Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Everyone was glad that Leclère bossed the raising of the tower. They admitted that he might be _lâche_, but he was assuredly careful. Vaillantcœur alone grumbled, and said the work went too slowly, and even swore that the sockets for the beams were too shallow, or else too deep, it made no difference which. That _bête_ Prosper made trouble always by his poor work. But the friction never came to a blaze; for the _curé_ was pottering about the tower every day and all day long, and a few words from him would make a quarrel go off in smoke.

"_Doucement, mes garçons_," he would say; "work smooth and you work fast. The logs in the river run well when they run all the same way. But when two logs cross each other, on the same rock—psst! a jam! The whole drive is hung up! Do not run crossways, my children."

The walls rose steadily, straight as a steamboat pipe—ten, twenty, thirty, forty feet; it was time to put in the two cross-girders, lay the floor of the belfry, finish off the stonework, and begin the pointed wooden spire. The _curé_ had gone to Quebec that very day to buy the shining plates of tin for the roof, and a beautiful cross of gilt for the pinnacle.

Leclère was in front of the tower putting on his overalls. Vaillantcœur came up, swearing mad. Three or four other workmen were standing about.

"Look here, you Leclère," said he, "I tried one of the cross-girders yesterday afternoon and it wouldn't go. The templet on the north is crooked—crooked as your teeth. We had to let the girder down again. I suppose we must trim it off some way, to get a level bearing, and make the tower weak, just to match your _sacré_ bad work, eh?"

"Well," said Prosper, pleasant and quiet enough, "I'm sorry for that, Raoul. Perhaps I could put that templet straight, or perhaps the girder might be a little warped and twisted, eh? What? Suppose we measure it."

Sure enough, they found the long timber was not half seasoned and had cork-screwed itself out of shape at least three inches. Vaillantcœur sat on the sill of the doorway and did not even look at them while they were measuring. When they called out to him what they had found, he strode over to them.

"It's a dam' lie," he said, sullenly. "Prosper Leclère, you slipped the string. None of your _sacré chicane_! I have enough of it already. Will you fight, you cursed sneak?"

Prosper's face went gray, like the mortar in the trough. His fists clenched and the cords on his neck stood out as if they were ropes. He breathed hard. But he only said three words:

"No! Not here."

"Not here? Why not? There is room. The _curé_ is away. Why not here?"

"It is the house of _le bon Dieu_. Can we build it in hate?"

"_Polisson!_ You make an excuse. Then come to Girard's, and fight there."

Again Prosper held in for a moment, and spoke three words:

"No! Not now."

"Not now? But when, you heart of a hare? Will you sneak out of it until you turn gray and die? When will you fight, little musk-rat?"

"When I have forgotten. When I am no more your friend."

Prosper picked up his trowel and went into the tower. Raoul bad-worded him and every stone of his building from foundation to cornice, and then went down the road to get a bottle of cognac.

An hour later he came back breathing out threatenings and slaughter, strongly flavored with raw spirits. Prosper was working quietly on the top of the tower, at the side away from the road. He saw nothing until Raoul, climbing up by the ladders on the inside, leaped on the platform and rushed at him like a crazy lynx.

"Now!" he cried, "no hole to hide in here, rat! I'll squeeze the lies out of you."

He gripped Prosper by the head, thrusting one thumb into his eye, and pushing him backward on the scaffolding.

Blinded, half-maddened by the pain, Prosper thought of nothing but to get free. He swung his long arm upward and landed a fearful blow on Raoul's face that dislocated the jaw; then twisting himself downward and sideways, he fell in toward the wall. Raoul plunged forward, stumbled, let go his hold, and pitched out from the tower, arms spread, clutching the air.

Forty feet straight down! A moment—or was it an eternity?—of horrible silence. Then the body struck the rough stones at the foot of the tower with a thick, soft dunt, and lay crumpled up among them, without a groan, without a movement.

When the other men, who had hurried up the ladders in terror, found Leclère, he was peering over the edge of the scaffold, wiping the blood from his eyes, trying to see down.

"I have killed him," he muttered, "my friend! He is smashed to death. I am a murderer. Let me go. I must throw myself down!"

They had hard work to hold him back. As they forced him down the ladders he trembled like a poplar.

But Vaillantcœur was not dead. No; it was incredible—to fall forty feet and not be killed—they talk of it yet all through the valley of the Lake St. John—it was a miracle! But Vaillantcœur had broken only a nose, a collar-bone, and three ribs—for one like him that was but a _bagatelle_. A good doctor from Chicoutimi, a few months of nursing, and he would be on his feet again, almost as good a man as he had ever been.

It was Leclère who put himself in charge of this.

"It is my affair," he said—"my fault! It was not a fair place to fight. Why did I strike? I must attend to this bad work."

"_Mais, sacré bleu!_" they answered, "how could you help it? He forced you. You did not want to be killed. That would be a little too much."

"No," he persisted, "this is my affair. Girard, you know my money is with the _notaire_. There is plenty. Raoul has not enough, perhaps not any. But he shall want nothing—you understand—nothing! It is my affair, all that he needs—but you shall not tell him—no! That is all. _C'est fini!_"

Prosper had his way. But he did not see Vaillantcœur after he was carried home and put to bed in his cabin. Even if he had tried to do it, it would have been impossible. He could not see anybody. One of his eyes was entirely destroyed. The inflammation spread to the other, and all through the autumn he lay in his house, drifting along the edge of blindness, while Raoul lay in his house slowly getting well.

The _curé_ went from one house to the other, but he did not carry any messages between them. If any were sent one way they were not received. And the other way, none were sent. Raoul did not speak of Prosper; and if one mentioned his name, Raoul shut his mouth and made no answer.

To the _curé_, of course, it was a distress and a misery. To have a hatred like this unhealed, was a blot on the parish; it was a shame, as well as a sin. At last—it was already winter, the day before Christmas—the _curé_ made up his mind that he would put forth one more great effort.

"Look you, my son," he said to Prosper, "I am going this afternoon to Raoul Vaillantcœur to make the reconciliation. You shall give me a word to carry to him. He shall hear it this time, I promise you. Shall I tell him what you have done for him, how you have cared for him?"

"No, never," said Prosper, "you shall not take that word from me. It is nothing. It will make worse trouble. I will never send it."

"What then?" said the priest. "Shall I tell him that you forgive him?"

"No, not that," answered Prosper, "that would be a foolish word. What would that mean? It is not I who can forgive. I was the one who struck hardest. It was he that fell from the tower."

"Well, then, choose the word for yourself. What shall it be? Come, I promise you that he shall hear it. I will take with me _M. le Notaire_, and the good man Girard, and the little Marie Antoinette. You shall hear an answer. What message?"

"_Mon père_," said Prosper, slowly, "you shall tell him just this. I, Prosper Leclère, ask Raoul Vaillantcœur that he will forgive me for not fighting with him on the ground when he demanded it."

Yes, the message was given in precisely those words. Marie Antoinette stood within the door, Bergeron and Girard at the foot of the bed, and the _curé_ spoke very clearly and firmly. Vaillantcœur rolled on his pillow and turned his face away. Then he sat up in bed, grunting a little with the pain in his shoulder, which was badly set. His black eyes snapped like the eyes of a wolverine in a corner.

"Forgive?" he said, "no, never. He is a coward. I will never forgive!"

A little later in the afternoon, when the rose of sunset lay on the snowy hills, some one knocked at the door of Leclère's house.

"_Entrez!_" he cried. "Who is there? I see not very well by this light. Who is it?"

"It is me," said 'Toinette, her cheeks rosier than the snow outside, "nobody but me. I have come to ask you about that new carriage—do you remember?"

IV

The voice in the canoe behind me ceased. The rain let up. The _slish_, _slish_ of the paddle stopped. The canoe swung sideways to the breeze. I heard the rap, rap, rap of a pipe on the gunwale, and the scratch of a match on the under side of the thwart.

"What are you doing, Ferdinand?"

"I go to light the pipe, M'sieu'."

"Is the story finished?"

"But yes—but no—I know not, M'sieu'. As you will."

"But what did old Girard say when his daughter broke her engagement and married a man whose eyes were spoiled?"

"He said that Leclère could see well enough to work with him in the store."

"And what did Vaillantcœur say when he lost his girl?"

"He said it was a cursed shame that one could not fight a blind man."

"And what did 'Toinette say?"

"She said she had chosen the bravest man in Abbéville."

"And Prosper—what did he say?"

"M'sieu', I know not. He spoke only to 'Toinette."

"THE PLAY'S THE THING"

By Albert White Vorse

ILLUSTRATED BY W. GLACKENS

Beatrice was making an angel. She had lifted down the Princess Angelica from the hook whence her royal highness had been suspended since her death a few weeks before, had removed the royal crown and the royal legs, and was turning the royal robe into celestial drapery. Beatrice's conception of a heavenly garment was a white morning wrapper gathered at the bottom, so that when the angel soared head downward—as angels do—its clothes could not fall over its face. Beside Beatrice, who was seated on the floor, lay a pair of wings constructed of muslin tacked upon thin sticks; and about her feet writhed long wires designed to support the angel that evening in its visitation to her father's Italian marionette theatre.

It was behind the scenes that I was waiting for her father to come in; and meanwhile I lounged upon the helpers' bench and enjoyed the quaintness of the place.

Lighted by an irresolute gas-jet, the space between the back-drop and the rear wall of the theatre was a chaos of strange objects. Beside me, upon the bench, lay the book of the play—a collection of those legends of Charlemagne's court, descended from the _Chansons de gestes_, which have been so dear to Italian poets and are still so dear to the Italian people. Each afternoon the manager read over the adventure to be presented in the evening. When the curtain rose he took his stand in the wings and declaimed lines extemporized to fit the situations. The helpers, from their places upon the high bench, leaned over the back-drop, swung the marionettes upon the stage by means of long rods running down through the heads of the figures, and by means of other rods and of strings caused the mock men and women to make gestures and to fight. That was a task which told upon heads as well as hands; for the helpers were bound, not only to make the figures walk—no light labor, for each puppet weighed seventy pounds—but also to make them express the sentiment of every speech as it fell from Pietro's lips. Many times had I tried to handle a marionette and as often had failed; and I looked with respect upon the row of little creatures hung about the walls from a rack. They were dight in the panoply of knighthood. At my left shone the brass armor of the Christianos. The right was brilliant with the party-colored robes and turbans and the glowering faces of dusky infidels. The corners were piled high with heterogeneous properties; bright silks, bits of armor, shields, swords. From the right-hand heap protruded a ghastly leg, lopped from a Christian. The summit of the opposite heap was the grinning head of a dragon which had met death a few nights before in terrible battle with Orlando.

The dragon's body was a comfortable support for Beatrice's back. Of her face, bent over her work, I could see only an obstinate little olive-colored chin, two faintly red cheeks, and two straight black brows. Her hair hung over ears and shoulders and fell in dusky tangles upon a green silk waist. Ordinarily, Italian girls begin early in life to use hairpins.

"How old are you, Beatrice?" I asked.

The girl looked up and opened wide a pair of great tawny eyes.

"How old, Signore?" she repeated, in her low, husky voice. "Fifteen-a. Nex' moont' I s'all be sixteen-a."

"So old!" I commented. "Almost a woman. You'll be having a sweetheart soon; and what will your father do when he wants an angel?"

Again I saw of Beatrice only a veil of hair and a hand rapidly plying to and fro.

"No, Signore," she murmured from behind her screen. "I am not enough old-a. I s'all nevair marry. Who would tak-a me?"

"Anselmo?" I suggested.

I caught a gleam of the tawny eyes through the hair.

"I do not tink of 'im!" she expostulated.

"The other helper, then. What's his name? Giuseppe?"

Beatrice ceased to sew, tossed her hair away from her face, and shook her head slowly. The pink in her cheeks had deepened, but her luminous eyes gazed straight into mine.

"Signore," she said, impressively, "I ask-a to credit me. I do not tink of eit'er of desa men."

I found myself abashed, as if I had been making light of sacred things.

"I beg your pardon, Beatrice," I stammered. "It's not my business, of course. I'm sorry I spoke of it."

Without making reply she bent over her work again. For some moments she sewed, while I chid myself for suggesting romance to a sensible child.

Rapid steps beat upon the stairs outside, and Beatrice's father hurried into the little den.

"Beatrice," he called, sharply, in his own language, "go thou to the ticket-office. It is the hour of admittance for the people. I will finish the angel."

The girl dropped her needle and sped out through the door. The manager slammed it behind her, turned toward me, drew up his shoulders, and raised his eyes toward heaven.

"May the saints aid me to make righteous that child!" he exclaimed. "Both of my helpers came to me to-day to ask her in marriage. She promised herself to both last night."

II

It so happened that a year elapsed before I visited the theatre again. During that time I had fallen in love with the most charming girl in the world. In my college days I had patronized her young-maiden adoration; but when she came home, after three years of travel, the most self-possessed, as well as the most beautiful of women, the adoration and the indifference exchanged places. All I seemed to win from her was good-comradeship and confidence; and they were due to the friend of her childhood.

She had travelled with her mother, whose delight was picture-galleries, court-balls, and dinners at embassies. Of unconventional life, Deborah had seen nothing, and she listened eagerly to my descriptions of nooks and corners in New York.

One day her mother yielded. Deborah might go through the foreign quarter with me, if I would promise not to bring her into danger from men or germs.

For our first expedition I chose the Italian theatre. It was safe, picturesque, unique. We drove to the door in a hansom, and I instructed the driver to call for us at eleven o'clock.

As we entered the tiny foyer my companion murmured a little "Ah!" of delight. The walls had been decorated by the manager himself with wonderful pictures of kings, queens, knights, and ladies. The colors were green, red, and white, because those were the paints Pietro had on hand. Upon one side Orlando and Olliviero were fighting their famous duel in the presence of Charlemagne and his gorgeous court. Pietro's admiration was for legs. Those of Orlando had muscles unknown to anatomists, and those of his cousin were big enough for two Ollivieros.

While Deborah was trembling with pleasure in this work of art, I heard the latch of the ticket-office door click, and, turning, saw Beatrice. She stood upon the threshold, gazing not at me but at Deborah. In a year she had grown tall. Her hair was coiled upon her neck, and her eyes seemed to be deeper and tawnier than ever.

"What a pretty child!" exclaimed my companion.

"It's Beatrice," I answered. "How do you do, little girl? How is Pietro?"

"My father is well," replied the girl; but her scrutiny still rested upon my companion's face and yellow hair. Under this inspection Deborah was flushing, and I hastened to end it.

"This is Miss Speedwell, Beatrice." I said. "She has come with me to see the play. You must give us good seats."

Beatrice touched Deborah's glove with a soiled paw, and, without a word of reply, led the way through the door of the theatre and along the aisle.

We had arrived early, and the theatre was empty. The place was fascinating enough, but I noticed that my companion, who was commonly both curious and self-reliant, followed me closely.

"What a beautiful, strange child," she whispered.

"H—m! child!" I said to myself, and fell to musing upon my last visit to the theatre.

"Beatrice," I asked, "are you married yet?"

"No, Signore," answered the girl, without turning her head.

"What has become of Anselmo?" I went on.

"He is 'ere. 'E is our helper."

"And Giuseppe?"

"'E is 'ere. My father cood not-a get better helpers. Why dey go away?"

This I could not answer. Beatrice had a way of making me shamefaced.

"Dese are your seats," she said, pausing at the third row of settees. "Now I begga to pardon, I must go to my father."

"But you'll come back, won't you, Beatrice?" I asked. "We have forgotten some of our Italian, and we need you to interpret for us—just as you used to interpret for me."

This attempt to establish old-time relations fell flat. Beatrice replied, "Yes, Signore," in calm tones, and left us. When she had closed the door, Deborah drew a long breath.

"I'm glad she's gone," said Deborah. "She made me feel uncanny."

"Nonsense," I laughed. "She's only a queer little girl. Look at Pietro's paintings; they are more wholesome."

The dingy little theatre had once been a stable. Pietro had turned the loft into a gallery, with tiers of benches receding high into the gloom. He had cut off the stall-room with a wooden proscenium. Upon it twined a mastodon of a vine, the like of which no botanist ever beheld. The toy curtain bore, upon its forty-eight square feet of canvas, a representation of a Roman triumph that would have insured Pietro's admission into any Academy with a sense of humor.

It cheered Deborah amazingly, and the audience, which burst in at eight o'clock, caused her to clasp her hands. It was chiefly composed of men—laborers, chestnut venders, and bootblacks, with swarthy skins, gleaming eyes, and gleaming teeth. They rushed, shouting, down the single aisle, sprang over settees, scrambled and pushed to win the seats nearest the stage. In three minutes the theatre was a bewilderment of bobbing heads and active hands, and a tumult of voices and laughter. Not a seat was vacant except those upon our settee. The Italians had respected the presence of strangers. The men in front of us and on either hand turned about to greet the American lady and to smile a welcome.

Deborah returned every smile and every bow. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

"How nice they are! How polite!" she exclaimed. Presently she laid a clinging hand upon my arm.

"How can I ever thank you," she whispered, "for bringing me here!"

I tried to tell her by a look, but her attention was not for me.

"See," she went on, "see the faun!"

A slender boy appeared in the proscenium doorway. His hair clustered about deep red cheeks, and his great dark eyes looked mournfully over the house. I fancied he was seeking someone. The audience hailed him with applause and he descended two or three steps to the street-piano, which served as orchestra, and began to turn the crank. Deborah started, raised eyebrows of dismay, and pressed her hands over her ears. Never before had she heard the Intermezzo from Cavalleria rendered by a street-piano in a twenty by forty foot room.

Beatrice, appearing at my side, evidently perceived the gesture. Her face turned crimson and she drew herself up proudly.

"Gaiterno!" she called, "stop that noise."

The boy paused, and, still bent over at the lower curve of his stroke, turned an astonished face toward us. The chatter from the seats hushed.

"Stop the music," repeated Beatrice, imperiously.

A grumble sounded in the rear and increased from seat to seat until it was a growl. The corners of Beatrice's mouth curled up like those of an angry cat. She wheeled about and stamped her foot.

"Silence, pigs!" she screamed.

The tumult fell away. For a moment the girl stood poised as if ready to spring, and then turned, and, in the hush passed beyond us to a seat at Deborah's farther side. My companion shrank slightly toward me and once more laid a hand upon my arm. Her face was turned toward Beatrice, whose color had died down and whose eyes were perfectly indifferent.

The raising of the curtain put an end to the strain. The audience, forgetting their disappointment, bent excited faces toward the stage, and so, after a few moments, did Deborah.

I fear I was an inattentive spectator. I dared not move lest I should disturb that precious touch upon my arm, and the eager face before me I found a sight more fascinating than the absurd gestures of puppets. But presently, beyond Deborah's face appeared Beatrice's, and a certain self-consciousness in its expression took my notice. The girl's lips were pressed together and her eyes were directed sternly toward the stage, but it was evidently with an effort that she held them thus. A glance about the theatre gave me the clew. The faun by the street-piano was looking full at her, with such a face of adoration as I had read of but never beheld. It was pathetic, but it was funny as well, and I laughed. Glances of scorn from Deborah and Beatrice punished me, and Deborah transferred the hand to her lap.

"Do you understand what is going on?" I whispered. "The scene is in the court of the Soldan of Africa. That trembling creature is an envoy from Carlo Magno, come to demand the Soldan's surrender. The play, you know, is six months long. Each adventure takes up one night."

Here Deborah pointed a monitory finger toward the stage, and I shrugged my shoulders in silence.

Indeed the drama had reached a crisis. The Soldan had committed the envoy to a dungeon. While the prisoner grovelled upon the floor, in stalked the Soldan with the haughty stride, achieved by marionettes only. In his hand he bore a sword.

"The hour of thy choice is come," announced the infidel. "Renounce thy faith. Acknowledge the true God and Mahomet his prophet and thou goest free. If thou refuse, this shall be thy last moment on earth."

Many visits to the theatre had prepared me for the sound of indrawn breaths on every side. Deborah glanced curiously around her, but instantly turned again to the scene. The Christian had struggled to his feet.

"Never!" he said in feeble tones. "I can die, but I cannot be false to my faith."

The Pagan raised his sword.

"Dog of a Christian, die!" he roared, and cut the captive down.

"_Infame! infame!_" screamed the audience. Settees scraped, shoes pounded, and men sprang to their feet. About us was a hurly-burly of brandished fists, glaring eyes, snarling lips, flashing teeth. Apples, bananas, split peas, and I thought a knife or two, hurtled toward the stage. Deborah uttered a little scream and started up.

The curtain, falling swiftly, shut off the craven monarch from this just indignation, and instantly the raging mob turned into an assemblage of light-hearted citizens, laughing, chaffing, tossing up their heads to drink beer out of bottles or oval tin pails.

Deborah understood, and a smile curved her lips, but her eyes were wide and deep with recent fright.

"Isn't it amazing?" I ventured.

"Yes!" she agreed, faintly. "It's—it's Elizabethan. I wish we Americans could take our theatre as seriously. I don't wonder, though, that they were excited. I was a little under the spell myself. I could easily fancy that those dolls were alive."

"Look at Beatrice," I suggested.

The girl had not yet recovered her composure. Her hands were clinched and her breath came deep and fast. Deborah eyed her sympathetically.

"It seems very real, doesn't it, my dear?" said Deborah.

Beatrice turned upon her.

"It _is_-a r-real!" she exclaimed. "It was-a te-r-_rue_! 'E did kill-a da Christiano. It was long ago. You are-a cold, you Americani!"

"Come, come, Beatrice," I interposed. "You must not speak like that to Miss Speedwell. Take us to your father at once. I shall tell him that you are a naughty girl."

III

In the little enclosure behind the scenes Pietro gave us a welcome that raised a lump in my throat.

"Old friend!" he exclaimed, in his pure Tuscan. "Why have you left us lonely so long? The theatre has not been a satisfaction without you. No one understands it as you do."

As I shook his hand I noted that his dark eyes had dulled over, and that anxiety had cut a wrinkle between his white old brows.

"I am making amends," I answered. "I am bringing someone who will comprehend your art as well as I."

"This lady! You are married, then. It is well."

Deborah turned away, and though I hastened to explain, I felt a thrill of joy. She was not carrying off an embarrassing situation with her wonted lightness.

"No, no, only an old friend," I said. "I am not married. Deborah, let me introduce Pietro. He is a true artist. He might be making himself rich by taking his daughter and a street-piano to the restaurants, but he prefers to stick to his art and to live on a little."

Pietro's face fell.

"It is not altogether that," he said. "It is true that I love the drama. But also I do not find that it is good for Beatrice to go where there are people who look on."

I looked a question at him.

"Would not the lady like to handle a marionette?" replied the manager. "It is the beginning of knowledge about our drama. Anselmo, show the lady how to manage the figures."

As Anselmo led Deborah away, a change in the room, of which I had been dimly aware, insisted upon my full attention. A high wooden partition divided the helpers' bench into two parts.

"What is that for, Pietro?" I exclaimed.

The old man drew a heavy sigh.

"It is Beatrice," he explained. "She has bewitched my two helpers. They cannot meet without blows. So I have arranged that each remains upon his own side of the room. Anselmo handles the Christians; Giuseppe the Moslems. I have made high the boards, so that they cannot meet upon the bench."

"So-o-o," I whistled. I ran over in my mind Pietro's anxious face, Beatrice's cool reply to my question about the helpers, and the pleading gaze of the faun.

"Who is the boy at the piano?" I asked.

"Gaiterno? He is her cousin. He worships her. It would be a good match, but she will not listen to him. He is not strong enough, she says."

"The little coquette!" I commented.

"Ah, Signore, it is not that!" sighed Pietro. "It is the play. The play is in her head. Life to her is the play. She holds herself to be a princess. Strong men love her, she thinks. She says she will smile upon no one who is not as strong as Rinaldo. Listen, Signore. This is what I saw when I made entrance here three days ago. My two helpers, with the shields and the swords of Orlando and Rinaldo, fought, while Beatrice, with the crown of Angelica upon her head, sat upon the throne of Carlo Magno, and urged them on."

The old man's arms were flourishing, and his eyes were bright.

"I made Anselmo to go away upon the instant," he went on; "but Beatrice, she made a threat that she would elope with him. What could I do? I am an old man. She is my only child. You see—he is still here."

The fire in his eyes went out, his head sank upon his breast, and his hands fell to his sides. I grasped one of them in mine.

The old man returned my grasp bravely, and tried to smile.

"It is sad, is it not, my friend," he said, "that my art should have brought this misfortune upon me!"

Deborah's laughter gurgled down from the bench. Evidently she was in difficulties with her marionettes. An idea came to me.

"Wait for me one minute," I said. "Perhaps Miss Speedwell can help us."

"It is time to raise the curtain," answered Pietro. "You are a good friend. I go to my work with an uplifted heart."

I hastened to the steps at the end of the bench. As I turned to mount them, I felt a hand upon mine, and found Beatrice beside me.

"You lofe-a her!" declared the child, solemnly.

The thought that I carried my heart upon my sleeve annoyed me.

"Beatrice," I exclaimed, "you must learn not to be silly. You are too young to think of such things."

"You not-a say dat once," returned Beatrice, reproachfully; and the recollection of my indiscreet chaffing added to my annoyance. I hurried away, doubtful of my plan. But my kind-hearted companion received it eagerly.

"Ask her to visit us in the country? Of course I will!" she exclaimed, when I had told the story.

During the next act we sat upon one of the heaps of properties, still piled in the corners, and arranged Beatrice's future. We constituted ourselves god and goddess _ex machinâ_ to make a noble woman of the little girl. She was to spend a whole summer face to face with nature, at Deborah's father's pet stock-farm. There she would forget plays and learn to milk cows and to cook. Perhaps, at the end of the season, Gaiterno might be asked to visit her. The wooing of the faun and the maiden amid Colonel Speedwell's groves appealed to Deborah's sense of the picturesque. What appealed to me was the provision in the plan that I should run down every Sunday to watch the progress of education.

Plotting was a very pleasant occupation, and we both started at the thunder of applause and the trampling of feet outside. The play was over—the audience was going home. I rose to my feet reluctantly, and I hoped that I detected in Deborah's deliberation a willingness to linger. While she was watching the helpers, as they hung Orlando and his comrades upon the rack, Pietro came to bid us good-night. Beatrice followed him as far as the doorway. I did not think it best that her good fortune should be revealed to her as yet, and while Deborah was laying it before her father, I asked the child to see if my cab was ready. She drew herself up resentfully, but sulked away. After a long time she returned with word that no cab was in sight.

"No cab?" I asked, in astonishment.

I stumbled through the door, and down half a dozen steps and ran along the passage that led to the street. Beatrice had told the truth. No cab was in sight. Indeed the street was vacant. A March rain had begun to fall, driving everyone indoors and making a mirror of the pavement. It flashed to me the lights of an electric car crossing the street half a dozen blocks away.

"She'd get fearfully wet," I mused, "and her mother would put a stopper on trips."

While I was searching my brains for an expedient, Pietro came running down the hallway.

"Have no care, my good friend," he panted. "Beatrice has told me of cabs at the ferry. It is but a dozen squares. I go to order a cab. Go you to your kind lady."

Greatly relieved, I returned behind the scenes. In the hall I passed Anselmo, and wondered why Beatrice had not sent him instead of her father forth into the wet; but I reflected that perhaps relations between the girl and her lovers might be strained. Thanks for her thoughtfulness were on my lips as I opened the door. They were never spoken, however. Beatrice stood by the partition, alone. Her hair, loosed from its knot, hung wild about her shoulders. Her arms were folded across her breast. One foot was planted forward, and I saw under it Deborah's fur cape.

"Beatrice!" I exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter with you? Where is Miss Speedwell?"

The girl stretched forth both arms toward me.

"You list-a me," she said. "You tink she lof-a you. It is not. It is I! I lof-a you. I 'ave lof-a you one year. You come one year ago—I lof-a you."

Anxiety for Deborah overcame my bewilderment. I stamped my foot upon the stage.

"Stop this nonsense, Beatrice," I commanded. "What are you talking about? Where is Miss Speedwell? Tell me at once!"

The girl thrust a hand into the bosom of her dress.

"You cast-a me off?" she declaimed. "Den I tell you. Nevair s'all you see 'er again. I desire dat you s'all-a not. It is me dat 'ave ordered da cabba away. It is me dat 'ave pris-oned 'er w'ere you s'all nevair coome. I hate 'er. Dis is for dem who betr-r-rays an' not care!"

She plucked the hand from her dress and lifted it high. It held a villanous little stiletto.

Of that moment I can never think, nowadays, without laughing. But at the time I had no appreciation of absurdities. I sent a hasty searching glance about the enclosure. Beyond Beatrice was a door, and I thought I heard the sound of muffled sobs behind it. I sprang forward. On the way I brushed Beatrice aside, heard a scream, and felt a hot streak upon my arm; but I was beyond caring for that. A stroke of my foot burst the lock of the door, and in another instant I was holding my sweetheart in my arms.

A hurry of footsteps upon the stairs opposite startled us. The two helpers, the little faun and another Italian boy rushed through the door. Beatrice sprang to meet them. The dagger was still in her hand, and her eyes were two yellow suns.

"Seize him!" she shrieked. "He has stolen away my father—who knows where? Me, he has betrayed! Revenge my wrong!"

But Beatrice was not vouchsafed the spectacle of a combat in her honor. When I am thoroughly roused I act promptly, and I am not a feeble man. I snatched my arm from Deborah's waist, seized from the rack the nearest marionette and sent it flying among Beatrice's lovers. It struck Anselmo fairly in the chest and laid him low. Fortunately it was a lady figure and could hardly have hurt him seriously, but it smothered him with skirts and hampered him with strings. The other Italians watched his struggles for an instant, and as I made a stride forward, turned and ran as if the _Pagani_ themselves had been after them.

I snatched Deborah's cape from the floor, lifted my sweetheart herself, and sped with her to the street. Once out of doors, I let her find her own feet, and we skurried on through the driving rain. It was a bedraggled maiden that boarded the electric car with me, but her eyes were bright and her spirits were firm; she had even the courage to laugh over the adventure.

"The dreadful little creature!" said Deborah. "She told me I should find you outside that door, and that she would bring my cape. But when I had opened the door, she pushed me through and locked it after me. I knew you would come; but it was dark in there, and I—I think there were rats."

She bent to examine the edge of her waist, which did not in the least need attention.

"You—you are very strong and brave, Harry," she murmured.

IV

That evening won my cause. For reasons not pertaining to this story, our wedding was hastened. The month of preparation was busy, and I am ashamed to say that I forgot Pietro and his trouble. Deborah, who never forgets anything, arranged for Beatrice's invitation to the farm.

During our three years of honeymoon abroad we spoke almost daily of the child and her father. A message from the farmer asking why his guest had not appeared excited further our curiosity; and when we returned to New York I devoted my first unengaged evening to a visit at the theatre. My wife preferred to remain at home.

The paintings in the foyer were a little dingy; otherwise the place seemed unchanged. I rapped upon the door of the ticket-office.

A woman with a baby in her arms answered my clamor. Her figure was thick and clumsy, and her clothes were baggy. After a moment of scrutiny she shifted the baby to her left arm and extended a pudgy hand.

"Welcome, Signore," she said, in a husky voice. I stared at her face. Her cheeks had encroached upon her eyes, but the depths gleamed yellow.

"Beatrice!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, Signore," she replied. "You not-a know? I am grow up. I am marry."

"So I supposed," I stammered. "Ah—when did it——?"

"Two year ago. More. My 'usband, 'e is inside. Giovanni, come 'ere."

An undersized man shuffled into the foyer. His legs wavered, and one shoulder was higher than the other.

"'E is tail'. 'E maka da clo'," said Beatrice, proudly. "We 'ave r-roon off, toget'er. My father, 'e is so good; 'e' ava pardon. We live all toget'er. My father lof-a da _bambino_. You will see da play? Giovanni, show de signore da good seat. No, no! No taka da ten centa."

FINIS

THE SPECTRE IN THE CART

By Thomas Nelson Page

I had not seen my friend Stokeman since we were at college together, longer ago than it was pleasant to think of, and now naturally we fell to talking of old times. I remembered him as a hard-headed man without a particle of superstition, if such a thing be possible in a land where we are brought up on superstition, from the bottle. He was at that time full of life and of enjoyment of whatever it brought. I found now that gravity had taken the place of the gayety for which he was then noted, and that his wild and almost reckless spirits had been tempered by the years which had passed as I should not have believed possible; for his career had been an unbroken success, and he appeared to have proved in his own case his old tenet, so arrogantly asserted, that no difficulty could exist which a man's intellect could not overcome.

He used to maintain, I remember, that there was no apparition or supernatural manifestation, or series of circumstances pointing to such a manifestation, however strongly substantiated they appeared to be, that could not be explained on purely natural grounds. And he was wont to say that he regretted that he had not followed my profession: Medicine instead of the Law, that he might study and explain all such phenomena, and show the folly of all contrary theories.

During our stay at college a somewhat notable instance of what was by many supposed to be a supernatural manifestation occurred in a deserted house on a remote plantation in an adjoining county.

It baffled all investigation, and got into the newspapers, recalling the Cock Lane ghost, and many more less celebrated apparitions. Parties were organized to investigate it, but were baffled. Stokeman, on a bet of a box of cigars, volunteered to go out alone and explode the fraud; and did so, not only putting the restless spirit to flight, but capturing it and dragging it into town as the physical and indisputable witness both of the truth of his theory and of his personal courage. The exploit gave him immense notoriety in our little world.

I was, therefore, now during my visit to him no little surprised to hear him say seriously that he had come to understand how people saw apparitions.

"I have seen them myself," he added, gravely.

"You do not mean it?" I sat bolt upright in my chair in my astonishment. I had myself, largely through his influence, become a skeptic in matters relating to the supernatural.

"Yes, I have seen ghosts. They not only have appeared to me, but were as real to my ocular vision as any other external physical object which I saw with my eyes."

"Of course it was an hallucination. Tell me; I can explain it."

"I explained it myself," he said, dryly. "But it left me with a little less conceit and a little more sympathy with the hallucinations of others not so gifted."

It was a fair hit.

"In the year ——," he went on, after a brief period of reflection, "I was the State Attorney for my native county, to which office I had been elected a few years after I left college, and the year we emancipated ourselves from carpet-bag rule, and I so remained until I was appointed to the bench. I had a personal acquaintance, pleasant or otherwise, with every man in the county. The district was a close one, and I could almost have given the census of the population. I knew every man who was for me and almost every one who was against me. There were few neutrals. In those times much hung on the elections. There was no borderland. Men were either warmly for you or hotly against you.

"We thought we were getting into smooth water, where the sailing was clear, when the storm suddenly appeared about to rise again. In the canvass of that year the election was closer than ever and the contest hotter.

"Among those who went over when the lines were thus sharply drawn was an old darky named Joel Turnell, who had been a slave of one of my nearest neighbors, Mr. Eaton, and whom I had known all my life as an easy-going, palavering old fellow with not much principle, but with kindly manners and a likable way. He had always claimed to be a supporter of mine, being one of the two or three negroes in the county who professed to vote with the whites.

"He had a besetting vice of pilfering, for which I had once or twice defended and got him off, and he appeared to be grateful to me. I always doubted him a little; for I believed he did not have force of character enough to stand up against his people, and he was a great liar. Still, he was always friendly with me, and used to claim the emoluments and privileges of such a relation. Now, however, on a sudden, in this campaign he became one of my bitterest opponents. I attributed it to the influence of a son of his, named Absalom, who had gone off from the county during the war when he was only a youth, and had stayed away for many years without anything being known of him, and who had now returned unexpectedly, and thrown himself into the fight. He claimed to have been in the army, and he appeared to have a deep-seated animosity against the whites, particularly against all those whom he had known in boyhood. He was a vicious-looking fellow, broad-shouldered, and bow-legged, with a swagger in his gait. He had an ugly scar on the side of his throat, evidently made by a knife, though he told the negroes, I understood, that he had got it in the war, and was ready to fight again if he but got the chance. He had not been back long before he was in several rows, and as he was of brutal strength, he began to be much feared by the negroes. Whenever I heard of him it was in connection with some fight among his own people, or some effort to excite race animosity. When the canvass began he flung himself into it with fury, and I must say with marked effect. His hostility appeared to be particularly directed against myself, and I heard of him in all parts of the district declaiming against me. The Negroes who, for one or two elections had appeared to have quieted down and become indifferent as to politics were suddenly revivified and showed more feeling than I personally had ever known them to show. It looked as if the old scenes of the Reconstruction period, when the two sides were like hostile armies, might be witnessed again. Night meetings, or 'camp-fires,' were held all through the district, and from all of them came the report of Absalom Turnell's violent speeches stirring up the blacks and arraying them against the whites. Our side was equally aroused and the whole section was in a ferment. Our effort was to prevent any outbreak and tide over the crisis.

"Among my friends was a farmer named John Halloway, one of the best men in my county, and a neighbor and friend of mine from my boyhood. His farm, a snug little homestead of fifty or sixty acres, adjoined our plantation on one side; and on the other, that of the Eatons, to whom Joel Turnell and his son Absalom had belonged, and I remember that as a boy it was my greatest privilege and reward to go over on a Saturday and be allowed by John Halloway to help him plough, or cut his hay. He was a big, ruddy-faced, jolly boy, and even then used to tell me about being in love with Fanny Peel, who was the daughter of another farmer in the neighborhood, and a Sunday-school scholar of my mother's. I thought him the greatest man in the world. He had a fight once with Absalom Turnell when they were both youngsters, and, though Turnell was much the heavier, whipped him completely. Halloway was a good soldier and a good son, and when he came back from the war and won his wife, who was a belle among the young farmers, and with her settled down on his little place and proceeded to make it a bower of roses and fruit-trees, there was not a man around who did not rejoice in his prosperity and wish him well. The Halloways had no children and, as is often the case in such instances, they appeared to be more to each other than most husbands and wives. He always spoke of his wife as if the sun rose and set in her. No matter where he might be in the county, when night came he always rode home, saying that his wife would be expecting him. 'Don't keer whether she's asleep or not,' he used to say, 'she knows I'm a-comin', and she always hears my click on the gate-latch, and is waitin' for me.'

"It came to be well understood throughout the county.

"'I believe you are henpecked,' said a man to him one night.

"'I believe I am, George,' laughed Halloway, 'and by Jings! I like it too.'

"It was impossible to take offence at him, he was so good-natured. He would get out of his bed in the middle of the night, hitch up his horse and pull his bitterest enemy out of the mud. He had on an occasion ridden all night through a blizzard to get a doctor for the wife of a negro neighbor in a cabin near by who was suddenly taken ill. When someone expressed admiration for it, especially as it was known that the man had not long before been abusing Halloway to the provost-marshal, who at that time was in supreme command, he said,

"'Well, what's that got to do with it? Wa'n't the man's wife sick? I don't deserve no credit, though; if I hadn't gone, my wife wouldn' 'a' let me come in her house.' He was an outspoken man, too, not afraid of the devil, and when he believed a thing he spoke it, no matter whom it hit. In this way John had been in trouble several times while we were under 'gun-rule'; and this, together with his personal character, had given him great influence in the county, and made him a power. He was one of my most ardent friends and supporters, and to him, perhaps, more than to any other two men in the county, I owed my position.

"Absalom Turnell's rancorous speeches had stirred all the county, and the apprehension of the outbreak his violence was in danger of bringing might have caused trouble but for John Halloway's coolness and level-headedness. John offered to go around and follow Absalom up at his meetings. He could 'spike his guns,' he said. Some of his friends wanted to go with him. But he said no. The only condition on which he would go was that he should go alone.

"'You'd better not try that,' they argued. 'That fellow, Ab. Turnell's got it in for you.'

"'They ain't any of 'em going to trouble me,' said John. 'I know 'em all and I git along with 'em first rate. I don't know as I know this fellow Ab.; he's sort o' grown out o' my recollection; but I want to see. He knows me, I know. I got my hand on him once when he was a boy—about my age, and he ain't forgot that, I know. He was a blusterer; but he didn't have real grit. He won't say nothin' to my face. But I must go alone. You all are too flighty.'

"So Halloway went alone and followed Ab. up at his 'camp-fires,' and if report was true his mere presence served to curb Ab.'s fury, and take the fire out of his harangues. Even the negroes got to laughing and talking about it. Ab. was just like a dog when a man faced him, they said; he could not look him in the eye.