And the next thing I knew o' th' matter, there was a wedding, and my little lady wedded to Lord Ernle, and Mistress Marian her bridemaid. Surely if the good God e'er sent happiness on earth, He did send it to my little lady and to his lordship. 'Twas at this time that Sir Rowland asked Mistress Marian to be his spouse. And 'twas even i' th' same spot where Lord Ernle had discovered his love for my little lady, that he asked her.

Again it was as though some one had smitten her—her face deadly white and the red line across her brow. She put out one hand to keep him from her, and let it rest on his shoulder, and she said, "Rowland, I love thee well, but no man will ever call me wife."

He said, "Is this the end?"

She said, "Though we should both live to see the last day, it is the end."

Then he went, with his head bowed down. And when he was gone, for the first time in all her life she wept aloud.

* * * * *

Some time passed, and matters waxed ever hotter and hotter 'twixt Cavaliers and Roundheads, till one night there rode up a man to the castle gate with papers for Lord Ernle, and the long and the short o't was this: His lordship was ordered to ride forth to war, and my little lady only three months his wife. Now when this blow fell upon them they were all at meat in this very hall, for ofttimes in cold weather they dined here, even as thy father and mother do now, on account o' th' greater warmth.

And when my lord had glimpsed at the papers he did start to his feet, saying, "Where is the man who brought these papers?"

Jock answered him, "He is gone, my lord."

Then snatching up a flagon of wine that was near at hand, he drank more than half that was in it. And again he turned over the papers in his hand. But all they, my little lady, and Mistress Marian, and your grandfather and grandmother, seemed turned to stone. All at once my little lady started up as from a spell, and went and got her arms about him, as in years gone by when she had hurt him with his own mock sword, and she cried out, "What is it? what is it?" Anon came Mistress Marian to his other side, and looked over his shoulder, while he stood between them like one bewitched, and whiter than a man just dead. When Mistress Marian noted the contents o' th' papers, up went her hand to her heart as on that day under the beech-tree, and she caught at his arm to stay herself.

He turned from his wife to her as though for help, saying, "Tell her, tell her, comrade." And he sank into a chair near by, and dropped down his head into his hand.

Lord! Lord! that was a fearful night! When they made my little lady to understand, she set up one cry after another, each loud enough to pierce the very floor of heaven. Ne'er since have I heard a woman utter such cries as those. And no one but Mistress Marian could in any wise appease her, for she would not have my lord come unto her, but drove him away with waving of her hands, saying, "Thou dost not love me, but the King! thou dost not love me, but the King!"

And when Mistress Marian sought to reason with her, 'twas even the same. Naught could she do but sit and hold her, and comfort her with soft words and noises such as mothers make o'er their young babes. By-and-by she was calmer, and asked to see her lord. So Mistress Marian went out, but I remained on a low stool at the bed's foot. Lord Ernle entered, and she crept into his arms like a fawn into the hollow of a rock when the hail is falling. And they clung to each other in silence. Presently he saith, "Darling, darling, that I should have brought thee to grief!"

She answered, "Nay, not thou, but God. O love, dost truly think that God is aye a good God?"

And he hushed and soothed her even more tenderly than did Mistress Marian.

Afterwhile she saith, almost in a whisper, "But thou needst not go?"

He said, "Darling, how dost thou mean?"

And she whispered more low and said, "I will go with thee to the new continent to-morrow, and there we can live the rest o' our days in peace and love." And she broke out all at once wilder than ever: "Ernle! Ernle! take me! I will go with thee! I will leave father, and mother, and home, and country, and friends, and King for thee! Only go not to war! go not to war!"

He said but two words back of his teeth, "I must!" and then again, "I must!"

But when he looked at her for answer, lo! she had swooned away.

He was to set forth in two days after the morrow; and on the morning of that day, behold! we could not believe our own eyes for astonishment when we saw the Lady Patience step quietly forth, composed and gentle, though very pale. She saith good-morrow to every one, and after a while she doth slip her arm through her husband's arm, and saith she, "Come for a walk, Ernle; I have much to say to thee." So they started forth together. Now I, fearful of many things, did follow at a little distance. As they walked she besought him again that he would take her and set sail for the new continent. And when again he told her how that it could not be, she fell down upon her knees before him, and clasped him with her arms, and she said, "If thou dost not love me, let me be the first to die by thy sword. Slay me, as I kneel, for the love I bear thee."

He said, "Patience, Patience, thou wilt break mine heart."

And she, still kneeling, did cry out with a wild voice, "They lied who named me, for in an ill hour was I born, and I have not patience to support it! I thought that thou didst love me, and lo! thou lovest the husband of another woman more than thou lovest me!"

He bent to lift her up, groaning, but she would not; whereat he trembled from head to foot, and she shook with his trembling as the leaves of a tree when the shaft is smitten by lightning. And she cried out again, and said, "As there is a God in heaven, thou dost not love me, an thou canst go to war and leave me to die o' grief." Then, as though 'twas torn from him, he burst forth, "Now as there is a God, thou dost not love me, to torture me thus!"

And all at once she was quiet. So he stooped and lifted her, and called her his "bride," and his "wife," and his "darling," and his "heart's blood," and more wild, fond, foolish names than at this day I can remember. 'Twas near sundown, and that night he was to ride. Over against the dark jags o' th' hills there ran a narrow streak of light, like a golden ribbon. And the brown clouds above and below it were like locks o' hair made wanton by the wind, which it as a fillet did seek to bind. But they twain walked ever on, till by-and-by they neared that cave o' which I did tell ye. As they came in front o't my lady turned, and smiling piteously, "Ernle," saith she, "wilt thou go with me into the cave and kiss me there, that when thou art gone I may come hither and think o' thee?"

And he said, "Oh, my heart! what would I not for thee?" And he kissed her again and again.

Presently she said, "Do not think me foolish, but wilt thou enter first?—it is so dark." And she stood in the door-way, with her hand on the door, while he entered.

He said, "There is nothing here, sweetheart, but a monstrous damp odor."

And she answered, "Nay, but go to the very end; there may be toads; and when thou art there, halloo to me." So she waited with her hand on the door.

He called to her, "There is nothing, love. Wait until I return to thee." But, ere he had ceased speaking, she clapped to the door with all her might, and did push forward the great iron bolt, so that he was a prisoner in the cave; I being rooted to the ground with astonishment, as fast as was ever the oak-tree under which I stood. At first he thought 'twas but one o' her pretty trickeries, and I heard his gay laugh as he came to the shut door, and he called out, and said, "So, sweetheart, I am in truth a prisoner o' war; but art thou not an unmerciful general to confine the captured in so rheumatic a cavern?"

She sat down and leaned her head against the door, but said not a word.

And he spoke again, saying, "Darling, I pray thee waste not what little time doth yet remain to us."

Still she answered not; and again he spake, and his voice began to be sorrowful.

"Oh, my wife," he said, "canst thou jest at such a time?"

At last she answered him, saying, "I jest not."

His voice changed somewhat, and he said, "What dost thou, then?"

She answered, "I keep what is mine. Where my forefathers did hide their treasure, there hide I mine."

He said, in a loud voice, "God will not suffer it."

Then fell a silence between them. But by-and-by he spoke again. "Darling," he saith, "surely thou dost not mean to do this thing?"

And she saith, like a child when 'tis naughty, and knoweth well that it is, but likes not to say so, "What thing?"

He answered, "Thou canst not truly mean to shut me here to bring dishonor upon me, who have loved thee better than man ever loved woman" (for so do all men say, and truly think).

She said, "Thy life is more to me than thy honor."

And he groaned aloud, crying, "Oh God! that I have lived to hear thee say it!" and again there fell a silence, save for the whispering of the night in the trees above us and the creeping of small creatures through the dry grass. 'Twas almost curfew-time, and there was one star in the black front o' th' night, like the star on the forehead of a black stallion.

When he spake again his voice was very fierce, and he saith, "Patience, I do command thee to release me."

But she spake never a word.

And again he said, "Better let me out to love thee, than keep me here until I hate thee."

She shivered, leaning against the door, until the big bolt rattled in its braces.

And he said yet again, "By the Lord God, an thou dost keep me here to sully my good name, and that of thy father and mother, who have been to me even as my own flesh and blood, I will never live with thee again as man with wife, but will go forth into the New World to live and to die with thy handmaid dishonor!"

And she was silent.

Again he spoke, and lifted up his voice in a cry exceeding sorrowful and bitter, so that my heart froze to hear it.

"Woman! woman! was it for this I gave thee my fair fame to cherish? Or was it for this that I put my name into thy keeping? Oh, child, listen while there is yet time! Wilt thou with thy own hands take his manhood from thy husband to drag it through the mire? Patience, as I have shared thy childhood, as I have loved and cherished thy girlhood, as I have held thee in my arms as bride and wife, give me back my honor while there is yet time. Oh, my wife! my darling!" And I heard him sobbing like a little lad.

At that sound she put both hands over her ears, and started to her feet, looking from right to left like a hunted thing, and I could bear it no longer, but leaped forward and fell on my knees before her, and grasped her kirtle with both hands. I could scarce speak for tears, but with all the strength that was in me did I plead with her to draw back the bolt, but she would not. Now to this day when I do think of the fool that I was, not to run without her knowledge and bring the old lord, thy grandfather, or bide my time and unbar the door when she had gone, it seems as though I must hate myself for evermore. But as I pleaded with her, all at once there was something cold against my throat, and I seemed to know that 'twas a dagger, and the steel cowed me, as it doth sometimes cow strong men, and I stirred not, neither spoke I a word more. Her face was over me, like a white flower in the purple dusk, but her eyes bright and terrible. And when she spoke, 'twas not my little lady's voice, but rather the voice o' a fiend. And she said,

"Swear that thou sayest nothing of all this to man, or to woman, or to child, else will I kill thee as thou kneelest."

And I knew that for the time she was mad, and would kill me even as she had said, did I not swear. So I did take that fearful oath, coward as I was, and to this day am I a craven when I think on 't. When I had sworn, she turned from me as though there were no such woman in all the earth, and went once more to the door o' th' cave, and called his name—"Ernle!"

He answered straightway, and said, "This once will I speak to thee, but if thou dost not unbar the door o' th' instant, I will never hold speech with thee again, nor touch so much as the hem of thy garments, by the living God!"

She said, "I cannot! I cannot! But oh! say not such dreadful words. We will be happy. 'Tis for that I keep thee here. Speak to me! Ernle! Ernle! Ernle! Call me thy love once more! Just once! just once!"

But she might as well have plead at the door o' a tomb for all the answer she got. Again and again she called him, but a dead man speaks no more than spoke her lord. And at last she sprang to her feet, and rushed away into the darkness towards the castle, and I after her.

And when I was entered in by a side door, and had changed my apparel and gone forth to inquire after her, lo! she was raving as with fever, and all they, her father, and mother, and Mistress Marian, thought that he had ridden away and left her i' th' park, having said farewell to them ere he and my lady did set forth to walk. And they strove to comfort her.

The morrow was scarce dawned when she was up and dressed, and stealing through the covert to the door o' th' cave. I followed her, for she heeded me no more, now that I had taken the oath, knowing that I would be torn in pieces ere I would betray my trust. When she was come to the door, she kneeled down and leaned her head against it, and called to him, with a voice so exquisite low, 'twas almost as though one should hear the spirit when it speaks within, and she saith, "Ernle—my love—my love."

And all was still as death. And she said, "Darling, feel with thy hands for the bread and wine. It is near thee on the right o' th' door as thou enterest in. Two bottles o' wine and some loaves o' bread."

But he answered her neither by word or sighing. And she said, "Wouldst thou break my heart?" Then, when she saw that he would not answer her, she cast herself face down along the ground, and tore up the grass with her hands, and pressed down her face into the damp earth. And after a while (for th' looks o't) she rose and went back to the castle.

At nightfall there rode a man to the castle gate with papers, wherein my Lord Falkland did question wherefore Lord Radnor had not answered the summons. And all they were amazed and looked at one another. The messenger said, moreover, "If that it cannot be proven ere to-morrow night that the Lord Radnor hath been the victim o' foul play, he will be branded as a deserter throughout the land."

Thy grandfather gave one cry, "Murdered!" and the sound of it stilled the life in me that I fell down as one dead. And when I had once more come to the possession o' my wits, Jock did tell me as how 'twas already whispered in the village that the young lord had deserted the cause, and had set sail in secret for the New World. Upon this, I straightway swooned again. And when I was recovered enough to stand upon my feet and go forth from my chamber, behold! there was a silence over all the house, as in a house where the best beloved has died in the night.

Men scoured the country far and near, in search o' th' murdered body o' th' young lord. And 'twas now the evening o' th' third day. But my lady meant not to open the door until the morrow, for if she opened it ere then, she knew not but what matters might be righted, and her lord ride to the wars in spite o' all. When it was nigh to sunset she did creep forth and kneel at the door o' th' cave, and call to him in that beautiful, gentle voice, "Ernle! Ernle! my love! my darling!"

And when he did not answer her, she ceased not, as on the day before, but went on: "To-morrow I will set thee free. As I live, thou shall be free to-morrow. An thou wilt but let me be near thee like thy dog, I will ask no more. Neither will I fret thee with my sorrow. Oh, love, I do beseech thee speak to me, whose only sin was in loving thee too dearly. Let the kisses that as a bride I have set upon thy lips plead with them that they speak to me. Oh, my heart! oh, my husband, have pity! If thou wilt never speak to me again, speak to me now. Say but my name, my silly, ill-bestowed name, 'Patience.' Nay, curse me, so I but hear thy voice. Call me what names thou wilt. In God's name, Ernle! In the name o' her who was once thy wife!" And as she knelt and pleaded as a woman with her God, behold! there stepped forth from the coppice Mistress Marian. She stood there like a figure cut in snow, for her kirtle was all of white seme, and her hair was as a cloud fallen round about her. When she saw my lady she drew in her breath with a sharp sound, and set both hands against her bosom. And she bended forward from her loins and listened, but in none otherwise moved she. And my lady went on, "To-morrow I will set thee free—I do swear it. With the rising o' th' morrow's sun thou shalt be free as air. Only speak to me now. Only speak to me now. Just once, Ernle—just once."

With one spring Mistress Marian was upon her, and had pinned her arms to her sides. And the two women stood and gazed into each other's faces, with their throats stretched forward, as serpents stretch their throats ere springing upon each other.

Mistress Marian spake first, and her voice was as a voice that I had never heard, and she said, "So this is the truth, then?"

My lady said no word, but her eyes were aflame.

And Mistress Marian gazed on her for an instant more, then dashed her aside, and turned towards the cave.

"Ernle," she said, "take heart. I will set thee free—I, Marian!" But ere her hand did touch the bolt, my lady was upon her like a little tiger, and she wound her hands in Mistress Marian's thick tresses, and dragged her backward.

And they rolled over and over on the ground, even as do men when they fight, saying no word from first to last. The horror of it smote me that I fell down upon my knees and was dumb. Now my little lady was uppermost, now Mistress Marian. And had not my lady been strong with despair, Mistress Marian could 'a' mastered her o' th' instant. But she fought like a she-wolf brought to bay, with teeth and talons too, and 'twas almost as though two of a size had fought there. Howbeit, with a sudden move, Mistress Marian flung my lady down, and set her knee upon her, and held her, and looked from side to side, as though at a loss, and my lady's strength was fast failing.

When I saw that, I could bide still no longer, but ran forward, crying to Mistress Marian to be gentle with her.

She answered but these words, "Nurse, take off my girdle and bind thy lady's hands with it." And there was that in her voice I dared not disobey. So I bound my lady's hands, she saying never a word, and when the girdle was fast knotted, Mistress Marian helped her gently enough to rise, and bidding me have a care o' her, turned and drew back the bolt from the door o' the cave.

The last light o' the sun fell like a golden lance across the threshold, and across my lord as he lay there, face down, with his hands against the sill o' th' door.

And she stooped down over him, saying, "He hath fainted for lack o' food," but I knew that there was both wine and bread i' th' cave. And she called his name, but he was silent. And she called him again and again. And at last she bade me come to her side, and when we had turned him upon his side so that his face was towards us, behold, he was dead. But Mistress Marian saith again, "He hath swooned away." And she put her hand upon his brow, but no sooner did she touch it than she cried out at its coldness, and shook the dead man in her frenzy, crying,

"Ernle! Ernle! thou art free! Wake, man! thou art free!"

I said, "Mistress, mistress, for love of God! Dost thou not see that neither thou nor any other can wake him more?"

Thereat she fell back upon her knees, leaning upon one arm. And she said, "Dost thou mean—"

I bowed down mine head, for I could not meet her eyes. And she fell upon his body, and stirred no more, so that when they came to bear the poor young lord to the castle, they did bear her also. And for some hours we thought her dead.

Now when my lady saw them how they lay there, and the sunlight red upon them like to blood, she came and kneeled down in front o' me, and lifted up her poor fettered hands meekly, like a little child. And she said, "Nurse, I pray you tell me what it doth mean, for methinks I am waxing foolish, like poor Marjory i' th' village whose man fell from the cliff."

I could not answer her for sobbing.

And she said, "Do they sleep?"

And I nodded my head, for I could say no word.

She said, "Pray you, do not wake them. An they sleep till the morrow, all will be well." Suddenly her wits came back upon her with a rush, as doth a wind that hath seemed to be gone for aye. And she snapt the girdle on her wrists like as it had been a thread o' silk, and ran and laid hold on him with her hands, and dragged him forth upon the grass. And she saith,

"Ernle! Ernle! Ernle! What! wilt thou not answer me, now that thou art free? See! thou mayest ride to war. It is not yet too late. What there, nurse! My lord's charger! Run! run!" Then leaped she to her feet with one cry that methought would 'a' cracked the welkin in twain above our heads.

"Dead! Oh God in heaven!"

So for an instant she stood, with her arms reached high above her head, and her eyes upon him as he lay at her feet, even as a flame doth poise for a breath ere sinking again upon the coals. But anon she dropped down beside him, and beat her forehead with the lower palms o' her hands, and she saith, "Well didst thou sign me with thy blood! well didst thou sign me with thy blood!" Then all at once did she peep up at me over her shoulder with one o' her winsome ways, and fell a-laughing softly.

"Nurse," saith she, "hath he not found a pretty way to punish me? He feigns it well—by'r lay'kin—doth he not, nurse?"

And she rocked to and fro, as she knelt beside him, laughing softly to herself, and ever and again she would reach forth one little hand, all scarred in her struggle with Mistress Marian, and would touch a stray lock into place, and once she bent over and kissed him, laughing softly, and nodding to herself very wisely. And she would sit that way, and rock herself to and fro, and smile upon the ground, and laugh softly, until the very day that she did die. And the last words that she did ever say were, "Just once, Ernle—just once."

* * * * *

(Nurse Crumpet rises and stirs the fire, amid a heavy silence, broken only by the little Lady Dorothy's sobs and the rushing of the wind outside the great hall.)

THE END.



TONY, THE MAID.

A Novelette. BY BLANCHE WILLIS HOWARD. Illustrated by CHARLES S. REINHART. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.

"'Tony, the Maid,' is not only one of the best pieces of work Miss Howard has yet done, but it is one of the very best short stories of the year. Tony herself is an original creation. There is no maid like Tony in all fiction; and she is, moreover, the only good thing, which is neither superlatively beautiful nor emphatically a bore, or both, that has come out of the Canton of Lucerne since the days of William Tell. Even the insatiate archer, when he is not mythical, is a trifle wearing to the average mind, but Tony is never tiresome and always grand.

"As a short story Miss Howard's 'Tony, the Maid' has but one fault. It is too short. There is not enough of Tony. She makes her exit too suddenly and too completely. It is consoling to know, however, that Miss Zschorcher is some day coming to America as Mrs. Eduard Maler. Perhaps Tony the Maid may figure as Tony the Matron and Tony the Mother. Knowing her duty to her gracious Fraeulein, no doubt she will."

A bright and lively sketch of an American woman abroad, and characterized throughout by keen and forcible phraseology and a very symmetrical construction.—N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.

This is a very clever satire on one of the phases of modern society, and the tale is told in a most charming manner.—Albany Press.

It is a long time since we have met with anything so charming, so refreshing, so droll. . . . Read this book once, and one wants to turn back and read it again.—N. Y. Star.

Mr. Reinhart's illustrations greatly enhance the interest of the novelette.—Buffalo Commercial Advertiser.

A story written in a style as simple as that which Miss Howard has adopted in this novelette is sure to find many readers. The story is well told and attractive.—Troy Press.

"Tony, the Maid," is safe for a great success with the lovers of the bright and dainty in literature. It is prettily bound, and uncommonly cleverly illustrated.—N. Y. Graphic.

The story is told with infinite humor and with not a little pathos, and it will well repay perusal.—Philadelphia Telegraph.

The plot is new, the characters are fresh, and the handling is spirited and brisk. No one who commences this little book will stop reading until the end is reached.—Chicago Journal.

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PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

The above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price.



BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON.

EAST ANGELS. pp. 592. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25.

ANNE. Illustrated. pp. 540. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25.

FOR THE MAJOR. pp. 208. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.

CASTLE NOWHERE. pp. 386. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. (A New Edition.)

RODMAN THE KEEPER. Southern Sketches. pp. 340. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. (A New Edition.)

* * * * *

There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson's writing which invests all her characters with lovable qualities.—Jewish Advocate, N. Y.

Miss Woolson is among our few successful writers of interesting magazine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the delineation of her heroines no less than in the suggestive pictures of local life.—Jewish Messenger, N. Y.

Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist laureate.—Boston Globe.

Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, and conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development of a story is very remarkable.—London Life.

Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox novelist, but strikes a new and richly loaded vein, which so far is all her own; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sensation, and we put down the book with a sigh to think our pleasant task of reading it is finished. The author's lines must have fallen to her in very pleasant places; or she has, perhaps, within herself the wealth of womanly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all she writes. Such books as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of the day—a quality sadly wanting in novels of the time.—Whitehall Review, London.

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

The above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price.

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 112, "desert" changed to "dessert" (dessert, I'll warrant)

Page 187, "Mistres" changed to "Mistress" (Mistress Marion in long)

THE END