yes, Lady Beverdale’s separate property.”

“But I thought all this property–the Priory–came into the family through HER.”

“It did–this was the Amelyns’ place; but the oldest son or nearest male heir always succeeds to the property and title.”

“Do you mean to say that the present Lord Beverdale turned that old lady out?”

Miss Amelyn looked shocked. “I mean to say,” she said gravely, “Lady Beverdale would have had to go when her own son became of age, had he lived.” She paused, and then said timidly, “Isn’t it that way in America?”

“Dear no!” Miss Desborough had a faint recollection that there was something in the Constitution or the Declaration of Independence against primogeniture. “No! the men haven’t it ALL their own way THERE–not much!”

Miss Amelyn looked as if she did not care to discuss this problem. After a few moments Sadie continued, “You and Lord Algernon are pretty old friends, I guess?”

“No,” replied Miss Amelyn. “He came once or twice to the Priory for the holidays, when he was quite a boy at Marlborough–for the family weren’t very well off, and his father was in India. He was a very shy boy, and of course no one ever thought of him succeeding.”

Miss Desborough felt half inclined to be pleased with this, and yet half inclined to resent this possible snubbing of her future husband. But they were nearing the village, and Miss Amelyn turned the conversation to the object of her visit. It was a new village– an unhandsome village, for all that it stood near one of the gates of the park. It had been given over to some mines that were still worked in its vicinity, and to the railway, which the uncle of the present earl had resisted; but the railway had triumphed, and the station for Scrooby Priory was there. There was a grim church, of a blackened or weather-beaten stone, on the hill, with a few grim Amelyns reposing cross-legged in the chancel, but the character of the village was as different from the Priory as if it were in another county. They stopped at the rectory, where Miss Amelyn provided herself with certain doles and gifts, which the American girl would have augmented with a five-pound note but for Miss Amelyn’s horrified concern. “As many shillings would do, and they would be as grateful,” she said. “More they wouldn’t understand.”

“Then keep it, and dole it out as you like,” said Sadie quickly.

“But I don’t think that–that Lord Beverdale would quite approve,” hesitated Miss Amelyn.

The pretty brow of her companion knit, and her gray eyes flashed vivaciously. “What has HE to do with it?” she said pertly; “besides, you say these are not HIS poor. Take that five-pound note–or–I’ll DOUBLE it, get it changed into sovereigns at the station, and hand ’em round to every man, woman, and child.”

Miss Amelyn hesitated. The American girl looked capable of doing what she said; perhaps it was a national way of almsgiving! She took the note, with the mental reservation of making a full confession to the rector and Lord Beverdale.

She was right in saying that the poor of Scrooby village were not interesting. There was very little squalor or degradation; their poverty seemed not a descent, but a condition to which they had been born; the faces which Sadie saw were dulled and apathetic rather than sullen or rebellious; they stood up when Miss Amelyn entered, paying HER the deference, but taking little note of the pretty butterfly who was with her, or rather submitting to her frank curiosity with that dull consent of the poor, as if they had lost even the sense of privacy, or a right to respect. It seemed to the American girl that their poverty was more indicated by what they were SATISFIED with than what she thought they MISSED. It is to be feared that this did not add to Sadie’s sympathy; all the beggars she had seen in America wanted all they could get, and she felt as if she were confronted with an inferior animal.

“There’s a wonderful old man lives here,” said Miss Amelyn, as they halted before a stone and thatch cottage quite on the outskirts of the village. “We can’t call him one of our poor, for he still works, although over eighty, and it’s his pride to keep out of the poorhouse, and, as he calls it, ‘off’ the hands of his granddaughters. But we manage to do something for THEM, and we hope he profits by it. One of them is at the Priory; they’re trying to make a maid of her, but her queer accent–they’re from the north–is against her with the servants. I am afraid we won’t see old Debs, for he’s at work again to-day, though the doctor has warned him.”

“Debs! What a funny name!”

“Yes, but as many of these people cannot read or write, the name is carried by the ear, and not always correctly. Some of the railway navvies, who come from the north as he does, call him ‘Debbers.'”

They were obliged to descend into the cottage, which was so low that it seemed to have sunk into the earth until its drooping eaves of thatch mingled with the straw heap beside it. Debs was not at home. But his granddaughter was there, who, after a preliminary “bob,” continued the stirring of the pot before the fire in tentative silence.

“I am sorry to find that your grandfather has gone to work again in spite of the doctor’s orders,” said Miss Amelyn.

The girl continued to stir the pot, and then said without looking up, but as if also continuing a train of aggressive thoughts with her occupation: “Eay, but ‘e’s so set oop in ‘issen ‘ee doan’t take orders from nobbut–leastways doctor. Moinds ’em now moor nor a floy. Says ‘ee knaws there nowt wrong wi’ ‘is ‘eart. Mout be roight–how’siver, sarten sewer, ‘is ‘EAD’S a’ in a muddle! Toims ‘ee goes off stamrin’ and starin’ at nowt, as if ‘ee a’nt a n’aporth o’ sense. How’siver I be doing my duty by ’em–and ‘ere’s ‘is porritch when a’ cooms–‘gin a’ be sick or maad.”

What the American understood of the girl’s speech and manner struck her as having very little sympathy with either her aged relative or her present visitor. And there was a certain dogged selfish independence about her that Miss Desborough half liked and half resented. However, Miss Amelyn did not seem to notice it, and, after leaving a bottle of port for the grandfather, she took her leave and led Sadie away. As they passed into the village a carriage, returning to the Priory, filled with their fellow guests, dashed by, but was instantly pulled up at a word from Lord Algernon, who leaped from the vehicle, hat in hand, and implored the fair truant and her companion to join them.

“We’re just making a tour around Windover Hill, and back to luncheon,” he said, with a rising color. “We missed you awfully! If we had known you were so keen on ‘good works,’ and so early at it, by Jove! we’d have got up a ‘slummin’ party,’ and all joined!”

“And you haven’t seen half,” said Lord Beverdale from the box. “Miss Amelyn’s too partial to the village. There’s an old drunken retired poacher somewhere in a hut in Crawley Woods, whom it’s death to approach, except with a large party. There’s malignant diphtheria over at the South Farm, eight down with measles at the keeper’s, and an old woman who has been bedridden for years.”

But Miss Desborough was adamant, though sparkling. She thanked him, but said she had just seen an old woman “who had been lying in bed for twenty years, and hadn’t spoken the truth once!” She proposed “going outside of Lord Beverdale’s own preserves of grain- fed poor,” and starting up her own game. She would return in time for luncheon–if she could; if not, she “should annex the gruel of the first kind incapable she met.”

Yet, actually, she was far from displeased at being accidentally discovered by these people while following out her capricious whim of the morning. One or two elder ladies, who had fought shy of her frocks and her frankness the evening before, were quite touched now by this butterfly who was willing to forego the sunlight of society, and soil her pretty wings on the haunts of the impoverished, with only a single companion,–of her own sex!–and smiled approvingly. And in her present state of mind, remembering her companion’s timid attitude towards Lord Beverdale’s opinions, she was not above administering this slight snub to him in her presence.

When they had driven away, with many regrets, Miss Amelyn was deeply concerned. “I am afraid,” she said, with timid conscientiousness, “I have kept you from going with them. And you must be bored with what you have seen, I know. I don’t believe you really care one bit for it–and you are only doing it to please me.”

“Trot out the rest of your show,” said Sadie promptly, “and we’ll wind up by lunching with the rector.”

“He’d be too delighted,” said Miss Amelyn, with disaster written all over her girlish, truthful face, “but–but–you know–it really wouldn’t be quite right to Lord Beverdale. You’re his principal guest–you know, and–they’d think I had taken you off.”

“Well,” said Miss Desborough impetuously, “what’s the matter with that inn–the Red Lion? We can get a sandwich there, I guess. I’m not VERY hungry.”

Miss Amelyn looked horrified for a moment, and then laughed; but immediately became concerned again. “No! listen to me, REALLY now! Let me finish my round alone! You’ll have ample time if you go NOW to reach the Priory for luncheon. Do, please! It would be ever so much better for everybody. I feel quite guilty as it is, and I suppose I am already in Lord Beverdale’s black books.”

The trouble in the young girl’s face was unmistakable, and as it suited Miss Desborough’s purpose just as well to show her independence by returning, as she had set out, alone, she consented to go. Miss Amelyn showed her a short cut across the park, and they separated–to meet at dinner. In this brief fellowship, the American girl had kept a certain supremacy and half-fascination over the English girl, even while she was conscious of an invincible character in Miss Amelyn entirely different from and superior to her own. Certainly there was a difference in the two peoples. Why else this inherited conscientious reverence for Lord Beverdale’s position, shown by Miss Amelyn, which she, an American alive to its practical benefits, could not understand? Would Miss Amelyn and Lord Algernon have made a better match? The thought irritated her, even while she knew that she herself possessed the young man’s affections, the power to marry him, and, as she believed, kept her own independence in the matter.

As she entered the iron gates at the lower end of the park, and glanced at the interwoven cipher and crest of the Amelyns still above, she was conscious that the wind was blowing more chill, and that a few clouds had gathered. As she walked on down the long winding avenue, the sky became overcast, and, in one of those strange contrasts of the English climate, the glory of the whole day went out with the sunshine. The woods suddenly became wrinkled and gray, the distant hills sombre, the very English turf beneath her feet grew brown; a mile and a half away, through the opening of the trees, the west part of the Priory looked a crumbling, ivy- eaten ruin. A few drops of rain fell. She hurried on. Suddenly she remembered that the avenue made a long circuit before approaching the house, and that its lower end, where she was walking, was but a fringe of the park. Consequently there must be a short cut across some fields and farm buildings to the back of the park and the Priory. She at once diverged to the right, presently found a low fence, which she clambered over, and again found a footpath which led to a stile. Crossing that, she could see the footpath now led directly to the Priory,–now a grim and austere looking pile in the suddenly dejected landscape,–and that it was probably used only by the servants and farmers. A gust of wind brought some swift needles of rain to her cheek; she could see the sad hills beyond the Priory already veiling their faces; she gathered her skirts and ran. The next field was a long one, but beside the further stile was a small clump of trees, the only ones between her and the park. Hurrying on to that shelter, she saw that the stile was already occupied by a tall but bent figure, holding a long stick in his hand, which gave him the appearance, against the horizon, of the figure of Time leaning on his scythe. As she came nearer she saw it was, indeed, an old man, half resting on his rake. He was very rugged and weather-beaten, and although near the shelter of the trees, apparently unmindful of the rain that was falling on his bald head, and the limp cap he was holding uselessly in one hand. He was staring at her, yet apparently unconscious of her presence. A sudden instinct came upon her–it was “Debs”!

She went directly up to him, and with that frank common sense which ordinarily distinguished her, took his cap from his hand and put it on his head, grasped his arm firmly, and led him to the shelter of the tree. Then she wiped the raindrops from his face with her handkerchief, shook out her own dress and her wet parasol, and, propping her companion against the tree, said:–

“There, Mr. Debs! I’ve heard of people who didn’t know enough to come in when it rained, but I never met one before.”

The old man started, lifted his hairy, sinewy arm, bared to the elbow, and wiped his bare throat with the dry side of it. Then a look of intelligence–albeit half aggressive–came into his face. “Wheer beest tha going?” he asked.

Something in his voice struck Sadie like a vague echo. Perhaps it was only the queer dialect–or some resemblance to his granddaughter’s voice. She looked at him a little more closely as she said:–

“To the Priory.”

“Whaat?”

She pointed with her parasol to the gray pile in the distance. It was possible that this demented peasant didn’t even UNDERSTAND English.

“The hall. Oh, ay!” Suddenly his brows knit ominously as he faced her. “An’ wassist tha doin’ drest oop in this foinery? Wheer gettist thee that goawn? Thissen, or thy maester? Nowt even a napron, fit for thy wark as maaid at serviss; an’ parson a gettin’ tha plaace at Hall! So thou’lt be high and moity will tha! thou’lt not walk wi’ maaids, but traipse by thissen like a slut in the toon–dang tha!”

Although it was plain to Sadie that the old man, in his wandering perception, had mistaken her for his granddaughter in service at the Priory, there was still enough rudeness in his speech for her to have resented it. But, strange to say, there was a kind of authority in it that touched her with an uneasiness and repulsion that was stronger than any other feeling. “I think you have mistaken me for some one else,” she said hurriedly, yet wondering why she had admitted it, and even irritated at the admission. “I am a stranger here, a visitor at the Priory. I called with Miss Amelyn at your cottage, and saw your other granddaughter; that’s how I knew your name.”

The old man’s face changed. A sad, senile smile of hopeless bewilderment crept into his hard mouth; he plucked his limp cap from his head and let it hang submissively in his fingers, as if it were his sole apology. Then he tried to straighten himself, and said, “Naw offins, miss, naw offins! If tha knaws mea tha’ll knaw I’m grandfeyther to two galls as moight be tha owern age; tha’ll tell ‘ee that old Debs at haaty years ‘as warked and niver lost a day as man or boy; has niver coome oopen ’em for n’aporth. An’ ‘e’ll keep out o’ warkus till he doy. An’ ‘ee’s put by enow to by wi’ his own feythers in Lanksheer, an’ not liggen aloane in parson’s choorchyard.”

It was part of her uneasiness that, scarcely understanding or, indeed, feeling any interest in these maundering details, she still seemed to have an odd comprehension of his character and some reminiscent knowledge of him, as if she were going through the repetition of some unpleasant dream. Even his wrinkled face was becoming familiar to her. Some weird attraction was holding her; she wanted to get away from it as much as she wanted to analyze it. She glanced ostentatiously at the sky, prepared to open her parasol, and began to edge cautiously away.

“Then tha beant from these pearts?” he said suddenly.

“No, no,” she said quickly and emphatically,–“no, I’m an American.”

The old man started and moved towards her, eagerly, his keen eyes breaking through the film that at times obscured them. “‘Merrikan! tha baist ‘Merrikan? Then tha knaws ma son John, ‘ee war nowt but a bairn when brether Dick took un to ‘Merriky! Naw! Now! that wor fifty years sen!–niver wroate to his old feyther–niver coomed back, ‘Ee wor tall-loike, an’ thea said ‘e feavored mea.” He stopped, threw up his head, and with his skinny fingers drew back his long, straggling locks from his sunken cheeks, and stared in her face. The quick transition of fascination, repulsion, shock, and indefinable apprehension made her laugh hysterically. To her terror he joined in it, and eagerly clasped her wrists. “Eh, lass! tha knaws John–tha coomes from un to ole grandfeyther. Who-rr-u! Eay! but tha tho’t to fool mea, did tha, lass? Whoy, I knoawed tha voice, for a’ tha foine peacock feathers. So tha be John’s gell coom from Ameriky. Dear! a dear! Coom neaur, lass! let’s see what tha’s loike. Eh, but thou’lt kiss tha grandfather, sewerly?”

A wild terror and undefined consternation had completely overpowered her! But she made a desperate effort to free her wrists, and burst out madly:–

“Let me go! How dare you! I don’t know you or yours! I’m nothing to you or your kin! My name is Desborough–do you understand–do you hear me, Mr. Debs?–DESBOROUGH!”

At the word the old man’s fingers stiffened like steel around her wrists, as he turned upon her a hard, invincible face.

“So thou’lt call thissen Des-borough, wilt tha? Let me tell tha, then, that ‘Debs,’ ‘Debban,’ ‘Debbrook,’ and ‘Des-borough’ are all a seame! Ay! thy feyther and thy feyther’s feyther! Thou’lt be a Des-borough, will tha? Dang tha! and look doon on tha kin, and dress thissen in silks o’ shame! Tell ‘ee thou’rt an ass, gell! Don’t tha hear? An ass! for all tha bean John’s bairn! An ass! that’s what tha beast!”

With flashing eyes and burning cheeks she made one more supreme effort, lifting her arms, freeing her wrists, and throwing the old man staggering from her. Then she leaped the stile, turned, and fled through the rain. But before she reached the end of the field she stopped! She had freed herself–she was stronger than he–what had she to fear? He was crazy! Yes, he MUST be crazy, and he had insulted her, but he was an old man–and God knows what! Her heart was beating rapidly, her breath was hurried, but she ran back to the stile.

He was not there. The field sloped away on either side of it. But she could distinguish nothing in the pouring rain above the wind- swept meadow. He must have gone home. Relieved for a moment she turned and hurried on towards the Priory.

But at every step she was followed, not by the old man’s presence, but by what he had said to her, which she could not shake off as she had shaken off his detaining fingers. Was it the ravings of insanity, or had she stumbled unwittingly upon some secret–was it after all a SECRET? Perhaps it was something they all knew, or would know later. And she had come down here for this. For back of her indignation, back even of her disbelief in his insanity, there was an awful sense of truth! The names he had flung out, of “Debs,” “Debban,” and “Debbrook” now flashed upon her as something she had seen before, but had not understood. Until she satisfied herself of this, she felt she could not live or breathe! She loathed the Priory, with its austere exclusiveness, as it rose before her; she wished she had never entered it; but it contained that which she must know, and know at once! She entered the nearest door and ran up the grand staircase. Her flushed face and disordered appearance were easily accounted for by her exposure to the sudden storm. She went to her bedroom, sent her maid to another room to prepare a change of dress, and sinking down before her traveling-desk, groped for a document. Ah! there it was–the expensive toy that she had played with! She hastily ran over its leaves to the page she already remembered. And there, among the dashes and perpendicular lines she had jested over last night, on which she had thought was a collateral branch of the line, stood her father’s name and that of Richard, his uncle, with the bracketed note in red ink, “see Debbrook, Daybrook, Debbers, and Debs.” Yes! this gaunt, half-crazy, overworked peasant, content to rake the dead leaves before the rolling chariots of the Beverdales, was her grandfather; that poorly clad girl in the cottage, and even the menial in the scullery of this very house that might be HERS, were her COUSINS! She burst into a laugh, and then refolded the document and put it away.

At luncheon she was radiant and sparkling. Her drenched clothes were an excuse for a new and ravishing toilette. She had never looked so beautiful before, and significant glances were exchanged between some of the guests, who believed that the expected proposal had already come. But those who were of the carriage party knew otherwise, and of Lord Algernon’s disappointment. Lord Beverdale contented himself with rallying his fair guest on the becomingness of “good works.” But he continued, “You’re offering a dreadful example to these ladies, Miss Desborough, and I know I shall never hereafter be able to content them with any frivolous morning amusement at the Priory. For myself, when I am grown gouty and hideous, I know I shall bloom again as a district visitor.”

Yet under this surface sparkle and nervous exaltation Sadie never lost consciousness of the gravity of the situation. If her sense of humor enabled her to see one side of its grim irony; if she experienced a wicked satisfaction in accepting the admiration and easy confidence of the high-born guests, knowing that her cousin had assisted in preparing the meal they were eating, she had never lost sight of the practical effect of the discovery she had made. And she had come to a final resolution. She should leave the Priory at once, and abandon all idea of a matrimonial alliance with its heir! Inconsistent as this might seem to her selfish, worldly nature, it was nevertheless in keeping with a certain pride and independence that was in her blood. She did not love Lord Algernon, neither did she love her grandfather; she was equally willing to sacrifice either or both; she knew that neither Lord Algernon nor his father would make her connections an objection, however they might wish to keep the fact a secret, or otherwise dispose of them by pensions or emigration, but she could not bear to KNOW IT HERSELF! She never could be happy as the mistress of Scrooby Priory with that knowledge; she did not idealize it as a principle! Carefully weighing it by her own practical common sense, she said to herself that “it wouldn’t pay.” The highest independence is often akin to the lowest selfishness; she did not dream that the same pride which kept her grandfather from the workhouse and support by his daughters, and had even kept him from communicating with his own son, now kept her from acknowledging them, even for the gift of a title and domain. There was only one question before her: should she stay long enough to receive the proposal of Lord Algernon, and then decline it? Why should she not snatch that single feminine joy out of the ashes of her burnt-up illusion? She knew that an opportunity would be offered that afternoon. The party were to take tea at Broxby Hall, and Lord Algernon was to drive her there in his dogcart. Miss Desborough had gone up to her bedroom to put on a warmer cloak, and had rung twice or thrice impatiently for her maid.

When the girl made her appearance, apologetic, voluble, and excited, Miss Desborough scarcely listened to her excuses, until a single word suddenly arrested her attention. It was “old Debs.”

“What ARE you talking about?” said Sadie, pausing in the adjustment of her hat on her brown hair.

“Old Debs, miss,–that’s what they call him; an old park-keeper, just found dead in a pool of water in the fields; the grandfather of one of the servants here; and there’s such an excitement in the servants’ hall. The gentlemen all knew it, too, for I heard Lord Algernon say that he was looking very queer lately, and might have had a fit; and Lord Beverdale has sent word to the coroner. And only think, the people here are such fools that they daren’t touch or move the poor man, and him lyin’ there in the rain all the time, until the coroner comes!”

Miss Desborough had been steadily regarding herself in the glass to see if she had turned pale. She had. She set her teeth together until the color partly returned. But she kept her face away from the maid. “That’ll do,” she said quietly. “You can tell me all later. I have some important news myself, and I may not go out after all. I want you to take a note for me.” She went to her table, wrote a line in pencil, folded it, scribbled an address upon it, handed it to the girl, and gently pushed her from the room.

. . . . . .

The consul was lingering on the terrace beside one of the carriages; at a little distance a groom was holding the nervous thoroughbred of Lord Algernon’s dog-cart. Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder, and Miss Desborough’s maid put a note in his hand. It contained only a line:–

Please come and see me in the library, but without making any fuss about it–at once. S. D.

The consul glanced around him; no one had apparently noticed the incident. He slipped back into the house and made his way to the library. It was a long gallery; at the further end Miss Desborough stood cloaked, veiled, and coquettishly hatted. She was looking very beautiful and animated. “I want you to please do me a great favor,” she said, with an adorable smile, “as your own countrywoman, you know–for the sake of Fourth of July and Pumpkin Pie and the Old Flag! I don’t want to go to this circus to-day. I am going to leave here to-night! I am! Honest Injin! I want YOU to manage it. I want you to say that as consul you’ve received important news for me: the death of some relative, if you like; or better, something AFFECTING MY PROPERTY, you know,” with a little satirical laugh. “I guess that would fetch ’em! So go at once.”

“But really, Miss Desborough, do let us talk this over before you decide!” implored the bewildered consul. “Think what a disappointment to your host and these ladies. Lord Algernon expects to drive you there; he is already waiting! The party was got up for you!” Miss Desborough made a slight grimace. “I mean you ought to sacrifice something–but I trust there is really nothing serious–to them!”

“If YOU do not speak to them, I will!” said Miss Desborough firmly. “If you say what I tell you, it will come the more plausibly from you. Come! My mind is made up. One of us must break the news! Shall it be you or I?” She drew her cloak over her shoulders and made a step forwards.

The consul saw she was determined. “Then wait here till I return, but keep yourself out of sight,” he said, and hurried away. Between the library and the terrace he conceived a plan. His perplexity lent him a seriousness which befitted the gravity of the news he had to disclose. “I am sorry to have to tell you,” he said, taking Lord Beverdale aside, “that I was the unlucky bearer of some sad news to Miss Desborough this morning, through my consular letters–some matter concerning the death of a relation of hers, and some wearisome question of property. I thought that it was of little importance, and that she would not take it seriously, but I find I was mistaken. It may even oblige her to catch the London train to-night. I promised to make her excuses to you for the present, and I’m afraid I must add my own to them, as she wishes me to stay and advise her in this matter, which requires some prompt action.”

Miss Desborough was right: the magic word “property” changed the slight annoyance on the earl’s face to a sympathetic concern. “Dear me! I trust it is nothing really serious,” he said. “Of course, you will advise her, and, by the way, if my solicitor, Withers, who’ll be here to-morrow, can do anything, you know, call him in. I hope she’ll be able to see me later. It could not be a NEAR relation who died, I fancy; she has no brothers or sisters, I understand.”

“A cousin, I think; an old friend,” said the consul hastily. He heard Lord Beverdale say a few words to his companions, saw with a tinge of remorse a cloud settle upon Lord Algernon’s fresh face, as he appealed in a whisper to old Lady Mesthyn, who leaned forward from the carriage, and said, “If the dear child thought I could be of any service, I should only be too glad to stay with her.”

“I knew she would appreciate Lady Mesthyn’s sympathy,” said the ingenious consul quickly, “but I really think the question is more a business one–and”–

“Ah, yes,” said the old lady, shaking her head, “it’s dreadful, of course, but we must all think of THAT!”

As the carriage drove away, the consul hurried back a little viciously to his fair countrywoman. “There!” he said, “I have done it! If I have managed to convey either the idea that you are a penniless orphan, or that I have official information that you are suspected of a dynamite conspiracy, don’t blame me! And now,” he said, “as I have excused myself on the ground that I must devote myself to this dreadful business of yours, perhaps you’ll tell me WHAT it really is.”

“Not a word more,” said Miss Desborough; “except,” she added,– checking her smile with a weary gesture,–“except that I want to leave this dreadful place at once! There! don’t ask me any more!”

There could be no doubt of the girl’s sincerity. Nor was it the extravagant caprice of a petted idol. What had happened? He might have believed in a lovers’ quarrel, but he knew that she and Lord Algernon could have had no private interview that evening. He must perforce accept her silence, yet he could not help saying:–

“You seemed to like the place so much last night. I say, you haven’t seen the Priory ghost, have you?”

“The Priory ghost,” she said quickly. “What’s that?”

“The old monk who passes through the cloisters with the sacred oil, the bell, and the smell of incense whenever any one is to die here. By Jove! it would have been a good story to tell instead of this cock-and-bull one about your property. And there WAS a death here to-day. You’d have added the sibyl’s gifts to your other charms.”

“Tell me about that old man,” she said, looking past him out of the window. “I was at his cottage this morning. But, no! first let us go out. You can take me for a walk, if you like. You see I am all ready, and I’m just stifling here.”

They descended to the terrace together. “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“To the village. I may want to telegraph, you know.”

They turned into the avenue, but Miss Desborough stopped.

“Is there not a shorter cut across the fields,” she asked, “over there?”

“There is,” said the consul.

They both turned into the footpath which led to the farm and stile. After a pause she said, “Did you ever talk with that poor old man?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know if he really was crazy, as they think.”

“No. But they may have thought an old man’s forgetfulness of present things and his habit of communing with the past was insanity. For all that he was a plucky, independent old fellow, with a grim purpose that was certainly rational.”

“I suppose in his independence he would not have taken favors from these people, or anybody?”

“I should think not.”

“Don’t you think it was just horrid–their leaving him alone in the rain, when he might have been only in a fit?”

“The doctor says he died suddenly of heart disease,” said the consul. “It might have happened at any moment and without warning.”

“Ah, that was the coroner’s verdict, then,” said Miss Desborough quickly.

“The coroner did not think it necessary to have any inquest after Lord Beverdale’s statement. It wouldn’t have been very joyous for the Priory party. And I dare say he thought it might not be very cheerful for YOU.”

“How very kind!” said the young girl, with a quick laugh. “But do you know that it’s about the only thing human, original, and striking that has happened in this place since I’ve been here! And so unexpected, considering how comfortably everything is ordered here beforehand.”

“Yet you seemed to like that kind of thing very well, last evening,” said the consul mischievously.

“That was last night,” retorted Miss Desborough; “and you know the line, ‘Colors seen by candlelight do not look the same by day.’ But I’m going to be very consistent to-day, for I intend to go over to that poor man’s cottage again, and see if I can be of any service. Will you go with me?”

“Certainly,” said the consul, mystified by his companion’s extraordinary conduct, yet apparent coolness of purpose, and hoping for some further explanation. Was she only an inexperienced flirt who had found herself on the point of a serious entanglement she had not contemplated? Yet even then he knew she was clever enough to extricate herself in some other way than this abrupt and brutal tearing through the meshes. Or was it possible that she really had any intelligence affecting her property? He reflected that he knew very little of the Desboroughs, but on the other hand he knew that Beverdale knew them much better, and was a prudent man. He had no right to demand her confidence as a reward for his secrecy; he must wait her pleasure. Perhaps she would still explain; women seldom could resist the triumph of telling the secret that puzzled others.

When they reached the village she halted before the low roof of Debs’s cottage. “I had better go in first,” she said; “you can come in later, and in the meantime you might go to the station for me and find out the exact time that the express train leaves for the north.”

“But,” said the astonished consul, “I thought you were going to London?”

“No,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “I am going to join some friends at Harrogate.”

“But that train goes much earlier than the train south, and–and I’m afraid Lord Beverdale will not have returned so soon.”

“How sad!” said Miss Desborough, with a faint smile, “but we must bear up under it, and–I’ll write him. I will be here until you return.”

She turned away and entered the cottage. The granddaughter she had already seen and her sister, the servant at the Priory, were both chatting comfortably, but ceased as she entered, and both rose with awkward respect. There was little to suggest that the body of their grandfather, already in a rough oak shell, was lying upon trestles beside them.

“You have carried out my orders, I see,” said Miss Desborough, laying down her parasol.

“Ay, miss; but it was main haard gettin’ et dooan so soon, and et cooast”–

“Never mind the cost. I’ve given you money enough, I think, and if I haven’t, I guess I can give you more.”

“Ay, miss! Abbut the pa’son ‘ead gi’ un a funeral for nowt.”

“But I understood you to say,” said Miss Desborough, with an impatient flash of eye, “that your grandfather wished to be buried with his kindred in the north?”

“Ay, miss,” said the girl apologetically, “an naw ‘ees savit th’ munny. Abbut e’d bean tickled ‘ad ‘ee knowed it! Dear! dear! ‘ee niver thowt et ‘ud be gi’en by stranger an’ not ‘es ownt fammaly.”

“For all that, you needn’t tell anybody it was given by ME,” said Miss Desborough. “And you’ll be sure to be ready to take the train this afternoon–without delay.” There was a certain peremptoriness in her voice very unlike Miss Amelyn’s, yet apparently much more effective with the granddaughter.

“Ay, miss. Then, if tha’ll excoose mea, I’ll go streight to ‘oory oop sexten.”

She bustled away. “Now,” said Miss Desborough, turning to the other girl, “I shall take the same train, and will probably see you on the platform at York to give my final directions. That’s all. Go and see if the gentleman who came with me has returned from the station.”

The girl obeyed. Left entirely alone, Miss Desborough glanced around the room, and then went quietly up to the unlidded coffin. The repose of death had softened the hard lines of the old man’s mouth and brow into a resemblance she now more than ever understood. She had stood thus only a few years before, looking at the same face in a gorgeously inlaid mahogany casket, smothered amidst costly flowers, and surrounded by friends attired in all the luxurious trappings of woe; yet it was the same face that was now rigidly upturned to the bare thatch and rafters of that crumbling cottage, herself its only companion. She lifted her delicate veil with both hands, and, stooping down, kissed the hard, cold forehead, without a tremor. Then she dropped her veil again over her dry eyes, readjusted it in the little, cheap, black-framed mirror that hung against the wall, and opened the door as the granddaughter returned. The gentleman was just coming from the station.

“Remember to look out for me at York,” said Miss Desborough, extending her gloved hand. “Good-by till then.” The young girl respectfully touched the ends of Miss Desborough’s fingers, dropped a curtsy, and Miss Desborough rejoined the consul.

“You have barely time to return to the Priory and see to your luggage,” said the consul, “if you must go. But let me hope that you have changed your mind.”

“I have not changed my mind,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “and my baggage is already packed.” After a pause, she said thoughtfully, “I’ve been wondering”–

“What?” said the consul eagerly.

“I’ve been wondering if people brought up to speak in a certain dialect, where certain words have their own significance and color, and are part of their own lives and experience–if, even when they understand another dialect, they really feel any sympathy with it, or the person who speaks it?”

“Apropos of”–asked the consul.

“These people I’ve just left! I don’t think I quite felt with them, and I guess they didn’t feel with me.”

“But,” said the consul laughingly, “you know that we Americans speak with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to it. Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale–or shall I say Lord Algernon?–would not only understand that American word ‘guess’ as you mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you.”

Miss Desborough’s eyes sparkled even through her veil as she glanced at her companion and said, “I GUESS NOT.”

As the “tea” party had not yet returned, it fell to the consul to accompany Miss Desborough and her maid to the station. But here he was startled to find a collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered round two young women in mourning, and an ominous-looking box. He mingled for a moment with the crowd, and then returned to Miss Desborough’s side.

“Really,” he said, with a concern that was scarcely assumed, “I ought not to let you go. The omens are most disastrous! You came here to a death; you are going away with a funeral!”

“Then it’s high time I took myself off!” said the lady lightly.

“Unless, like the ghostly monk, you came here on a mission, and have fulfilled it.”

“Perhaps I have. Good-by!”

. . . . . .

In spite of the bright and characteristic letter which Miss Desborough left for her host,–a letter which mingled her peculiar shrewd sense with her humorous extravagance of expression,–the consul spent a somewhat uneasy evening under the fire of questions that assailed him in reference to the fair deserter. But he kept loyal faith with her, adhering even to the letter of her instructions, and only once was goaded into more active mendacity. The conversation had turned upon “Debs,” and the consul had remarked on the singularity of the name. A guest from the north observed, however, that the name was undoubtedly a contraction. “Possibly it might have been ‘Debborough,’ or even the same name as our fair friend.”

“But didn’t Miss Desborough tell you last night that she had been hunting up her people, with a family tree, or something like that?” said Lord Algernon eagerly. “I just caught a word here and there, for you were both laughing.”

The consul smiled blandly. “You may well say so, for it was all the most delightful piece of pure invention and utter extravagance. It would have amused her still more if she had thought you were listening and took it seriously!”

“Of course; I see!” said the young fellow, with a laugh and a slight rise of color. “I knew she was taking some kind of a rise out of YOU, and that remark reminded me of it.”

Nevertheless, within a year, Lord Algernon was happily married to the daughter of a South African millionaire, whose bridal offerings alone touched the sum of half a million. It was also said that the mother was “impossible” and the father “unspeakable,” the relations “inextinguishable;” but the wedding was an “occasion,” and in the succeeding year of festivity it is presumed that the names of “Debs” and “Desborough” were alike forgotten.

But they existed still in a little hamlet near the edge of a bleak northern moor, where they were singularly exalted on a soaring shaft of pure marble above the submerged and moss-grown tombstones of a simple country churchyard. So great was the contrast between the modern and pretentious monument and the graves of the humbler forefathers of the village, that even the Americans who chanced to visit it were shocked at what they believed was the ostentatious and vulgar pride of one of their own countrywomen. For on its pedestal was inscribed:–

Sacred to the Memory
of
JOHN DEBS DESBOROUGH,
Formerly of this parish,
Who departed this life October 20th, 1892, At Scrooby Priory,
At the age of eighty-two years. This monument was erected as a loving testimony by his granddaughter,
Sadie Desborough, of New York, U. S. A.

“And evening brings us home.”

SALOMY JANE’S KISS

Only one shot had been fired. It had gone wide of its mark,–the ringleader of the Vigilantes,–and had left Red Pete, who had fired it, covered by their rifles and at their mercy. For his hand had been cramped by hard riding, and his eye distracted by their sudden onset, and so the inevitable end had come. He submitted sullenly to his captors; his companion fugitive and horse-thief gave up the protracted struggle with a feeling not unlike relief. Even the hot and revengeful victors were content. They had taken their men alive. At any time during the long chase they could have brought them down by a rifle shot, but it would have been unsportsmanlike, and have ended in a free fight, instead of an example. And, for the matter of that, their doom was already sealed. Their end, by a rope and a tree, although not sanctified by law, would have at least the deliberation of justice. It was the tribute paid by the Vigilantes to that order which they had themselves disregarded in the pursuit and capture. Yet this strange logic of the frontier sufficed them, and gave a certain dignity to the climax.

“Ef you’ve got anything to say to your folks, say it NOW, and say it quick,” said the ringleader.

Red Pete glanced around him. He had been run to earth at his own cabin in the clearing, whence a few relations and friends, mostly women and children, non-combatants, had outflowed, gazing vacantly at the twenty Vigilantes who surrounded them. All were accustomed to scenes of violence, blood-feud, chase, and hardship; it was only the suddenness of the onset and its quick result that had surprised them. They looked on with dazed curiosity and some disappointment; there had been no fight to speak of–no spectacle! A boy, nephew of Red Pete, got upon the rain-barrel to view the proceedings more comfortably; a tall, handsome, lazy Kentucky girl, a visiting neighbor, leaned against the doorpost, chewing gum. Only a yellow hound was actively perplexed. He could not make out if a hunt were just over or beginning, and ran eagerly backwards and forwards, leaping alternately upon the captives and the captors.

The ringleader repeated his challenge. Red Pete gave a reckless laugh and looked at his wife.

At which Mrs. Red Pete came forward. It seemed that she had much to say, incoherently, furiously, vindictively, to the ringleader. His soul would roast in hell for that day’s work! He called himself a man, skunkin’ in the open and afraid to show himself except with a crowd of other “Kiyi’s” around a house of women and children. Heaping insult upon insult, inveighing against his low blood, his ancestors, his dubious origin, she at last flung out a wild taunt of his invalid wife, the insult of a woman to a woman, until his white face grew rigid, and only that Western-American fetich of the sanctity of sex kept his twitching fingers from the lock of his rifle. Even her husband noticed it, and with a half- authoritative “Let up on that, old gal,” and a pat of his freed left hand on her back, took his last parting. The ringleader, still white under the lash of the woman’s tongue, turned abruptly to the second captive. “And if YOU’VE got anybody to say ‘good-by’ to, now’s your chance.”

The man looked up. Nobody stirred or spoke. He was a stranger there, being a chance confederate picked up by Red Pete, and known to no one. Still young, but an outlaw from his abandoned boyhood, of which father and mother were only a forgotten dream, he loved horses and stole them, fully accepting the frontier penalty of life for the interference with that animal on which a man’s life so often depended. But he understood the good points of a horse, as was shown by the ones he bestrode–until a few days before the property of Judge Boompointer. This was his sole distinction.

The unexpected question stirred him for a moment out of the attitude of reckless indifference, for attitude it was, and a part of his profession. But it may have touched him that at that moment he was less than his companion and his virago wife. However, he only shook his head. As he did so his eye casually fell on the handsome girl by the doorpost, who was looking at him. The ringleader, too, may have been touched by his complete loneliness, for HE hesitated. At the same moment he saw that the girl was looking at his friendless captive.

A grotesque idea struck him.

“Salomy Jane, ye might do worse than come yere and say ‘good-by’ to a dying man, and him a stranger,” he said.

There seemed to be a subtle stroke of poetry and irony in this that equally struck the apathetic crowd. It was well known that Salomy Jane Clay thought no small potatoes of herself, and always held off the local swain with a lazy nymph-like scorn. Nevertheless, she slowly disengaged herself from the doorpost, and, to everybody’s astonishment, lounged with languid grace and outstretched hand towards the prisoner. The color came into the gray reckless mask which the doomed man wore as her right hand grasped his left, just loosed by his captors. Then she paused; her shy, fawn-like eyes grew bold, and fixed themselves upon him. She took the chewing-gum from her mouth, wiped her red lips with the back of her hand, by a sudden lithe spring placed her foot on his stirrup, and, bounding to the saddle, threw her arms about his neck and pressed a kiss upon his lips.

They remained thus for a hushed moment–the man on the threshold of death, the young woman in the fullness of youth and beauty–linked together. Then the crowd laughed; in the audacious effrontery of the girl’s act the ultimate fate of the two men was forgotten. She slipped languidly to the ground; SHE was the focus of all eyes,– she only! The ringleader saw it and his opportunity. He shouted: “Time’s up–Forward!” urged his horse beside his captives, and the next moment the whole cavalcade was sweeping over the clearing into the darkening woods.