Mrs. Falchion, Volume 2_

ide, talking to himself. Long afterwards he told me how

took up with a cursed swell, and got it cold- cold. And I? By Judas! I never was shut of that. I've known women, many of 'em, all countries, but she was different. I expect now, after all these years, that if I got my hand on the dev

y. He stood still, mouth open, staring. They drew near, almost passed him. But

hen, when she hesitated as if with an effor

ruptly, "Sam Kilby!

's friend,

ross the reefs with him more than once I guess so! But it's a

come here-an

Hudson's Bay post at D

ick's

pleasant to see, "and what brings you up here in t

e left. And the Padre's a fair square sort, as I

pose," she said, "and f

did you s

nd I s'pose I had a strong breeze on the quarter, for I talked as fre

es

And I told 'em how he went down in the 'Fly Away', and how the lovely ladies-you remembe

-the Padre-th

upon a nasty glacis, the captain on the bridge, engines goin' for all they're worth, every man below battened in, and every Jack above watchin' the fight between the engines and the hurricane. . . . Here she rolls six fathoms from the glacis that'll rip her copper garments off, and the quiverin' engine

and wiped h

tel up there. Will you call on me- let me see . . . . say, to-morrow afternoon?-Some one will tell you th

to hear of things that happened after I left Apia-and how

r hand to him and smiled. He took it, and she knew

par

were the most pleasant thing; as though the very perfume of the

odern travel assists it, but fate is in it also. Events run in circles. People connected with them travel that way also.

the very words which R

re was nothing

e; "it is so, but there is a

, Jus

st and merciful, and would gi

e, and, after a moment, evidently sati

osure, and answered gently:

you just and merc

etter. But it has not made me be

that?" Again she looked keenly, but Jus

, ma

ls, capped by snowy peaks, and wrapped in a most hearty yet delicate colour. The red of h

e any one besides your bro

she said: "Yes, once." She was looking a

stractedly toyed with a piece of lace on Ju

appy-in

you not

te." This, with hesitation an

oolish heart-the fond are foolish." She watched the girl keenly, the han

not love me, h

now of yo

his with troub

ave never

uiring of a thing infinitely important to her. She was searching the heart of anothe

asy to r

g since yo

e why Mrs. Falchion questioned her. She lifted her eyes slowly, and t

ome one els

think so

ou hat

am glad

her soft colour a hardness appeared. "You are glad for him? Yo

ui

, you ar

no commandment aga

e by her, snapped it in her fingers, and petulantly threw its pieces to the ground. "Su

great misfortune, but it

a wrong

There must be love in both

oman loved hi

could be the

ds were sharp,-"and took a woman from the depths of-oh, no mat

d ask myself how much I was to blame. .

orgive Judas if he said, 'Peccavi.' I have a strain of Satan

rt," said Justine, with te

le covered her face. She assumed, however, a tone

come serious and incomprehensible. Let us talk of

hat she was the evil genius of his life: that evening when her heart grew hard, as she had once said it should always be to him, and she determined again, after faltering many times, that just such a genius she would be; of the strange meeting in the rapids at the Devil's Slide, and the irony of it; and the fact that he had saved her life-on that she paused a while; of Ruth Devlin-and here she was swayed by conflicting emo

t had she ever laid her head in trust and love. She had been loved, but it had never brought her satisfaction. From Justine there was devotion; but it had, as she thought, been purchased,

, on a bitter day for him, he did a mad thing. The thing became-though neither of them knew it at the time, and he not yet-a great injury to her, and this had called for the sharp retaliation which she ha

weariness, and pressed

oment had come. Ruth Devlin's heart was all out, all blossomed-beside Mrs. Falchion's like some wild flower to the aloe. . . . Only now she had come to know that she had a heart. Something had chilled her at her birth, and when her mother died, a stranger's kiss closed up all the ways to love, and left her an icicle

of time, now scarcely stirring, desperately quiet. The door opened softly and Justine entered. "

her." There was unmistakable irony in he

her burnished shoes, giving her feet of gold. She chanced to look down at them. A strange memory came to her: words that she had heard Roscoe read in churc

ave come, to ask you if you will

neutrally and as lightly as she could-"Mr. Roscoe and Dr. Marmion have been good enough to say that they will come. Of course, a dinner party as it

g out the folds of her riding-dress with her whip more earnestly, in preoccupation, than the

nd she leaned back in the gold-trimmed cane c

andbox, seeing the world through a pin-hole. That is the way my father puts it. Except, of course, that I think it very i

ontinuous accompaniment to their talk, varying, as if by design, with its meaning and importance, and yet in

r. The bandbox is not the worst that may come to one-when one is born to it. I am not sure but it is the best

keen; she had foun

t improbable, however, that something of this was in her mind. She shifted her chair so that her face was

not?" Ruth

alchion had picked up a paper knife and was

has seen as he hurried on-I hope I am not growing too picturesque-too much of women, too many men. He has been unwise-most men are. Perhaps he has been more than unwise; he has made a great mistake, a social mistake-or crime-less or more. If it is a small one, the remedy is not so difficult. Money, friends, adroitness, absence, long retirement, are enough. If a great one, and he

which he thinks is regeneration, are only new sensations. But-you have often noticed the signification of a 'but,'" she added, smiling, tapping her cheek lightly with

tivity, becomes reckless, does some mad thing, and has a miserable end. Or again, some one who holds the key to his mistake comes in from the world he has left, and considers-considers, you understand!-whether to leave him to work out

e and glance. Ruth had listened with an occasional change of colour, but also with an outward pride to which she seemed suddenly to have grown. But her heart was sick and miserable. How could it be otherwise, reading, as she did, the tale just told her in a kind, of allegory, in all its warning, nakedness, and vengeance? But she detected, too, an occasional painful

moment, she said, as she drew a glove from a hand slightly trembling: "And you honestly think it is the case

uch a man as I descri

ss of life as well," -here the girl grew pale, for this was a kind of talk unfamiliar and painful to her, but to be endured

nd he would end as I say. Few men, if any, would leave the worl

, be inevitable. The person who holds the key

pted, her hand with the ivory knife now movel

d, wincing-"might not it become chan

would tire of the pin-h

ou do not

ard and punishment-no hateful things called Nemesis. The meanest wretch here in the West, if he has a quarrel, avenges himself openly and at once. Actions are rough

at story of Anson and his wife. Outwardly her coolness was remarkable. But she was really admiring, and amazed at Ruth's adroitness and courage. She appreciated full

its code. It is good for some men to be followed by a slow hatred-it all depends on themselves. There are some wh

h r

h a man, I would be sorry-sorry for him; and if I also knew that his was only a mistake and not a crime, or, if the crime itself had been repented of, and atonement made, I would beg some one-some one better than I-to pray for him. And I would g

the next room came a quick change of accompaniment, and a voice was heard singing, as if to the singer's self, 'Il balen del suo sorris'. It is hard to tell how far such little incidents affected her in wha

d kind, and that one in this world would p

ie? It is horrible to grow old, except one has been a saint-and a mother. . . . And even then-have you ever seen them, the women of that Egypt of which we spoke-powdered, smirking over their champagne, because they

h a sudden and wonderful kindness: "I say what is quite true. Women might dislike you-many of them would-though you could not understand why; but you are good, and that, I suppose, is the best

th her eyes all tearful, she looked steadily, yearningly at the woman before her; but she knew it was better she should say little now, and, with a mo

ich the girl had passed, then she caught close the curtains of

hame! A hateful and terrible love. I, who ought to say to him, as I so long determined: 'You shall be destroyed. You killed my sister, poo

as the wife of a good man oh! he WAS a good man, who sinned for me. I see it now!-and I let him die-die alone!" She shudde

t the floor, her face all grey with pain. At last th

in, madame

drew the girl swiftly to the side of Mrs. Falchion. She spoke no word,

said: "Justine, on Mon

he replied without comment: "

w. I want to go where I shall get rest

adame?" Justi

. . . The way around the world is long, and I am tired." Minutes pas

morrow night-and

ly in Mrs. Falchion's next words: "Do you thi

where but he

s at hand. The pity, gentleness, and honest solicitude of Justine's face conquered her, and her look

ht, she said again: "We will leave

lied: "Yes, mad