The Mystery of Choice Read online

  THE WHITE SHADOW.

  Listen, then, love, and with your white hand clear Your forehead from its cloudy hair.

  I.

  "Three great hulking cousins," said she, closing her gray eyesdisdainfully.

  We accepted the rebuke in astonished silence. Presently she opened hereyes, and seemed surprised to see us there yet.

  "O," she said, "if you think I am going to stay here until you make upyour minds----"

  "I've made up mine," said Donald. "We will go to the links. You maycome."

  "I shall not," she announced. "Walter, what do you propose?"

  Walter looked at his cartridge belt and then at the littlebreech-loader standing in a corner of the arbour.

  "Oh, I know," she said, "but I won't! I won't! I won't!"

  The uncles and aunts on the piazza turned to look at us; her motherarose from a steamer-chair and came across the lawn.

  "Won't what, Sweetheart?" she asked, placing both hands on herdaughter's shoulders.

  "Mamma, Walter wants me to shoot, and Don wants me to play golf, andI--won't!"

  "She doesn't know what she wants," said I.

  "Don't I?" she said, flushing with displeasure.

  "Her mother might suggest something," hazarded Donald. We looked at ouraunt.

  "Sweetheart is spoiled," said that lady decisively. "If you childrendon't go away at once and have a good time, I shall find employment forher."

  "Algebra?" I asked maliciously.

  "How dare you!" cried Sweetheart, sitting up. "Oh, isn't he mean! isn'the ignoble!--and I've done my algebra; haven't I, mamma?"

  "But your French?" I began.

  Donald laughed, and so did Walter. As for Sweetheart, she arose in allthe dignity of sixteen years, closed her eyes with superb insolence,and, clasping her mother's waist with one round white arm, marched outof the arbour.

  "We tease her too much," said Donald.

  "She's growing up fast; we ought not to call her 'Sweetheart' when sheputs her hair up," added Walter.

  "She's going to put it up in October, when she goes back to school,"said Donald. "Jack, she will hate you if you keep reminding her of heralgebra and French."

  "Then I'll stop," said I, suddenly conscious what an awful thing itwould be if she hated me.

  Donald's two pointers came frisking across the lawn from the kennels,and Donald picked up his gun.

  "Here we go again," said I. "Donny's going to the coverts after grouse,Walter's going up on the hill with his dust-shot and arsenic, and I'mgoing across the fields after butterflies. Why the deuce can't we allgo together, just for once?"

  "And take Sweetheart? She would like it if we all went together," saidWalter; "she is tired of seeing Jack net butterflies."

  "Collecting birds and shooting grouse are two different things," beganDonald. "You spoil my dogs by shooting your confounded owls and hummingbirds."

  "Oh, your precious dogs!" I cried. "Shut up, Donny, and give Sweethearta good day's tramp. It's a pity if three cousins can't pool theirpleasures for once."

  Donald nodded uncertainly.

  "Come on," said Walter, "we'll find Sweetheart. Jack, you get yourbutterfly togs and come back here."

  I nodded, and watched my two cousins sauntering across the lawn--big,clean-cut fellows, resembling each other enough to be brothers insteadof cousins.

  We all resembled each other more or less, Donald, Walter, and I. As forSweetheart, she looked like none of us.

  It was all very well for her mother to call her Sweetheart, and forher aunts to echo it in chorus, but the time was coming when we saw weshould have to stop. A girl of sixteen with such a name is ridiculous,and Sweetheart was nearly seventeen; and her hair was "going up" andher gowns were "coming down" in October.

  Her own name was pretty enough. I don't know that I ought to tell it,but I will: it was the same as her mother's. We called her Sweetheartsometimes, sometimes "The Aspen Beauty." Donald had given her that namefrom a butterfly in my collection, the Vanessa Pandora, commonly knownas the Aspen beauty, from its never having been captured in Americaexcept in our village of Aspen.

  Here, in the north of New York State, we four cousins spent our summersin the family house. There was not much to do in Aspen. We used thelinks, we galloped over the sandy roads, we also trotted our severalhobbies, Donald, Walter, and I. Sweetheart had no hobby; to make up forthis, however, she owned a magnificent team of betes-noires--Algebraand French.

  As for me, my butterfly collection languished. I had specimens ofnearly every butterfly in New York State, and I rather longed for newstates to conquer. Anyway, there were plenty of Aspen beauties--I meanthe butterflies--flying about the roads and balm-of-Gilead trees, andperhaps that is why I lingered there long enough to collect hundreds ofduplicates for exchange. And perhaps it wasn't.

  I thought of these things as I sat in the sun-flecked arbour, watchingthe yellow elm leaves flutter down from the branches. I thought, too,of Sweetheart, and wondered how she would look with her hair up. Andwhile I sat there smoking, watching the yellow leaves drifting acrossthe lawn, a sharp explosion startled me and I raised my head.

  Sweetheart was standing on the lawn, gazing dreamily at the smokingdebris of a large firecracker.

  "What's that for?" I asked.

  "It proclaims my independence," said Sweetheart--"my independenceforever. Hereafter my cousins will ask to accompany me on my walks;they need no longer charitably permit me to accompany them. Are youthree boys going to ride your hobbies?"

  "We are," I said.

  "Then good-bye. I am going to walk."

  "Can't we come too?" I asked, laughing.

  "Oh," she said graciously, "if you put it in that way I could notrefuse."

  "May we bring our guns?" asked Donald from the piazza.

  "May I bring my net?" I added, half amused, half annoyed.

  She made a gesture, indifferent, condescending.

  "Dear me!" murmured the aunts in chorus from the piazza as we troopedafter the Aspen beauty, "Sweetheart is growing very fast."

  I smiled vaguely at Sweetheart. I was wondering how she would look inlong frocks and coiled hair.

  II.

  In the fall of the year the meadows of Aspen glimmer in the sunlightlike crumpled sheets of beaten gold; for Aspen is the land ofgolden-rod, of yellow earth and gilded fern.

  There the crisp oaks rustle, every leaf a blot of yellow; there theburnished pines sound, sound, tremble, and resound, like gilt-stringedharps aquiver in the wind.

  Sweet fern, sun-dried, bronzed, fills all the hills with incense, vagueand delicate as the white down drifting from the frothy milkweed.

  And where the meadow brook prattled, limpid, filtered with sunlight,Sweetheart stood knee-deep in fragrant mint, watching the aimlessminnows swimming in circles. On a distant hill, dark against the blue,Donald moved with his dogs, and I saw the sun-glint on his gun, and Iheard the distant "Hi--on! Hi--on!" long after he disappeared below thebrown hill's brow.

  Walter, too, had gone, leaving us there by the brook together,Sweetheart and I; and I saw the crows flapping and circling far overthe woods, and I heard the soft report of his dust-shot shells amongthe trees.

  "The ruling passion, Sweetheart," I said. "Donny chases the phantom ofpleasure with his dogs. The phantom flies from Walter, and he followswith his dust-shot."

  "Then," said Sweetheart, "follow your phantom also; there arebutterflies everywhere." She raised both arms and turned from thebrook. "Everywhere flying I see butterflies--phantoms of pleasure; and,Jack, you do not follow with your net."

  "No," said I, "the world to-day is too fair to--slay in. I even doubtthat the happiness of empires hinges on the discovery of a new speciesof anything. Do I bore you?"

  "A little," said Sweetheart, touching the powdered gold of the blossomsabout her. She laid the tip of her third finger on her lips and thenon the golden-rod. "I shall not pick it; the world is too fair to-day,"she said. "What are you going to do, Jack?"

 
"I could doze," I said. "Could you?"

  "Yes--if you told me stories."

  I contemplated her in silence for a moment. After a while she sat downunder an oak and clasped her hands.

  "I am growing so old," she sighed, "I no longer take pleasurein childish things--Donald's dogs, Walter's humming birds, yourbutterflies. Jack?"

  "What?"

  "Sit down on the grass."

  "What for?"

  "Because I ask you."

  I sat down.

  Presently she said: "I am as tall as mamma. Why should I study algebra?"

  "Because," I answered evasively.

  "Your answer is as rude as though I were twenty, instead of sixteen,"said Sweetheart. "If you treat me as a child from this moment, I shallhate you."

  "Me--Sweetheart?"

  "And that name!--it is good for children and kittens."

  I looked at her seriously. "It is good for women, too--when it istime," I said. "I prophesy that one day you will hear it again. As forme, I shall not call you by that name if you dislike it."

  "I am a woman--now," she said.

  "Oh! at sixteen."

  "To-morrow I am to be seventeen."

  Presently, looking off at the blue hills, I said: "For a long timeI have recognised that that subtle, indefinable attitude--we callit deference--due from men to women is due from us to you. Donny andWalter are slower to accept this. You know what you have been to usas a child; we can't bear to lose you--to meet you in another way--toreckon with you as we reckon with a woman. But it is true: our littleSweetheart has vanished, and--_you_ are here!"

  The oak leaves began to rustle in the hill winds; the crows cawed fromthe woods.

  "Oui c'est moi," she said at length.

  "I shall never call you Sweetheart again," I said, smiling.

  "Who knows?" she laughed, and leaned over to pick a blade of wildwheat. She coloured faintly a moment later, and said: "I didn't meanthat, Jack."

  And so Sweetheart took her first step across that threshold of mystery,the Temple of Idols. And of the gilded idols within the temple, oneshall turn to living flesh at the sound of a voice. And lo! wherea child had entered, a woman returned with the key to the Temple ofGilded Idols.

  "Jack," said Sweetheart, "you are wrong. No day is too fair to kill in.I shall pick my arms full--full of flowers."

  Over the yellow fields, red with the stalks of the buckwheat, crownedwith a glimmering cloud of the dusty gold of the golden-rod, Sweetheartpassed, pensive, sedate, awed by the burden of sixteen years.

  I followed.

  Over the curling fern and wind-stirred grasses the silken milkweedseeds sailed, sailed, and the great red-brown butterflies driftedabove, ruddy as autumn leaves aglow in the sun.

  "On the sand-cliff there are marigolds," said Sweetheart.

  I looked at the mass of wild flowers in her arms; her white polishedskin reflected the blaze of colour, warming like ivory under theirglow.

  "Marigolds," I repeated; "we will get some."

  "The sand slides on the face of the cliff; you must be careful," shesaid.

  "And I may see one of those rare cliff butterflies. I haven't any goodexamples."

  I fancy she was not listening; the crows were clamouring above thebeech woods; the hill winds filled our ears with a sound like the soundof the sea on shoals. Her gray eyes, touched with the sky's deep blueand the blue of the misty hills, looked out across the miles of woodsand fields, and saw a world; not a world old, scarred, rock-ribbed, andsalt with tears, but a new world, youthful, ripe, sunny, hazy with thesplendour of wonders hidden behind the horizon--a world jewelled withgems, spanned by rose-mist rainbows--a world of sixteen years.

  "We are already at the cliff's edge," I said.

  She stepped to the edge and looked over. I drew her back. The sandstarted among the rocks, running, running with a sound like silverwater.

  "Then you shall not go either," she said. "I do not care for marigolds."

  But I was already on the edge, stooping for a blossom. The next instantI fell.

  There was a whistle of sand, a flurry and a rush of wind, a blur ofrock, fern, dead grasses--a cry!

  For I remember as I fell, falling I called, "Sweetheart!" and again"Sweetheart!" Then my body struck the rocks below.

  III.

  Of all the seconds that tick the whole year through, of all the secondsthat have slipped onward marking the beat of time since time wasloosed, there is one, one brief moment, steeped in magic and heavy withoblivion, that sometimes lingers in the soul of man, annihilating spaceand time. If, at the feet of God, a year is a second passed unnoted,this magic second, afloat on the tide of time, moves on and on till,caught in the vortex of some life's whirl, it sinks into the soul of abeing near to death.

  And in that soul the magic second glows and lingers, stretching intominutes, hours, days--aye, days and days, till, if the magic hold, thecalm years crowd on one by one; and yet it all is but a second--thatmagic moment that comes on the tide of time--that came to me and wascaught up in my life's whirl as I fell, dropping there between sky andearth.

  And so that magic moment grew to minutes, to hours; and when my body,whirling, pitching, struck and lay flung out on the earth, the magicsecond grew until the crystal days fell from my life, as beads, one byone, fall from the rosaries that saints tell kneeling.

  Those days of a life that I have lived, those years that linger stillaglow in the sun behind me, dim yet splendid as dust-dimmed jewels,they also have ended, not in vague night, but in the sunburst ofanother second--such a second as ticks from my watch as I write, quick,sharp, joyous, irrevocable! So, of that magic second, or day, or year,I shall tell--I, as I was, standing beside my body flung there acrossthe earth.

  I looked at my body, lying in a heap, then turned to the sand cliffsmiling.

  "Sweetheart!" I called.

  But she was already at my side.

  We walked on through fragrant pastures, watching the long shadowsstretch from field to field, speaking of what had been and of all thatwas to be. It was so simple--everything was clear before us. Had therebeen doubts, fears, sudden alarms, startled heartbeats?

  If there had been, now they were ended forever.

  "Not forever," said Sweetheart; "who knows how long the magic secondmay last?"

  "But we--what difference can that make?" I asked.

  "To us?"

  "Yes."

  "None," said Sweetheart decisively.

  We looked out into the west. The sun turned to a mound of cinders; thehills loomed in opalescent steam.

  "But--but--your shadow!" said Sweetheart.

  I bent my head, thrilled with happiness.

  "And yours," I whispered.

  The shadows we cast were whiter than snow.

  I still heard the hill winds, soft in my ears as breaking surf; abird-note came from the dusky woodland; a star broke out overhead.

  "What is your pleasure, Sweetheart, now all is said?" I asked.

  "The world is all so fair," she sighed; "is it fairer beyond the hills,Jack?"

  "It is fair where you pass by, north, south, and from west to westagain. In France the poplars are as yellow as our oaks. In Morbihan thegorse gilds all the hills, yellow as golden-rod. Shall we go?"

  "But in the spring--let us wait until spring."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "Until spring?"

  "It is written that Time shall pass as a shadow across the sea. Whatis that book there under your feet--that iron-bound book, half embeddedlike a stone in the grass."

  "I did not see it!"

  "Bring it to me."

  I raised the book; it left a bare mark in the sod as a stone that isturned. Then, holding it on my knees, I opened it, and Sweetheart,leaning on my shoulder, read. The tall stars flared like candles,flooding the page with diamond light; the earth, perfumed withblossoms, stirred with the vague vibration of countless sounds, tinyvoices swaying breathless in the hidden surge of an endless harmony.
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  "The white shadow is the shadow of the soul," she read. Even the windswere hushed as her sweet lips moved.

  "And what shall make thee to understand what hell is?... When thesun shall be folded up as a garment that is laid away; when the starsfall, and the seas boil, and when souls shall be joined again to theirbodies; and when the girl who hath been buried alive shall be askedfor what crime; when books shall be laid open, when hell shall burnfiercely, and when paradise shall be brought very near:

  "Every soul shall know what it hath wrought!"

  I closed my eyes; the splendour of the starlight on the page was morethan my eyes could bear.

  But she read on; for what can dim her eyes?

  "O man, verily, labouring, thou labourest to meet thy LORD.

  "And thou shalt meet HIM!

  "When the earth shall be stretched like a skin, and shall cast forththat which is therein;

  "By the heaven adorned with signs, by the witness and the witnessed;

  "By that which appeareth by night; by the daybreak and the tennights--the ten nights;

  "The night of Al Kadr is better than a thousand months.

  "Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures; the Most Merciful, theKing of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship, and of thee do we begassistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whomthou hast been gracious; not of those against whom thou art incensed,nor of those who go astray!"

  * * * * *

  In the sudden silence that spread across earth and heaven I heard thesound of a voice under the earth, calling, calling, calling.

  "It is already spring," said Sweetheart; and she rose, placing herwhite hands in mine. "Shall we go?"

  "But we are already there," I stammered, turning my eyes fearfully; forthe tall pines dwindled and clustered and rose again cool and gray inthe morning air, all turned to stone, fretted and carved like lacework;and where the pines had faded, the twin towers of a cathedral loomed;and where the hills swept across the horizon, the roofs of a white cityglimmered in the morning sun. Bridges and quays and streets and domesand the hum of traffic and rattle of arms; and over all, the veil ofhaze and the twin gray towers of Notre Dame!

  "Sweetheart!" I faltered.

  But we were already in my studio.

  IV.

  The studio had not changed. The sun flooded it.

  Sweetheart sat in the broken armchair and watched me struggle with thepacking. Every now and then she made an impulsive movement toward theheap of clothes on the floor, which I checked with a "Thanks! I can fixit all alone, Sweetheart."

  Clifford seemed to extract amusement from it all, and said as much toRowden, who was as usual ruining my zitherine by trying to play it likea banjo.

  Elliott, knowing he could be of no use to us, had the decency tosit outside the studio on one of the garden benches. He appeared atintervals at the studio door, saying, "Come along, Clifford; they don'twant you messing about. Drop that banjo, Rowden, or Jack will breakyour head with it--won't you, Jack?"

  I said I would, but not with the zitherine.

  Clifford flatly refused to move unless Sweetheart would take himout into our garden and show him the solitary goldfish which lurkedin the fountain under the almond trees. But Sweetheart, apparentlyfascinated by the mysteries of packing, turned a deaf ear to Clifford'sblandishments and Rowden's discords.

  "I imagined," said Clifford, somewhat hurt, "that you would delight intaking upon yourself the duties of a hostess. I should be pleased tobelieve that I am not an unwelcome guest."

  "So should I," echoed Rowden; "I'd be pleased too."

  "What a shame for you to bother, Jack!" she said. "Mr. Clifford shallgo and make some tea directly. Mr. Rowden, you may take a table out bythe fountain--and stay there."

  Clifford, motioning Elliott to take the other end of the Japanesetable, backed with it through the hallway and out to the gravel walk,expostulating.

  "The sugar is there in that tin box by the model stand," she said, whenhe reappeared, "and the extra spoons are lying in a long box on Jack'sbig easel."

  When Rowden, reluctantly relinquishing the zitherine, followedClifford, bearing the cups and alcohol lamp, I raised my head andwiped the dust from my forehead. I believe I swore a little in French.Sweetheart looked startled. She knew more French than I supposed shedid.

  "What is it, Jack?"

  "Mais--rien, ca m'embete--cette espece de malle----"

  "Then why won't you let me help you, Jack? I can at least put in mygowns."

  "But I must pack my colour box first, and the gun case, and thebox of reels, and the pastel case, and our shooting boots, and thewater-colour box, and the cartridge belt, and your golf shoes, and----"

  "O dear!" said Sweetheart with a shudder.

  I stood up and scowled at the trunk.

  "To look at you, Jack," murmured Sweetheart, "one might think youunhappy."

  Unhappy! At the thought our eyes met across the table.

  "Unhappy!" I whispered.

  Then Clifford came stumbling in, wearing a pair of Joseph's sabots,and, imitating that faithful domestic in voice and manner, invited usto tea under the lilacs and almond blossoms.

  "In a moment," cried Sweetheart impatiently. "Go and pour the tea."

  Clifford looked aghast. "No, no!" he cried; "it's impossible--I won'tbelieve that you two are deliberately getting rid of me so you can bealone to spoon! And your honeymoon already a year old, and----"

  Sweetheart frowned, and tapped her foot.

  Clifford retired indignant.

  Then she raised her eyes to mine, and a delicate colour stained hercheeks and neck.

  "Yes," I said, "we have been married nearly a year, Sweetheart."

  We looked at our white shadows on the floor.

  V.

  Sweetheart sat under the lilac blossoms pouring out tea for Clifford,Elliott, and Rowden. She was gracious to Clifford, gentle to Elliott,and she took Rowden under her wing in the sweetest way possible, towhich Clifford stated his objections.

  "Mr. Rowden is younger than you are," she said gravely. "MonsieurClifford, I do not wish you to torment him."

  "Rowden's no baby; he's as old as Jack is, and Jack doesn't murdermusic."

  "I am glad to see you acknowledge Jack's superiority in all matters,"said Sweetheart with a dangerous smile.

  "I don't," cried Clifford laughing; "and I don't see what you findto care about in a man who clips his hair like a gendarme and paintseverything purple."

  "Everything is purple--if Jack paints it so," said Sweetheart, smilingat her reflected face in the water. She stood at the rim of the littlestone fountain with her hands clasped behind her back. Elliott andClifford were poking about in the water plants to dislodge the solitarygoldfish, while Rowden gathered dewy clusters of lilacs as an offering.

  "There he goes!" said Elliott.

  "Poor fellow, living there all alone!" said Sweetheart. "Jack mustleave word with Joseph to get him a little lady fish to pay his courtto."

  "Better put in another gentleman fish, then, if you're followingNature," said Clifford, with an attempt at cynicism which drew themerriest laugh from Sweetheart.

  "Oh, how funny is Monsieur Clifford when he wants to be likeFrenchmen!" she murmured.

  "Jack," said Elliott, as I came from the studio and picked up a cup oftea grown cold, "Clifford's doing the world-worn disenchanted roue."

  "And--and I fear he will next make love to me!" cried Sweetheart.

  "You'd better look out, Jack," said Clifford darkly, and pretended tosulk until Sweetheart sent him off to buy the bonbons she would needfor the train.

  "They're packed," I said, "every trunk of them!"

  Sweetheart was enchanted. "All my new gowns, and the shoesfrom Rix's--O Jack, you didn't forget the shoes--and the bathrobes--and----"

  "All packed," I said, swallowing the tea with a wry face.

  "Oh," she cried reproachfully, "don't drink that! Here, I will havesome hot tea in
a moment," and she ran over and perched on the arm ofthe garden bench while I lighted the alcohol lamp and then a cigarette.

  Rowden came up with his offering of lilacs, and she decorated each ofus with a spray.

  It was growing late. The long shadows fell across the gravel walks andflecked the white walls of the sculptor's studio opposite.

  "It's the nine-o'clock train, isn't it?" said Elliott.

  "We will meet you at the station at eight-thirty," added Rowden.

  "You don't mind, do you, our dining alone?" said Sweetheart shyly;"it's our last day--Jack's and mine--in the old studio."

  "Not the last, I hope," said Elliott sincerely.

  We all sat silent for a moment.

  "O Paris, Paris--how I fear it!" murmured Sweetheart to me; and in thesame breath, "No, no, we must love it, you and I."

  Then Elliott said aloud, "I suppose you have no idea when you willreturn?"

  "No," I replied, thinking of the magic second that had become a year.

  And so we dined alone, Sweetheart and I, in the old studio.

  At half-past eight o'clock the cab stood at the gate with all our trapspiled on top, and Joseph and his wife and the two brats were crying,"Au revoir, madame! au revoir, monsieur! We will keep the studio welldusted. Bon voyage! bon voyage!" and all of a sudden my arm was caughtby Sweetheart's little gloved hand, and she drew me back throughthe long ivy-covered alley to the garden where the studio stood, itsdoorway closed and silent, the hollow windows black and grim. Truly thelight had passed away with the passing of Sweetheart. Her hand slippedfrom my arm, and she went and knelt down at the threshold and kissedit.

  "I first knew happiness when I first crossed it," she said; "it breaksmy heart to leave it. Only that magic second! but it seems years thatwe have lived here."

  "It was you who brought happiness to it," I said.

  "Good-bye! good-bye, dear, dear, old studio!" she cried. "Oh, if Jackis always the same to me as he has been here--if he will be faithfuland true in that new home!"

  The new home was to be in a strange land. Sweetheart was a littlefrightened, but was dying to go there. Sweetheart had never seen thegolden gorse ablaze on the moors of Morbihan.

  VI.

  I went inside the brass railing and waited my turn to buy the tickets.When it came, I took two first class to Quimperle, for it was to bean all-night ride, and there was no sleeping car. Clifford had takencharge of the baggage, and I went with him to have it registered,leaving Sweetheart with Elliott and Rowden. All the traps werethere--the big trunks, the big valises, my sketching kit, the zitherinein a leather case, two handbags, a bundle of umbrellas and canes, and ahuge package of canvases. The toilet case and the rugs and waterproofswe took with us into the compartment.

  The compartment was empty. Sweetheart nestled into one corner, andwhen I had placed our traps in the racks overhead I sat down opposite,while Clifford handed in our sandwiches, a bottle of red wine, andSweetheart's box of bonbons.

  We didn't say much; most had been said before starting. Clifford wasmore affected than he cared to show--I know by the way he grasped myhand. They are dear fellows, every one. We did not realize that we wereactually going--going, perhaps, forever. She laughed, and chatted, andmade fun of Clifford, and teased Rowden, aided and abetted by Elliott,until the starting gong clanged and a warning whistle sounded along thegaslit platform.

  "Jack," cried Clifford, leaning in the window, "God bless you! Godbless you both!"

  Elliott touched her hand and wrung mine, and Rowden risked his neck togive us both one last cordial grasp.

  "Count on me--on us," cried Clifford, speaking in English, "if youare--troubled!"

  By what, my poor Clifford? Can you, with all your gay courage, turnback the hands of the dials? Can you, with all your warm devotion, addone second to the magic second and make it two? The shadows we cast arewhite.

  The train stole out into the night, and I saw them grouped on theplatform, silhouettes in the glare of the yellow signals. I drew in myhead and shut the window. Sweetheart's face had grown very serious, butnow she smiled across from her corner.

  "Aren't you coming over by me, Jack?"

  VII.

  We must have been moving very swiftly, for the car rocked and trembled,and it was probably that which awoke me. I looked across at Sweetheart.She was lying on her side, one cheek resting on her gloved hand, hertravelling cap pushed back, her eyes shut. I smoothed away the curlystrands of hair which straggled across her cheeks, and tucked anotherrug well about her feet. Her feet were small as a child's. I speak asif she were not a child. She was eighteen then.

  The next time I awoke we lay in a long gaslit station. Some soldierswere disembarking from the forward carriages, and a gendarme stalked upand down the platform.

  I looked sleepily about for the name of the station. It was paintedin blue over the buffet--"Petit St. Yves." "Is it possible we are inBrittany?" I thought. Then the voices of the station hands, who werehoisting a small boat upon the forward carriage, settled my doubts."Allons! tire hardiment, Jean Louis! mets le cannotte deboutte."

  "Arrete toi Yves! doucement! doucement! Sacree garce!"

  Somewhere in the darkness a mellow bell tolled. I settled back toslumber, my eyes on Sweetheart.

  She slept.

  VIII.

  I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine. From our window I could lookinto the centre of a most enchanting little town, all built of whitelimestone and granite. The June sunshine slanted on thatched roof andpainted gable, and fairly blazed on the little river slipping by underthe stone bridge in the square.

  The streets and the square were alive with rosy-faced women in whitehead-dresses. Everywhere the constant motion of blue skirts andspotless coiffes, the twinkle of varnished socks, the clump! clump! ofsabots.

  Like a black shadow a priest stole across the square. Above him thecross on the church glowed like a live cinder, flashing its reflectionalong the purple-slated roof from the eaves of which a cloud ofash-gray pigeons drifted into the gutter below. I turned from thewindow to encounter Sweetheart's eyes. Her lips moved a little, herlong lashes heavy with slumber drooped lower, then with a little sighshe sat bolt upright. When I laughed, as I always did, she smiled,a little confused, a little ashamed, murmuring: "Bonjour, mon cheri!Quelle heure est-il?" That was always the way Sweetheart awoke.

  "O dear, I am so rumpled!" she said. "Jack, get me the satchel thisminute, and don't look at me until I ask you to."

  I unlocked the satchel, and then turning to the window again threw itwide open. Oh, how sweet came the morning air from the meadows! Someyoung fellows below on the bank of the stream were poking long canefishing-rods under the arches of the bridge.

  "Sweetheart," I said over my shoulder, "I believe there are trout inthis stream."

  "Mr. Elliott says that whenever you see a puddle you always say that,"she replied.

  "What does he know about it?" I answered, for I am touchy on thesubject; "he doesn't know a catfish from a--a dogfish."

  "Neither do I, Jack dear, but I'm going to learn. Don't be cross."

  She had finished her toilet and came over to the window, leaning outover my shoulder.

  "Where are we?" she cried in startled wonder at the little white townand the acres of swaying clover. "Oh, Jack, is--is this the country?"

  A man in uniform passing under our window looked up surprised.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded; then, seeing Sweetheart, hetook off his gold-laced cap, and added, with a bow: "This carriage goesno farther, monsieur--madame----"

  "Merci!" exclaimed Sweetheart, "we wish to go to Quimperle!"

  "And we have tickets for Quimperle," I insisted.

  "But," smiled the official, "this is Quimperle."

  It was true. There was the name written over the end of the station;and, looking ahead, I saw that our car had been detached and wasstanding in stately seclusion under the freight shed. How long it hadbeen standing so Heaven alone knows; but they evident
ly had neglectedto call us, and there we were inhabiting a detached carriage in theheart of Quimperle. I managed to get a couple of porters, and presentlywe found all our traps piled up on the platform, and a lumberingvehicle with a Breton driver waiting to convey us to the hotel.

  "Which," said I to the docile Breton, "is the best hotel in Quimperle?"

  "The Hotel Lion d'Or," he replied.

  "How do you know?" I demanded.

  "Because," said he mildly, "it is the only hotel in Quimperle."

  Sweetheart observed that this ought to be convincing, even to me,and she tormented me all the way to the square, where I got even bypretending to be horrified at her dishevelled condition incident to anight's railway ride in a stuffy compartment.

  "Don't, Jack! people will look at us."

  "Let 'em."

  "Oh, this is cruel! Oh, I'll pay you for this!"

  And they did look at us--or rather at her; for from the time Sweetheartand I had cast our lots together, I noticed that I seemed to escape theobservation of passers-by. When I lived alone in Paris I attracted afair share of observation from the world as it wagged on its Parisianway. It was pleasant to meet a pretty girl's eyes now and then in thethrong which flowed through the park and boulevard. I really neverflattered myself that it was because of my personal beauty; but inParis, any young fellow who is dressed in the manner of Albion, hattedand gloved in the same style, is not entirely a cipher. But now it wasnot the same, by a long shot.

  Sweetheart's beauty simply put me in my place as an unnoticed butperhaps correct supplement to her.

  She knew she was a beauty, and was delighted when she looked into hermirror. Nothing escaped her. The soft hair threaded with sunshine,which, when loosened, curled to her knees; the clear white forehead andstraight brows; the nose delicate and a trifle upturned; the scarletlips and fine cut chin--she knew the value of each of these. She waspleased with the soft, full curve of her throat, the little ears, andthe colour which came and went in her cheeks.

  But her eyes were the first thing one noticed. They were the mostbeautiful gray eyes that ever opened under silken lashes. She approvedof my telling her this, which duty I fulfilled daily. Perhaps it may besuperfluous to say that we were very much in love. Did I say _were_?

  I think that, as I am chanting the graces of Sweetheart, it might notbe amiss to say that she is just an inch shorter than I am, and thatno Parisienne carried a pretty gown with more perfection than shedid. I have seen gowns that looked like the devil on the manikin, butwhen Sweetheart wore them they were the astonishment and admiration ofmyself. And I do know when a woman is well dressed, though I am an artcritic.

  Sweetheart regarded her beauty as an intimate affair between ourselves,a precious gift for our mutual benefit, to be carefully treasured andpetted. Her attitude toward the world was unmistakable. The world mightlook--she was indifferent. With our intimate friends she was abovebeing flattered. Clifford said to me once: "She carries her beauty asa princess would carry the Koh-i-noor--she knows she is worthy of it,and hopes it is worthy of her."

  "We ought to be so happy that I am beautiful!" she would say to me."Just think, supposing I were not!"

  I used to try to make her believe that it would have made no difference.

  "Oh, not now," she would say gravely. "I know that if I lost it itwould be the same to us both, now; but you can't make me believe that,at first, when you used to lean over the terrace of the Luxembourg andwait patiently for hours just to see me walk out of the Odeon."

  "I didn't," I would always explain; "I was there by accident."

  "Oh, what a funny accident to happen every day for two months!"

  "Stop teasing! Of course, after the first week----"

  "And what a funny accident that I should pass the same way every dayfor two months, when before I always went by the Rue de Seine!"

  There was once such an accident, and such a girl. I never knew her; sheis dead. I wondered sometimes that Sweetheart knew, and believed it wasshe herself. Yet the other woman's shadow was black.

  Sweetheart had a most peculiar and unworldly habit of not embellishingfacts. She presently displayed it when we arrived at the Hotel Liond'Or.

  "Jack," said she nervously, "the cinders have made your faceunpleasant. I am ashamed. They may not believe you are my husband."

  "As monsieur and madame," I said, "we may have dirty faces and behonest."

  "Do you suppose they--they will believe it? These queer people----"

  "They'd better!" I said fiercely.

  "I--I hadn't thought of that," she said. "You see, in our own littleplace in Paris everybody knew it, but here----"

  I said, "Dearest, what nonsense!" and we marched unceremoniously upto the register, where I wrote our names. Then, with a hasty littlesqueeze of her gloved hand, she turned to the maid and tripped off toinspect our quarters. While I was pumping the fat-headed old proprietorabout the trout fishing in the vicinity, the maid returned with therequest that I mount to the room above. I followed her along the tiledpassages and found Sweetheart sitting on a trunk.

  "It's charming! charming!" she said. "Just look at the roses outside,and the square, and the river! and oh, Jack, the funny little Bretoncattle, and the old man with knee-breeches! It's charming! and"--hereshe caught sight of the enraptured and fascinated maid--"and you arecharming, with your red cheeks and white coiffe," she said. "Oh, howpretty!"

  "Oh, madame!" murmured the servant in dire confusion.

  I said, "Dearest, that will do. Nobody speaks of my peculiar charms,and I wish to be noticed."

  The presence of the maid prevented Sweetheart from making amends, so wetold her we were satisfied, and we would spare her life if she preparedbreakfast in seventeen seconds.

  She accepted the gift of existence with a dazed courtsey, and vanished.

  It was refreshing to get hold of a sponge and cold water after fourteenhours in a cramped compartment. Hunger drove us to hurry--a thing werarely did in the morning--and the way we splashed cold water aboutwould have been fatal to any but a tiled floor.

  "Dear," I said, "you have not yet seen me in my Tyrolese knickerbockersand beautiful shooting jacket. You have never beheld my legs clothed inTyrolese stockings, at twenty francs a pair."

  "The legs?" she inquired from the depths of a bath robe.

  I ignored the question, and parted my hair with care. Then I sat downon the window and whistled.

  Of course I was ready first. Sweetheart's hair had got into a tangleand needed to be all combed out.

  "Oh, I know you are impatient, because you're whistling the Chant duDepart," she said from the door of her toilet room.

  "As usual," I said, "I am ready first."

  "If you say that again----" she threatened.

  I said it, and dodged a sponge. Presently I was requested to open thetrunk and select a gown for her. Dear little Sweetheart! she lovedto pretend that she had so many it needed long consultation to decidewhich.

  "The dark blue?" I inquired.

  "Don't you think it is too warm?"

  "The pale blue, then--or the pink and white?"

  "Why not the white, with the cuffs a l'Anglaise, and the canoe hat?"

  I hauled it out.

  Then, of course, she changed her mind.

  "I think the gray is better for the morning; then I can wear the bigchip hat."

  I fished up the gray. It was light, almost silvery, and had white spotson it.

  "Jack, dear," she said, coming out with her hair tucked up in a knot,drawing the bath robe up to her chin with both hands, "I think that thewhite cloth would be better, and that I can wear the beret."

  By this time the trunk was in a pretty mess, which amused her; but atlast I ferreted out the white cloth dress, and, refusing to listen tofurther discussion, sat down on the window seat. Sweetheart enjoyed it.

  "Stop telling me to hurry," she said; "I can't, if you keep saying itall the time."

  After a while she called me to fasten her corsage, which h
ooked withabout ten hundred hooks along the side and collar. I hated to do it,and my finger ends stung for hours after, but, as Sweetheart veryrightly says, "When we are rich enough to have a maid you needn't," Isubmitted with an air which delighted her. Her tormenting "Thank you,Jack," was the last straw, so I calmly picked her up and carried herout, and almost to the dining room, where I set her down just in timeto avoid the proprietor and three domestics issuing from the office.

  Sweetheart was half inclined to laugh, half indignant, and whollyscandalized. But she did not dare say anything, for we were at thedining-room door.

  There were some people there, but except for a slight inclination wedid not notice each other. We had a small table to ourselves by therose-bowered window.

  We were very hungry. Breakfast began with fresh sardines just caught,and ended with little Breton cakes and a demi-tasse. I finished first;I always do, because the wretched habit of bolting my food, contractedwhile studying under Bouguereau at Julian's, clings to me yet. Oh,I shall have a merry time paying for it when I am forty! I began, asusual, to tease Sweetheart.

  "If you continue to eat like this, dear, you will never be able to wearyour new frocks. This one seems a trifle too tight now."

  Sweetheart, who prided herself as much on her figure as on her lovelyface, repelled the insult with disdain and nibbled her Breton biscuitdefiantly. When at last she condescended to rise, we strolled outunder the trees in front of the hotel, and sat down on the low stonewall surrounding the garden. The noon sun hung in the zenith, floodingthe town with a dazzling downpour. Sunbeams glanced and danced onthe water; sunbeams filtered through the foliage; sunbeams stoleunder Sweetheart's big straw hat, searching the depths of the grayeyes. Sunbeams played merry mischief with my ears and neck, whichwere beginning to sting in the first sunburn of the year. Through thesquare the white-coiffed women passed and repassed; small urchins withsilver-buckled hatbands roamed about the bridge and market-place untilcollected and trooped off to school by a black-robed Jesuit frere;and in the shade of the trees a dozen sprawling men in Breton costumesmoked their microscopical pipes and watched the water.

  "They are an industrious race," said I with fine irony, watching ahappy inebriate pursuing a serpentine course toward the cafe opposite.

  Sweetheart, who was as patriotic a little girl as ever hummed theMarseillaise, and adopted France as long as she lived in it, was up inarms in an instant.

  "I have read," she said with conviction, "that the Bretons are a brave,industrious race. They are French."

  "They speak a different language," I said--"not a word of French in it."

  "They are French," repeated Sweetheart, with an inflection whichdecided me to shun the subject until I could unpack my guide-book.

  We sat a little while longer under the trees, until we both begannodding and mutually accused each other. Then Sweetheart went up tothe room to take a nap, and I, scorning such weakness, lay down in asteamer chair under our window and fell fast asleep in no time.

  I was aroused by a big pink rose which hit me squarely on the mouth.Sweetheart was perched in the window seat above, and as I looked up shesent a shower of blossoms down upon me.

  "Jack, you lazy creature, it's five o'clock, and I'm dressed and readyfor a walk!"

  "So am I," I said, jumping up.

  "But not like that. You must come up and make yourself nice for dinner."

  "Nice? What's the matter with these tweeds? Aren't these new stockingspresentable?"

  "Look at your hair!" she said evasively. "Come up this minute and brushit."

  I went, and was compelled to climb into a white collar and shirt, andtrousers of an English cut. But before we had gone far along the greatmilitary road that climbed the heights above the little river, I tookSweetheart's hand in mine and imparted to her my views and intentionsupon the subject of my costume for the future.

  "You see, dearest, we are here in Brittany for three reasons. Thefirst is, that I should paint outdoors. The second is, that we shouldeconomize like the deuce. The third is, our shadows----"

  "I know," she interrupted faintly. "Never mind, Jack, dear."

  We walked silently for a while, hand clasping hand very tightly, for wewere both thinking of the third reason.

  I broke the silence first, speaking cheerfully, and she looked up witha quick smile while the shadow fell from her brow.

  "You see, dear, in this place, where we are going, there are no peoplebut peasants. Your frocks are all right for a place like this; wemust both wear our free-and-easy togs--I for painting, and you forscrambling about after your wild flowers or fishing with me. If you gettired of seeing me in corduroys or tweeds, I'll dress for you when youthink you can't stand it any longer."

  "Oh, Jack, I do like your knickerbockers----"

  "And you shall wear your most gorgeous gown for me----"

  "Indeed I won't," she laughed, adding impulsively, "indeed Iwill--every day, if you wish it!"

  At the top of the hill stood an ancient Ursuline convent surroundedby a high wall, which also inclosed the broad acres of the wealthysisterhood. We sat down by the roadside hedge and looked across thevalley, where the hurrying river had ceased to hasten and now lingeredin placid pools and long, deep reaches. The sun had set behind theforest, and the sky threw a purple light over woods and meadow. Thegrassy pools below were swept by flocks of whistling martins andswallows. One or two white gulls flapped slowly toward the tide waterbelow, and a young curlew, speeding high overhead, uttered a lonesomecry. The grass--the brilliant green grass of Brittany--had turned adeep metallic blue in the twilight. A pale primrose light grew and diedin the sky, and the forest changed from rose to ashes. Then a dull redbar shot across the parting clouds in the west, the forest smoulderedan instant, and the pools glowed crimson. Slowly the red bar meltedaway, the light died out among the branches, the pools turned sombre.Looking up, we saw the new moon flashing in the sky above our heads.Sweetheart sighed in perfect contentment.

  "It's beautiful!" I said, with another sigh.

  "Ah, yes," she murmured, "beautiful to you, and to me--to me, Jack, whohave never before seen this land of Morbihan."

  After a while she said, "And the ocean--oh, how I long to see it! Is itnear us, Jack?"

  "The river runs into it twenty kilometres below. We feel the tide atQuimperle." I did not add, "Baedeker."

  "I wonder," I said presently, "what are the feelings of a littleAmerican who sees this country--the real country--for the first time?"

  "I suppose you mean me," she said. "I don't know--I don't think Iunderstand it yet, but I know I shall love it, and never want to goback."

  "Perhaps we never shall," I said. "The magic second may stretch intoyears that end at last as all ends."

  Then our hands met in that sudden nervous clasp which seemed to helpand steady us when we were thinking of the real world, so long, so longforgotten.

  IX.

  I was awakened next morning by a spongeful of cold water in the face,which I hate. I started up to wreak vengeance upon Sweetheart, but shefled to the toilet room and locked herself in. From this retreat shetaunted me until further sleep was out of the question, and I bowedto the inevitable--indignantly, when I saw my watch pointed to fiveo'clock.

  Sweetheart was perfectly possessed to row; so when I had bolted mycoffee and sat watching her placidly sip hers, we decided to go down tothe bank of the little stream and hire a boat. The boat was a wretched,shapeless affair, with two enormous oars and the remnants of rowlocks.It was the best boat in town, so we took it. I managed to get awayfrom the bank, and, conscious of Sweetheart's open admiration, pulledboldly down the stream. It was easy work, for the tide was ebbing. Theriver up to the bridge was tidal, but above the bridge it leaped andflowed, a regular salmon stream. Sweetheart was so impatient to takethe oars that I relinquished them and picked up my rod. The boat swungdown the stream and under the high stone viaduct, where I insistedon anchoring and whipping the promising-looking water. The water waslikely enough, and
the sudden splash of a leaping grilse added to itslikelihood. I was in hopes a grilse might become entangled with one ofthe flies, but though a big one shot up out of the water within fivefeet of Sweetheart, causing her to utter a suppressed scream, neithergrilse nor trout rose to the beautiful lures I trailed about, and Ionly hooked two or three enormous dace, which came up like logs andcovered the bottom of the boat with their coarse scales.

  Sweetheart had never seen a French trout uncooked, and scarcely sharedmy disappointment.

  "They are splendid fish," she repeated; "you are unreasonable."

  There was an ancient Breton squatting on the bank; from his sulkyattitude I took him to be a poacher visiting his infernal set lines andsnares; but I hailed him pleasantly with a bonjour, which he returnedcivilly enough.

  "Are there trout in this stream?"

  "About the bridge," he replied cautiously.

  "Have you caught any?"

  "I ain't fishing," he said, much alarmed.

  "What's that?" I demanded, pointing to as plump a trout as ever I saw,floating on the end of a string under the bank.

  "Where?" he asked, looking about him with affected concern.

  "There!"

  He looked around, everywhere except where I pointed. He examined thehorizon, and the tree tops, as though he expected a fish on every twig.I poled the boat up to the bank and pointed out the fish.

  "Ma doui!" he exclaimed, "there _is_ a fish!"

  "Yes, a trout," I said.

  "Trout?" He burst into a forced laugh. "Trout! Ha! ha! Why, monsieur,that is a dace--a poor little dace!" He hastily jerked it up with along homemade gaff which lay--of course quite by accident--at his feet.

  "A poor little dace!" he mumbled. "Of course, monsieur would not careto claim such a poor, coarse little fish; but I am only too glad to eatit--ah, yes, only too glad!"

  "You see," said Sweetheart impulsively, "that you are wrong. Give himour fish; that will make four dace for the poor fellow."

  I placed the three dace across the blade of my oar and held it out tothe poacher. He took them as if he were really glad to get them. ThenI said, "These are dace, and they don't have red spots."

  He stood as if ready to bolt, but I laughed, and settled back on myoars, saying: "You're a poacher; but I don't care a continental, andyou can poach all day in this confounded country, where there is aboutone trout to the kilometre. Don't look scared. What do I care? Onlydon't tell me I'm unable to distinguish a trout when I can see the tipof his nose."

  I then sailed majestically out into the stream.

  Sweetheart wanted to know whether that was really a real poacher.She had read about them. Her ideal poacher was a young, stalwart,eagle-eyed giant, with a tangle of hair and a disposition towardassassination. The reality shocked her.

  "Anyway," she said, "you frightened the poor old thing. How rough menare!"

  We returned to the landing place with difficulty, for the tide wasstill on the ebb, and we got aground more than once. My hands were ina fine condition when at last I drove that wretched scow into the mudand lifted Sweetheart out to the firm bank. The evil-eyed old man whorented us the boat glanced sardonically at my rod and blistered hands,and I was glad enough to pay him all he asked and break away for thehotel.

  We had an hour to lunch in, pack, and be ready for the trap whichwas to bear us to our destination--the distant village of Faoeuet, inMorbihan.

  X.

  A long drive on a smooth white road, acres of gorse and broom, beechwoods and oak thickets, and the "Heu! heu! Allo! Allons! en route!" ofthe Breton driver, these are my recollections of the ride to Faoeuet.There are others, too--the hedges heavy with bloom, the perfume of thewild honeysuckle, the continual bird chorus from every grove and everybramble patch--and Sweetheart's veil flying into my face.

  We have spoken of it since together, but she has few recollectionsof that journey. She only remembers it as her first steps into ourheritage.

  And so we entered into our heritage, Sweetheart and I; and our heritagewas very fair, for it lay everywhere about us. It was a world whichwe alone inhabited. Men said, "This land is Gloanec's," "This isGurnalec's," "This is Kerdec's"; they spoke of "my woods" and "hismeadows" and "their pastures." And how we laughed; for when we passedtogether through their lands, around us, far as the eye could reach,our heritage lay in the sunshine.

  XI.

  One day, when Sweetheart had been weeping--for we were thinking of theend to the magic second--I spoke of our heritage which swept far as theeye could reach across the moors of Faoeuet.

  She said: "The past is ours, Jack; the present is ours; the future----"

  We tried to smile, but our hearts were like lead. Yet we know that thefuture will also be ours. I know it as I write.

  XII.

  The letter from St. Gildas, bringing with it a breath of salt air, layon the table before us. Sweetheart clasped her hands and looked at me.

  "I'm in favour of going at once," I said for the third time. Over bythe wall were piled my canvases, the result of three months in Faoeuet.

  The first was a study of Sweetheart under the trees of the ancientorchard in the convent grounds. What trouble I had had with thatcanvas! I remembered the morning that the old gardener came overand stood behind me as I painted; and when I had replied to his"Good-morning," I recalled the pang his next words gave me:

  "I am so sorry, monsieur, but it is forbidden to enter the conventgrounds."

  My canvas was almost finished, and, as the romancers have it, "mydespair was great!" A month's work for nothing--or next to nothing!

  Sweetheart rose from her pose on the low bough of the apple tree andcame over to my side. "Never mind, Jack; I shall go and ask the MotherSuperior about it."

  I knew that she would win over the Mother Superior; and when, thatevening, she came back radiant, crying, "She is lovely!--she says youmay finish the picture, and I think you ought to go and thank her," Iput on my cap, and stepping across the street, we rang at the gate.

  The old gardener let us in, and in a moment I stood before the latticedwindows behind which some one was moving. In a low voice the invisiblenun told us that the Superior granted to us the privilege of working inthe orchard, but we must be careful of the grass, because it was almosttime to cut it.

  "I am sure we may have confidence in you," she said.

  "We will not trample the grass, my sister, and I thank you for us both."

  The lattice trembled, was raised a little, and then fell.

  "You are English," said the hidden nun.

  "I am American, my sister."

  I looked at the lattice a moment, then dropped my eyes. I may have beenmistaken, but I think she sighed.

  Sweetheart came closer to the lattice and murmured her thanks.

  There was a pause.

  Then came the voice again, sweet and gentle: "May Our Lady of SaintGildas protect you"; and we went out by the little iron wicket.

  The next picture was another study of Sweetheart in the woods; thenext, another study of Sweetheart; and the others were studies of thesame young lady.

  The light in the room had grown dim, and I walked to the window whichoverlooked the convent chapel. The chapel windows were open; within,the nuns stood or knelt chanting. Three white-veiled figures wereadvancing to the altar, and the others, draped in black now kneltbehind. I didn't think I had any business to look at them, so I didnot. After all, they were cloistered nuns, and it was only on hotnights that they opened the chapel windows. Sweetheart was speakingbeside my shoulder.

  "Poor things! The ones in white, they are the novices; they will neversee parents or friends again. When they enter the gates they neverleave--never; they are buried there."

  I said: "After all, we are much like them. We have left all; we havenothing now but each other, for the world is dead, and we are bound byvows which keep us within the narrow confines of our heritage."

  "But our heritage is everywhere--as far as we can see."

  "Ah, yes, but
we can only see to the horizon. There is a world beyond."

  "I have renounced it," said Sweetheart faintly.

  XIII.

  The letter from St. Gildas had been lying on our table for a weekbefore I thought of answering it, and even then it was Sweetheart whowrote:

  "DEAR MR. STUART:

  "Jack is too lazy to answer your kind note, so, in pure shame for his discourtesy, I hasten to reply to your questions.

  "First: Yes; we have been working very hard, and Jack's pictures are charming, though he growls over them all day.

  "Second: Yes; we intend to stay in Brittany this winter for lots of reasons--one being economy, and another, Jack's outdoor painting.

  "Third: Yes; we are coming to St. Gildas.

  "Fourth: To-morrow.

  "Fifth: No; we had not heard of Mr. Clifford's affair with the policeman; and oh, I am so sorry he was locked up and fined! Jack laughs. I suspect he, too, was as wicked as you all when he was a student, alone in Paris.

  "Sixth: I know you are Jack's oldest and most intimate friend, so I allow you more liberty than I do Messieurs Clifford and Elliott; therefore I will answer your question as to whether the honeymoon is not on the wane. No! no! no! There are three answers to one question. See how generous I can be!"

  Sweetheart called me to see whether or not I approved. I did, and addedmy answer to Stuart's last question as follows: "No, you idiot!" ThenI signed the note, and Sweetheart sealed and directed it.

  So we left for St. Gildas next morning before sunrise and in the rain.This leaving at such an unearthly hour was not my doing, but Sweetheartwas determined, and rose by candlelight in spite of desperateopposition on my part. It was cold, and the rain beat against thewindows.

  It was many kilometres to St. Gildas, but before we had gone six, therain had ceased and the eastern sky flushed to a pale rose.

  "Thank goodness!" I said, "we shall have the sun."

  Then the daily repeated miracle of the coming of dawn was wroughtbefore our eyes. The heavens glowed in rainbow tints; the shredded mistrising along the river was touched with purple and gold, and acresof meadow and pasture dripped precious stones. Shreds of the fadingnight-mist drifted among the tree tops, now tipped with fire, while inthe forest depths faint sparkles came from some lost ray of morninglight falling on wet leaves. Then of a sudden up shot the sun, andagainst it, black and gigantic, a peasant towered, leaning upon hisspade.

  XIV.

  We were fast nearing the end of our long journey. The sun blazed onus from the zenith, and the wheels creaked with the heat of the whiteroad. The driver leaned back, saying, "We enter Finistere here by thisgranite post." Presently he added, "The ocean!"

  There it lay, a basin of silver and blue. Sweetheart had started to herfeet, speechless, one hand holding to my shoulder, the other claspedto her breast. And now, as the road wound through the hills and downto the coast, long stretches of white sand skirted the distant cliffs,and over the cliffs waved miles and miles of yellow gorse. A cluster ofwhite and gray houses lay in the hollow to the left almost at the mouthof the river, and beyond, the waves were beating in the bar--beatingthe same rhythm which we were to hear so long there together, day andnight. There was not a boat to be seen, not a creature, nor was thereany sign of life save for the smoke curling from a cottage chimneybelow. The ocean lay sparkling beneath, and beyond its deeper bluemelted into the haze on the horizon.

  Suddenly, in the road below, the figure of a man appeared, and at thesame moment a pointer pup came gambolling up beside us in an ecstasyof self-abnegation and apology. I sprang out of the lumbering vehicleand lifted Sweetheart to the ground, and in an instant we were shakinghands with a stalwart young fellow in knickerbockers and jersey, whosaid we were a pretty pair not to have come sooner, and told Sweethearthe pitied her lot--meaning me.

  Then we walked arm in arm down a fragrant lane to the river bank, wherethe dearest old lady toddled out of the granite house to welcome us andshow us our rooms. Sweetheart went with her, while I stopped an instantto chat with Stuart.

  "That is Madame Ylven," he said. "She is the most stunning peasantwoman in Finistere, and you will want for nothing." Then, after amoment, "Good heavens! Jack, what a beauty your wife----" He stoppedshort, but added, "What a delicious little beauty Sweetheart has grownto be!"

  A white-coiffed maid came to the door, and said, "Will monsieur havethe goodness to come? Madame wishes him to see the rooms."

  The wind blew from the south, and the thunder of the sea was in my earsas I mounted the stairs to our new quarters.

  Sweetheart met me at the door, saying, "It seems almost too muchhappiness to bear, but I feel that we are at home at last--alonetogether for all time."

  Alone together? The ocean at our threshold, the moors and forests atour back, and a good slate roof above us. Before me through the opendoor I could see the great old-fashioned room, warm in the afternoonsunlight--the room we were to live in so long, the room in which wewere to pass the happiest and bitterest moments of our lives.

  She hesitated an instant before the threshold. I think we knew that westood upon the threshold of our destiny. Then I said, half in earnest:"Are you afraid to cross with me into the unknown future? See, the roomis filled with sunshine. Are you afraid?"

  She sprang across the threshold, and, turning to me, held out bothhands.

  XV.

  The sun slipped lower and lower into the sea, until a distant tossingwave washed it out against the sky. Light died in the room, and shadowsclosed around us; yet it was in the darkness and shadows that we drewnearer to each other, then and after.

  XVI.

  Stuart stood under our window and yelled up at me, "Oh, Jack! I say,Jack!"

  Sweetheart, who was fussing over the half-unpacked trunk, went to thewindow and threw open the panes.

  "You don't mean to say you have had your coffee?" she said. "Jack isn'tup yet."

  "Jack is up," I explained, coming to the window in pajamas. "Hello!"

  "I only wanted to say that I haven't had my coffee," he explained, "andI'm going to take it with you when you're ready."

  Sweetheart picked up her beret, and, passing a hatpin through it,turned to me with a warning, "I shall eat all the breakfast, monsieur!"and vanished down the stairs. A moment later I heard her clear voicebelow:

  Sonnez le choeur, Chasseur! Sonnez la mort!

  Before I had finished dressing, Sweetheart tripped in with my coffeeand toast.

  "Of course I've finished," she said, "and you don't deserve this.Mr. Stuart has gone off with his canvases, and says he'll see you atlunch."

  I swallowed the coffee and browsed on little squares of toast whichshe condescendingly buttered for me, and then, lighting a cigarette, Iannounced my intention of commanding an exploring expedition consistingof Sweetheart and myself. A scratching at the door and a patter of feetannounced that I had been overheard.

  Sweetheart unlatched the door, and the pointer pup of the eveningbefore charged into the room and covered us with boisterous caresses,which we took to indicate that he not only approved of the expedition,but intended to undertake the general supervision of it himself. Iresigned the leadership at once.

  "His name," said Sweetheart in the tone of one who presents adistinguished guest, "is 'Luff.'"

  I gravely acknowledged the honour by patting his head.

  "I'm afraid," I said to Sweetheart, "that there is a bar sinisterupon his escutcheon, but possibly it is only the indelible mark of theconquering British foxhound."

  Sweetheart said, "Nonsense!" and the expedition moved, Luff leadingwith a series of ear-splitting orders in the dog language which weperfectly understood.

  In ten minutes we stood on the cliffs, the salt wind whipping ourfaces. Saint-Gildas-des-Pres lay at our feet.

  "I know," observed Sweetheart calmly, "all about this place. CaptainYlven told me at breakfast."

  "Well," said I, "
what's that island on the horizon?"

  Then she overwhelmed me with erudition, until I longed for Baedeker andrevenge.

  "That is the Isle de Groix, and all about us is the Bay of Biscay. Thislittle hamlet on the cliff is St. Julien, and if we follow the coastfar enough we come to Lorient."

  "Follow the coast? Which way?"

  Sweetheart had forgotten, and I triumphed in silence, until she stampedher foot and marched off to assist Luff in investigating a suspicioushole in the cliff.

  I went to the edge of the plateau and looked over. The surf thunderedagainst the rocks, tossing long strands of seaweed over the pebblybeach. A man with a wooden rake stood in the water up to his knees. Heraked the seaweed from the breakers as a farmer rakes weeds from thelawn. The salt wind began to sting my lips and eyes. My throat felt dryand salty. I turned toward the hamlet of St. Gildas. I had not imaginedit so small. Besides our house there were but three others clusteredunder the river bank. Behind it stretched woods and grain fields brokenby patches of yellow gorse. Across the river stood a stone chapelalmost lost in the miles of moorland. To the east and west the downscovered with gorse and heather rolled to the horizon. Here and therealong the cliffs stood what appeared to be the ruins of ancient forts,and on a rock, just where the river sweeps out into the sea, rose adirty white signal tower. The tower was low and squatty and wet. Itlooked like some saline excrescence which had slowly exuded from thebrine-soaked rock. On the bar hundreds of white gulls rose and settledas the tide encroached; curlew were running along the foam-splashedshore under the eastern cliffs across the river.

  On our side of the river the cliffs were covered with blackthorn andhawthorn, with here and there a stunted oak, probably so placed byProvidence as general rendezvous for all the small twittering birds ofFinistere. Birds were everywhere. From the clouds came the ceaselesscarol of skylarks; from the grain fields and the flowering gorse rosean unbroken chorus, taken up and repeated by flocks of microscopicalsongsters among the blackthorns on the cliffs.

  "This is paradise, this wilderness," I thought.

  Then, as I heard Sweetheart's mocking voice from the cliff:

  O frere Jacques, Dormez vous!

  "I'm not asleep!" I cried in answer. "What is it?"

  "Luff has unearthed a poor little mole, but I won't allow him to hurtit."

  "Jack, dear," she said, as I came up, "couldn't we keep it as a pet?See, the poor little thing is blind."

  As it was blind we called it "Love," which later was changed to"Cupid," and finally, when we discovered it true gormandizingcharacter, for "Cupid" we substituted "Cupidity," by which name itflourished and fattened.

  "What a change," said Sweetheart sadly, "from Blind Love to BlindGreed!"

  The mole grew very fat.

  XVII.

  When the winds stir the leaves among the poplars, and the long shadowsfall athwart the fields; when the winds rise at night, and the branchesscrape and crack above the moonlit snow; when in the long hot daysthe earth is bathed in fragrance, and all the little creatures ofthe fields are silent; when in the still evenings the flowers perfumethe air, and the gravel walks shine white in the moonlight; when thebreezes quicken from the distant coast; when the sand shakes beneaththe shock of the breakers, and every wave is plumed with white; whenthe calm eye of the beacon turns to mine, lingers, and turn away, andthe surf is yeasty and thick; when I start at the sound of a voice fromthe cliffs, and my eyes are raised in vain; when the white gulls tossand drift in the storm-clouds, and the water hurries out in the blackebb tide; when I rise and look from the window; when I dress; when Iwork with pen and colour; when I rest; when I walk; when I sleep--thereis one face before my eyes, one name on my lips. For the white shadowis turning gray, and God alone knows the end.

  XVIII.

  And God alone knows the end, for the mists are crowding, broodinglike angry-browed clouds, and I hear the whistle of unseen winds, andmy life-flame wavers and sinks and flares, blown hither and thither,tossing, fading, leaping, but fading, always fading.

  In a flash, like a printed picture on a screen, illuminated, keenlyetched in the white glare, I see the bed, and the people around me,the black gowns, the pale eyes of the doctor, the sponge and basin, therolls of lint.

  Voices, minute but clean-cut and clear as picked harp-strings, tinklein my ears; the voice of the doctor, other voices, but always thevoice of the doctor--"The splinter of bone on the brain; the splinterpressing on the tissues; the depression."

  The doctor! That is the man! That is the man who comes to my side, whofollows, follows where I go, who seeks me throughout the world! I sawhim as I lay flung on the turf, limp, unconscious, below the cliffson the Aspen hills; I felt his presence in the studio; I heard himcreeping at my heels across the gorse thickets of St. Gildas. And nowhe has come to cut short the magic second, to turn back time--back,back, into the old worn channels, rock-ribbed and salt with tears.

  As a leaf of written paper torn in two, so shall my life be torn intwo; and the long tear shall mangle the chapter written in rose andgold.

  Then, too, my shadow, already turned from white to gray, shall fallwith a deeper stain wherever I pass; and I shall see the yellow gorseglimmer and turn to golden-rod, and the poplars turn to oaks; and thetwin towers of Notre Dame, filmy, lace-carved, and gray with centuries,shall dwindle as I look--dwindle and sway and turn to pines, singingpines that murmur to the winds, blowing across the Aspen hills.

  * * * * *

  All that is fair shall pass away; all that I love, all that I fearfor--these shall the doctor take away, lifting them from my memory onthe point of a steel blade. What has he to give in return? A hell ofvapour, distorting sight; a hell of sound, drowning the soul.

  * * * * *

  Gigantic apparitions arise across the world of water, wavering likeshadows on the clouds. Steel-clad, clothed in skins, casqued in steel,their winged heads bend and nod and move against the clouds. And eventhey are changing as clouds change shape. I see steel limbs turn redand naked. I see winged casques trail to the earth, feathered, paintedin colours of earth.

  Iho! Inah! Eto! E-ho!

  The bridge of stars spans the vast lake of air; the sun and the moontravel over it.

  * * * * *

  My shadow is turning dark; I can scarcely see the doctor, but now--Godhave mercy!--_I can touch him._

  * * * * *

  All the high spectres are stooping from the clouds, bending above me towatch. I know them and their eyes of shadow--I know them now; Harpenthat was to Chaske what Harpstina shall be to Hapeda; and Harka shallcome after all with the voice of winter winds:

  "Ake u, ake u, ake u!"

  But the magic second shall never return.

  "Ma cante maseca!"

  * * * * *

  Now they leave my bed, the people who crowded there under the shadowyforms of the spectres; now the doctor bends over; I see and feel him.His hands are tangled in the threads of time; he is cutting a thread;he----

  XIX.

  When I spoke to him first I spoke in the French language. Before heanswered, the scream of a blue jay in the elms outside set my nervesaquiver, and I called for Donald and Walter.

  As I lay there I could see the Aspen hills from the window, heapsof crumpled gold bathed in sunshine. Over them sailed the froth fromthe silken milkweed; over them drifted the big brown-red butterflies,luminous as richest autumn leaves.

  Some one closed the door softly. The doctor had gone.

  The sunlight poured into the window, etching my shadow on the wallbehind. Lying very still there I saw it motionless beside me. _Theshadow was black._

  Somebody said in the next room, "Will he die?"

  "Die?" I said aloud.

  A bird twittered outside my window.

  The door opened again, noiselessly.

  "Sweetheart?" I whispered.

 
; "Yes, Jack."

  After a moment I said, "When do you go back to school?"

  "I? I finished school a year ago."

  "Come nearer."

  "I am here, Jack."

  "Time stopped a year ago."

  "A year ago to-day."

  The same gray eyes, the same face, paler, perhaps.

  "We have journeyed far," I sighed, "always together, but in those daysour shadows were white as snow. Am I going to die? There are tears inyour eyes."

  They fell on my cheek; her arms fell too, closer, closer, around myneck.

  "Life has begun," she said.

  "Life? What was the year that ends to-day? The magic second of life?"

  "A year of death, to me!"

  Ah, but her soul knows of a life in death! And she shall know it,too, when her shadow turns whiter than snow. For the Temple of Idolshas closed its doors at the sound of a voice, and an idol of gilt hasturned to flesh and blood.

  I-ho!

  So shall she know of the life in death when her soul and her body areone.

  PASSEUR.

  O friends, I've served ye food and bed; O friends, the mist is rising wet; Then bide a moment, O my dead, Where, lonely, I must linger yet!