 CHAPTER V. THE ADVENTURE OF THE IMPROMTU MOUNTAINEER. The explosion and evaporation of Dr. Portoscu Langley, with whom more amalgamated the Compto Arocha Sulore, Mr. Higginson the Courier, and whatever else that versatile gentleman chose to call himself, entailed many results of varying magnitudes. In the first place, Mrs. Evola ordered a great manatee. That, however, mattered little to the firm, as I love to call us, because it shocked dear Elsie so. Four, of course, after all her kindness we couldn't accept our commission on her purchase, so that she got her machine cheap for fifteen pounds from the maker. But in the second place, I declare I am beginning to write like a woman of business, she decided to run over to England for the summer to see her boy Portsmouth. Being certain now that the discoloration of her bangle depended more on the presence of sulfur in the India rubber bottle than on the passing state of her astral body. Tis in abrupt dissent from the inner self to a hot water bottle, I admit, but Mrs. Evola took the plunge with grace, like a sense of a woman. Dr. Portoscu Langley had been annihilated for her at one blow. She returned forthwith to common sense and England. What will you do with the chalet while you're away? Lady Georgina asked when she announced her intention. You can't shut it up to take care of itself. Every blessed thing in the place will go to rack and ruin. Shutting up a house means spoiling it forever. Why? I've got a cottage of my own in the best part of Surrey that I've led for the summer. A pretty little place, now vacant, for which, by the way, I want a tenant. If you happen to know of one, and when it's left empty for a month or two, perhaps it would do for me, Mrs. Evola suggested, jumping at it. I'm looking out for a furnished house for the summer with an easy reach of Portsmouth and London for myself and Oliver. Lady Georgina seized her arm with a face of blank horror. My dear, she cried, for you I wouldn't dream of letting it to you. A nasty, damp, cold, unwholesome house on stiff clay soil with detestable drains in the deadliest part of a wheel of Surrey. Why, you and your boy would catch your deaths of rheumatism. Is it the one I saw advertised in the Times this morning, I wonder? Mrs. Evola inquired in a plastered voice. Charmingly furnished house on Holmesdale Common, six bedrooms, four reception rooms, splendid views, pure air, picturesque surroundings, exceptionally situated. I thought of writing about it. That's it, Lady Georgina exclaimed. With a demonstric wave of her hand, I drew up the advertisement myself. Situated, I should just think it was. Why, my dear, I wouldn't let you rent the place for worlds. A horrid, poky little hole, stuck down at the bottom of a boggy hollow as damp as debonchire, with the paper peeling off the walls so that I had to take my choice between giving it up myself ten years ago or removing to the cemetery. And I've let it ever sense to city men with large families. Nothing would induce me to allow you and your boy to expose yourself to such risks. Poor Lady Georgina had taken quite a fancy to Mrs. Evola. Now, what I was going to say was this. You can't check your house up. It'll all go moldy. Houses always go moldy, shut up in summer. And you can't leave it to your servants. I know the baggages. No conscience. No conscience. They'll ask their entire families to come up and stop with them on block and turn your place into a perfect piggery. Why, when I went away from my house in town one autumn, didn't I leave a policeman and his wife in charge a most respectable man? Then he happened to be an Irishman. And what was the consequence? My dear, I assure you I came back unexpectedly from poor dear Kynaston's one day. At a moment's notice, having quarreled with him over home rule or education or something, poor dear Kynaston is what they call liberal, I believe. Got at by that man in Rosbury. And there didn't I find all the Olflenigans and Olflatteries and Olflins in the neighborhood camping out in my drawing room with a strong detachment of O'Donoghues and O'Darities and O'Driskels lying about losing possession of a library? Never leave a house to the servants, my dear. It's positively suicidal. Put in a responsible caretaker of whom you know something. Like Lois here, for instance. Lois? Mrs. Evelyn echoed, Dear me, that's just a very thing. What a capital idea. I hadn't thought of Lois. She and Elsie might stop on here, with Ursula and a gardener. I protested that if we did, it was our clear duty to pay a small rent. But Mrs. Evelyn brushed that aside. You robbed yourself about the bicycle, she insisted, and I'm delighted to let you have it. It's I who want to pay, for you'll keep the house dry for me. I remembered Mr. Hitchcock. Mutual advantage benefits you, benefits me, and made no bones about it. So in the end Mrs. Evelyn set off for England with Cecil, leaving Elsie and me in charge of Ursula, the gardener, and the chalet. As for Lady Georgina, having by this time completed her cure at Schlungenbad, complexion as usual, no guinea yellower, she telegraphed progression. I can't do without the idiot, and hung around Lucerne, apparently for no other purpose but to send people up the brink on a hunt for our wonderful new machines, and so put money in our pockets. She was much amused when I told her that Aunt Susan, who lived, you will remember, in respectable indignance in Blackheath, had written to expostulate with me on my un-Ladylike conduct in becoming a Bicycle Commission agent. Un-Ladylike, the cantankerous old lady exclaimed with warmth, what does the woman mean? Has she got no gumption? It's Ladylike, I suppose, to be a companion, or a governess, or a music teacher, or something else in the Blackthread Gloveway, London, but not to sell bicycles to a good round commission. My dear, between you and me, I don't see it. If you had a brother now, he might sell bicycles, or corner wheat, or rig the share market, or do anything else he pleased in these days, and nobody'd think the worse of him, as long as he made money, and it's my opinion that what is soft for the goose can't be fire out for the gander, and vice versa. Besides which, what's the use of trying to be Ladylike? You are a Ladychild, and you couldn't help being one. Why trouble to be like what nature made you? Tell Aunt Susan from me to put that in her pipe and smoke it. I did tell Aunt Susan my letter, giving Lady Georgina as authority for the statement, and I really believe it had a consulant effect upon her, for Aunt Susan is one of those innocent-minded people who cherish a profound respect for the opinions and ideas of a Lady of title, especially where questions of delicacy are concerned. It calmed her to think that though I, an officer's daughter, had declined upon trade, I was mixing at least with the best people. We had a lovely time at the chalet, two girls alone, messing just as we pleased in the kitchen, and learning from Ursula how to concoct Poteaupeur in the most approved Swiss fashion. We puttered, as we women love to putter, half the day long. The other half we spent in riding our cycles about the eternal hills, and ensnaring the flies whom Lady Georgina dutifully set up to us. She was our decoy duck, and, in virtue of her handle, she decoyed to a marvel. In D, I had sold so many manatews that I began to entertain a deep respect for my own commercial faculties. As for Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock, he wrote to me from Frankfurt, The world continues to revolve on its axis, the manatew, and the machine is booming. Orders wrought in daily. When you ventilated the suggestion of an agency in Lemberg, I concluded at a glance you had the material of a first class businesswoman about you. But I reckon I did not know what a travel were meant until you started on the road. I am now enlarging and altering this factory to meet increased demands, branch officers at Berlut, Hamburg, Creffield, and Dusseldorf. In fact, our stock before dealing elsewhere, a liberal discount allowed to the trade. Two hundred agents wanted in all towns of Germany. If they were every one of them like you, Miss, well, I guess I would hire the town of Frankfurt for my business premises. One morning, after we had spent about a week at the chalet by ourselves, I was surprised to see a young man with a napstick on his back walking up the garden path towards our cottage. Quick, quick, Elsie! I cried, being in a mischievous mood. Come here with the opera glass. There's a man in the offing. A what? Elsie exclaimed, shocked as usual by my levity. A man, I answered, squeezing her arm. A man, a real life man, a specimen of the masculine gender in the human being. Man ahoy! He has come at last, the lodestar of our existence. Next moment I was sorry, I spoke. For as the man drew nearer, I perceived that he was in doubt with very long legs and a languidly poetical bearing. That supercilious smile, that enticing mustache? Could it be? Yes, it was. In doubt of it, Harold Tillington. I grew grave at once. Harold Tillington and the situation were serious. What can he want here, I exclaimed, drawing back. Who is it, Elsie asked, for, being a woman, she read it once in my altar demeanor, the fact that the man was not unknown to me. Lady Georgina's nephew, I answered with a tell-tale cheek, I fear. You remember I mentioned to you that I had met him in Schlaggambad? But this is really too bad of that wicked old lady Georgina. She has told him where we lived and sent him up to see us. Perhaps, Elsie put in, he wants to trot her a bicycle. I glanced at Elsie sideways. I had an uncomfortable suspicion that she said it slightly, like one who knew he wanted nothing of the sort. But at any rate, I brushed the suggestion aside, frankly, nonsense, I answered. He wants me, not a bicycle. He came up to us, waving his hat. He did look handsome. Well, Miss Kaylee, he cried from afar, I have tracked you to your lair, I have found out where you abide. What a beautiful spot, and how well you're looking. This is unexpected, I paused. He thought I was going to say pleasure, but I finished it. Intrusion, his face fell. How did you know we were at Lungern, Mr. Tillington? My respected relative, he answered, laughing. She mentioned, casually, his eyes met mine, that you were stopping in a chalet. And as I was on my way back to the diplomatic mill, I thought I might just as well walk over the Grimsum and the Furka, and then on to the Goetheard. The court is at Monza. So what occurred to me, that in passing, I might venture to drop in and say, how do you do to you? Thank you, I answered severely. But my heart spoke otherwise. I do very well. And you, Mr. Tillington? Badly, he echoed. Badly, since you went away from Shwagambad, I gazed at his dusty feet. You are tramping, I said cruelly. I suppose you will get forward for lunch to Margin. I did not contemplate it. Indeed? He grew bolder. No, to say the truth, I half hoped I might stop and spend the day here with you. Elsie, I remarked firmly, if Mr. Tillington persists in planting himself upon us like this, one of us must go and investigate the kitchen department. Elsie rose like a lamb. I have an impression that she gathered we wanted to be left alone. He turned to me imploringly. Lois! He cried, stretching out his arms with an appealing air. I may stay, may I die. I tried to be stern. But I feared it was a feeble pretence. We are two girls alone in a house, I answered. Lady Georgina, as a matron of experience, ought to have protected us, merely to give you lunches almost irregular. Good diplomatic word irregular. Still, in these days I suppose you may stay if you leave early in the afternoon. That's the utmost I can do for you. You are not gracious, he cried, gazing at me with a wistful look. I did not dare to be gracious. Uninvited guests must not quarrel with their welcome, I answered severely. Then the woman in me broke forth. But indeed, Mr. Tillington, I am glad to see you. He leaned forward eagerly. So you are not angry with me, Lois? I may call you Lois. I tremble and hesitated. I am not angry with you. I like you too much ever to be angry with you. And I am glad you came, just this once, to see me. Yes, when we are alone, you may call me Lois. He tried to seize my hand. I withdrew it. Then I may perhaps hope, he began, that someday I shook my head. No, no, I said regretfully. You misunderstand me. I like you very much, and I like to see you. But as long as you are rich and have prospects like yours, I could never marry you. My pride wouldn't let me. Take that as final. I looked away. He bent forward again. But if I were poor, he put it eagerly. I hesitated. Then my heart rose and I gave way. If ever you are poor, I faltered, penniless, hunted, friendless, come to me, Harold. And I will help and comfort you. But not till then. Not till then I implore you. He leaned back and clasped his hands. You have given me something to live for, dear Lois, he murmured. I will try to be poor, penniless, hunted, friendless, till when you I will try. And when that day arrives, I shall come to claim you. We sat for an hour and had a delicious talk about nothing. But we understood each other. Only that artificial barrier divided us. At the end of the hour, I heard Elsie coming back by judiciously so stages from the kitchen to the living room, through six feet of passage, discoursing annually to Ursula all the way, with a tardiness that did honor to her heart and her understanding. Dear kind little Elsie, I believe she had never a tiny romance of her own, yet her sympathy for others was weak to look upon. We lunched at a small deal-table on the veranda. Around us rose the pinnacles. The scent of pines and moist moss was in the air. Elsie had arranged the flowers and got ready the omelet and cooked the cutlets and prepared the junket. I never thought I could do it alone without you, brownie. But I tried, and it all came out right by magic somehow. We laughed and talked incessantly. Harold was an excellent cue, and Elsie took to him. A livelier or merrier table there wasn't in the twenty-two kins at day than ours, under the sapphire sky, looking out on the sun's smitten snow of the Jungfrau. After lunch, Harold begged hard to be allowed to stop for tea. I had misgivings, but I gave way. He was such good company. One may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, says the wisdom of our ancestors, and, after all, Mrs. Grundy was only represented here by Elsie, the gentlest and least centurist of her daughters. So he stopped and chatted till four. Then I made tea and insisted on dismissing him. He meant to take a rough mountain path over the screes from Ungern to Myrigan, which ran right behind the chalet. I feared lest he might be belated and urged him to hurry. Thanks, I'm happy you're here, he answered. I was stern as itself. You promised me, I said in a reproachable voice. He rose instantly and bowed. Your will is law, even when it pronounces sentence of exile. Would we walk a little away with him? No, I faltered. We would not. We would follow him with the opera glasses and wave him farewell when he reached the comb. He shook our hands unwillingly and turned up the little path, looking handsomer than ever, and led ascending to a firwood to the rock-stroom hillside. Once, a quarter of an hour later, we caught a glimpse of him near a sharp turn in the road. After that we waited in vain, with our eyes fixed on the comb. Not a sign could be discerned of him. At last I grew anxious. He ought to be there, I cried, fewing. He ought, Elsie answered. I swept the slopes with the opera glasses. Anxiety and interest in him quickened to my senses, I suppose. Look here, Elsie, I burst out at last. Just take this class and have a glance at those birds down the crag below the comb. Don't they seem to be circling and behaving most oddly? Elsie gazed where I bit her. They're reeling round and round, she answered after a minute. And they certainly do look as if they were screaming. They seem to be frightened, I suggested. It looks like it, Brownie. Then he's followed over precipice, I cried, rising up. And he's lying there on a ledge by their nest. Elsie, we must go to him. She clasped her hands and looked terrified. Oh, Brownie, how dreadful, she exclaimed. Her face was deadly white. Mine burned like fire. Not a moment to lose, I said, holding my breath. Get out the rope and let us run to him. Don't you think, Elsie suggested? We had better hurry down on our cycles to Mungern and call some men from the village to help us. We are two girls and alone. What can we do to aid him? No, I answered promptly. That won't do. It would only lose time, and time may be precious. You and I must go. I'll send Ursula off to bring up guides from the village. Fortunately, we had a good long coil of new rope in the house, which Mrs. Evela had provided in case of accident. I slipped it on my arm and set out on foot before the path was by far too rough for the cycles. I was sorry afterwards that I had not taken Ursula and sent Elsie to Lugern to rouse the men, for she found the climbing hard, and I had difficulty in times in dragging her up the steep and stony pathway, almost a watercourse. However, we persisted in the direction of the comb, dragging Harold by his footprints, for he wore mountain boots with sharp-headed nails, which made dints in the moist soil and scratched the smooth surface of the rock where he trod on it. We followed him thus for a mile or two along the regular path, then, of a sudden, in an open part, the trail failed us. I turned back a few yards and looked close, with my eyes fixed on the spongy soil, as keen as a hound that sniffs his way after his quarry. He went off here, Elsie. I said at last, pulling up short by a spindle-wash on the hillside. How do you know, Brownie? Why, see? There are the marks of his stick. He had a thick one, you remember, with a square iron spike. These are its dints. I had been watching them all the way along from the chalet. But there are so many such marks. Yes, I know. I can tell his from the older ones made by the spikes of the Alpenstocks because Harold's are fresher and sharper on the edge. They look so much newer. See? Here he slipped on the rock. You can know that scratch is reasoned by the clean way it's traced, and the little glistening crystal still left behind it. Those other marks have then windswept and washed by the rain. There are no broken particles. How on earth did you find that out, Brownie? How on earth did I find it out? I wondered myself. But the emergency seemed somehow to teach me something of the instinctive lore of hunters and savages. I did not trouble to answer her. At this bush, the tracks fail, I went on. And look, he must have collected that branch and crushed the broken leaves as the twigs slipped through his fingers. He left the path here, then, and struck off on a shortcut of his own along the hillside, lower down. Elsie, we must follow him. She shrank from it, but I held her hand. It was a more difficult task to track him now, for we had no longer the path to guide us. However, I explored the ground on my hands and knees, and soon found marks of footsteps on the boggy patches, with scratches on the rock where he had leaped from point to point or planted his stick to steady himself. I tried to help Elsie along among the littered boulders and the dwarf growth of the windswept Daphne. But, poor child, it was too much for her. She sat down after a few minutes upon the flat juniper scrub and began to cry. What was I to do? My anxiety was breathless. I couldn't leave her there alone, and I couldn't forsake Harold. Yet I felt every minute might now be critical. We were making among wet waterberry thicket and torn rock towards a spot where I had seen the birds wheel and circle screaming. The only way left was to encourage Elsie and make her feel the necessity for instant action. He is alive still, I exclaimed looking up. The birds are crying. If he were dead, they would return to their nest. Elsie, we must get to him. She rose, bewildered, and followed me. I held her hand tight and coaxed her to scramble over the rocks where the scratches showed the way, or to clamor at times over fallen trunks of huge fir trees. Yet it was hard work climbing. Even Harold's sure feet had slipped off and on the wet and slimy boulders. Though, like most of Queen Margarita's set, he was an expert mountaineer. Then, at times, I lost the faint track, so that I had to diverge and look close to find it. These delays shredded me. See, a stone loosed from its bed. He must have passed by here. That twig is newly snapped. No doubt he caught at it. Ha! The moss there had been crushed. A foot has gone by. And the ants on that ant hill, with their eggs in their mouths, a man's tread has frightened them. So, by some instinctive sense, as if the spirit of my savage ancestors revived within me, I managed to recover the spore again and again by a miracle, till it last, round a corner of my defiant cliff, with a terrible foreboding, my heart stood still within me. We had come to an end. A great projecting buttress of crag rose sheer in front. Above lay loose boulders. Below was a shrub-hung precipice. The birds we had seen from home were still circling and screaming. They were a pair of peregrine hawks. Their nests seemed to lie far below the broken scar, some sixty or seventy feet beneath us. He is not dead! I cried once more with my heart in my mouth. If he were, they would have returned. He has fallen, and is lying, alive, below there. Elsie shrank back against the wall of rock. I advanced to my hands and knees to the edge of the precipice. It was not quite sheer, but it dropped like a sea-clip with broken ledges. I could see where Harold had slipped. He had tried to climb around the crag that blocked the road, and the ground at the edge of the precipice had given way with him. It showed a recent founder of a few inches. Then he clutched at a branch of broom as he fell, but it slipped through his fingers cutting them, for there was blood on the wire east end. I knelt by the side of the cliff and craned my head over. I scarcely dared to look. In spite of the birds, my heart misgave me. There, on a lead deep below, he lay in a mass, half raised on one arm. But not dead, I believed. Harold! I cried. Harold! He turned his face up and saw me. His eyes lighted with joy. He shouted back something, but I could not hear it. I turned to Elsie. I must go down to him. Her tears rose again. Oh, brownie! I unwound the coil of rope. The first thing was to fasten it. I could not trust Elsie to hold it. She was too weak and too frightened to bear my weight. Even if I wandered round her body, I feared my mere mass might drag her over. I feared about it the surroundings. No tree grew near. No rock had a pinnacle sufficiently safe to depend upon. But I found a plan soon. And the crag behind me was a cleft, narrowing wedge-shape as it descended. I tied the end of the rope round a stone, a good big water-worn stone rudely girded with a groove near the middle, which prevented it from slipping. Then I dropped it down the fissure till it jammed, after which I tried to see if it would bear. It was firm as a rock itself. I let the rope down by it and waited a moment to discover whether Harold could climb. He shook his head and took a notebook with evident pain from his pocket. Then he scribbled a few words and pinned them to the rope. I held it up. Can't move. Either severely bruised and sprained, or else legs broken. There was no hope for it then. I must go to him. My first idea was merely to glide down the rope with my gloved hands, for I had a chance to have my dog-skin bicycling gloves in my pocket. Fortunately, however, I did not carry out the screwed idea too hastily. For next instant it occurred to me that I could not swarm up again. I have had no practice in rope climbing. Here was the problem. But the moment suggested its own solution. I began making knots or rather nooses or loops in the rope, at intervals of about 18 inches. What are they for? Elsie asked, looking on at wonder. Foot holds to climb up by. But the ones above will pull out with your weight. I don't think so. Still to make sure, I shall tie them with this string. I must get down to him. I threaded a sufficient number of loops, trying to length over the ledge. Then I said to Elsie, who sat cowering, propped against the crag. You must come and look over, and do as I wave to you. Mind you, dear, you must. Two lives depend upon it. Brownie, I dare not. I shall turn giddy and fall over. I soothed her golden hair. Elsie, dear, I said gently, gazing into her blue eyes. You are a woman. A woman can always be brave. When those she loves are concerned, and I believe you love me, I let her coaxingly to the edge. Sit there, I said in my quietest voice, so as not to alarm her. You can lie at full length if you like, and only just peep over. But when I wave my hand, remember, you must pull the rope up. She obeyed me like a child. I knew she loved me. I gripped the rope and let myself down, not using the loops to descend, but just sliding with hands and knees, and allowing the knot to slacken my pace. Halfway down, I woke at best, the eerie feeling of physical suspense was horrible. One hung so in mid-air. The hawks flapped their wings. But Harold was below, and a woman can always be brave when those she loves. Well, just that moment, catching my breath, I knew I loved Harold. I glided swiftly down. The air whizzed. At last, on a narrow shelf of rock, I leaned over him. He seized my hand. I knew you would come, he cried. I thought, sure you would find out. Though how you found out, heaven only knows you clever, brave little woman. Are you terribly hurt? I asked, bending clothes. His clothes were torn. I hardly know. I can't move. There may only be bruises. Can you climb by those nooses with my help? He shook his head. Oh no, I couldn't climb at all. I must be lifted somehow. You had better go back to Lugern and bring men to help you. And leave you here alone? Never, Harold, never. Then what can we do? I reflected a moment. Let me your pencil, I said. He pulled it out. His arms were almost unhurt, fortunately. I scribbled a line to Elsie. Tie my plaid to the rope and let it down. Then I waved to her to pull up again. I was half surprised to find she obeyed the signal, for she crouched there, white-faced and open-mouthed, watching. But I have often observed that women are almost always brave and great emergencies. She pinned on the plaid and let it down with commendable quickness. I doubled it and tied firm knots in the four corners so as to make it into a sort of basket. Then I fastened it at each corner with a piece of the rope, crossed in the middle, till it looked like one of the cages they use in mills for letting down sacks with. As soon as it was finished, I said, Now, just try to crawl into it. He raised himself on his arms and crawled in with difficulty. His legs dragged after him. I could see he was in great pain, but still he managed it. I planted my foot in the first noose. You must sit still, I said, breathless. I am going back to haul you up. Are you strong enough, Lois? With Elsie to help me, yes. I often stroked a four curtain. I can trust you, he answered. It thrilled me that he said so. I began my hazardous journey. I mounted the rope by the nooses. One, two, three, four, counting them as I mounted. I did not dare to look up or down as I did so, lest I should grow giddy and fall. I kept my eyes fixed firmly on one noose in front of me. My brain swam. The rope swayed and creaked. Twenty, thirty, forty, foot after foot. I slipped them in mechanically, taking up with me the longer coil whose ends were attached to the cage and herald. My hands trembled. It was ghastly, swinging there between earth and heaven. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven. I knew there were forty-eight of them. At last, after some weeks as it seemed, I reached the summit. Cremulous and half-dead, I prized myself over the edge with my hands and knelt once more on the hill beside Elsie. She was white but attentive. What next, Brownie? Her voice quivered. I looked about me. I was too faint and shaky after my perilous ascent to be fit for work, but there was no help for it. What could I use as a pulley? Not a tree grew near, but the stone jammed in the fissure might once more serve my purpose. I tried it again. It had borne my weight. Was it strong enough to bear the precious weight of herald? I tugged at it and thought so. I passed a rope rounded like a pulley and then tied it above my own waist. I had a happy thought. I could use myself as a windless. I turned to my feet for a pivot. Elsie helped me to pull. Up you go! I cried cheerily. We wound slowly for fear of shaking him. Bit by bit, I could feel the cage rise gradually from the ground. Its weight taken so, with living capstone and stone axle, was less than I should have expected. But the pulley helped us, and Elsie, spurred by need, put forth more reserve of nervous strength than I could easily have believed laying that tiny body. I twisted myself round and round, close to the edge, so as to look over from time to time, but not at all quickly for fear of dizziness. The rope strained and gave. It was in deadly ten minutes of suspense and anxiety. Twice or thrice as I looked down, I saw a spasm of pain break over Harold's face. But when I paused and glanced inquiringly, he motioned me to go on with my brincessome task. There was no turning back now. We had almost got him up when the rope at the edge began to creak ominously. It was straining at the point where it grated against the brink of the precipice. My heart gave a leap. If the rope broke, all was over. With a sudden dart forward, I seized it with my hands, below the part that gave. Then, one fierce little run back, and I brought him level with the edge. He clutched at Elsie's hand. I turned thrice round to wind the slack around my body. The taut rope cut deep into my flesh, but nothing mattered now except to save him. Catch the cloak, Elsie, I cried. Catch it! Pull him gently in! Elsie caught it and pulled him in with wonderful pluck and calmness. We hauled him over the edge. He lay safe on the bank. Then we all three broke down and cried like children together. I took his hand in mine and held it in silence. When we found words again, I drew a deep breath and said simply, How did you manage to do it? I tried to clamber past the wall that barred the way there by sheer force of stride. You know my legs are long, and I somehow overbalanced myself. But I didn't exactly fall. If I had fallen, I must have been killed. I rolled and slid down, clutching at the weeds and the crannies as I slipped, and stumbling over the projections, without quite losing my foothold on the edges till I thawed myself brought up short with a bump at the end of it. And you think no bones were broken? I can't feel sure. It hurts me horribly to move. I fancy just at first I must have fainted. But I'm inclined to guess I'm only sprained and bruised and sore all over. Why, you're as bad as I, I believe. See, your dear hands are all torn and bleeding. How are we ever to get him back again, brownie? Elsie put in. She was paler than ever now, and prostrate with the after effects of her unwanted effort. You are a practical woman, Elsie, I answered. Stop with him here a minute or two. I'll climb up the hillside and hello for Ursula and the men from L'Germain. I climbed and hallowed. In a few minutes, worn out as I was, I had reached the path above and attracted their attention. They hurried down to where Harold lay, and, using my cage for a litter, slung on a young fir tree, carried him back between them across their shoulders to the village. He pleaded hard to be allowed to remain at the chalet, and Elsie joined her prayers to his. But there I was adamant. It was not so much what people might say that I minded, but a deeper difficulty, for at once I nursed him through his trouble. How could I, or any woman in my place, any longer refuse him? So I passed him ruthlessly onto L'Germain, though my heart ached for it, and telegraphed at once to his nearest relative, Lady Georgina, to come up and take care of him. He recovered rapidly, though sore and shaken, his worst hurts had turned out worse brains, and in three or four days he was ready to go on again. I called to see him before he left. I dreaded the interview, for one's own heart is a hard enemy to fight so long. But how could I let him go without one word of farewell to him? After this, Lois, he said, taking my hand in his, and I was weak enough for a moment to let it lie there, you cannot say no to me. Oh, how I longed to fling myself upon him and cry out, No, Harold, I cannot. I love you too dearly. But his future and Marmaduke Asher's half-million restrained me. For his sake, and for my own, I held myself in courageously, though indeed it needed some courage and self-control. I withdrew my hand slowly. Do you remember, I said, you asked me that first day at Schlangenbad? It was an epic to me now, that first day. Whether I was a medieval or modern, and I answered modern, I hope, and you said, that's well. You see, I don't forget the least thing you say to me. Well, because I am modern, my lips travel and belied me, I can answer you no. I can even now refuse you. The old fashioned girl, the medieval girl, would have held that because she saved your life, if I did save your life, which is a matter of opinion, she was bound to marry you. But I am modern, and I see things differently. If there were reasons at Schlangenbad, which made it impractical for me to accept you, though my heart pleaded hard, I do not deny it. These reasons cannot have disappeared merely because you have chosen to follow over a precipice, and I have pulled you up again. My decision was founded, you see, not on passing accidents of situation, but on permanent considerations. Nothing has happened in the last three days to affect those considerations. We are still ourselves, you rich, I, a penniless adventurer. I could not accept you when you asked me at Schlangenbad. On just the same grounds, I could not accept you now. I do not see how the unessential fact that I made myself into a winch to pull you up the cliff, and that I am still smarting for it. He looked me all over comically. How severe we are, he cried in a bantering tone. And how extremely returning, a system of logic, rationative and inductive, by Lois Cayley. What a pity we didn't take our professor's chair. My child, that isn't to you. It's not yourself at all. It's an attempt to be unnaturally and unfemininally reasonable. Logic fled. I broke down utterly. Harold, I cried rising. I love you. I admit I love you. But I will never marry you, not while you have those thousands. I haven't got them yet, or the chance of adhering them. He smothered my hand with kisses, for I withdrew my face. If you admit you love me, he cried quite joyously, then always well. When once a woman admits that, the rest is but a matter of time. And, Lois, I can wait a thousand years for you. Not in my case, I answered through my tears. Not in my case, Harold. I am a modern woman. And what I say, I mean. I will renew my promise. If ever you are poor and friendless, come to me. I am yours. Till then, don't harrow me by asking me the impossible. I tore myself away. At the hall of door, Lady Georgina insurcepted me. She glanced at my red eyes. Then you have taken him? She cried, seizing my hand. I shook my head firmly. I could hardly speak. No, Lady Georgina. I answered in a choking voice. I have refused him again. I will not stand in his way. I will not ruin his prospects. She drew back and let her chin drop. Well, of all the hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate young women I ever saw in my bored days, if you're not the very hardest. I half ran from the house. I hurried home to the chalet. There, I dashed into my own room, locked the door behind me, flung myself wildly on my bed, and burying my face in my hands had a good, long, hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate cry, exactly like any medieval woman. It's all very well-being modern. But my experience is that, when it comes to a man one loves, well, the Middle Ages are still horribly strong within us. 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 Arian. Miss Kaylee's Adventures by Grant Allen. Chapter 6 The Adventure of the Urbane Old Gentleman When Elsie's holidays, I beg pardon, vacation, came to an end, she proposed to return to her high school in London. Zeal for the higher mathematics devoured her. But she still looked so frail, and coughed so often, a perfect sumpokanto of a cough, in spite of her summer of open-air exercise, that I positively worried her into consulting a doctor. Not one of the fortescu-langly order. The report he gave was mildly unfavourable. He spoke disrespectfully of the apex of her right lung. It was not exactly tubercular, he remarked, but he feared tuberculosis. Excuse long words. The phrase was his, not mine. I repeat, verbatim. He vetoed her exposing herself to a winter in London in her present unstable condition. Davos? Well, no. Not Davos. With deliberative thumb and finger on close shave and chin. He judged her too delicate for such drastic remedies. Those high mountain stations suited best the robust invalid, who had dropped by accident into casual thesis. For Miss Petheridge's case, looking wise, he would not recommend the Riviera either. Too stimulating. Too exciting. What this young lady needed most was rest. Rest in some agreeable southern town, some city of the soul, say Rome or Florence, where she might find much to her interest and might forget the apex of her right lung, in the new world of art that opened around her. Very well, I said promptly. That's settled, Elsie. The apex anew shall winter in Florence. But brownie, can we afford it? Afford it, I echoed? Goodness gracious, my dear child. What a bourgeois sentiment. Your medical attendant says to you, go to Florence, and to Florence you must go. There's no getting out of it. Why, even the swallows fly south when their medical attendant tells them England is a trifle too cold for them. But what will Miss Latimer say? She depends upon me to come back at the beginning of term. She must have somebody to undertake the higher mathematics. And she will get somebody, dear, I answered calmly. Don't trouble your sweet little head about that. An eminent statistician has calculated that five hundred and thirty duly qualified young women are now standing four square in a stollard phalanx in the streets of London, all agogged to teach the higher mathematics to anyone who wants them at a moment's notice. Let Miss Latimer take her pick of five hundred and thirty. I'll wire her at once. Elsie Petheridge, unable through ill health to resume her duties, ordered to Florence, resigns post, engage substitute. That's the way to do it. Elsie clasped her small white hands in despair of the woman who considers herself indispensable, as if any of us were indispensable. But, dearest, the girls, they'll be so disappointed. They'll get over it, I answered grimly. There are worse disappointments in store for them in life, which is a final crusted platitude worthy of Aunt Susan. Anyhow, I've decided. Look here, Elsie. I stand to you in loco parentis. I have already remarked, I think, that she was three years my senior, but I was so pleased with this phrase that I repeated it lovingly. I stand to you, dear, in loco parentis. Now, I can't let you endanger your precious health by returning to town and Miss Latimer this winter. Let us be categorical. I go to Florence, you go with me. What shall we live upon, Elsie suggested piteously? Our fellow creatures, as usual, I answered with prompt callousness. I object to these base utilitarian considerations being imported into the discussion of a serious question. Florence is a city of art. As a woman of culture, it behoves you to revel in it. Your medical attendant sends you there as a patient and an invalid. You can revel with a clear conscience. Money? Well, money is a secondary matter. All philosophies and all religions agree that money is mere dross, filthy lucre. Rise superior to it. We have a fair sum in hand to the credit of the firm. We can pick up some more, I suppose, in Florence. How? I reflected. Elsie, I said, you are deficient in faith, which is one of the leading Christian graces. My mission in life is to correct that want in your spiritual nature. Now observe how beautifully all these events work in together. The winter comes when no man can bicycle, especially in Switzerland. Therefore, what is the use of my stopping on here after October? Again, in pursuance of my general plan of going around the world, I must get forward to Italy. Your medical attendant considerably orders you at the same time to Florence. In Florence, we still have chances of selling Manitous, though possibly I admit in diminished numbers. I confess at once that people come to Switzerland to tour, and are therefore liable to need our machines. While they go to Florence to look at pictures, and a bicycle would doubt this proof inconvenient in the Uffizi or the Pitti. Still, we may sell a few. But I'd ascribe another opening. You write shorthand, don't you? A little, dear. Only ninety words a minute. That's not business. Advertise yourself, Alasiris Hitchcock. Say boldly, I write shorthand. Leave the world to ask how fast. It will ask it quick enough without your suggesting it. Well, my idea is this. Men of letters, painters, antiquaries, and art critics. I suppose even art critics may be classes cultivated. Such people are in need of literary aid. We exist to supply it. We will set up the Florentine School of Stenography and Typewriting. We'll buy a couple of typewriters. How will we pay for them, Brownie? I gazed at her in despair. Elsie, I cried, clapping my hand to my head. You are not practical. Did I ever suggest we should pay for them? I merely said buy them. Base is a slave that pays. That's Shakespeare. And we all know Shakespeare is a mirror of nature. Argyle, it would be unnatural to pay for a typewriter. We will hire a room in Florence, on tick, of course, and begin operations. Clients will flock in and we tide over the winter. There's enterprise for you. And I struck an attitude. Elsie's face looked her doubts. I walked across to Mrs. Everly's desk and began writing a letter. It occurred to me that Mr. Hitchcock, who was a man of business, might be able to help a woman of business in this delicate matter. I put the point to him fairly and squarely, without circumlocution. We were going to start an English typewriting office in Florence. What was the ordinary way for people to become possessed of a typewriting machine without the odious and mercenary preliminary of paying for it? The answer came back with commendable promptitude. Dear Miss, your spirit of enterprise is really remarkable. I have forwarded your letter to my friend of the spread eagle typewriting and phonography company Limited of New York City, informing them of your desire to open agency for the sale of their machines in Florence, Italy, and giving them my estimate of your business capacities. I have advised their London house to present you with two complementary machines for your own use and your partners, and to also supply a number for disposal in the city of Florence. If you would further like to undertake an agency for the development of the trade in salt codfish, large quantities which are of course consumed in Catholic Europe, I would put you in communication with my respected friends, Mr. Abel Woodward and Co, exporters of preserved provisions, St. John's Newfoundland. But perhaps in this suggestion I am not sufficiently high toned. Respectfully, Siris W. Hitchcock. The moment had arrived for Elsie to be firm. I have no prejudice against trade brownie, she observed emphatically, but I do draw the line at saltfish. So do I, dear, I answered. She sighed her relief. I really believe she half expected to find me trotting about Florence with miscellaneous samples of Monsieur's Abel Woodward's esteemed production protruding from my pocket. So to Florence we went. My first idea was to travel by the Brenner route through the Tyrol, but a queer little episode which met us at the outset on the Austrian frontier put a check to this plan. We cycled to the border sending our trunk by rail. When we went to claim them at the Austrian custom house, we were told that they were detained for political reasons. Political reasons, I exclaimed, non-plused? Even so, Fraulein, your boxes contain revolutionary literature. Some mistake, I cried warmly. I am but a draw room socialist. Not at all. Look here. And he drew a small book out of Elsie's Portmanteau. What? Elsie a conspirator? Elsie in league with nihilists? So meek and so mild. I would never have believed it. I took the book in my hands and read the title. Revolution of the heavenly bodies. But this is astronomy, I burst out. Don't you see sun and star circling? The revolution of the planets. It matters not, Fraulein. Our instructions are strict. We have orders to intercept all revolutionary material without distinction. Come, Elsie, I said firmly, this is too ridiculous. Let us give them a clear berth, these kaiserly, kingly blockheads. So we registered our luggage right back to Lucerne and cycled over the Gothard. When at last, by leisurely stages, we arrived at Florence, I felt sure there was no use in doing things by halves. If you are going to start the Florentine school of stenography and type writing, you may as well start it on a proper basis. So I took sunny rooms at a nice hotel for myself and Elsie, and hired a ground floor in a convenient house close under the shadow of the great marble Campanila. Considerations of space compel me to curtail the usual gosh about Anolfo and Guiotto. This was our office. When I had got a Tuscan painter to paint our flag in the shape of a signboard, I salied forth into the street and inspected it from the outside with a swelling heart. It is true the Tuscan painter's unaccountable predilection for the rare spellings, school without an H, and stenography with an F, somewhat dampened my exuberant pride for the moment, but I made him take the board back and correct his Italianate English. As soon as all was fitted up with desk and tables, we were opposed upon our laurels and waited only for customers in schools to pour in upon us. I called them customers. Elsie maintained that we ought rather to say clients. Being by temperament adverse to sectarianism, I did not dispute the point with her. We were opposed on our laurels in vain. Neither customers nor clients seemed in any particular hurry to disturb our leisure. I confess I took this ill. It was a rude awakening. I had begun to regard myself as a special favorite of a fairy godmother. It surprised me to find that any undertaking of mine did not succeed immediately. However, reflecting that my fairy godmother's name was really enterprise, I recalled Mr. Cirrus W. Hitchcock's advice and advertised. There's one good thing about Florence Elsie, I said, just to keep up her courage. When the customers do come, they'll be interesting people and it will be interesting work. Artistic work, you know, far Angelico and De La Robia and all that sort of thing, or else fresh light on Dante and Perarch. When they do come, no doubt, Elsie answered dubiously. But you know, Brownie, it strikes me there isn't quite that literary stir and ferment one might expect in Florence. Dante and Perarch appear to be dead. The distinguished authors failed to stream in upon us as one imagined with manuscripts to copy. I affected an air of confidence, for I had sunk capital in the concern. That's business-like sunk capital. Oh, we're a new firm, I assented carelessly. Our enterprise is yet young. When cultivated Florence learns we are here, cultivated Florence will invade us by thousands. But we sat in our office and bit our thumbs all day. The thousands stopped at home. We had ample opportunities for making studies of the decorative detail on the company le, till we knew every square inch of it better than Mr. Ruskin. Elsie's notebook contains, I believe, 1,100 separate sketches of the company le, from the right end, the left end, and the middle of our window, with 805 distinct distortions of the individual statues that adorned the niches on the side turned towards us. At last, after we sat and bit our thumbs and sketched the four greater profits for a fortnight on end, an immense excitement occurred. An old gentleman was distinctly seen to approach and to look up at the signboard which decorated our office. I instantly slipped in a sheet of full-scap and began to type right with a alarming speed, when Elsie, rising to the occasion, set to work to inscribe imaginary shorthand as if her life depended on it. The old gentleman, after a moment's hesitation, lifted the latch of the door somewhat nervously. I effected to take no notice of him, so breathless with the haste with which our immense business connection compelled me to finger the keyboard, but looking up at him under my eyelashes, I could just make out he was a peculiarly bland and urbane old person, dressed with the greatest care and some attention to fashion. His face was smooth, it tended towards portliness. He met up his mind and entered the office. I continued to click till I had reached the close of a sentence. All to the arms taken against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them. Then I looked up sharply. Can I do anything for you? I inquired in the smartest tone of business. I observed that politeness is not professional. The urbane old gentleman came forward with his hat in his hand. He looked as if he had just landed from the 18th century. His figure was that of Mr Edward Gibbon. Yes, madam. He said in a markedly deferential tone, fussing about with the room of his hat as he spoke, and adjusting his pince-nez. I was recommended to your establishment for shorthand and typewriting. I have some work which I need done if it falls within your provenance. But I am rather particular. I require a quick worker. Excuse my asking it, but how many words can you do a minute? Shorthand? I ask sharply for I wish to imitate official habits. The urbane old gentleman bowed. Yes, shorthand, certainly. I wave my hand with careless grace towards Elsie, as if these things happen to us daily. Ms Petheridge undertakes the shorthand department, I said with decision. I am the typewriting from dictation. Ms Petheridge, forward. Elsie rose to it like an angel. A hundred, she answered, confronting him. The old gentleman bowed again. And your terms, he inquired, in a honey-tongued voice. If I may venture to ask them? We handed him our printed tariff. He seemed satisfied. Could you spare me an hour this morning, he asked, still fingering his hat nervously with his puffy hand? But perhaps you are engaged. I fear I intrude upon you. Not at all, I answered, consulting an imaginary engagement list. This work can wait. Let me see. Eleven thirty. Elsie, I think you have nothing to do before one that cannot be put off. Quite so. Very well then, yes, we are both at your service. The urbane old gentleman looked about him for a seat. I pushed him our one easy chair. He withdrew his gloves with great deliberation, and sat down in it with an apologetic glance. I could gather from his dress and his diamond pin that he was wealthy. Indeed, I half guessed who he was already. There was a fussiness about his manner, which seemed strangely familiar to me. He sat down by slow degrees, edging himself about till he was thoroughly comfortable. I could see he was one of the kind that will have comfort. He took out his notes and a packet of letters which he sorted slowly. Then he looked hard at me and Elsie. He seemed to be making a choice between us. After a time he spoke. I think, he said in the most leisurely voice, I will not trouble your friend to write shorthand for me after all. Or should I say you're assistant. Excuse my change of plan. I will content myself with dictation. You can follow on the machine. As fast as you choose to dictate to me. He glanced at his notes and began a letter. It was a curious communication. It seemed to be all about buying Bertha and selling Clara, a cold-blooded proceeding which almost suggested slave dealing. I gathered he was giving instructions to his agent. Could he have business relations with Cuba, I wondered. But there were also hints of mysterious middies, brave British Tsars, to the rescue possibly. Perhaps my bewilderment showed itself upon my face. For at last he looked queely at me. You don't quite like this, I'm afraid, he said, breaking off short. I was the soul of business. Not at all, I answered. I am an automaton. Nothing more. It is a typewriter's function to transcribe the words a client dictates as if they were absolutely meaningless to her. Quite right, he answered approvingly. Quite right, I see you understand. A very proper spirit. Then the woman within me got the better of the typewriter. Though I confess, I continued, I do feel it is a little unkind to sell Clara at once, for whatever she will fetch. It seems to me, well, unshivalrous. He smiled but held his peace. Still, the middies, I went on, they will perhaps take care that these poor girls are not ill-treated. He leaned back, clasped his hands, and regarded me fixedly. Bertha, he said after a pause, is Brighton A's, to be strictly correct, London, Brighton, and South Coast First preferenced benches. Clara is Glasgow and Southwestern deferred stock. Middies are Midland ordinary, but I respect your feelings. You are a young lady of principle, and he fidgeted more than ever. He went on dictating for just an hour. His subject matter bewildered me. It was all about India bills and telegraphic transfers, and selling cotton short, and holding tight to Egyptian unified. Markets, it seemed, were glutted. Hungarians were only to be dealt with if they hardened. Hardened sinners, I know, but what are hardened Hungarians? And fears were not unnaturally expressed that Turks might be irregular. Consoles, it appeared, were certain to give way for political reasons. But the downturn tendency of Australians, I was relieved to learn, for the honour of so great a group of colonies could only be temporary. Greeks were growing decidedly worse, though I had always understood Greeks were bad enough already, and Argentine Central were likely to be weak. But provincials must soon become commendably firm, and if Uruguay's went flat, something good ought to be made out of them. Scotch rails might shortly be quiet. I always understood they were based upon sleepers. But if south-eastern stiffened, advantage should certainly be taken of their stiffening. He would telegraph particulars on Monday morning, and so on, till my brain reeled. Oh, artistic Florence! Was this the Filippo-Lipi, and the Michelangelo I dreamed of? At the end of the hour, the urbane old gentleman rose obane-ly. He drew on his gloves again, with the greatest deliberation, and hunted for his stick, as if his life depended on it. Let me see. I had a pencil. Oh, thanks. Yes, that's it. This cover protects the point. My hat? Ah, certainly. And my notes. Much obliged. Notes always get mislaid. People are so careless, that I will come again tomorrow, the same hour if you will kindly keep yourself disengaged. Though, excuse me, you had better make an entry of it at once upon your agenda. I shall remember it, I answered, smiling. No, will you? But you have it my name. I know it, I answered. At least, I think so. You are Mr. Mamadouk Ashhurst, Lady Georgina Foley sent you here. He laid down his hat and gloves again, so as to regard me more undistracted. You are a most remarkable young lady, he said, in a very slow voice. I am pressed upon Georgina that she must not mention to you that I was coming. How on earth did you recognize me? Intuition, most likely. He stared at me with a sort of suspicion. Please don't tell me you think me like my sister, he went on. For though, of course, every right-minded man feels, uh, a natural respect and affection for the members of his family. Bows, if I may say so, to the inscrutable decrees of providence, which has mysteriously burdened him with them. Still, there are points about Lady Georgina which I cannot conscientiously assert I approve of. I remembered, Mammy's a fool and held my tongue judiciously. I do not resemble her, I hope, he persisted with a look which I could almost describe as wistful. A family likeness, perhaps, I put in. Family likeness exists, you know, often with complete divergence of taste and character. He looked relieved. That is true. Oh, how true. But the likeness in my case I must admit escapes me. I temporized. Strangers see these things most, I said, airing the stock platitudes. It may be superficial, and of course, one knows that profound differences of intellect and moral feeling often occur within the limits of a single family. You are quite right, he said with decision. Georgina's principles are not mine. Excuse my remarking it, but you seem to be a young lady of unusual penetration. I saw he took my remark as a compliment. What I really meant to say was that a commonplace man might easily be the brother to so clever a woman as Lady Georgina. He gathered up his hat, his stick, his gloves, his notes, and his typewritten letters one by one and backed out politely. He was a punctilious millionaire. He had risen by obanity to his brother's directors, like a model guinea pig. He bowed to us each separately as if we had been duchesses. As soon as he was gone, Elsie turned to me. Brownie, how on earth did you guess it? They're so awfully different. Not at all, I answered. A few surface unlikenesses only just mask an underlying identity. Their features are the same, but he's a plump, hers shrunken. Lady Georgina's expression is sharp and worldly. Mr. Ashhurst is smooth and bland and financial. And then their manner, both are fussy. But Lady Georgina's is honest, open, ill-tempered fussiness. Mr. Ashhurst is concealed under an artificial mask of obsequious politeness. One's contankerous, the other's only panickity. It's one tune, after all, in two different keys. From that day forth, the urbane old gentleman was a daily visitor. He took an hour at a time at first, but after a few days, the hour lengthened out, apologetically, to an entire morning. He presumed to ask my Christian name the second day, and remembered my father, a man of excellent principles. But he didn't care for Elsie to work for him. Fortunately for her, other work dropped in once we had found a client, or else poor girl, she would have felt sadly slighted. I was glad she had something to do. The sense of dependence weighed heavily upon her. The urbane old gentleman did not confine himself entirely after the first few days to stock exchange literature. He was engaged on a work, he spoke of it always, with baited breath, and a capital letter was implied in his intonation. The work was one on the interpretation of prophecy. Unlike Lady Georgina, who was tart and crisp, Mr. Marba Duke Ashhurst was devout and decorous. Where she said, pack of fools, he talked with unction of the mental deficiencies of our poorer brethren. But his religious opinions and his stock-broking had got strangely mixed up at the wash somehow. He was convinced that the British nation represented the lost 10 tribes of Israel, and in particular Ephraim, a matter on which, as a mere laywoman, I would not presume either to agree with him or to defer from him. That being so, Ms. Cayley, we can easily understand that the existing commercial prosperity of England depends upon the promises made to Abraham. I assented without committing myself. It would seem to follow. Mr. Ashhurst, encouraged by so much assent, went on to unfold his system of interpretation, which was of a strictly commercial or company-promoting character. It ran like a prospectus. We have inherited the gold of Australia and the diamonds of the Cape, he said, growing didactic and lifting one fat forefinger. We are now inheriting Klondike and the Rand, for it is morally certain that we shall annex the Transvaal. Again, the chief things of the ancient mountains and the precious things of the everlasting hills. What does that mean? The ancient mountains are clearly the Rockies. Can the everlasting hills be anything but the Himalayas? For they shall suck of the abundance of the seas. That refers, of course, to our worldwide commerce, due mainly to imports. And of the treasures hidden sand? Which sand? Undoubtedly, I say, the desert of Mount Sinai. What, then, is our obvious destiny? A lady of your intelligence must gather at once that it is? He paused and gazed at me. To drive Sultan out of Syria, I suggested tentatively, and to annex Palestine to our practical province of Egypt? He leaned back in his chair and folded his fat hands in undisguised satisfaction. Now, you are a thinker of exceptional penetration he broke out. Do you know, Miss Kaylee, I have tried to make that point clear to the War Office and the Prime Minister and many leading financiers in the City of London, and I can't get them to see it. They have no heads, those people, but you catch it at a glance. Why? I endeavoured to interest Rothschild and induce him to join me in my Palestine Development Syndicate. And, will you believe it, the man refused point blank. Though, if he had only looked at Nihom 317, mere financiers, I said smiling, will not consider those questions from a historical and prophetic point of view. They see nothing above percentages. That's it, he replied, lighting up. They have no higher feelings. Though, mind you, there will be dividends too. Mark my words, there will be dividends. This syndicate, besides fulfilling the prophecies, will pay 40% on every penny embarked on it. Only 40% for Ephraim, I murmured, half below my breath? Why? Judah is said to batten upon sixty. He caught at it eagerly, without perceiving my gentle sarcasm. In that case, you might even expect seventy he put in with a gasp of anticipation. Though, I approached Rothschild's first with my scheme on purpose, so that Israel and Judah might once more unite in sharing the promises. Your combined generosity and commercial instinct does you credit, I answered. It is rare to find so much love for an abstract study side by side with such conspicuous financial ability. His guilelessness was beyond words. He swallowed it like an infant. So I think, he answered, I am glad to observe that you understand my character. Mere city men don't. They have no souls above shekels. Though, as I show them, there are shekels in it too. Dividends, dividends, divvah dens. But you are a lad of understanding and comprehension. You have been to go too, haven't you? Perhaps you read Greek then. Enough to get on with it. Could you look up things in Herodotus? Certainly. In the original? Oh dear, yes. He regarded me once more with the same astonished glance. His own classics, I soon learnt, were limited to the amount which a public school succeeds in dinning during intervals of cricket and football into an English gentleman. Then he informed me that he wished me to hunt up certain facts in Herodotus, and elsewhere, confirmatory of his view that the English were the descendants of the ten tribes. I promise to do so. Swolling that even comprehensive elsewhere. It was none of my business to believe or disbelieve. I was paid to get up her case, and I got one up to the best of my ability. I imagine it was at least as good as most other cases in similar matters. At any rate, it pleased the old gentleman vastly. By dint of listening, I began to like him. But Elsie couldn't bear him. She hated the fat crease at the back of his neck, she told me. After a week or two devoted to the interpretation of prophecy on a strictly commercial basis of founder's shares, with interludes of mining engineers' reports upon the rubies of Mount Sinai, and the supposed offerous quartzites of Palestine, the urbane old gentleman trotted down to the office one day, carrying a packet of notes of most voluminous magnitude. Can we work in a room alone this morning, Miss Kaylee? He asked with mystery in his voice. He was always mysterious. I want to entrust you with a piece of work of exceptionally private and confidential matter. It concerns property. In point of fact, he dropped his voice to a whisper. I want you to draw up my will for me. Certainly I said opening the door to the back office, but I trembled in my shoes. Could this mean that he was going to draw up a will, disinheriting Harold Tillington? And suppose he did, what then? If Harold were rich, well and good, I could never marry him. But if Harold were poor, I must keep my promise. Could I wish him to be rich? Could I wish him to be poor? My hearts had divided two ways within me. The urbane old gentleman began with immense deliberation, as befits a man of principle when property is at stake. You will kindly take down notes from my dictation, he said fussing with his papers, and afterwards I will ask you to be so good as to copy it all out fair on your typewriter for signature. Is a typewritten form legal, I ventured to inquire? A most perspicacious young lady, he injected, well pleased. I have investigated that point and find it perfectly regular. Only if I may venture to say so, there should be no erasures. There shall be none, I answered. The urbane old gentleman looked back in his easy chair, and began dictating from his notes with tantalising deliberateness. This was the last will and testament of him, Marmaduke Courtney Asherst. Its verbiage wearied me. I was eager for him to come to the point about Harold. Instead of that, he did, what it seems is usual in such cases, set out with a number of unimportant legacies to old family servants and other hangers on among our poor brethren. I fumed and fretted inwardly. Next came a series of quaint bequests of a quite novel character. I give and bequeath to James Walsh and Sons of 720 High Holborn London, the sum of 500 pounds in consideration of the benefit they have conferred upon humanity, by the invention of a sugar spoon or silver sugar sifter, by means of which it is possible to dust sugar upon a tart or pudding without letting the whole or the greater part of the material run through the apertures uselessly in transit. You must have observed, Ms. Cayley, with your usual perspicacity, that most sugar sifters allow the sugar to fall through them onto the table prematurely. I have noticed it, I answered, trembling with anxiety. James Walsh and Sons, acting upon a hint from me, have succeeded in inventing a form of spoon which does not possess that regrettable drawback. Run through the apertures uselessly in transit, I think I said last. Yes, thank you, very good. We will now continue. And I give and bequeath the like sum of 500 pounds. Did I say free of legacy duty? No? Then please add it to James Walsh's clause. 500 pounds free of legacy duty to Thomas Webster Jones of Wheeler Street, Soho, for his admirable invention of a pair of braces which will not slip down on the wearer's shoulders after half an hour's use. Most braces you must have observed, Ms. Cayley. My acquaintance with braces is limited, not to say abstract, I interposed, smiling. He gazed at me and twirled his fat thumbs. Of course, he murmured. Of course. But most braces, you may not be aware, slip down unpleasantly on the shoulder blade, and so lead to an awkward habit of hitching them up by the sleeve-hole of a waistcoat at frequent intervals. Such a habit must be felt to be ungraceful. Thomas Webster Jones, to whom I pointed out this era of manufacture, has invented a brace the two halves of which I verge at a higher angle than usual, and fasten further down the centre of the body in front. Pardon these details, so as to obviate the difficulty. He has given me satisfaction, and he deserves to be rewarded. I heard through it all the voice of Lady Georgina observing tightly. Why the idiots can't make braces to fit one at first passes my comprehension. But there, my dear, the people who manufacture them are a set of born fools, and what can you expect from an imbecile? Mr. Ashhurst was Lady Georgina, veneered with a thin layer of ingratiating obanity. Lady Georgina was clever, and therefore acrimonious. Mr. Ashhurst was astute, and therefore obsequious. He went on with legacies to the inventor of a sauce bottle which did not let the last drop dibble down, so as to spot on the tablecloth, of a shoehorn, the vandalor of which did not come undone, and a pair of silver links which you could put off and on without injury to the temper. A real benefactor, Miss Kaylee, a real benefactor to the link-wearing classes, for he has sensibly diminished the average animal output of profane swearing. When he left £500 to his faithful servant Frederick Higginson, Courier, I was tempted to interpose, but I refrained in time, and I was glad of it afterwards. At last, after many divergations, my urbane old gentleman arrived at the central point. And I give and bequeathed to my nephew Harold Ashhurst Tillington, younger of Glencliff, dumbfreshire, attaché to her majesty's embassy at Rome. I waited, breathless. He was annoyingly dilatory. My house and estate of Ashhurst Court, in the county of Gloucester, and my townhouse at 24 Park Lane North in London, together with the residue of all my estate's real and personal, and so forth. I breathed again. At least I had not been called upon to just hear it, Harold. Provided always he went on in the same voice, I wondered what was coming. Provided always that the said Harold Ashhurst Tillington does not marry, leave blank there, Miss Kaylee, I will fill out the name of the person I desire to exclude, and fill it in afterwards. I don't recollect it at this moment, but Higginson no doubt will be able to supply the deficiency. In fact, I don't think I ever heard it, though Higginson has told me all about the woman. Higginson, I inquired, is he here? Oh yes, dear, you heard of him, I suppose, from Georgina. Georgina is prejudiced. He has come back to me, I am glad to say, an excellent servant Higginson, though a trifle too omniscient. All men are equal in the eyes of their maker, of course, but we must have true subordination. A courier ought not to be better informed than his master, or at least to conceal the fact, dexterously. Well, Higgins knows this young person's name. My sister wrote to me about her disgraceful conduct when she first went to Schlagenbad. At adventurous it seems, at adventurous, quite a shocking creature. Forced at herself upon Lady Georgina into Kensington Gardens? Unintroduced, if you can believe such a thing? With the most astonishing effuntery, and Georgina, who will forgive anything on earth for the sake of what she calls originality, another name for impudence, as I'm sure you must know, took the young woman with her as her maid to Germany. There, this minx tried to set her cap at my nephew Harold, who can be caught at once by a pretty face, and Harold was balled over, almost got engaged to her. Georgina took a fancy to the girl later, having a taste for dubious people. I cannot say I approve of Georgina's friends, and wrote again to say her first suspicions were unfounded. The young woman was in reality a paragon of virtue. But I know better than that. Georgina has no judgment. I regret to be obliged to confess it, but cleverness, I fear, is the only thing in the world my excellent sister cares for. The hussy it seems was certainly clever. Higginson has told me about her. He says her bare appearance would suffice to condemn her. A bold, fast, shameless, brazen-faced creature. But you will forgive me, I am sure, my dear young lady. I ought not to dismiss such painted Jezebel's before you. We will leave this person's name blank. I will not sully your pen. I mean, your typewriter, by asking you to transcribe it. I made up my mind at once. Mr. Asherst, I said, looking up for my keyboard? I can give you this girl's name, and then you can insert the proviso immediately. You can? My dear young lady, what a wonderful person you are. You seem to know everybody and everything. But perhaps she was at Schlagenbad with Lady Georgina, and you were there also? She was, I answered deliberately. The name you want is Lois Caley. He let his notes drop in astonishment. I went on with my typewriting unmoved. Provided always that the said Harold Asherst Hillington does not marry Lois Caley, in which case, I will and desire that the said estate shall pass to... Whom shall I put in, Mr. Asherst? He lent forward with his fat hands on his ample knees. It was really you? He inquired open mouth. I nodded. There is no use in denying the truth. Mr. Tillington did ask me to be his wife, and I refused him. But my dear Miss Caley, the difference in station, I asked? The difference is still greater in this world's goods. Yes, I know. I admit all that, so I declined his offer. I did not wish to ruin his prospects. The urbane old gentleman eyed me with a sudden tenderness in his glance. Young men are lucky, he said slowly after a short pause. And he can seem as an idiot. I say it deliberately, an idiot. How could one dream of trusting the judgment of a flunky about a lady? My dear, excuse the familiarity from one who may consider himself in a certain sense a contingent uncle. Suppose we amend the last clause by the omission of the word not. It strikes me as superfluous. Provided always, the said Harold Asherst Tillington consents to marry. I think that sounds better. He looked at me with such fatherly regard that it pricked my heart ever to have poked fun at his interpretation of prophecy on stock exchange principles. I think I flushed crimson. No. No, I answered firmly. That will not do either, please. That's worse than the other way. You must not put it, Mr. Asherst. I could not consent to be willed away to anyone. He lent forward with real earnestness. My dear, he said, that's not the point. Pardon my reminding you that you are here in your capacity as my amanoinsis. I am drawing up my will, and if you will allow me to say so, I cannot admit that anyone has a claim to influence me in the deposition of my property. Please, I cried pleadingly. He looked at me and paused. Well, he went on at last after a long interval. Since you insist upon it, I will leave the request to stand without condition. Thank you. I murmured, bending low over my machine. If I did as I like, though, he went on, I should say, unless he marries Miss Lois Caley, who is a deal too good for him, the estate shall revert to Kynaston's eldest son, a confounded jackass. I do not usually indulge in intemperate language, but I desire to assure you with the utmost calmness that Kynaston's eldest son, Lord Southminster, is a confounded jackass. I rose and took his hand in my own spontaneously. Mr. Asherst, I said, you may interpret prophecy as long as ever you like, but you are a dear, kind old gentleman. I am truly grateful to you for your good opinion. And you will marry Harold? Never, I answered. While he is rich, I have said as much to him. That's hard, he went on slowly. For I should like to be your uncle. I trembled all over. Elsie saved the situation by bursting in abruptly. I will only add that when Mr. Asherst left, I copied the will out neatly, without erasures. The original I threw somewhat carelessly into the waste paper basket. That afternoon, somebody called to fetch the fair copy for Mr. Asherst. I went out into the front office to see him. To my surprise, it was Higginson, and his guys as courier. He was astonished as myself. What? You hear, he cried, you dog me. I was thinking the same thing of you, Mr. LaCompte, I answered curtsying. He made no attempt at an excuse. Well, I have been sent for the will, he broke out curtly. And you were sent for the dual case, I retorted. No, no, Dr. Fatescu Langley, I am in charge of the will, and I will take it myself to Mr. Asherst. I will be even with you yet, he snapped out. I have gone back to my old trade, and am trying to lead an honest life, but you won't let me. On the contrary, I answered smiling a polite smile. I rejoice to hear it. If you say nothing more against me to your employer, I will not disclose to him what I know about you. But if you slander me, I will. So now we understand each other. And I kept the will till I could give it myself into Mr. Asherst's own hands in his rooms that evening.