Chapter VII: In Dorothy Harcourt’s Room

It was a large, square, low-ceiled, but light and cheerful room, with two north windows looking out upon a green and shaded lawn, now just beginning to spring and bud with grass and blossoms which leaf and flower in April, and two west windows, opening on a back piazza, beyond which was the bleaching ground, with the laundry and the summer kitchen in the distance.

The four-post bedstead, with its blue chintz curtains, in the corner, between the north and the west windows; the tall chest of drawers, topped by its tall looking-glass, that stood between the two north windows; the two buffets, one on each side of the fireplace—that on the right holding the household medicines and cordials, that on the left the toilet service, which, when in use, was placed upon its top; the deep easy-chair by the side of the bed; the flag and cane armchairs, with their quilted patchwork cushions; last and best, the open wood fire, before which the old lady now sat, with her knitting in her hand.

She wore a rusty black bombazine dress, with a white muslin handkerchief crossed over her breast, and a white net cap with black ribbon, above the plainly parted gray hair.

As soon as she heard the door open she turned quickly around, and, seeing Harcourt, arose, trembling, and tottered to meet him, exclaiming:

“My own dear Will! I am so glad to see you!”

“My dear mother!” he responded, with emotion.

And he caught her in his arms and gently replaced her in the chair from which she had started to receive him.

But for his prompt action she might have sunk to the floor, so weak she seemed, although he had been told she was in such good bodily health. Yes; and very pale and thin she looked, although he had been informed that her appetite was so excellent.

He stooped and kissed her, drew a chair to her side, and sat down and took her hand.

“I am so happy to be with you again, mother. And you are happy here, are you not?” he inquired.

She looked at him strangely for a moment, and then answered:

“Why, of course I am happy here, dear. Why shouldn’t I be so? I have nothing to trouble me but your long absences, and, of course, I know they are necessary, and that you are doing well at the university. It would be very selfish in me to wish to keep you home, especially as I have all the rest of them with me.”

“All the rest!” repeated Harcourt sadly, beginning now, for the first time, to realize the delusion of his mother.

“Yes, dear, they are all here. John did not go to the Naval Academy, as he wished to do, nor Peyton to West Point. The defeat of our party, and the total change of administration prevented their success. And I was not sorry. I would rather have them home, for I am growing old, I am growing very old,” slowly muttered the poor lady.

Harcourt suppressed a groan. He saw that the recent past was totally obliterated from his mother’s mind, which had gone back to the time before the Civil War, and she talked of John and Peyton, both of whom had fallen in battle, and whose bodies filled unknown graves.

“I am so pleased to have you here, my dear; but I do not understand it. This is not vacation time. How is it that you are able to leave the university in the middle of the term?”

While Harcourt was hesitating how to answer this question she put on her spectacles, took a good, deep look at him, and then saved him the trouble of a reply by saying:

“Ah, I see. Yes, I see. You have been studying too hard—overworking yourself, and you have been obliged to come home and take a rest. And you came by the night train, and reached here only this morning, did you not?”

“No, mother; I got here last night.”

“Last night! Why did you not come to me at once?”

“You had retired to bed.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“In your old room at the cabin,” answered Harcourt, thrown off his guard.

“In—my—old—room—in—the—cabin! What on earth do you mean, Will?”

“Oh, I mean, of course, in Martha’s best room in her cabin, where she made me up a bed, so as to prevent me from disturbing the family,” said Harcourt, correcting himself as well as he could.

“Just as if the return of one’s son at any hour of the day or night would or could disturb his family! Where did you get your breakfast?”

“Martha had an excellent breakfast waiting for me in the cabin as soon as I rose in the morning.”

“You should have slept here in your own old room over mine, and have taken your breakfast with the family. Will, do you know it was very eccentric in you to do otherwise? And then, the idea of your saying that you slept in my old room at the cabin! Will, what put such a thing as that in your head, my dear?”

He did not answer promptly. He was thinking what he could say, and resolving to be very cautious in future talks with his mother.

She looked at him very keenly, and then exclaimed:

“Will, I see how it is. You have overworked your poor brain. Your mind is unhinged, Will. You must not go back to the university again until after the summer vacation. You can put off getting your degree for a year or two years. You are young enough to wait, and I will not have you overworking your brain to a dangerous extent. I will speak to your father about it.”

“My—father!” muttered poor Will, thinking of the gallant soldier who fell fighting side by side with heroic Stonewall Jackson.

“Yes. Have you seen your father this morning?”

“No,” said Will.

“Then he must be in the study, with the overseer and the farm books, making out the first quarter of the year; for it is near the first of April, you know.”

“Yes,” said Harcourt helplessly.

“And now, Will, you will have a gay time. The house is full of company. Two of the loveliest girls you ever saw, and two of the pleasantest young men, and a very agreeable married couple. We are, every one of us, charmed with them. And I am very glad you have come to enjoy their company and help to entertain them. I am well, but somehow or other I do not seem to have any strength in my back or limbs, and when I attempt to stand up I feel so uncertain on my feet.”

Poor Will understood this symptom but too well.

“And so you see,” she continued, “I cannot do my part toward entertaining our visitors as I could wish. I have to leave almost everything to the girls and boys. But they are all very happy together, I assure you. Have you seen your brothers and sisters?”

“No, mother,” sadly replied poor Will.

“Well, then, I suppose the boys are in the fields somewhere, and, of course, the girls are with our visitors,” said the old lady, and she spoke so calmly and so naturally that no one unacquainted with the circumstances could possibly have suspected her perfect sanity.

“It seems to me you have grown a great deal since you went to college, Will,” she said, after a pause. Some furtive ray of memory had vaguely suggested that “Will” was a mere boy at the time which her illusions had reproduced, and in which she now lived.

Harcourt knew not what to say better than this:

“You think so, mother?”

“Why, I know so. You are quite a man now. You will be falling in love with some of these pretty girl visitors of mine presently. I wonder where those sisters of yours can be.”

Where they can be? Long ago in the better world, he hoped; but their bodies lay in the churchyard of All Souls’ Parish, at Logwood.

“They are with their visitors, I suppose, and cannot leave; and perhaps they do not know that you are here; for if they did I think they would come running in anyhow—visitors or no visitors. Go find them, dear. They will be so delighted to see you, and they will introduce you to their young lady friends.”

Harcourt got up, kissed the wrinkled forehead of the aged woman, and with a deep sigh left the room, passing into the front parlor.

There he found Martha waiting for him.

“Wot I tell yo’, young marse?” she inquired.

“The truth, Martha, and a very distressing truth,” he sighed.

“Doane yo’ say dat, young marse. Her ’lusions mak’ her so contented. An’ sometimes I doane fink dey’s altogedder ’lusions, nudder.”

“What do you mean, Martha?”

“Sometimes I fink dey is ’bout her, sure ’nough.”

“Martha!”

“Yes, I do, young marse—sometimes! W’y, w’en I year de ole madam talkin’ to de ole marster jus’ as ef he were here p’esen’, I tell yo’ it do gimmy de creeps! I feel like he were dere sure ’nough, on’y I couldn’ see him. Trufe I’m tellin’ yo’ young marse.”

“Martha, you must not give such reins to your imagination.”

“Wot dat yo’ say ’bout yain, young marse?”

“I mean to say you must not think so.”

“Can’t help ob it, sah. Now take tudder day. I was stan’in’ up fo’ my mist’ess, a holdin’ o’ a hank o’ yarn, stretch out ober my han’s, w’en all ob a sudden de ole madam take de hank offen my yists, an’ she say, quiet as yo’ please, de ole mist’ess do:

“‘Dere’s yo’ marster, Marffy. Jaw de yockin-cha’ up to de fire fo’ him.’

“Well, I look youn’, but dere was nobody in de yoom but we two—de ole mist’ess an’ me. An’ she say ’gain:

“‘W’y doane yo’ min’ wot I tell yo’, Marffy, ’oman? Set a cha’ fo’ yo’ marster.’

“Well, sah, I felt icicles meltin’ all ober my skin an’ tricklin’ down my backbone. Use as I were to de ole madam’s queer ’lucinations, my ha’r riz dat time, an’ my teef chattered. I felt jus’ as if a ghose was dere, dough I couldn’ see him. But ole mist’ess look at me stern like, an’ I took an’ push de cha’ up to de fire, an’ ole mist’ess say:

“‘Set yo’ down dere, Everard. Dere, now! Put yo’ feet ter de fire—dat’s yight.’

“An’ den she began talkin’ ter him, an’ axin’ questions, an’ ’peared to fink he answered back, dough I heard no voice but hers, an’ likewise saw nobody but her. An’ p’esently, ’pears like he riz to leab, ’case she say, ole mist’ess did:

“‘W’ere yo’ goin’? Mus’ yo’ go? Oh, well, if yo’ hab all dat to do, of co’se you mus’, but come back soon as yo’ get frough.’

“An’ den, in about de nex’ minute, ole mist’ess say to me:

“‘Marffy, put back yo’ marster’s cha’.’

“Now, young marse, I’d a yudder tetched a live yattlesnake dan dat cha’ w’ere de ghose had set, but I had to do it. So I prayed ef de Lord would spare my life dat time I’d try to be a better ’oman. An’ I push dat cha’ back sort ob gingerly, an’ all my flesh creepin’ offen my bones. An’ yes, young marse, many an’ many’s de time sence dat I hab had to wait on de ghoses, as I couldn’ see! No, I couldn’t see, nor likewise year! Tanks be to goodness fo’ dat much! Fo’ ef I had seed or yeard dem indiwisable fings I should a-drap down dead! I know I should!”

“Martha, there is no reality in all this. They are but the delusions, hallucinations of an infirm brain,” said Harcourt gravely.

“Young marse, yo’ may call ’em ’lusions or ’lucinations, or any fine name yo’ please, an’ so do I—sometimes—but mos’ly I do call ’em by de name I knowed ’em by w’en I was a young ’oman. I calls ’em ghoses. But dere! I mus’ ’liver Missus Wyn’op’s messidge. She tell me to tell yo’, w’en yo’ come out, to come into her yoom an’ see her.”

“Very well, I will go at once,” said the young man; and leaving Martha to rejoin her mistress, who was never left alone, he went directly to Mrs. Wynthrop’s sitting-room.

He found the three tall, fair women employed as they had been on his first call.

They all left work and made him welcome to the fireside.

“How did you find the dear mother?” inquired the elder lady.

“Not so well as I had been led to expect,” said Harcourt with a sigh.

“But, indeed, beyond the weakness of her limbs, due to her one single malady, she has good health. She never suffers in mind or body. She has a good appetite, fine spirits, and she enjoys life oven more than we do, I fancy. Think of that, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Yes—I know—but——”

“But she has her illusions, you mean to say? Well, these illusions never disturb her; they soothe and satisfy her. We should accept them.”

“Is she under medical treatment?”

“Dr. Wall attended her during her severe illness, and Dr. Lathrop was called in as consulting physician when disease of the brain began to develop. Dr. Wall has lately ceased his visits, as unnecessary, but Dr. Lathrop comes two or three times a week. He has retired from practice, but he comes to Mrs. Harcourt, because he is something of a specialist on nerves and brain, and also he comes to her for old neighborhood’s sake.”

“What is his opinion of her condition?”

“He thinks that she requires only tonics, full nutrition, fresh air, and such passive exercise as we can give her. He thinks that she may live many years in this condition, but that her final recovery can scarcely be hoped for.”

Harcourt sighed profoundly, and after some little delay said:

“Will you pardon me, madam, if I venture to speak of business?”

“What a question! Of course, business must be spoken of,” said the kindly but very practical hostess.

“Then—during my mother’s illness there must have been expenses—debts incurred—and——”

“There were expenses, certainly, but there are no debts.”

“I—do not understand.”

“Then let me explain. Margaret here is the medium of correspondence between Mrs. Harcourt and her Washington and Baltimore friends, and this began from her writing a letter for old Moses to his mistress when she was last in Washington.”

“It was very kind of Miss Wynthrop. I heard of it,” said Harcourt.

“Well, she has been in correspondence with a certain lawyer, Amos Merritt, of Washington, who forwards from time to time money for an old debt due by a Baltimorean to your father, and now being paid by installments. The money is sent in checks, made payable to Dorothy Harcourt. She is quite able to write her autograph on the back, and with her indorsement Margaret has got them cashed at the Logwood bank, and has paid doctors’ and druggists’ bills, and also some others. She has all the receipts, if you would like to look at them.”

Harcourt’s face flamed. The idea of his requirement of these receipts from such disinterested benefactors!

“By no means, my dear madam! But since you kindly give me permission, I would like to make some arrangement for my dear mother’s permanent abode with you,” he said.

“Well, talk to Margaret about it. She is my housekeeper, accountant, and everything. Margaret, my dear, take Mr. Harcourt into the office and settle this matter with him. By the time you get through your father and the boys will be in for their dinner.”

“Come, Mr. Harcourt, and see papa’s little office. It used to be called ‘the study,’ but papa never ‘studies,’ he only keeps his farm books there.”

Harcourt followed her out of doors to a little brick building of one room, standing on the lawn in the rear of the irregular house. She opened the door and admitted him. It was a rude place, heated by an iron stove, and furnished with a writing-desk, a book shelf, a table, an armchair and two or three other chairs.

“Mr. Harcourt,” she inquired, when they were seated, “did you know this Mr. Amos Merritt, of Washington?”

“Very slightly,” answered the young man.

“The reason why I asked was this—he seems to be so anxious to find you. In every letter he has written, enclosing checks, he has inquired if we had heard from you. And I must also add that we, too, often returned the question, and asked if he had received news of the missing man; for you were a missing man for months, Mr. Harcourt.”

“I know it; but my dear Miss Wynthrop, I cannot just now fully explain my absence.”

“I do not ask you to do so. Your mother thought that you were at college. She pined to see you, especially at Christmas; but she thought that you remained at college to pursue your studies through the holidays.”

“But you knew better?”

“Of course we did; for I wrote to President Ewell to inquire for you, and learned that you had not been there since last summer.”

“And you did not tell my mother?”

“Oh, no! We could not. We said nothing, but left her to that delusion, as to others.”

“I thank you for that kind consideration. Ah! I have so much to thank you for, Miss Wynthrop!”

“You make me wish there was no such word as ‘thankful.’ I told you this morning that we only pleased ourselves in trying to make Mrs. Harcourt happy.”

“You are angels!”

“Fiddle-de-dee!”

Now, if there be anything that takes a poor fellow down it is “fiddle-de-dee!” Harcourt collapsed. Margaret Wynthrop laughed, and said:

“This is a rude farm office, where accounts are audited, and not a place for sentiment, Mr. Harcourt. I brought you here for the settlement of business.”

“I am at your orders, Miss Wynthrop.”

“First of all, I would ask you if I am liberty to write to Mr. Amos Merritt and end his suspense and anxiety on your account?”

“Most certainly. I have not been in hiding, though I may not now explain the cause of my disappearance. Write, and set the worthy counselor at ease; also set at ease the party behind him, and for whom he acts, for my acquaintance with Mr. Merritt would scarcely account for his personal interest in my affairs.”

“I suspected that there was some friend in the background,” Margaret Wynthrop candidly confessed. “But I cannot conjecture who it may be. Can you?”

“No, I cannot with any reasonable degree of probability,” Harcourt replied.

“Well, I have a check, received this morning, to acknowledge. I will ‘take this opportunity,’ as our grandparents used to write in the beginning of their letters, to let Mr. Merritt and ‘the power behind the throne’ know that you are here. And now,” continued the girl, turning to the writing-desk, unlocking the drawer, and taking from it a sealed envelope, “here are all the receipts for money expended for the benefit of Mrs. Harcourt.”

“I beg that you will keep them. I do not wish to see them,” pleaded the young man.

“But why not? You will hereafter transact your mother’s business.”

“No,” said Harcourt, “I cannot. I must go away again in a very few days. Pray, Miss Wynthrop, continue your work of Christian love. Be still the trustee and guardian of this poor lady, for a time at least. It may not be long,” pleaded Harcourt.

“Why should you think it necessary to be so very emphatic? I shall take pleasure in caring for Mrs. Harcourt just so long as she has need and I have power.”

“Oh! thank you! And continue to expend those checks and the checks that I will send you also, for her necessities, including the cost of her board and lodging, fixing the latter according to your own judgment and pleasure. Oh! I loathe to speak to you of money matters!”

“But why should you dislike to do so? It is necessary. I will do as you wish, and give the result of my figuring before you leave us.”

Margaret Wynthrop drew a small silver watch from her pocket and consulted it.

“It is our dinner hour, and mamma will be waiting. We had better return to the house now,” she said, as she replaced her timepiece. Then she locked the desk and left the room, followed by Harcourt.

As they came toward the rear of the house they saw Martha leave the kitchen, which was a separate building, and enter the back door of Mrs. Harcourt’s room, bearing a well laden dinner tray in her hands.

“Does my mother always take her meals alone?” Harcourt inquired, as they entered the rear door of the hall.

“Yes, always; not only from necessity, but from choice. She is too feeble to sit up at the table, and too disinclined to motion to walk to the dining-room.”

As Margaret spoke the front door opposite to them opened, and Mr. Wynthrop and his eldest son, Silas, entered the hall.

Mr. Wynthrop was a tall, gaunt, dark man, with black hair, cut rather short, and black goatee, both well streaked with silver.

His son was also tall and thin, but fair, like his mother and sisters.

Both men were clothed in rough, serviceable suits of brown cheviot.

On seeing Margaret, and recognizing the visitor who was with her as Harcourt, both men came up with outstretched hands and hearty words of welcome.

“Glad to see you,” spoke both in a breath.

“When did you arrive?” inquired the elder.

“At the Lodge here only this morning,” answered Harcourt.

“Dinner ready, Margaret?” inquired the younger.

“I suppose so, Si. I have just come from the office.”

As she spoke the door of the sitting-room opened, and Mrs. Wynthrop, who had heard the talk, came out with her daughter Elizabeth, and said:

“Yes, dinner is ready; we are only waiting for you.”

They entered the dining-room, which was just in the rear of the sitting-room, and gathered around the table.

Mr. Wynthrop, a churchman of the old Puritanical type, asked a blessing on the feast in a rather long prayer, but when that was over he fell to, helping his guest, his family and himself with more liberality than discretion, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of creature comforts with more than ordinary zeal.

But the meal was not prolonged. Twenty minutes finished it for everybody.

When they left the table Martha came up and said to Harcourt:

“Young marse, de ole madam is axin’ fo’ yo’ ag’in. She seems moughty queer, she do.”

Harcourt immediately followed the woman to his mother’s room.

She was sitting in the same chair, knitting, as before.

“Sit down, Will, my dear. Your father has just gone out. He says that I must cheer up, for I shall soon be well—well enough to leave this room; and Will, he says that he has got a beautiful new home for me, where I shall be sure to grow strong and hearty, and renew my youth. Just think of that, Will!” said the poor lady, with her face beaming.

“I am glad to hear that, mother. Did he tell you where it was?”

“Well, no. I asked him, but he only said it was not far off; it was nearer than I thought; but he said he couldn’t tell me any more about it because he wanted to give me a happy surprise. And—well, I really think he has been building a beautiful house while I have been here. I know I shall get perfectly well again, because your father says so, and I have such faith in his judgment. Where are the young ladies?” she next inquired.

“They have gone into the drawing-room, mother.”

“Well, then, dear, go and make yourself agreeable to them. I shall take a nap. I always do after dinner. You can come to me again when I wake.”

“Let me stay until you fall asleep, mother. I will not disturb you. Will you lie down?”

“No, dear; just lean back and close my eyes. I sleep best in my chair in the daytime,” she answered, as she composed herself for her nap.

Harcourt watched her until she fell asleep. He was anxious to observe her in that state. He saw that she slept calmly, and breathed easily; and then he stole out of the room, found Martha, sent her to stay with her mistress, and then joined the ladies.

Mrs. Wynthrop would not hear of Harcourt leaving the lodge to take up his abode at the cabin, but insisted that he should occupy a spare room just over the parlor chamber tenanted by his mother.

From the day of his arrival at Lone Lodge poor Will Harcourt began to improve in health. Two of the heaviest burdens on his heart were lifted.

Roma had escaped unharmed from Hanson. His mother was happy, comfortable and well cared for. She would never know the black cloud that overshadowed his own future. Those two beloved ones, to save whom from shame and despair he had been driven to do that “deed without a name,” were, at least, safe from injury.

As for himself, he knew that he had never intended to commit a crime; that so far as he was concerned the death of Yelverton was, indeed, a mere accident, yet none the less did it weigh so heavily on his conscience that he felt the only relief for him would be to give himself up to justice and let the law have its will of him. And this he would do so soon as he could do it without wounding others, when his mother would be safe in her heavenly home, when Roma would learn the whole bitter truth and understand and forgive him; then he could face the consequences of his crime and bear the doom of death or the penal servitude that the law would deal out to him, better, much better, than he had borne the weight of a guilty conscience.

So, having settled his plans for the future, and living now for a few days in such an atmosphere of peace, love and light, his health improved and his spirits rose—yes, even against his will and his conscience, his spirits rose—and he was strangely comforted.

His mother noticed his improvement, and expressed her delight.

“See what rest and recreation have done for you, dear Will,” she said, smiling on him as he sat one morning by her chair. “You must not think of going back to college until after the summer vacation is over.”

“Dear mother, I would gladly stay if I might, but I must leave you in a few days. I will, however, come often to see you,” he said, with a responsive smile.

“Ah! what a devoted student you are!” she exclaimed, patting his head. “The one genius of our family. We shall all be very proud of you some day, Will, my boy.”

As he thought of his blighted ambition, and his penal future, he could only smile at her words, as one might smile at stake and faggot.

But he was pleased that she took his proposed departure so pleasantly.

The early spring days passed cheerfully. Mr. Wynthrop and Mr. Silas often drew Harcourt out to go with them to the fields, and often, seeing those two men work with the hired laborers, he would join with them, and take hold heartily of any work that might be going on. The evenings in the parlor, with the kind-hearted, gay-spirited women of the family, were very pleasant, also, though he only joined them when his mother was asleep, or when she bade him go and entertain their “visitors.”

She was never lonesome, for she never seemed to be alone.

Almost every time he went in to see her she had something to tell him about his father, or John, or Peyton, or Caroline, or Ann Eliza, who, one or another, or all, had just been in to see her.

Harcourt had grown so accustomed to these “delusions” that he was no longer shocked by them, but was reconciled to what made the poor lady happy.

Martha, on the contrary, though she had so long borne them, could never get used to them.

“To lib wid ghoses!” she would complain to Harcourt, “to hab ’em all youn’ yo’ day an’ night, to year de ole madam talkin’ an’ laughin’ ’long ob ’em! An’ nebber to see ’em, nor year ’em, but Lor’, I doane wan’ ter do dat! no, sah! But den, not to know how close dey may come to yo’! Oh, Lor’! It’s wusn de feber’n ager! I gets dashes ob ice water an’ flames ob fire ober me—one arter de oder! Ugh! An’ I darsn’t tel de ole madam dey is ghoses, an’ nuffin but ghoses, ’caze she fink dey’s yale, an’ Missus Wyn’op say it might kill her to tell her dat. Ugh! Wot I hab come to in de wenable ole ages ob my pilg’imidge!”

“Bear your burden, Martha, and you will meet your reward,” said the young man.

“I has beared my burden—cheerful! an’ I does bear my burdens—patient! But it ain’t burdens as is turnin’ ob my ha’r w’ite—burdens is nat’rel. It’s ghoses—ghoses wot yo’ can’t see—fank Him fo’ dat much!—nor take hol’ ob, nor turn out, nor likewise do nuffin wid!”

“Well, they wouldn’t hurt you if they could, and they couldn’t hurt you if they would. Besides, you will be a ghost yourself some day.”

“Oh, Lor’, young marse, yo’s bad as dem. Dere! I gwine away.”

Many such talks as these took place between the young man and the old servant.

At last the day came when Harcourt felt that he must leave the pleasant country house, now that it was looking so beautiful in the early April weather, with grass and foliage, all of that tender emerald green only seen in the young spring, with the fruit trees all in blossom, with the hyacinths and daffodils, the tulips and jonquils, all budding in the flower bed; with the lovely crocuses and violets blooming all over the lawn—he must leave all that, and the genial family, and the dear mother, and the comforts of home, and go back to self-imposed servitude. True, Harcourt might have got more congenial employment as a teacher, but he told himself that he was unworthy to become an instructor of youth, and that nothing remained for him but manual labor.

He took leave of all his kind friends, who parted from him with real regret.

He bade a tender good-by to his old mother, who let him go very cheerfully, saying:

“Your father and John say that you ought to go, and must go, and that I must not mind, as they will be with me. So I do not mean to hinder you, my boy.”

“Yes,” said Harcourt sadly, “it is true. I ought to go, and I must go. Good-by, dear mother.”

“God bless you, my good boy!”

So they parted.

Harcourt had intended to walk to Logwood, but when he stepped out upon the piazza he saw the pony carriage before the house, and Margaret Wynthrop, in a coat and hat, on the seat.

“I have to go to do some shopping in Goeberlin, so, if you please, I will drive you there,” she said.

“I thank you very much. But suppose you let me take the reins; would not that be more fitting?” he inquired as he stepped into the carriage.

“As you please. But I am used to driving,” she said as she surrendered the “ribbons.”

That drive up and down hill, through the tender, budding April woods, remained a pleasant episode of life in the memory of Will Harcourt.

When they reached Logwood there was a full hour to spare before the train was due.

“Now,” said Margaret, “will you go around with me on my shopping expedition, or shall you go directly to the depot?”

“To the depot, if you please,” said Harcourt, for he thought that his company might really be an embarrassment to the young woman on such an occasion.

They drove to the little wayside group of sheds that did duty as a depot, and Harcourt got out, thanked the young lady for the lift, took leave of her, and went into the station to buy his ticket and wait for the train.

It promised to be a weary waiting, so he went out and walked up and down the platform for exercise. He had not passed more than twenty minutes in this manner when suddenly he saw Margaret Wythrop driving back toward the station and waving a letter in her hand.

He hastened to meet her.

“It is for you,” she said. “I have just taken it out of the post office. Good-by! good-by!”

She handed the letter, turned the pony’s head, and drove off.

Harcourt glanced at the superscription, reeled, and nearly fell to the ground.

A railway porter caught and steadied him.

“What’s the matter with you, young man? Have you been drinking? No, your breath don’t smell so.”

The porter, holding his arm, guided his steps into the waiting-room.

Harcourt submitted like an automaton.

The porter let him down on a chair and left him. Harcourt stared at the letter that he held fast clutched in his hand.

It was from Roma!

He had recognized her handwriting at a glance, and was overwhelmed by the sight of it.

Now he stared at it in a conflict of emotion—joy, shame, fear—that he should hear from her again, that she should write to him.

But he scarcely dared to open the letter.

What should he find there? Oh, what scorn and hatred—what reproaches and maledictions should he meet? And all so well deserved.

At length, with a desperate resolution, as one who had been compelled to go into fire would take the plunge, he tore open the letter, and read:

“Will, my own dear Will, I have only just this instant learned where you are staying. Come to me at once, my beloved. We cannot reach a mutual understanding by letters. I am just starting for Goblin Hall. Meet me there. Your own

ROMA.”

It was well the waiting-room was empty, that no one might witness the utter breakdown of the young man. He dropped his head upon his hands and burst into a storm of sobs and tears—the first tears that he had shed in the tragedy of his youth.

“It needed but these words,” he wailed, in low tones. “It needed but these words to complete despair. Coals of fire! Coals of fire! Coals of fire!”