 CHAPTER VIII. He talked to her easily as they walked along, of his home chiefly, and of how the Ghent family had lived there for more than a hundred years, since the day of one Hugh Ghent, of early colony fame, who had brought his young English wife from sunny Devonshire into the shadows of the savage primeval forest, and of how they too had loved and suffered, slowly and painfully they had wrought a home for their brood of little ones. The old stone house, he told her, was built early in the last century, by yet another Hugh Ghent, and from him had descended from father to son, with many articles of ancient furniture wrought from overseas in the holes of English vessels. Grace had suffered from fire, but both times it had been saved by its owner, and each passing generation had left some token of its occupancy about the place. Thus the rose garden was the legacy of one Alice Ghent, the wife of the second Hugh. She had pined for the roses of her father's garden, and her husband had made for her a rich plot and planted it with roots and slips which he obtained with infinite patience, and the expenditure of many a heart earned chilling. And are the roses still there? Mary asked him. Yes, he told her, with quiet pride. We have taken care to grow fresh cuttings from time to time from the old stock, so that the garden remains very like what it must have been when my great-grandmother made potpourri out of the full-blown roses. There is one white climbing rose, which the lovely Alice planted with her own hands at the doorstep, and that is still living and blooming. His eyes were upon her listening face, as he added. It has been the custom for each bridegroom to gather a rose from that bush for his wife as she crosses the threshold of the old house for the first time. Will you accept one from me, Mary? Mary shook her head. She would not like me to have one, she said. Who would not like you to have one, Mary? That lovely Alice. If she knew about me, she would say that I had no right to a rose from her bush. His grave face brightened into a half-smile. But the bush is mine now, you know. And you, I asked you if you would accept the rose from me. Will you, Mary? She turned her face away from him so that he could only see her little ear glowing amid the loose curves of her hair. She would not like me to have it, she murmured obstinately. They were in full sight of the old gantt homestead now, and so Mary saw it for the first time. Withdrawn a dignified space from the road, its ample gray front set with rose upon rose of shining small-pained windows, their green shutters thrown wide to the sun and air. Over the long sweep of the dormant roof, tall elms drooped their swaying boughs, and the graveled walk leading to the narrow front door was gay with old-fashioned flowers, peonies, flocks and lockspur, columbine, pansies, pinks and rose geraniums. He was silent as they passed slowly between the borders. Her white gown blushing gusts of fragrance from the crowding blossoms, they had reached the portico now, and the sound of voices reached them from the door, set hospitably wide to the summer air. Just a moment, Mary," he said quietly, I wish my mother was here to welcome you today, but I am the last of my line, so you must even cross the threshold of the old gantt homestead unwelcomed by Kith or Kin, but I want you to understand this one thing. This is your home from henceforth, Mary. You may not care to revisit it after to-day, but if the time ever comes when you long for the shelter and piece of home, don't forget that you have one. Deliberately he reached war and plucked a single half-opened rose from the great gnarled bush, which shaded the old-fashioned doorway. His grave face, pailing a little as he silently offered it to the girl. Do you, would you like me to have it? She stammered. His eyes answered her. She stretched out her hand for the flower, and he took it for an instant, in his own, and stooped and touched it lightly with his lips. Welcome home, Mary," he said, and lifted his bride lightly across the threshold, as had every gantt bride-room of the vanished generations. Permelia Mecolini was waiting at the foot of the stairway. I do welcome you home, Mrs. Gantt, she said formally. Will you be pleased to come upstairs to the madam's room? Mary followed the woman's gentle patter as if in a dream, up the quaint winding of the shallow stepped stair, guarded by twisted spindles of mahogany, to the upper floor with its wide hallway hung with shadowy portraits, and sat here and there with curious, carved settles and massive brass-bound chests. This is the madam's chamber, said Permelia, with becoming pride, as she softly opened a door. All the ladies Gantt have slept here in their day, Mom. Their children have been born here, and here they have died. It is a very pleasant sightly room, looking out to sea on the east and on the gardens to the south, and I hope you will like it. Your hue has had me keep it always just as his mother left it, but you will change it, if you like, of course. Mary glanced about the spacious chamber, cool in its snowy draperies of embroidered dimity, with a strange flutter in her throat. All the ladies Gantt seemed watching her, with quiet reproach, in their soft eyes. As she gazed at her reflection in the tall, gilt mirror which hung over the mahogany dresser. Her fingers trembled as she touched her hair into becoming order. The roses at her breast were drooping with the heat. She removed them, and after a moment's hesitation fastened in their place the fresh, half-opened bud. It is only for today, she thought, the needlework in the room was all done by the late madam, Permilia Macalene was saying, in her soft contralto. Would you be pleased to look at the wreaths on the pillowcases, mom, and the border and monogram on the linen sheets? Mary's gray eyes turned obediently to the great white-cannopied bed with its spotless furnishings. I cannot so at all, she murmured. Eh, well, never mind, Permilia told her indulgently, there is enough and despair of plenishings plain and broidered about the house. But I shall show you it all later, mom. I have kept everything sacred, as you will see. But oh, be good to Master Hugh, mom. He's the last of the family, and he's been sad and lonely since his mother went. His father died when he was a little lad, of course you know. We've been hoping, father and I, that he'd marry these years past. But I don't know why he never seemed to care for anything but his books indoors and the sea and the sky and the land outside. When he told us yesterday that he was to be married today, it was like a clap of thunder to father and me, but we're nonetheless glad, mom, because it's been so sudden to us. She waited respectfully, but determinately, for Mary's answer. It was sudden for me too, began Mary, then stopped short. Mr. Ghent will explain everything, she stammered. I—may I come in, demanded a soft voice. I had begun to think you were never coming down. Ife-lis, sighed Mary, with wordless relief. Miss Mechelhenny withdrew to the door, where she paused to say, with smiling dignity, you will be feeling hungry, Miss Vivian. I am sure, refreshments will be served, whenever the madam is ready to come down. Oh, Mary, honey, I feel as though I had stepped into a fairy story, and I should think you would, too. Isn't this the sweetest old house? But wait, till you've seen the carved chariton and spindle-legged chippendale downstairs, and the stunning old blue china, and the curious bronze jars filled with rose leaves and spices. I never dreamed it was like this, though I've heard father and mother talk about the life for years. Mother once tried to buy a mahogany table from Mr. Gents' mother. She said, when she came back, that she felt about as she would if she had offered to buy the crown of England from Queen Victoria. "'This was her room,' said Mary, unaware of the sigh which accompanied her words. I am glad I have seen it. I shall like to remember it afterward. Come, we must go down.' "'But, Mary, dear, you can't mean to leave him, now, do you?' Mary paused with her hand on the door. Every thing will be just as we have arranged it, Felice.' She said coldly. "'He has said so. Nothing has happened, which will change our plans in the least. But I have promised to leave explanations to him.' Miss Vivian shrugged her slim shoulders in wordless amazement, and still her wonder grew and waxed into positive exasperation, as she watched the two during the hours that followed. The refreshments of which Miss Mecklehenny had spoken proved to be a dainty luncheon, served on priceless, old eggshell china, pink and white and delicately gilt like apple blossoms. And here Miss Mecklehenny made a pretty ceremonial of seating Mary at the head of the table. An old Andrew Mecklehenny, at a signal from the host, stood up in his place and thanked the Lord in a loud voice, for marvelous mercies which had followed the Gent family through past generations. He prayed yet more fervently for the new family, which had that day been founded upon the old hearthstone in treating the gracious favor of the most high upon the young wife whose hands held the fair promise of the future, and upon her husband the present head of the house, and upon their children, and their children's children, unto the third and fourth generations. The old man Sonaris, a man, was echoed by the mild little clergyman and his mild little wife. At the conclusion of this quaint epithelanium, Felice Vivian stole a swift glance at the host from under her lashes. He sat in his place, serious and thoughtful, his eyes dwelling on Mary's composed face. How can she be such an iceberg, murmured Miss Vivian, wrathfully? Excuse me, were you speaking to me? Charped the little minister's wife, who sat at her left. Hmm, no. That is, I was just admiring this exquisite old China, Mrs. Elder, said Felice, recovering herself with nervous haste. It is elegant, agreed the Reverend Lady, bending her spectacled gaze upon her plate. But I haven't been able so far to take my eyes off the bride. She is so beautifully calm and self-possessed. Is she a particular friend of yours, Miss Vivian? I have known her for several years. And where, pray, did she first meet her husband? Blantly inquired Mrs. Elder. I always like to know the history of every wedding Mr. Elder and I attend, professionally, you know, and of course we attend a great many. Mr. Elder is very popular among the young people. They frequently come from other parishes to the parsonage to be married. I have an orange tree, which blossoms in the winter, which I bought with one of my wedding fees. Perhaps you didn't know that the clergyman's wife is always entitled to the fees. Yes, indeed. I quite count on my little income from that source. Last year I bought all the children's stockings with them. Felice murmured polite interest in these artless revelations. I am so romantic, continued Mrs. Elder, confidentially. Why do you know I have made it a point for years to keep a wedding souvenir book with the names and dates and a piece of the bride's gown, a flower from her bouquet, and any little facts relating to their courtship which I can gather. I find I can always entertain a wedding party in that awkward pause just after the ceremony, you know, or at a lady's sewing society, or a regular church social with my book. People are invariably interested in anything pertaining to courtship and marriage. What is that sweet quotation about all the world being fond of engaged people? I never could remember poetical quotations, though Mr. Elder does, in the most wonderful way, he finds it exceedingly useful in his pulpit work. Perhaps you mean, all the world loves a lover, quoted Felice, hastily anticipating the dawn of a fresh inquiry in the lady's wandering gaze. Oh, yes, that is it, and a beautiful saying it is too, and so true. I am just as fond of love stories and romances as a young girl, though you might not think it. And for that matter, there are love stories in the Bible, as of course you know, my dear. Now take Solomon's song, for example. It always seemed to me that it wasn't meant to be entirely figurative. What do you think, Miss Vivian? Felice confessed that she had not deeply considered the matter of late, whereupon Mrs. Elder urgently advised her to do so. It is really an exquisite love poem, I've always thought, and Mr. Elder tells me that the more advanced critics are coming round to my point of view. The little lady drew up her plump figure, with gentle pride as she helped herself to jelly chicken. Delicious, isn't it? She twittered comfortably. Now if you don't mind, as the only bride's made, you know, just telling me a little about this sweet simple wedding for my book, a wreath of orange buds, I call it. Don't you think it's a pretty idea for a clergyman's wife? Indeed, yes. A great Felice, dimpling with impish mischief. But why not ask the bride? It would be so much more romantic to get the facts from her. So it would, my dear, and thank you for suggesting it. See, she is about to cut that great white cake, which Miss Mackleheny has just brought in. A regular bride's cake, isn't it? I will wait till she has finished, and then. Perhaps you had better wait till after luncheon, suggested Felice, with tardy contrition. But the minister's little wife was not to be deterred from her romantic quest. Dear Mrs. Gant, she began smilingly, would you mind giving me a few particulars relating to your courtship? Nothing sacred, my dear, of course I understand all about that. But merely the date of your engagement, and where it took place, and a few items of that sort, for my memory book, you know. I have brought it with me to show you all, and after luncheon, when Mr. Elder has finished filling out the marriage certificate and everything is signed, sealed, and delivered. It will be my turn. I shall want the autographs of those present, and later, my dear, if you would give me a scrap of that sweet white dress, and a flower from your bouquet. I remember now you didn't carry a regular made bouquet at the ceremony, but that lovely half-opened bud you are wearing will do quite as well. I may beg that one, may and I. Mary startled eyes, sought her husband's face, her hands instinctively closing over the rose upon her breast. Not this, she stammered, I— my wife, said Hugh Gant quietly, wishes to keep the rose she is wearing for her own memory book. But she will be most happy to give you a flower. He arose deliberately, and lifting the great bowl of blossoms from its place in the center of the table, held it low for Mary's choosing. Oh! breathed Felice, understandingly, and leaned forward in her chair to look, with the rest, at the pretty picture of the man, the maid, and the roses. He walked with them in the sober light of the late afternoon, as far as the hedge which separated his own meadows from Dr. Vivian's sloping lawn. I will leave you here, he said. Felice Vivian stopped short. Very well, then. I will bid you good-bye, she said crisply. I've had a beautiful day. He bowed low over her little hand. She almost snatched it from him in her haste to be gone. Good-bye, she repeated, with a gurgle of low laughter, and darting through a narrow opening in the hedge, disappeared like a wood nymph. Mary had stopped, too, and was looking in a vaguely troubled way at the sky, covered with myriads of soft round clouds, hurrying in from the sea, like flocks of frightened sheep. At the saddened landscape, at the trees turning the silver of their leaves to the fitful wind. Good-bye, she sighed. His eyes were upon her face. It doesn't seem quite grateful to me, she added, after a long pause, and yet the gratitude is mine, Mary, he interrupted. I thank you for this day. She seemed to be considering his answer. After a while she sighed again, and again her troubled eyes wandered away to the quiet landscape beyond. I feel, she said slowly, as though I had been dreaming, and were trying to awaken. It is very strange. He saw that her face was quivering like that of a frightened child. You are tired, Mary, he said cheerfully. I must not keep you standing here longer. Good-bye. She watched him wistfully, as he went away. Then she turned and followed Felice, whose white dress fluttered among the groups of distant shrubbery. She was dimly unhappy, and her throat ached, as if from suppressed sobbing. After a little she stopped and looked back across the meadows, shading her eyes with her hand against the shaft of sunlight that pricked the hurrying grey clouds overhead. He was still in sight, walking swiftly with bent head. Now he had reached the open bars. And now he had turned. He saw her standing there, on the green hillside, and lifted his hat in mute token of farewell. Tears rushed to Mary's eyes, and fell down her cheeks like warm rain. Why am I crying? She asked herself, wonderingly. But though she could not understand her tears, they kept on flowing. They were pleasant tears, quite unlike any she had ever shed before. And so weeping softly, but without pretense of sorrow, she came to Dr. Vivian's house, and in due course to her own room, where she wept her wondering fill in the comforting silence. When Felice Vivian knocked at Mary's door an hour so later, it was with a timidity entirely new and surprising to herself. Already she had become mysteriously aware of the impassable barrier which Mary drew between the wife and the maid. Mary was sitting by the window, her face composed and tranquil, as was its want, but bearing unmistakable traces of recent tears. Why, Mary, honey, could Felice, in an instant flutter of feminine sympathy? You've been crying. Her dark eye sparkled with exciting speculation, as to the reason for these belated tears. Yes, admitted Mary, without attempt at subterfuge. I have been crying, though I'm sure I don't know why. I know why, triumph Felice, dimpling with romantic enjoyment. Mary's limpid gaze was both inquiring and trustful. You couldn't bear to have him leave you, poor dear, and why did you allow it? Mary appeared plunged into profound depths of conscientious retrospection. No, Felice, she said at last. You were mistaken. I expected that he would go away. He said that he would, you know. But I'm afraid he will find it very unpleasant to explain everything, to Miss McHill Henry, and her father. I'm sure I would. Unpleasant? cried Miss Vivian wrathfully. Why, Mary, he loves you! Mary shook her lovely head. How could that be? she asked mildly. We are strangers to each other, but he has been very good to me. I shall always remember that, and I shall remember today too, she sighed reminiscently. If he hadn't fallen in love with you, Mary, he wouldn't have wished to marry you. Felice spoke slowly and convincingly. He does love you, and I think he is perfectly irresistible. Really, honey, I could have shaken you for acting so like a graven image today. Mary surveyed her friend calmly, and with just a tinge of the displeasure she had displayed earlier in the day. Perhaps you don't realize it, Felice. But that is a very strange thing for you to say to me, she said, with dignity. If he loved me, it would have been perfectly easy for him to tell me so. He would not have left it for someone else to say. If he had told you, what would you have done, persisted Felice recklessly? Again Mary pondered this new and unsupported hypothesis. Then she blushed resentfully. I can't imagine his saying anything of the sort to me, she murmured. He, why Felice, he isn't at all like any other man I ever met. Felice apparently smothered a yawn in her handkerchief. Shall you come down to dinner tonight, Mrs. Ghent, or would you like me to send you up something? She inquired cheerfully. Mary started at the sound of his name. Why do you call me that, she asked breathlessly? Because it is your name, dear. Said Miss Vivian in a business-like tone. You may as well get used to it. And, by the way, shall I tell Father and Mother, or will you? Mary drew a deep breath. Must they know right away? Of course, child, everybody's got to know. That funny little clergyman will publish it in the papers tomorrow. And his wife will tell everyone she knows all about that sweetly unique country wedding. I could see she was really in her hurry to get away at the last. And there is her memory-book, you know. Mary's white fingers crept up to touch the drooping rose at her breast. She sighed pathetically. It is very unpleasant to have one's affairs published and discussed, she complained. I should like to have kept it all quite to myself to think about. Well, honey, you may think about it all you like, observed Miss Vivian coolly. And other people will talk about it all they like. But I am sorry for him. He didn't appear sorry. Do you think he did, Felice? I'm afraid I have been selfish and inconsiderate. But, dejectedly, there's no helping it now. I can never make it up to him. Yes, you could. How? Miss Vivian burst into a mocking little laugh. While you're thinking over the matter in general, honey, suppose you concentrate upon this one thing in particular. It's one of those deeply involved psychological problems. But an educated person like yourself ought to be able to elucidate it in time. Mary was brushing her tumbled hair, which had fallen in a shining veil about her face, quite concealing it from Felice. I am going to my guardian tomorrow. She announced suddenly. I shall start by an early train. Felice paused in the friendly act of laying out a dinner gown. Well, she said, guardedly, I must tell him what I have done, went on Mary in a strangely muffled voice. And I shall ask him to give me my money. Then we must start for Hawaii at once, at once, Felice. Perhaps resident architect will be able to do the work satisfactorily. Anyway, we must begin it as soon as possible. Oh, Mary, I surely thought you would give that all up now. Can't you see, Felice, that I must go on with it now. It is only for that he expects me to do it. Oh, murmured Miss Vivian stupidly. I should die with shame not to go away and begin that college directly, Felice. I must go. Don't you understand? I see what you mean, honey, but— Mary's white fingers trembled visibly as they knotted up the shimmering coils about her head. We won't talk about it any more after tonight, if you please, Felice. She said with a heroic effort after her vanished self-possession. And will you please tell your father and mother that I am married—tomorrow, after I am gone? Oh, Mary, don't you mean to leave any word for him? There isn't anything to say, Felice. Not until after Mary's hurried departure for Boston the next morning did Miss Vivian realize the fact that she had not been invited to accompany her friend. It was during the course of a rather unpleasant explanatory interview with her parents that the significant omission occurred to her mind. I never heard of such a preposterous affair, sputtered Dr. Vivian wrathfully, and to think that it should have taken place from my house with the consent—I had almost said the collusion—of my daughter. Felice, I am astonished and displeased. He should have come to me at once with the whole story. I must see Gant this very morning, and the matter must be thoroughly ventilated and placed upon its proper footing. What is its proper footing, please, Daddy? inquired Felice with proper humility. I am surprised that you should ask, girl. Mary, as a married woman, has no business to be galvanting about the country without the knowledge and consent of her husband. It's an outrage to the proprieties. The wedding was Mr. Gant's own idea, Daddy, and I don't see exactly how we are going to help it. Well, I shall see him at once and let him understand that I am not a party to to this nefarious abandonment scheme. That's what it is, legally, an abandonment scheme, to secure her fortune. And you allowed it to go on, unhindered? Can you explain yourself, daughter? Miss Vivian Scarlet lips quivered. I think you are very cruel to me, Daddy. She faltered with the becoming sparkle of tears on her curling lashes. I didn't invent it. I should never have thought of such a thing. And Mary didn't tell me till yesterday morning. Then she was so determined, and after all, Daddy, she's of age, and nobody could stop her getting married. Not even you. This unconscious tribute to his quasi-umnipotence was not without its soothing effect on Dr. Vivian. Nevertheless, he buttoned himself tightly into his coat, though it was a warm morning, and armored further against sickly sedimentality, with a stout walking stick and a Panama hat of fiercely curling brim he presently sallied forth in search of the forsaken bride-room. He found Hugh Gant in the act of carefully examining some fresh-set strawberries in the privacy of his own garden. Good morning, sir, quote the doctor, with frowning severity of mean. Good morning, Dr. Vivian, replied the farmer with a cheerful, disconcerting smile. These strawberry plants seem likely to do well. Yes, admitted the doctor, curiously. Your soil is tip-top for fruit. Wish mine was as good. But that's not what I have come to talk to you about today. I've been having a little conversation with my daughter this morning regarding that wedding which took place yesterday. I don't know what you think of me, sir, for permitting anything of the kind, but the fact is I knew nothing of it, not a word, sir, till after Miss— till after the young woman in the case went to Boston. I suppose you're aware that she's gone? Hugh Gant brushed the dry loom from his fingers with an immaculate handkerchief. Will you do me the favor of stepping into my library, Dr. Vivian? He asked politely. It will perhaps be well for me to explain myself somewhat, though I had not expected to consult you with regard to my relations to my wife. So you are disposed to regard the young woman as your wife, I see, fumed the doctor. Well, sir, I'd about as soon take the West Wind to wife as to marry that girl. She's no more idea of the proprieties of married life than a two-year-old baby. Felice knew better. And she should have come to me with a whole piece of outrageous folly at once. I should have put a stop to it. Hugh Gant placed a chair for his perturbed guest, and further proceeded to pour him a glass of cool water from the silver picture on the table. He appeared to be quite at his ease, and even smiled as he deliberately ceded himself opposite the doctor. This piece of outrageous folly, as you are pleased to term my marriage with Ms. Adams, was my own idea. He began quietly. Did not Ms. Vivian tell you so? I believe she said something of the sort. Yes, growled the doctor. But it was easy to see that you had been led into it by a misunderstanding of the facts. I understood the facts, I think, perfectly. You did. May I ask if you expected the young woman to leave you at once in this high-handed manner? I certainly did expect it. My wife is free to do precisely as she pleases. She intends, I believe, to found a college for women in Hawaii. The doctor's jaw dropped. What in the world, he began. Why, man, what did you marry her for? You know the facts regarding her aunt's will, I suppose. Yes, I know all that. Tommy Rot of the worst sort, I call it. A crazy old maid's notion, and it said a young maid crazy too, I should say. The will should have been set aside. As a matter of fact, it was not set aside. It will not need to be now. But what? You don't mean to tell me. Hugh Gent eyed his interlocutor with impertuable good humor. Indeed, a quiet and, to the other, inscrutable smile was playing about his lips. I married my wife that she might have a chance to do as she liked. He said conclusively. The doctor brought down his walking stick with a wrathful thud. That's no way to manage a woman, sir, he snorted. And when you've had as much experience with him as I have, you'll find it out. Short and sharp is the word. Do this, madame. Do the other. Or leave the third thing undone. They like it too, and just to prove that I know what I'm talking about, I'll give you a leaf out of my own experience. Well, I remember when I was courting Mrs. Vivian. She was an airy, teasing little butterfly of a thing. No higher than my third waistcoat button. Very like our Felice. And she led me an uneasy dance for many a long day. I was young and green, and didn't know any better. So I sighed and prayed and pined and dwindled. Lost my appetite I did serve. Upon my word. Lost twenty pounds in weight. And all for nothing. My little lady was like the weather. Kind one day. Thundering and lightning the next. Well, sir, I got mighty tired of it, after a while. And so one morning I rode over to see Dolly. I found her in one of her petish-teasing humours, peeping at me from under her lashes, and laughing at me in a way that was fairly maddening. I stood it for a matter of half an hour or so. Then I jumped to my feet. Good-bye, Dolly, I said, loud and careless like. Though I was ready to cry like a booby. I'm off for the North Pole with Androvsky. You remember that Russian chap that got up an Arctic expedition about that time. Frozen every man jack of them and served him right, too. No, says Miss Dolly. And all her pretty pink colour disappeared. And with it every one of her tantalising heirs and graces. No, Robert, she says, half-sombing. Yes, Dolly, I repeated, louder than before. I'm off to-morrow. I'm sick of this philandrine, madam, I said. Well, to cut a long story short, she flung herself into my arms and entreated me to stay. Of course I stayed, and we were married in a month's time. That's my way of managing a woman, sir. And I've never had any trouble with any of them from that day to this. Hugh Guent had listened with respectful attention to this illuminating dissertation. All women are not alike, he observed seriously. They're alike in one thing, young man. They all respect and love a masterful husband. And don't you forget it. I'd advise you to put your foot down on this nonsense of marriage right now, and to keep it down. I shan't allow Felice to go on this wild goose chase to Hawaii. And I've told her so. She's next door to be an engaged to be married herself, to a young man I thoroughly approve of. The honest doctor stood up and squared his shoulders. I hope, Guent, you understand that I very much regret the, uh, circumstances of yesterday. He went on pulling nervously at his white beard. And if I can be of any service to you in, uh, well, of course, under the laws of the state, you understand you have not done so badly for yourself. Whether you ever live with your wife or not, you are entitled to a certain share of her property. And I should advise you to take steps at once to secure your rights. Hugh Guent raised his hand in dignified gesture of dissent. I must set you right on that point, Dr. Vivian, he said quietly. I not only do not propose to interfere with Mary in the carrying out of her plans and purposes, but I recognize the fact, and I wish everyone else to recognize it, that she is my wife in name only. I have already written to her guardian, notifying him of the marriage, and waving every possible claim upon her person and her property. Do you quite understand me, sir? I understand you, Lord, yes. But if that is the case, why in the name of heaven did you marry her? That, said the other quietly, is at present entirely my own affair. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by K. L. Zelke. The Princess and the Ploughman by Florence Morse Kingsley Chapter 10 Judge Chantry Satt, in his own library, in his accustomed chair of carved mahogany, placed at its wanton angle in relation to his massive desk. This imposing concantation of furniture and legal authority no longer suggested an inaccessible Olympian peak to the eyes of the girl who sat opposite. Nevertheless she waited with her accustomed osility for her guardian to speak. He did so at length, tapping softly at measured intervals upon the page of a letter which lay spread out before him. The habitual gesture, conveying to the beholder's mind in some subtle way, the conscious mastery of the man over the matter in hand. What you have told me, Mary, with regard to your marriage, is perhaps the more surprising when taken in connection with this document, Judge Chantry said thoughtfully. Mary's gray eyes were fastened expectantly upon his face. She did not speak. I have here a communication received by the morning post from a person who signs himself, Hugh Ghent. That is the name of your husband, I believe you told me. Yes, she murmured breathlessly as her guardian applied himself deliberately to a perusal of the clearly written page. Signing himself, as I have said, Hugh Ghent went on the judge, very singular indeed. What is it that is singular about his letter? she asked. Something new and unlooked for in her voice caused her guardian to look up at her sharply from over his glasses. Had this letter contained certain demands, even threats, I should not have been surprised, he said slowly, in permitting yourself to be drawn into this hasty and ill-advised marriage with a perfect stranger. You may not be aware of it, Mary, but in reality you have laid yourself open to very serious annoyance and, yes, loss of various descriptions, loss of prestige, in short, of reputation, and most certainly of money. It is a very grave risk, you incurred, Mary, very grave. I tremble to think what might have been the result had this man, Ghent, been disposed to push his legal claims. Is not like that, cried Mary, you do not know him, nor do you, it would seem. Retorted the judge dryly, however, he removed his eyeglasses, using them to accentuate his dominant tapping upon the letter, which he again spread upon his desk. As a matter of fact, this person, whom we must, for all present, call your husband, takes a very unlooked-for position with regard to his relation to yourself. In a word he expressly waves any and all claims upon your fortune and person. Mary drew a deep breath, and her eyes fell to her lap, in which her hands lay loosely folded. He states, continued her guardian, that it is his earnest wish that you may be entirely unhindered in the carrying out of your plans and purposes, and ends by requesting me to second his wishes in every possible way. May I ask, what plans and purposes you have in mind, madame? I intend to use all my money to build a college for women in Hawaii, said Mary, in a small, uncertain voice, curiously unlike her own. I wish to do this immediately, to-morrow, if possible. Judge Chantry permitted one corner of his mouth to slowly relax. It was his nearest approach to a smile. I should like it if you can arrange everything so that I can go away at once. She went on in a firmer town. He expects me to do it. Ah! this sharp note of inquiry recalled her eyes to his face. Yes, she said slowly, I told him everything, all about the will and of how I wished above all things, to go to Hawaii and devote my life to the higher education of the women there. And he—he said he would marry me so that I could do this. And—and he did. Their husband, Mr. Gantt, expects to join you in Hawaii, of course, said the judge with careful politeness. I begin to understand, I think. Mary shook her head. No, she said in a low voice. He will remain here. It is I who must go away. Alone? I—I hope—I expect Miss Vivian will go with me. We have been making plans for a long time for the college. Then I am to infer that this marriage of—of convenience was arranged between you and Miss Vivian with the consent of the man, inquired her guardian ironically. Again Mary shook her head. Felice knew nothing of it till—till the day of the wedding. Where did this marriage ceremony take place? In Mr. Gantt's cornfield. Replied Mary dejectedly. She was apparently quite indifferent to the incredulous gaze which the judge had fixed upon her face. And why in the cornfield, if I may venture to inquire? We—that is, I—had never seen him except in the cornfield. And afterward we had a luncheon at his house. I enjoyed that very much. Who comprised the party? The clergyman, his wife, Felice Vivian, and an old man, Andrew McKillahanny, and his daughter. They live with him. They are his best friends. Very interesting indeed. You have the certificate of marriage, I suppose? Mary laid a folded paper on the desk. He said you would like to see it, she murmured. Judge Chantry busied himself with the document for a few minutes. This appears to be correct, he said at length, but of course I shall have to verify it. Mary gazed at him inquiringly. I must look up the record of the officiating clergyman, and also see if the other papers in the case were properly made out and filed. It will take some days. By the way, this marriage took place yesterday, I see. At what time did you—where did you take leave of your husband? Mary's limpid gaze clouded. He walked with Felice and me as far as the hedge, she said slowly. Then he went away. I shall never see him again. Why do you say that? The judge asked, with a gleam of something very like humanizing curiosity in his eyes. He said that he would remain there, at home. And I must go to Hawaii. How soon can you give me my money, sir? I should like it to be right away, if you please. Judge Chantry leaned back in his chair and surveyed his ward with the air of a man who had recently acquired a limited stock of fine-grained patients. Your property—he began—is not exactly in the case with that of the small boy who keeps his pennies in a cast-iron bank. It is, in short, invested. Yes, acquiesced Mary, but you can get it for me, can't you? Precisely. I am coming to that in due course. It is invested, I was about to inform you, madame, in a variety of ways, in stocks, in bonds, in corporations, in real estate. All good, all solid, and unimpeachable. I have looked out for that. But any considerable property so invested, and yielding interest, if suddenly turned into cash at a for sale, is bound to depreciate. Do you follow me? Yes, but I don't mind that, sighed Mary. The depreciating, I mean, if I can only have it right away. There is also one other thing to be considered. Proceeded her guardian, impretuably, which may or may not have occurred to your mind. Your property, while it is a fairly large one, would be a mere drop in a very dry bucket if invested in a college for women in Hawaii. Also, such an undertaking is too vast for a person of your age and experience. I have the honor to be trustee of a woman's college in America, and I am frequently reminded that, as a guilt-edge investment, a college is hardly. That will make no difference, interrupted Mary. She was twisting her wedding ring upon her white finger. Do you think, she ask earnestly, that I could go to-morrow? Her guardian deliberately resumed the measured tapping of his eyeglasses, which he appeared to concentrate upon the clear signature of Hugh Ghent. It will be well, I think, tap-tap-tap, for you to school yourself to certain unavoidable delays in the matter. Tap-tap-tap, legal procedures are necessarily somewhat tedious in their nature, and I foresee, tap-tap-tap, many hindrances of one sort or another, which will probably prevent your departure for Hawaii for at least a year. Mary leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes shone with a sudden lovely radiance of joy, which startled her guardian. Could you lend me the money, sir? she asked. He expects me to go at once, you know. No, madam. I regret to say that it would be impossible for me to negotiate alone of that magnitude just at present. But I can scarcely see how your action, whether deferred or immediate, will affect your husband. He leaves you entirely free, and you tell me you never expect to see him again. May I ask if this man Ghent is personally disagreeable to you? Is he, for example, a rude, boring sort of person? Mary's eyes opened wide. Oh, no! she breathed. He is—well, madam, am I to infer that you are unable to tell me what sort of person your husband is? Mary had risen and was looking appealingly down at her guardian. I don't think I can tell you, she said at last. He is not like any man I ever saw before. An ugly, ill-favoured fellow, eh? Stoop-shouldered, sullen, stupid—a typical farm-hand in short. Yes, yes, I understand perfectly. But I wondered you, Mary, for consenting to bear his name for twenty-four hours. He is very handsome, I think, said Mary slowly, her fine dark brows, drawn into a thoughtful pucker, as if she were looking intently at a pictured face. He is tall, and broad-shouldered, and very strong, I know, because he can lift me with ease, and I am heavy. He has blue eyes, very beautiful and gentle. Yet they seem to look one through and through. His hair is dark brown, and waves a little. His hands are muscular. He is kind and generous, and he—she stopped short. Very good, exclaimed her guardian briskly. It seems rather a pity, on the whole, that you should have made up your mind to illegal separation. Mary gazed at him helplessly. What do you mean? she asked. That is precisely what it amounts to, replied her guardian dryly. I have here Mr. Gents' signed declaration to the effect that you are absolutely free, and you have, as definitely declared your intention, to live apart from your husband, as long as you live. An unlimited divorce, it seems to me, which would leave you both unhampered, would be more equitable. Indeed, it would be perfectly easy, in existing circumstances, for either party to obtain a complete annulment of the marriage. You have, however, legally secured the control of your property by means of this singular marriage, and I congratulate you, madam, upon the fact. Mary's wide eyes were upon his face. She seemed frozen into a lovely statue of dismay. I do not, however, recommend any hasty action with regard to the divorce or annulment of the marriage of which I have spoken. Resume the judge with a perspicacious frown. It might lead to certain undesirable complications in the transfer of the property. It will be altogether best, I think, for the present. For you to consider yourself what you are, in fact, Mrs. Hugh Ghent. Shall you say all this to him? Faulted Mary. Her guardian's stern mouth relaxed at both corners. His shrewd eyes actually twinkled. Well, not at present, Mary, he said gravely. It would be, I think, rather premature from a legal standpoint, you understand. I should not like to, er, precipitate matters. End of chapter 10 What do you know about it, sir? demanded the elder chantry sharply. Nothing except that she is married, replied Jerome. I chanced to see the notice in the paper this morning. Why didn't you warn me the affair was on? he added in an injured tone. You're a fool, Jerome, observed the judge trenchantly, but without personal animosity. I didn't think it of you. I didn't think it of myself, returned the other. But I guess you're right. I was waiting for her to grow up. He went on ruefully. There seemed to be plenty of time. Well, sir, while you were so patiently waiting for the young person to grow up, she has not been idle. For one thing she has decided to found a university for women in Hawaii. For another, and in pursuance of the first scheme, she has married a farmer down on the coast who agreed in advance of the ceremony to leave her perfectly free to do as she likes. She is now at my house where, no, exclaimed Jerome incredulously, where she is merely waiting for me to convert her securities into cash, preceded the judge imperturbably. Immediately thereafter, she proposes to set sail for Hawaii, accompanied only by a young woman of her acquaintance, age 20 or thereabouts. The pair of them will then proceed to revolutionize the customs of centuries as they have obtained in the Sandwich Islands and incontinently transform a parcel of yellow-skinned dreaming voluptuaries into strenuous college students after the pattern of Wells Marr. This is, in brief, Mrs. Gens' program, as she outlined it to me this morning. And where, if I may ask, is the accommodating husband meanwhile, inquired Jerome with an appreciative grin? On his farm I am led to believe, return the judge dryly. After the wedding ceremony, the young man accompanied his bride and her maid of honor as far as the hedge, where he politely bade them g'day. Mrs. Gens is, as I have intimated, stopping at my house for the present. Jerome stared. You don't mean it, uncle, he said at last. Why, the fellow must be a fool. I'm not so sure of that, replied the other meditatively. I'm inclined at present to set him down as a remarkably clever sort of person. What is he after, her money? By no means. He has expressly waved all claims on the property. Jerome shrugged his shoulders. He was making a rapid review of the case. Look here, uncle, he said at last. Granted that I've put off my courtship over long, is there any real reason why I should regard this empty ceremony between Mary and this fellow Gent as an insuperable bar to my wishes? Why, since you spoke to me of her, I have always regarded her as mine. That is to say, I fully intended to marry her as soon as she was fairly out of the bread and butter period. You've been aware of it all along, sir. The marriage might be annulled, certainly, agreed the judge, composedly. Perhaps, I should say, it might be if the unqualified consent of both parties to it can be obtained. Jerome Chantry eyed his elderly relatives suspiciously. You said the farmer chap agreed to be for perfectly free, he inquired. I have a signed statement to that effect. And Mary proposed us to go to Hawaii on this wild goose chase with some school girl? She's anxious to start tomorrow. You'll not let her go. I cannot prevent it, as you ought to be well aware without asking. However, the delays incident to a transference of the estate will stand in the way of her immediate departure. Jerome's greenish eyes were riveted upon the toe of his polished boot. He set his thin lips in a determined line. Then I shall regard the affair as practically settled, he said, after a thoughtful silence. The marriage is no marriage at all. I shall pay no attention to it, further than to obtain from Mary her consent to it setting aside. That will be all that is necessary as a preliminary to an annulment, acquiesced the judge blamply. I will, however, withhold my congratulations for the present. You think Mary will refuse, I see. Observe Jerome astutely. But why should she? I'm no stage villain, sir, to break up a marriage that is a marriage. But I don't give a fig for this preposterous Hawaiian education scheme, and it's clear that you don't. I cannot say that I deem Mary's plan entirely practicable, said Judge Chantry cheerfully. Both young women are far too inexperienced in the ways of the world to attempt to formulate so important an educational scheme unaided. Moreover, I hardly think the native females of the Sandwich Islands require a college of high grade just at present. The demand for such an institution, in short, does not seem to justify a project. Then you think well of my idea, uncle. You approve my plans? Jerome twisted about in his chair as he put these questions with manifest anxiety. The judge gazed on his nephew speculatively, his shrewd eyes dwelling upon the portly, middle-aged good looks of the other with a gleam of something like subdued amusement. Jerome's colorless, rather flaccid face flushed uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He fidgeted uneasily in his place and passed one smooth, white hand over the sleek contour of his head, whereon the hair was growing conspicuously thin. Well, he urged impatiently. You ask me if I can approve your plans? Said the other with exceeding gentleness of tone and manner. He was still studying his nephew's face with disconcerting attention. As a magistrate, I could never approve or think well of an attempt to tamper with the sacredness of the marriage relation. In this particular case, a most peculiar one I admit, I am inclined to neither approve nor to censure an effort to place matters on their proper and right basis. I should prefer to reserve judgment until later. Jerome Chantry left his uncle's presence with a light step of a younger man. His somewhat halting admiration for Mary had just received a tremendous impetus. He was at present inclined to consider himself as very much in love with her, and the unmentioned loss of her fortune, which he had for several years regarded as completely within his grasp, mingled obscurely with his thoughts, coloring them to a degree of life almost startlingly real. It occurred to him for the first time that Mary had treated him with positive injustice. He had been patient, kind, not over-insistent during the years of her college life he reminded himself as he hurried along, but surely she had understood his wishes with regard to herself, and these wishes, here to force so irresolute as to have contented themselves with occasional calls, boxes of confectionery, and limited orders at the florists. Suddenly assumed heroic proportions. Jerome by rapid degrees was led to realize himself a much abused man, almost heartbroken in fact. He had been plunged into a most unpleasant predicament, he told himself, with well-simulated indignation. But he would have his rights yet. No pale shadow of a marriage should stand in his way. He would run with such cobweb bonds with force if need be. He was determined, may, impassioned, and she should know it without loss of time. Arriving at Judge Chantry's house, he believed himself to be very much an earnest. He was likewise uncomfortably and unbecomingly warm. The afternoon post brought two letters to Mary, both addressed to Mrs. Hugh Gint. She held them in her hand unopened, dreamily considering the unfamiliar name. It was strong and fine, she slowly decided. He had said she might bear the name that pleased her best. This name pleased her. From henceforth it should be hers, unless the disquieting words with which her guardian had closed their interview of the morning recurred to her mind. But no, he would never consent to an annulment of the marriage. She was quietly sure of this. Presently it occurred to her to wonder who the writer of the second letter might be. One, she saw, was from Felice. Felice's letter was delicately blue and breathed a faint aroma of violets. It contained many pages of thick paper, for it was doubly stamped. The other was square and thin and white. The address written in plain, small characters with very black ink. She was impressed anew with the strength and distinction of the name. It is like him, she thought. Then she opened the letter with haste. She glanced at the signature at the foot of the one closely written page and drew a quick breath of wonder. My dear Mary, it began. You will be surprised perhaps at receiving a letter from me, but I shall not ask you to answer it, and it will take only a few minutes of your tomorrow. I am writing this at midnight on our wedding day. I meant to have told you what I have to say before you left my house, Mary, but somehow my tongue was loath to break the charm of the silence that fell between us at the last. You asked me today how I could promise what I did. You did not promise, Mary. You were honest and true as you must always be, and I did not answer you. But now I want to tell you that in that hour I pledged myself to you, body and soul, as a man would swear allegiance to his queen, asking nothing in return, say that she remain his queen. I want you to know beyond per adventure that you have a subject, Mary, loyal and true, I am sworn to your service in every thought and fiber of my being. You may never need me in your far island home. You may never wish to see me again. But if the day comes when I can serve you, or defend you against any evil or annoyance, and that day may come, I want you to remember this. Till then and always, Mary, I am faithfully yours, Hugh Gent. She read the letter slowly, lingering over every word and phrase. Then she sighed. I should have liked to answer this letter, she said to the surrounding silence. But he does not ask me to write to him. He expects me to go away. After a time during which her eyes rested uninterruptedly upon his letter, she folded it and replaced it in its envelope with trembling hands. Something intangible seemed to emanate from the insensate paper, which conveyed strange intimations to her blood. She became dimly aware of a peculiar frightened bounding of her pulses, as though some tremendous, undreamed of vista of past and future had opened suddenly before her eyes. Unwritten meanings out of the infinite heart of a man pierced her, yesterdays and tomorrows, stretching a shining pathway from the crumbling instant, gleamed before her bewildered gaze. For a moment she struggled, astonished in unsounded deeps, beyond thought, beyond reason. Then, neither thinking nor reasoning, she reached again for the familiar shallows of girlhood. The soft footfall of the well-trained servant who presided over the imposing entrance to Judge Chantry's house recalled her more completely to herself. He was proffering a card for her inspection. Mr. Jerome Chantry, she read, and frowned with vague displeasure. You may show him in here, Peters, she said, and waited, angrily rosy for her visitor's appearance. Mr. Jerome Chantry came in immediately, with a light step and smiling assurance of a man who enters a foreign country well fortified with guidebook information. I'm delighted to see you, Mary, bowing low over her hand. I had begun to think we were never going to meet again. I have been so unfortunate, you know, in always finding you out when I called. Yes, assented the girl, shrinking a little under the fervent and undisguised admiration of his eyes. He had grown stouter, she reflected, to the point of showing a dimple in one smooth-shaven cheek. Mary was one of those women who regarded dimple in a man's cheek as little less than a crime. Mr. Chantry continued to gaze at her with smiling audacity. He appeared to divine her antipathy and to enjoy it, as one enjoys the petulant dislike of a small child secure in his ultimate triumph. I didn't know you were here, Mary, he went on, his voice sinking to a caressing murmur. Till Uncle told me just now. Her eyes questioned him hostilely. Mr. Chantry's smiling face became suddenly overcast with gloom. Yes, he said plaintively, Uncle told me that you were married. Do you know I call that very cruel of you, Mary? Of course you've secured your fortune, all right. But why did you marry that farmer fellow? Had you forgotten me, Mary? I should like you to call me by my name, said Mary icily. Do you know what it is? He sighed, don't ask me to call you by another man's name today. He begged, I can't give up all that I've thought and hoped so suddenly. After I've seen your husband, perhaps I shall begin to realize what has happened. You will not see him at all, said Mary conclusively. Mr. Chantry appeared visibly embarrassed. Uncle was saying something of the sort, he said in a low voice. But I... why, Mary, I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe that you could be led or driven into marrying a man you did not love, and who did not love you. That is why, tenderly, I have waited so long and patiently, I was hoping that someday you might realize my... He paused, apparently overcome by his thronging emotions. Stop, said Mary breathlessly. You... you have no right to speak to me in this way. There is no man, went on Mr. Chantry strongly, who respects the bond of a true marriage more than I, but this mere ghost of a marriage with a man who cares so little for you that he allows you to go from him without a single effort to hold you, I do not respect. Tell me this one thing, Mary, did he ask you to stay with him? No, faltered Mary, he asked nothing of me, nothing. In the letter which he wrote to your guardian on the day of your marriage, he expressly repeated what you have just acknowledged. You are free, Mary, entirely so, and I entreat you to realize your freedom, for my sake. The eloquent Mr. Chantry was entirely unprepared for what followed. Mary had arisen and was regarding him with an expression which he fatuously took for one of surprised and even pleased attention. She heard him to the end, then without a word turned and left the room. He heard her hurrying feet upon the stair. Well, upon my word, little Mary, he ejaculated with an indulgent smile. On the whole Jerome felt very well pleased with himself as he walked slowly away. He had effectually broken through the barriers of her reserve. He had declared himself unmistakably. The rest, you felt assured, would be easy. CHAPTER XII The patient earth had brought forth fruit of herself after the immemorial fashion. First the blade, then the ear, and after that the full corn in the ear. In due course also the reaper had thrust in his sickle at harvest time, and now the ripened and empty shocks stood in the field, powdered with whore frost, in the pale light of the tardy dawns. The sea and the sky changing ever knew little change as the seasons waxed and waned, but the naked trees and the naked earth waited shivering for the snow. Within doors it was the jovial time of barns, filled to bursting with harvests, of cellars, redolent with ripened fruit, of laden boards, of roaring fires, of early homecomings, and long nights of sleep, while the stars and the frost sparkled keenly without, and the sea roared hungrily on the black rocks. A merry time, a time of thanksgiving and plentiful good cheer. If one be warm with love and satisfied with its abiding presence on the hearth stone, yet a grievous time and bitter as the black frost to an uprooted tree, if one be alone and lonely. Hughent had already learned what it was to be alone. He had grieved sorely when his mother died, yet he had found wholesome solace in the sea on the sky, in his books and his thoughts, and the hard breaths over plowshare and spade had somehow lightened his load of sorrow. But now that the sea and the sky and the earth had become mysteriously alive with a vanished presence, now that books appeared more dead than the hands that wrote them, and the sweat of the brow yielded only bitterness, he had learned perforce the more difficult lesson of loneliness. More than three months had passed since his wedding day, and there had been no word nor sign from Mary. He knew now that he had expected this and more. The very depth and bitterness of his aching disappointment measured for him the height and sweetness of his hope. He had told her that he would ask nothing, yet with his whole soul he had demanded all from her. Judge Chantry had acknowledged his letter of renunciation, curtly and formally adding a single paragraph to the effect that Mary would be kept from carrying out her projects for some months, during which time she might be addressed at his house. One day in early September he met Phyllis Vivian walking alone in the fields. I was hoping to meet you, Mr. Gett. She said frankly, we are leaving tomorrow. He waited for her to go on, his stubborn tongue refusing any word of conventional regret. I had a letter from Mary today. Does she... has she written to you? No, he said harshly. Miss Vivian flashed a resentful look at his somber face. I think Mary is very unhappy, she said defiantly. Why should she be unhappy, he asked, still in the cold, harsh tone of one who has put an iron clutch upon his emotions. The girl shook her head. Mary isn't like other girls, she said. She isn't like me, not one bit. I couldn't have done what she did. I should have. He was staring at her steadily, a furrow of suffering deepening between his blue eyes. God knows I meant to help her, he said at last. But I did wrong, I see that now. Why didn't you make her love you? demanded Phyllis. With a sudden keen sparkle of anger. You could have done it. Why did you let her go away? How could I keep her with me? he asked Dully. You know that I could not? It was all a mistake. A stupid blunder of mine, he added bitterly. I thought. I hoped. What did I not think and hope? Like a fatuous idiot. Mary isn't like any girl I ever knew, repeated Miss Vivian insistently. She is more like a child, or a nice honest boy. But I'm sure she isn't happy. Her letters are queer. His haggard eyes fastened hungrily upon her. Would you like to see one of them? she went out hurriedly. I have, in fact, I have two or three of them here. I thought perhaps he took them quietly. Thank you, he said. I shall keep them. The letters proved to be very simple, almost bald accounts of the daily circumstances of her dull life in Judge Chantry's house. When he had length brought himself to the point of reading them. Twice she mentioned Jerome Chantry. He persists in coming to see me, Phyllis, she wrote. I wish he would stay away. And in another place Jerome Chantry sent me violets today. I told Peters to throw them away. They were so sweet they seemed to smother me. Did you ever notice that flowers seem to do that sometimes? Oh my dear, I never guessed what it was like to be lonely before, though I was nearly always alone before I knew you. No, I do not think I can come to you, as you ask. I'm trying to study as many hours as possible each day. It keeps me from thinking too much about other things, things that I cannot help. I often think of what our life in Hawaii will be like. It will be a busy life, Phyllis. And I'm glad of that. I mean to feel every minute with work. It was past midnight when he finally roused himself from the bitter reverie into which he had fallen, her short, pathetic sentences ringing in his ears like muffled cries of pain. Oh God, he groaned. What can I do to help her? The low sobbing of the wind in the chimney and the stealthy patter of sleet against his uncurtained window seemed to answer him. You can do nothing. Nothing. He threw himself upon his couch before the dying fire, and through the long hours between midnight and dawn fought again the difficult battle of renunciation, with hard-rung tears which the darkness mercifully hid. Toward morning he fell asleep, and so Pramelea Magalene found him, when she made her quiet housewifely rounds of the lower floor in the gray light of dawn. A sleeping face shone white and worn against the dark pillows of the couch, and its almost boyish look of hard-won peace appeared sadder than tears to the faithful eyes of the woman. She stole softly away to the kitchen, sighing and shaking her head in mute passion of tender pity and indignation. I'm sore afraid for Master Hugh, Father, she said to the old man, who was warming his stiffened fingers over the kitchen stove. Afraid for Maester Hugh, eh? Why, daughter, what's happened to Maester Hugh out of the ordinary? He never went to his bed all the night, Father, and he's lying asleep now on his sofa. I hadn't the heart to wake him. "'Tis the matter of the young woman,' said Andrew Magalene wisely. He should have asked me, should Master Hugh, who knows the ways a woman folks from a long life of experience. The woman should I come before the wedding, and if there be no woman, there should be no wedding. Maester Hugh thought to turn the customs of the world aside. Well, that's no easy matter for any man.' She had no right to marry him unless she was willing to be his true and honest wife, broke in the woman harshly. When I mined how I showed her the madam's chamber, and how proud I was on the wedding day of my cooking and all, sudden, as it was and unlooked for, a finer wedding breakfast was never set down to in a cleaner house, and I, mixing the bright cake at midnight, it was ill-omanned, I'm thinking. Daughter, it is not becoming in a Christian woman to speak of omens and the like. Wait on the Lord, and be of good cheer. The Lord is mindful, O Maester Hugh, as he is ever mindful of his aim. Though there be times I'm thinking when he clean forgets that our thoughts are not as his thoughts, and that we us a thousand years is not as one day. There's not an hour of the day that I'm not praying for him, Father, the woman said, in a low voice of passion. What it would ease my mind wonderful if I could even give her a piece of it. She's a wicked woman, a wicked, light-minded woman, Father. I wish she had never set eyes upon him, that I do. Pray for the misguided lassie, too. She needs it, urged her Father gently. Remember that where two of us are beseeching the Lord, for the one thing it shall be done for us of our Father in heaven. And what petition do you put up for Mistress Ghent, Father? asked Pramilia, dryly. I haven't found it in my heart to lay her case before the Lord has yet. Then do it, immediate daughter. I'm just beseeching the Lord day by day to bring young Mistress Ghent to a realising senso or mercies. That's all any oas needs, at any time. For we're fair-compassed about we the everlasting mercies of Jehovah, all the years o' our pilgrimage. But there's a special blessing in store for that young woman, I'm thinking. If so be, she'll put out her hand and take it. If she'll not put out her hand and take it, she's not deserving of it, I say, murmured Pramilia with an obstinate tightening of her kind mouth. I'd just like her to see Master Hugh as I saw him, but now. It's your doing, Mistress, I'd say to her, and may the Lord deal with you, as you deal with him. Yes, Father, I would so. I would speak plain with her if I had the chance. There's times when plain speakens a good thing, and I'll not deny it, said Andrew thoughtfully. When love and wisdom guide the tongue, it is surely a good thing. A good thing. He went out closing the door softly behind him, and Pramilia betook herself to making a cheerful noise with dishes and silver, and the clattering of fire irons in the dining room, singing the while in her rich soft contralto, the words of the morning hymn. Come, my soul, thou must be waking. Now is breaking o'er the earth another day. Come to him who made this splendor, see thou render, all thy feeble thoughts can pay. And Hughent, opening his tired eyes, upon the glory of the sun, rising over leagues of grey tossing sea, found it in his sore heart to pray for strength, to endure that which was to come to him before the rising and the going down thereof. Then this can no man armor his soul more completely. CHAPTER XIII. OF THE PRINCESS IN THE PLOWMAN. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mrs. L. Sid. THE PRINCESS IN THE PLOWMAN. BY FLORENCE MARCE KINGSLEY CHAPTER XIII. The correlated thoughts and events which finally led Jerome Chantry into seeking an interview with Hughent may not be set down in their order. When one has fully determined upon a course of action, whether righteous or unrighteous, the stars in their courses appear to fight for him. And be it remembered that the younger Chantry was in no wise conscious of evil intent towards any human being. He had experienced little difficulty in fully convincing himself that his motives were beyond question. He had, he was confident, loved Mary for years. And in his mirror and his bank account, as well as in the esteem of the public mind, he could find no adequate reason to doubt that she could be brought to love him in return. But in justice to Jerome Chantry it should be stated that he seldom, if ever, considered Mary's attitude towards himself. He had lived long and blamelessly in the marriage relation before death intervened to widow him. And during those years of marital felicity he had become fully confirmed in his early and comfortable conviction with regard to women, which in no way differed from a strictly orthodox acceptation of the order of creation as set down in scriptural text, written, translated, and interpreted by masculine minds, especially accredited by the Almighty. If Mary did not love him plainly, she ought to love him. And whether she did or did not, the outcome concerned itself with his own wishes rather than with hers. In like easy and sweeping manner he had been enabled to set aside the shadowy claims of Hugh Gint. But it had appeared to him as quite the gentlemanly and civil thing to do, to apprise Mr. Gint of his intentions. It was, therefore, in this eminently charitable and Christian state of mind that Mr. Chantry presented himself at the old Gint homestead at as early an hour as comported with a careful toilette and a comfortable and copious breakfast. Mr. Chantry was most particular as to the care of his sentient bodily structure. He reflected with satisfaction that Mary should shortly participate in these privileges and in due course profit by them. It was cold in the country and a biting wind swept in off the sea. Mr. Chantry's large face was quite purple with it by the time he dismounted stiffly from the slow-going stage which brought him from the station. As he brushed the clinging snow from his trousers' legs and sought for an immaculate, scented handkerchief wherewith to delicately caress his frost-nipped nose, he thoughtfully reviewed his case as he intended to present it to the owner of the house upon whose doorstep he was standing. Several telling sentences came to him after the bell had sounded within. It was, after all, so obvious a matter that a wayfaring man, though a fool, could not well air therein, and he, Gint, he had been led to believe, was no fool, though he had appeared unlearned in the ways of the world to a pitiable degree. He was sorry for Gint, he told himself, benevolently, and he would do something handsome for him one of these days. He would indeed. Glowing with these generous impulses, as well as with the nipping outer air, Mr. Chantry was presently introduced by Primalia McKenny into Hugh Gint's library which served as his living-room as well. It was a large room, stretching quite across the house, with windows to the south and east commanding wide prospects of stormy sea and windswept land. Mr. Chantry comfortably planted on the hearth-rug, with coattails spread wide to the genial warmth, allowed his eyes to wander at ease over the bleak prospect without. He even smiled indulgently as he endeavored to picture Mary at home amid these rude surroundings. Rude surroundings being the phrase which appeared to Mr. Chantry's mind as most fitting to describe the savage purple of the sea, under the hurrying clouds, the naked trees, the distant pastures, and the nearer garden closes, forlorn and stripped of their summer boss cage. The room itself was not so bad, not so bad, he told himself, with a pleasant glow of patronage. Really, Gint had contrived to make a very respectable place of it, to be sure that bookcases which filled every available wall space were obviously homemade. But there were two or three ancient prints, and one glowing bit of landscape upon which his commercial eye rested approvingly. The painted floor boasted a decent rug or so, and the heavy old-fashioned mahogany sofa, with its pile of crimson cushions, drew a second approving glance. Mr. Chantry was quite prepared to be very gracious indeed to the owner of the room, and his plump face assumed its blandest society curves as he heard the heavy step of the master on the flags without. Hugh Gint had come directly from his labour in an adjoining bit of woodland, which he was clearing of underbrush. He did not excuse himself for his rude flannel shirt, nor his heavy boots, which bore unmistakable traces of the plowed ground across which he had come with haste at Permilia's summons. He brought with him into the warm room a wild breath of the sea, and the cold earth which caused Mr. Chantry to draw a little mirror to the fire. After the preliminary greetings, a brief silence fell between the two men, during which Hugh Gint deliberately scanned his visitor's face and figure with eyes as cold as the weather, and Jerome Chantry hastily reviewed his carefully prepared remarks. He had, curiously enough, forgotten a number of the telling phrases with which he had intended to introduce himself and his errand, in the presence of this tall and broad figure which confronted him. I, in here, he began at last, in the character of, well, sir, as an emissary, if I may use the expression. He paused to glance inquiringly at the immobile face of his listener. Hugh Gint waited for him to go on. Mr. Chantry coughed deprecatingly, then smiled slyly to himself. He was beginning to feel quite at his ease. You may not be aware of the fact, but I am, that is, I hope, I may be permitted to style myself, a very good friend of Miss—I should say of Mrs. Gint. I am, as you may be aware, a nephew of Judge Chantry's, and a frequent visitor at his house. Hugh Gint's unswerving blue eyes compelled him to continue. And, as such, I have, of course, been in the confidence of the family to the extent of knowing all that has taken place of late. I am now referring to Mary's unfortunate marriage. Mr. Chantry was quick to perceive the uncontrollable quiver which passed over the rugged face of his listener, and the sight of it supplied him with courage for his next sentence. I use the word, unfortunate, advisedly, Mr. Gint, for a marriage which brings only embarrassment and sadness to either participant can hardly be regarded as otherwise. And, I regret to be obliged to tell you that Mary is not as happy as I, as her friends could wish to see her. Did my wife ask you to come here and tell me this? demanded Hugh Gint. His voice was harsh and insistent. Well, your—no, that is, hardly, stammered the other, thrown for an instant off his guard. But you ought to know it, sir. Surely you ought to know it? Yes, I ought to know it. Go on. My wife is unhappy, you say. Mr. Chantry drew a quick breath, his greenish eyes narrowed to a slit. I have been led to expect great magnanimity, not to say generosity on your part, Mr. Gint, he said blambly. And that is why, in short, sir, I may say that your previous magnanimity explains my presence in your house this morning. Jerome broadened his chest and passed a smooth hand over his sleek head with an air of purring complacency. He was feeling very well pleased with himself and his exquisite diplomacy. What can I do to help her? demanded Hugh Gint, fixing his somber eyes upon his visitor. If you know, tell me. You can release her, cried Chantry with dramatic suddenness. You can stand out of the way of a better man. And that better man is myself. Why should I not say it? I loved her before you ever set eyes upon her. The marriage between us was arranged as definitely as a marriage can be in America. I knew how immature, how almost childish she was. Therefore I waited her time, as many another man has waited. I was resolved not to hurry her, though God knows I could ill afford to wait for a wife at my time of life. And while I stood one side, in order not to intrude myself upon her over soon, you stepped in and bound her to yourself, and without consulting her guardian or friends. It was a damnable outrage, and I hold you accountable. Does she love you? Jerome Chantry's pale eyes fell before the fierce question, and the leap and tug of leashed passions behind it. Oh, as to that, you know, he began lamely. I am waiting for her to be legally unembarrassed before I urged the question. There would be a certain diffidence, you understand, a certain delicacy to such a man as myself under the circumstances, in putting so pointed an inquiry. I am a Christian gentleman, sir, a church warden in short, and I beg to remind you that I recognize all the proprieties due to the peculiar situation. Then you have not as yet proposed marriage to my wife. No, most certainly not, sir. Thank you. I shall wait until, well, until you, Jerome completed his halting sentence with a darting glance of inquiry at the other's impassive face. You may tell my wife that when I receive from her a request for release, it shall be given, immediately and unconditionally. But she must ask me for her release, continued Hugh Gantt with stern immobility. When she has done this, I shall release her, and not before. Do you understand? Jerome Chantry stood up and buttoned his coat. His face had become curiously modeled with dim, purplish spots. His plump hands trembled visibly. You have made a most embarrassing condition, sir, he said. Mary is a peculiarly sensitive woman, as you are probably not aware, but as one who knows her well, indeed intimately, I may say that I consider your condition as almost cruelly unjust. A man of fine feeling, a gentleman in short, would offer her an unconditional release from claims which have no real foundation in fact or fancy. Hugh Gantt had also risen and was staring at his visitor with savage intentness. His large hands were clenched behind his back. You are mistaken in one thing, he said deliberately. My claims have a foundation. Indeed, and may I inquire as to its nature, sneered the other. I love my wife. That is my one and only claim. But I am prepared to defend it against every human being but herself. Now, do you understand me? Jerome Chantry allowed a slight insulting smile to lift the corners of his thin lips. A most extraordinary claim, I should say, under the circumstances, he said softly. He turned and made for the door then paused. I think, he added with distinct and careful politeness, that we fully understand each other. I shall undertake with pleasure to procure from—or, Mrs. Gantt—the request which you are pleased to inquire and which you have agreed to honour. The rest will follow and do time. I am glad to have met you and to have had the opportunity for this very interesting conversation. I will bid you good-day, sir. Hugh Gantt took a single forward step, his blue eyes blazing with unguarded fury, but the door had already closed upon his uninvited guest. After a pause during which he stood before his fire, plunged deep in unhappy meditation, he left the house by way of the kitchen. Don't wait dinner for me, Pramilia, he called out to the woman, whose soft dark eyes hung upon his movements like those of a faithful dog. I'm going up to the hill lot to chop wood. I shan't be home till dark. Master Hugh, expostulated Miss Mikkelhenny, but you'll let me put you up a bit of lunch, won't you? Just a slice of cold beef and a— but he was already out of hearing, his tall figures swinging along against the darkening sky, from which occasional hard, compacted kernels of snow were beginning to drift upon the bitter wind. May the Lord help him, ejaculated the woman with pious fervor. She stood by the window, wiping her eyes from time to time with her gingham apron. May the Lord help him, she repeated, and—and her, she added grudgingly as she turned once more to her interrupted tasks. As old Andrew Mikkelhenny went about his duties on that same day, he was conscious of a great burden of prayer and supplication which had descended upon him out of the unseen. His lips moved soundlessly, and in his heart were those deeper groanings of spirit which may not be uttered in word or sigh. From a human and practical standpoint, Mr. Mikkelhenny was forced to acknowledge that his young master had been guilty of a grievous folly. Thou knowest, Lord, that Master Hugh should have taken counsel with me. He complained in the undisputed privacy of the great barn. I could have advised him to his profit, but now that he is fairstalled in the myry clay of his own self-will, and I can do not to help him, do thou, Lord, come to his relief and deliver him. From the spot where he was actively engaged in shucking corn, Mr. Mikkelhenny witnessed the arrival of Jerome Chantry and also his departure. To something able to do with her, he divined prophetically and gave himself to renewed supplications. His horn hath he exalted like the horn of a unicorn. He muttered as his stern eye fell upon Jerome Chantry's portly form, surmounted by a tall silk hat. But it shall be brought low. He also that hath waxed fat in his iniquity shall be made lean. I go thy ways. He continued as the gate closed after the flushed and rascal Chantry. Our God will defend Master Hugh against all such as take counsel against him to disturb his peace. Yet I doubt if a word of honest counsel for me will come amiss. He pondered the matter while the pile of husked corn was growing, and at noon made little answer to the gentle patter of Pramilia's conversation, while she complained at length of Hugh working without food in the bitter weather. A sore heart needs the company of a full stomach on thinking. He should have come home to his dinner, she said. More as special as the man was the bearer of evil tidings, and I cooked a chicken because of him. How should you know the man's errand in the house? demanded her father. How should I know? Well, father, there be many ways of knowing what goes on behind closed doors. My ears are keen to hear what concerns Master Hugh, and their voices were loud. He came asking a release for her. Now what think you of Mistress Skint? She herself comes not but send such a man. May the Lord help her. Amen to that, daughter. And he will help her, said Andrew devoutly. Stay a little farther while I put up dinner for Master Hugh, urged Pramilia. You must take it to him in the upper wood lot. And father, see that he eats it, will you? He has no call to perish with hunger because of foolish woman. Oh, but I pray to God I may have the chance to say to her what is in my heart before I die. See that your heart is filled with love before ever you speak, advised Andrew. Out of the angry heart come mischiefs innumerable to plague the world. A woman's heart is often angry, and therefore her lips speak foolishness. But, he added complacently, and the heart of a man is wisdom. The scattered snowflakes of the morning had already thickened to a dizzying whirl. The frozen clods were fast whitening, and to the windward of leaf-strewn thickets, the first drifts of winter were rearing airy superstructures upon the strong foundations of frozen sleet. To be a bitter winter, meditated old Andrew to himself as he trudged along. The sharp ringing blows of an axe reached his ear long before he came to the upper wood lot, where Hugh was at work. To zoo, working against sorrow, he muttered, yet to labor even in bitterness of soul is better than to be idle. He stood for a while watching the young man before making his quiet presence known. Hugh had cast aside his coat and was wielding his axe with dogged, unsparing energy. Mr. Mikkelhenny observed with amazement that he was attacking the great trunk of a hickory, which had been long cherished with his special pride. A Master Hugh, you're cutting the biggest hickory at last, he exclaimed. I was thinking that tree was to be spared for the joy of future generations. It's many and many a time you've told me so, and your father before you. Hugh dropped his axe to the ground with a thud. I didn't notice what I was cutting, he said dilly. Makes no difference anyway. There'll be no one to care after me. Now, Master Hugh, said the old man resolutely as he advanced and sat down his basket. I'll trouble you to put on your coat against the cold whistle to listen to me. You've neither father nor mother to counsel you, but I have a word for you in my heart that will out. It's lain there unsaid for many days, but the Lord hath shape in it and secret or long. It is ready to be uttered now, and you shall hear it whether you will or know. Here also is food. Hugh scowled at the basket. Say what you have to say and be done with it, he said roughly. I am in no mood for talk. Keep your aim counsel then, retorted the old man sharply, but I have this much to say to you, lad. If you love the woman you call wife, go to her and tell her so. Shall not listen to me, grown Hugh. There's no woman living who will not listen to the tale of an honest man's love, but it should be spoken with power and with the knowledge that back of it that you were claiming what God has already given into your keeping. The lassie is yours by the grace and favour of the Almighty. Take her then, and let no man say you nay. She will not say you nay, Master Hugh, if she be true woman, and I find it in my heart to say that she is no other. Now I have spoken my word, and I'll not add to it. You will even do as you are pleased to do, but I would that you eat and be refreshed, and may the Lord bless you, Master Hugh, as he blessed your feather before you, and may he cause his face to shine upon her as it shone upon the soul of your mother. So shall you both be kept safe in the arms of the everlasting love. There was no talk of love between us, objected Hugh, staring at the old man with haggard eyes. I was demented, crazy, I think, now. God knows I met purely by her, but now she cries out like an innocent creature sorely hurt by a savage trap. I must let her go. There is no other way. Marriage is no trap to hurt the tendress, but lassie or them all, said Andrew gently. Rather it is a strong fold, fashioned to keep out the cold of the world and the sting of it. I am the wolf also, who comes not safe to kill and to destroy. But this was like no other marriage, Side Hugh. It is true that I hoped, hoping is good, Master Hugh, but you must even claim your own if you would possess it, interrupted the old man strongly. If you will not, another will take it from you. To the law and all things under heaven, I've seen it and proved it. I will write to her, said Hugh at last, heaving a great breath of pain which floated and vanished spirit-like in the frosty air. Go to her, urged Andrew, the spoken word is I best. Go to her now. The young man picked up his axe. Leave me, Andrew, he ordered curtly. I must think further of what you have said. He could not bring himself to speak of the unanswered letter, but the memory of it lay like a stone upon his heart. If she had cared for me, he thought bitterly. She would have asked me to come. End of Chapter 13