Something about the supposed Miss Garth excited the suspicion of Mrs. Lecount, and she deliberately set about to try and make her visitor betray what she was convinced she was concealing.

"I would suggest," said Mrs. Lecount, "that you give a hundred pounds to each of these unfortunate sisters."

"He will repent the insult to the last hour of his life," said Magdalen.

The instant that answer passed her lips, she would have given worlds to recall it. Her passionate words had been uttered in her own voice. Mrs. Lecount detected the change, and, with a view to establishing some proof of the identity of her visitor, she secured, by a subterfuge, a thin strip of the old-fashioned skirt which Magdalen was wearing in the character of Miss Garth.

Foiled in her appeal to Noel Vanstone, Magdalen determined to put in train the plot she had long proposed to herself. She set out deliberately to win the property of which she and her sister had been despoiled, by winning the hand of Noel Vanstone. A letter from Frank Clare had released her from her engagement, and with a bitter heart she went down to Aldborough, in Suffolk, whither Noel Vanstone had removed for his health.

In the character of the niece of Mr. Bygrave, which role Captain Wragge adopted, she laid siege to the selfish affections of Noel Vanstone. Her task proved ridiculously easy. Noel fell hopelessly in love with her, and before many days were out proposed marriage. So far, everything had worked smoothly, but at this point Mrs. Lecount's fears were aroused. She determined to prevent the marriage at all costs, and used every possible means to dissuade her master from having anything more to do with the Bygraves, and the whole plot must have fallen to the ground had it not been for the persistence and skilful diplomacy displayed by Captain Wragge.

He arranged that Noel should visit Admiral Bartram, leaving Mrs. Lecount behind to pack up. From Admiral Bartram's he was to proceed to London, where he would be duly united to Magdalen. In order to secure the non-interference of Mrs. Lecount, the captain sent her a forged letter, summoning her at once to the death-bed of her brother at Zurich. But Mrs. Lecount was not so easily disposed of as Captain Wragge had imagined.

As soon as her master departed for Admiral Bartram's she took the opportunity, when both Magdalen and the captain were out, to visit their house. Readily persuading the simple-minded Mrs. Wragge, who had a passion for clothes, to show her Magdalen's wardrobe, she discovered there the skirt from which she had cut a piece on the occasion of the girl's visit in the character of Miss Garth.

She was detected by Captain Wragge leaving the house, but, careless of what the latter might think, she returned home in triumph. There she found the letter summoning her to Zurich. There was no time to be lost; she had to go. But before she set out she wrote a letter to Noel Vanstone, disclosing the whole facts of the conspiracy.

Captain Wragge, positive in his own mind that Mrs. Lecount had discovered everything, would have consulted Magdalen, but the girl was in a condition which prevented her from taking any active part in the affair. She wandered about Aldborough with a settled despair written clearly on the beautiful features of her face. Her woe-begone appearance attracted the attention of a certain Captain Kirke, and he carried away with him on his ship the indelible memory of her beauty.

Captain Wragge had to depend solely on his own exertions. Waiting till the housekeeper had left Aldborough, he discovered, by inquiries at the post-office, that Mrs. Lecount had written to Noel Vanstone. That letter must be stopped at all costs, and the captain acted boldly. The day was Saturday. Obtaining a special licence, he hurried off to Admiral Bartram's, before Mrs. Lecount's letter was delivered, and induced Noel Vanstone to accompany him to London. At the same time he left behind him several envelopes, addressed to "Captain Wragge," under cover of which Admiral Bartram was to forward all correspondence which might arrive after his departure. By this means, Mrs. Lecount's letter was prevented from coming into the hands of her master, and two days later Magdalen duly became the wife of Noel Vanstone.

Twelve weeks later, Noel Vanstone walked moodily about the garden of a cottage he had taken in the Highlands. That morning Magdalen, without even asking his permission, had set out for London to see her sister, and her husband, his health greatly enfeebled, was left alone, weak and miserable. He had a habit of mourning over himself, and as he rested, looking over a fence, he sighed bitterly.

"You were happier with me," said a voice at his side.

He turned with a scream to see Mrs. Lecount. She told him how his wife was Magdalen Vanstone, how she had married him simply from a desire to recover the fortune of which she had been robbed by Michael Vanstone, also suggesting that Magdalen intended to attempt his life.

Shivering with terror, Noel Vanstone became like wax in Mrs. Lecount's hands. He at once agreed to draw up a new will at her dictation, completely cutting off his wife. He bequeathed Mrs. Lecount L5,000, and declared that he wished to leave the remainder to his cousin, George Bartram. Such an arrangement, however, Mrs. Lecount foresaw, might be fraught with those very dangers which she wished to avoid. George Bartram was young and susceptible. It was conceivable that Magdalen, robbed of the stake for which she had so boldly played, might, on her husband's death, attempt to secure the prize by luring George Bartram into a marriage. At the instigation of his housekeeper, Noel Vanstone therefore bequeathed the residue of his estate absolutely to Admiral Bartram. But this will was coupled with a letter addressed to the admiral, secretly entrusting him to make the estate over to George under certain circumstances. He was to be married to, or to marry within six months, a woman who was not a widow. In the event of his not complying with these conditions, which would prevent his marriage with Magdalen, the money was to go to his married sister.

Having outwitted Magdalen, Mrs. Lecount's next object was to remove Noel Vanstone down to London. In order that he might be strong enough to travel, Mrs. Lecount prepared a favourite posset for him. Returning with the fragrant mixture, she noticed him sitting at a table, his head resting on his hand, apparently asleep.

"Your drink, Mr. Noel," she said, touching him. He took no notice. She looked at him closer Noel Vanstone was dead.

III.—The Darkest Hour

In pursuance of her determination to discover the secret trust, Magdalen secured a position as parlourmaid in Admiral Bartram's house. For days she waited for an opportunity of examining the admiral's papers. At night the admiral, who was addicted to sleep-walking, was guarded by a drunken old sea-dog, called Mazey, and in the daytime she could do nothing without being detected.

The secret trust lay heavily on the admiral's mind, and it became the more unbearable when George Bartram came down and announced his intention of marrying Norah Vanstone. George's married sister was dead, and thus one of the two objects contemplated by the secret trust had failed, and only a fortnight remained before the expiry of six months in which George Bartram had to marry in order to inherit the fortune. The admiral objected to the marriage with Norah Vanstone, but was at a loss how to dissuade George from the match.

While this problem was occupying the admiral's attention, Magdalen at last found the chance of examining her master's private apartments. Mazey, under the influence of drink, had deserted his post, and, with a basket of keys in her hands, Magdalen crept into the room where the admiral kept his papers. Drawer after drawer she opened, but nowhere could she find the secret trust.

Suddenly she heard a footstep, and turning round quickly, she saw coming towards her, in the moonlight, the figure of Admiral Bartram. Transfixed with terror, she watched him coming nearer and nearer. He did not seem to see her, and as he almost brushed past her she heard him exclaim: "Noel, I don't know where it's safe. I don't know where to put it. Take it back, Noel."

Magdalen, realising that the admiral was walking in his sleep, followed him closely. He went to a drawer in a cabinet and took out a folded letter, and putting it down before him on the table, repeated mechanically, "Take it back, Noel—take it back!"

Looking over his shoulder, Magdalen saw that the paper was the secret trust. She watched the admiral replace it in another cabinet, and then walk back silently to his bed. In another moment she had taken possession of the letter, when a hand was suddenly laid on her wrist, and the voice of old Mazey exclaimed, "Drop it, Jezebel—drop it!"

Dragging her away, old Mazey locked her in her room for the night; but early the following morning relented, and allowed her to leave the house.

Three weeks later Admiral Bartram died, and though Magdalen instructed her solicitors to set up the secret trust, and though the house was searched from top to bottom, the letter could not be found. In consequence, the property passed to George Bartram, who, two months later, married Norah Vanstone.

Magdalen gave up the struggle in despair, and not daring to return to her people, sunk lower and lower until she reached the depths of poverty. At last, in a wretched quarter in the East End, she came to the end of her resources. Ill and almost dying, the people from whom she rented her one miserable room determined to send her to the workhouse. A crowd collected to watch her departure. She was just about to be carried to a cab, when a man pushed his way through the crowd and saw her face.

That man was Captain Kirke, who had seen her at Aldborough. He at once gave instructions for her to be taken back into the house, paid a sum down for her proper treatment, and secured the services of a doctor and a nurse. Every day he came to inquire after her, and when at last, after weeks of suffering, her strength returned, it was he who brought Norah and Miss Garth to her.

After the long separation the two sisters had much to tell one another. Norah, who had bowed patiently under her misfortunes, had achieved the very object for which Magdalen had schemed in vain. She had obtained, through her marriage with George Bartram, the fortune which her father had intended for her. Among other things which she related to Magdalen was the account of how she had discovered the secret trust simply by chance. By the discovery of this document, Magdalen became entitled to half her late husband's fortune; for, the secret trust having failed, the law had distributed the estate between the deceased's next of kin—half to Magdalen and half to George Bartram. Taking the paper from her sister's hands, Magdalen tore it into pieces.

"This paper alone gives me the fortune which I obtained by marrying Noel Vanstone," she said. "I will owe nothing to my past life. I part with it as I part with these torn morsels of paper."

* * * * *

To Captain Kirke, Magdalen wrote the complete story of all she had done. She felt it was due to him that he should know all. She awaited the inevitable result—the inevitable separation from the man she had grown to love. When he had read it he came to her.

Near to tears, she waited to hear her fate.

"Tell me what you think of me! Tell me the truth!" she said.

"With my own lips?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Say what you think of me with your own lips."

She looked up at him for the first time, and then, he stooped and kissed her.

* * * * *



The Woman in White

Wilkie Collins' greatest success was achieved on the appearance of "The Woman in White" in 1860, a story described by Thackeray as "thrilling." The book attracted immediate attention, Collins' method of unravelling an intricate plot by a succession of narratives being distinctly novel, and appealing immensely to the reading public.

I.—The Woman Appears

The story here presented will be told by several pens. Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty-eight, be heard first.

I had once saved Professor Pesca from drowning, and in his desire to do "a good something for Walter," the warm-hearted little Italian secured me the position of art-master at Limmeridge House, Cumberland.

It was the night before my departure to take up my duties as teacher to Miss Laura Fairlie and her half-sister, Miss Marian Halcombe, and general assistant to Frederick Fairlie, uncle and guardian to Miss Fairlie. Having bidden good-bye to my mother and sister at their cottage in Hampstead, I decided to walk home to my chambers the longest possible way round. In the after-warmth of the hot July day I made my way across the darkened Heath. Suddenly I was startled by a hand laid lightly on my shoulder. I turned to see the figure of a solitary woman, with a colourless youthful face, dressed from head to foot in white garments.

"Is that the road to London?" she said.

Her sudden appearance, her extraordinary dress, and the strained tones of her voice so surprised me that I hesitated some moments before replying. Her agitation at my silence was distressing, and calming her as well as I could, and promising to help her to get a cab, I asked her a few questions. Her answers showed that she was suffering from some terrible nervous excitement. She asked me if I knew any baronet—any from Hampshire—and seemed almost absurdly relieved when I assured her I did not. In the course of our conversation, as we walked towards St. John's Wood, I discovered a curious circumstance. She knew Limmeridge House and the Fairlies!

Having found her a cab, I bade her good-bye. As we parted she suddenly seized my hand and kissed it with overwhelming gratitude. Her conveyance was hardly out of sight when two men drove past in an open chaise, and drawing up in front of a policeman, asked him if he had seen a woman in white, promising a reward if he caught her.

"What has she done?" queried the policeman.

"Done!" exclaimed one of the men. "She has escaped from our asylum."

The day following this strange adventure I arrived at Limmeridge House, and the next morning made the acquaintance of the household. Marian Halcombe and Laura Fairlie, her half-sister, were, in point of appearance, the exact reverse of each other. The former was a tall, masculine-looking woman, with a masculine capacity for deep friendship. The latter was made in a slighter mould, with charming, delicate features, set off by a mass of pale-brown hair. Mr. Frederick Fairlie I found to be a neurotic, utterly selfish gentleman, who passed his life in his own apartments, amusing himself with bullying his valet, examining his works of art, and talking of his nerves.

With the other members of the household I soon became on a friendly footing. Miss Halcombe, when I told her of my strange adventure on Hampstead Heath, turned up her mother's correspondence with her second husband, and discovered there a reference to the woman in white, who bore a striking resemblance to Miss Fairlie. Her name was Anne Catherick. She had stayed for a short time in the neighbourhood with her mother, and had been befriended by Mrs. Fairlie.

As the months went by I fell passionately and hopelessly in love with Laura Fairlie. No word of love, however, passed between us, but Miss Halcombe, realising the situation, broke to me gently the fact that my love was hopeless. Almost from childhood Laura had been engaged to Sir Percival Clyde, a Hampshire baronet, and her marriage was due to take place shortly. I accepted the inevitable and decided to resign my position. But before I set out from Limmeridge House, many strange things happened.

Shortly before the arrival of Sir Percival Clyde to settle the details of his marriage, Laura had an anonymous letter, warning her against the union, and concluding with the words, "your mother's daughter has a tender place in my heart, for your mother was my first, my best, my only friend." Two days after the receipt of this letter I came upon Anne Catherick, busily tending the grave of Mrs. Fairlie. With difficulty I persuaded her to tell me something of her story. That she had been locked up in an asylum—unjustly, it was clear—I already knew. She confessed to having written the letter to Laura, but when I mentioned the name of Sir Percival Glyde, she shrieked aloud with terror. It was obvious that it was the baronet who had placed her under restraint.

The Fairlies' family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore, arriving next day, the whole matter was placed before him. He decided to send the anonymous letter to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitors and to ask for an explanation. Before any reply was received, I had left Limmeridge House, bidding farewell to the place where I had spent so many happy hours, and to the girl I loved.

II.—The Story Continued by Vincent Gilmore, of Chancery Lane, Solicitor to the Fairlies

I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright, to describe the events which took place after his departure from Limmeridge House.

My letter to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitors regarding Anne Catherick's anonymous communication was answered by the baronet in person on his arrival at Limmeridge House. He was the first to offer an explanation. Anne Catherick was the daughter of one of his old family servants, and in consideration of her mother's past services he had sent her to a private asylum instead of allowing her to go to one of the public establishments where her mental condition would otherwise have compelled her to remain. Her animus against Sir Percival was due to the fact that she had discovered that he was the cause of her incarceration. The anonymous letter was evidence of this insane antipathy.

My next concern with this history deals with the drawing up of Miss Fairlie's marriage settlement. Besides being heiress to the Limmeridge property, Miss Fairlie had personal estate to the value of L20,000, derived under the will of her father, Philip Fairlie. To this she became entitled on completing her twenty-first year. She had a life interest, moreover, in L10,000, which on her death passed to her father's sister Eleanor, the wife of Count Fosco, an Italian nobleman. In all human probability the Countess Fosco would never enjoy this money, for she was well advanced in age, while Laura was not yet twenty-one.

Regarding the L20,000, the proper and fair course was that the whole amount should be settled so as to give the income to the lady for her life, afterwards to Sir Percival for his life, and the principal to the children of the marriage. In default of issue, the principal was to be disposed of as the lady might by her will direct, thus enabling her to make provision for her half-sister, Marian Halcombe. This was the fair and proper settlement, but Sir Percival's solicitors insisted that the principal should go to Sir Percival Glyde in the event of his surviving Lady Glyde and there being no issue. I protested in vain, and this iniquitous settlement, which placed every farthing of the L20,000 in Sir Percival's pocket, and prevented Miss Fairlie providing for Miss Halcombe, was duly signed.

III.—The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe in a Series of Extracts from Her Diary

Limmeridge House, November 9. I have secured for poor Walter Hartright a position as draughtsman on an expedition which is to start immediately for central South America. Change of scene may really be the salvation of him at this crisis in his life. To-day poor Laura asked Sir Percival to release her from the engagement.

"If you still persist in maintaining our engagement," she said, looking irresistibly beautiful, "I may be your true and faithful wife, Sir Percival—your loving wife, if I know my own heart, never!"

"I gratefully accept your grace and truth," he said. "The least that you can offer is more to me than the utmost that I can hope for from any other woman in the world."

December 19. I received Sir Percival's consent to live with him as companion to his wife in their new home in Hampshire. I was interested to discover that Count Fosco, the husband of Laura's Aunt Eleanor, is a great friend of Sir Percival's.

December 22, 11 o'clock. It is all over. They are married.

Black-water Park, Hampshire, June 11. Six long months have elapsed since Laura and I last saw each other. I have just arrived at her new home. My latest news of Walter Hartright is derived from an American paper. It describes how the expedition was last seen entering a wild primeval forest.

June 15. Laura has returned, and I have found her changed. The old-time freshness and softness have gone. She is, if anything, more beautiful. She refused to go into details on the subject of her married life, and the fact that we have this forbidden topic seems to make a difference to our old relations. Sir Percival made no pretence to be glad to see me. They brought two guests with them, Count Fosco and his wife, Laura's aunt. He is immensely fat, with a face like that of the great Napoleon, and eyes which have an extraordinary power. In spite of his size, he treads as softly as a cat. His manners are perfect. He never says a hard word to his wife; but, none the less, he rules her with a rod of iron. She is absolutely his slave, obedient to the slightest expression of his eyes. He manages Sir Percival as he manages his wife; and, indeed, all of us. He inquired to-day whether there were any Italian gentlemen in the neighbourhood.

June 16. Merriman, Sir Percival's solicitor, came down to-day, and I accidentally overheard a conversation which seems to indicate a determination on Sir Percival's part to raise money on Laura's security, to pay off some of his heavy debts.

June 17. Sir Percival tried to make Laura sign the document which had been brought down by Merriman. On my advice, she refused to do so without reading it. A terrible scene resulted, which was only stopped by the intervention of Count Fosco. Sir Percival swore that Laura shall sign it to-morrow. To-night, Laura and I fancied we saw a white figure in the wood.

June 18. Laura has met Anne Catherick. It was she we saw in the wood last night. She came upon Laura in the boat-house, and declared she had something to tell her. "What is it you have to tell me?" asked Laura. "The secret that your cruel husband is afraid of," she answered. "I once threatened him with the secret and frightened him. You shall threaten him with the secret and frighten him, too." When Laura pressed her, she declared somebody was watching them and, pushing Laura back into the boat-house, disappeared.

June 19. The worst has come. Sir Percival has discovered a message from Anne Catherick to Laura, promising to reveal the secret, and stating that yesterday she was followed by a "tall, fat man," clearly the count. Sir Percival was furious, and locked Laura up in her bedroom. Again the count has had to intervene on her behalf.

Later.—By climbing out on the roof of the verandah, I have overheard a conversation between the count and Sir Percival. They spoke with complete frankness—with fiendish frankness—to one another. Fosco pointed out that his friend was desperately in need of money, and that, as Laura had refused to sign the document, he could not secure it by ordinary means. If Laura died, Sir Percival would inherit L20,000, and Fosco himself obtain through his wife L10,000. Sir Percival confessed that Anne Catherick had a secret which endangered his position. This secret, he surmised, she had told to Laura; and Laura, being in love with Walter Hartright—he had discovered this—would use it. The count inquired what Anne Catherick was like.

"Fancy my wife after a bad illness with a touch of something wrong in her head, and there is Anne Catherick for you," answered Sir Percival. "What are you laughing about?"

"Make your mind easy, Percival," he said. "I have my projects here in my big head. Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just."

I crept back to my room soaked through with the rain. Oh, my God, am I going to be ill? I have heard the clock strike every hour. It is so cold, so cold; and the strokes of the clock—the strokes I can't count—keep striking in my head....

[At this point the diary ceases to be legible.]

IV.—The Story Completed by Walter Hartright on His Return, from Several Manuscripts

The events that happened after Marian Halcombe fell ill while I was still absent in South America I will relate briefly.

Count Fosco discovered Anne Catherick, and immediately took steps to put into execution the plot he had hinted at. Wearing the clothes of Lady Glyde, the unfortunate girl was taken to a house in St. John's Wood where the real Lady Glyde was expected to stay when passing through town on her way to Cumberland. Lady Glyde, on pretence that her half-sister had been removed to town, was induced to visit London, where she was met by Count Fosco, and at once placed in a private asylum in the name of Anne Catherick. Her statement that she was Lady Glyde was held to be proof of the unsoundness of her mind. Unfortunately for the count's plans, the real Anne Catherick died the day before the incarceration of Lady Glyde, but, as there was no one to prove the dates of these events, both Fosco and Sir Percival regarded themselves as secure. With great pomp the body of Anne Catherick was taken to Limmeridge and buried in the name of Lady Glyde.

As soon as Marian Halcombe recovered, the supposed death of her half-sister was broken to her. Recollecting the conversation she had overheard just before she was taken ill, she had grave suspicions as to the cause of Laura's death, and immediately instituted inquiries. In the pursuit of these inquiries she visited Anne Catherick in the asylum, and her joy in discovering Laura there instead of the supposed Anne Catherick was almost overwhelming. By bribing one of the nurses, she secured Laura's freedom, and travelled with her to Limmeridge to establish her identity. To her disgust and amazement Frederick Fairlie refused to accept her statement, or to believe that Laura was other than Anne Catherick. Count Fosco had visited and prepared him.

At this juncture I returned from South America, and, hearing of the death of the girl I loved, at once set off to Limmeridge on a sad pilgrimage to her grave. While I was reading the tragic narrative on the tombstone, two women approached. Even as the words, "Sacred to the memory of Laura, Lady Glyde," swam before my eyes, one of them lifted her veil. It was Laura.

In a poor quarter of London I took up my abode with Laura and Miss Halcombe, and while my poor Laura slowly recovered her health and spirits I devoted myself to the support of the little household, and to unravelling the mystery which surrounded the events I have here recorded. From Mrs. Clements, who had befriended poor Anne Catherick, I learnt that Mrs. Catherick had had secret meetings years before with Sir Percival Glyde in the vestry of the church at Welmingham.

To establish the exact relations between Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival, I visited Welmingham, pursued by the baronet's agents. My interview with Mrs. Catherick satisfied me that Sir Percival was not the father of Anne, and that their secret meeting in the vestry had reference to some object other than romance. The contemptuous way in which Mrs. Catherick spoke of Sir Percival's mother set me thinking. I visited the vestry where the meetings had taken place, and examining the register, discovered at the bottom of one of the pages, compressed into a very small space, the entry of Sir Felix Glyde's marriage with the mother of Sir Percival. Hearing from the sexton that an old lawyer in the neighbouring town had a copy of this register, I visited him, and found that his copy did not contain the entry of this marriage.

Here was the secret at last! Sir Percival was the illegitimate son of his father, and had forged this entry of his father's marriage in order to secure the title and estates. Mrs. Catherick was the only person who knew of the plot. In a fit of ill-temper she had told her daughter Anne that she possessed a secret that could ruin the baronet. Anne herself never knew the secret, but foolishly repeated her mother's words to Sir Percival, and the price of her temerity was incarceration in a private asylum.

I returned post-haste to Welmingham to secure a copy of the forged entry. It was night. As I approached the church, a man stopped me, mistaking me for Sir Percival Glyde. A light in the vestry showed to me that Sir Percival had anticipated my discovery and had secretly visited the church for the purpose of destroying the evidences of his crime. But a terrible fate awaited him. Even as I approached the church, a huge tongue of flame shot up into the night sky. As I rushed forward I could hear the baronet vainly seeking to escape from the vestry. The lock was hampered, and he could not get out. I tried to force an entry, but by the time the flames were under control the end had come. We found the charred remains of the man who had walked through life as Sir Percival Clyde lying by the door.

The mystery was now unravelled, and I was free to marry my darling. The only other point that seemed to need clearing up was the parentage of the unfortunate Anne Catherick. That was elucidated by Mrs. Catherick herself. The father of Anne was Philip Fairlie, the father of Laura—a fact that accounted for the extraordinary likeness between the two girls. But though our tribulations seemed to be at an end, we had yet to establish the identity of Laura, and to deal with Count Fosco.

To Miss Halcombe the count had written a letter expressive of his admiration, and begging her, for her own sake, to let matters be. I knew the count was a dangerous enemy, who would not hesitate to employ murder if necessary to gain his ends, but I was determined to re-establish the identity of Laura. Miss Halcombe's journal afforded me a clue. I found there a statement that on the occasion of his first visit to Black-water Park the count had been very concerned to know whether there were any Italians in the neighbourhood. Without hoping that anything would result from the manoeuvre, I followed the count one night, in the company of my friend, Professor Pesca, to the theatre. The professor did not recognise Fosco, but when the count, staring round the theatre, focussed his glasses on Pesca, I saw a look of unmistakable terror come over his countenance. He at once rose from his seat and left the place. We followed.

The professor was very grave, and it was quite a different man to the light-hearted little Italian that I knew who related to me a strange chapter in his life. As a young man, Pesca had belonged to, a secret society for the removal of tyrants. He was still a member of the society, and could be called upon to act at any time. The count had also been a member of the society, and had betrayed its secret. Hence his terror of seeing Pesca.

I immediately made use of the weapon that had been placed in my hand. I went boldly to Fosco's house, and offered to effect his escape from England in return for a full confession of his share in the abduction of Lady Glyde. He threatened to kill me, but realising that I had him at my mercy, consented to my terms.

This confession completely established the identity of Laura and she was publicly acknowledged by Mr. Frederick Fairlie. Laura and I had been married some time before and we were now able to set off on our honeymoon. We visited Paris. While there, I chanced to be attracted by a large crowd that surged round the doors of the Morgue. Forcing my way through, I saw, lying within, the body of Count Fosco. There was a wound exactly over his heart, and on his arm were two deep cuts in the shape of the letter "T"—the symbol of his treason to the secret brotherhood.

When we returned to England, we lived comfortably on the income I was able to earn by my profession. A son was born to us, and when Frederick Fairlie died, it was Marion Halcombe, who had been the good angel of our lives, who announced the important change that had taken place in our prospects.

"Let me make two eminent personages known to one another," she exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old times, holding out my son to me: "Mr. Walter Hartright—the heir of Limmeridge House."

* * * * *



HUGH CONWAY

Called Back

Hugh Conway, the English novelist, whose real name was Frederick John Fargus, was born December 26, 1847, the son of a Bristol auctioneer. His early ambition was to lead a seafaring life, and with this object he entered the school frigate Conway—from which he took his pseudonym—then stationed on the Mersey. His father was against the project, with the result that Conway abandoned the idea and entered his parent's office, where he found ample leisure to employ himself in writing occasional newspaper articles and tales. His first published work was a volume of poems, which appeared in 1879, and achieved a moderate success. But Hugh Conway is chiefly known to the reading public for his famous story "Called Black." The work was submitted to a number of publishers before it was finally accepted and published, in 1884. Attracting little notice at first, it eventually made a hit, and within five years 350,000 copies were sold. Several other works appeared from Conway's pen in rapid succession, but none of them attained the popularity of "Called Back." Hugh Conway died at Monte Carlo on May 15, 1885.

I.—A Blind Witness

I was young, rich, and possessed of unusual vigour and strength. Life, you would think, should have been very pleasant to me. I was beyond the reach of care; I was as free as the wind to follow my own devices. But in spite of all these advantages, I was as helpless and miserable as the poorest toiler in the country.

For I was blind, stone blind!

The dread disease that robbed me of my sight had crept on me slowly through the years, and now I lay in my bedroom in Walpole Street, with my old nurse, Priscilla Drew, sleeping on an extemporised bed outside my door to tend and care for me.

It was a stifling night in August. I could not sleep. Despair filled my heart. I was blind, blind, blind! I should be blind for ever! So entirely had I lost heart that I began to think I would not have performed at all the operation which the doctors said might give me back the use of my eyes.

Presently a sudden, fierce longing to be out of doors came over me. It was night, very few people would be about. Old Priscilla slept soundly. I rose from my bed, and, dressing myself with difficulty, crept, cautious as a thief, to the street door. The street, a quiet one, was deserted. For a time I walked backwards and forwards up the street. The exercise filled me with a peculiar elation. By carefully counting my footsteps, I gauged accurately the position of my house. At last, I decided to return, and opening the door, I entered and climbed the stairs. The atmosphere of the place struck me as strange and unfamiliar. I felt for a bracket which should have been upon the wall, that I had often been warned to avoid knocking with my head. It was not there. I had entered the wrong house.

As I turned to grope my way back, I heard the murmur of voices. I made my way in the direction of these sounds to seek for assistance. Suddenly, there fell upon my ears the notes of a piano and a woman's voice singing.

Music with me was an absorbing passion. I listened enthralled, placing my ear close to the door from behind which the sound proceeded. It was a song that few amateurs would dare to attempt, and I waited eagerly to hear how the beautiful voice would render the finale. But I never heard that last movement.

Instead of the soft, sweet, liquid notes of passionate love, there was a spasmodic, fearful gasp succeeded by a long, deep groan. The music stopped abruptly, and the piercing cry of a woman rang out. I threw open the door and rushed headlong into the room. I heard an oath, an exclamation of surprise, and the muffled cry of the woman. I turned in the direction of that faint cry. My foot caught in something, and I fell prostrate on the body of a man. Before I could rise a strong hand gripped my throat and I heard the sharp click of a pistol lock.

"Spare me!" I cried. "I am blind, blind, blind!"

I lay perfectly still, crying out these words again and again.

A strong light was turned on my eyes. There was no sound in the room save the muffled cry of the woman. The hands at my throat were released, and I was ordered to stand up. Some elementary tests of my blindness were tried, and I was told to give an account of my presence in the house. My story seemed to satisfy the man who questioned me. I was bidden to sit in a chair. I could hear the sound of men carrying a heavy burden out of the room. Then the woman's moans ceased. A voice at my side bade me drink something out of a glass, enforcing the demand with a pistol at my temple. A heavy drowsiness came over me, and I sank into unconsciousness.

When I came to myself I was in my own bed in my own room, having been found, apparently in a state of helpless intoxication, lying in a street some distance from where I lived.

II.—Not for Love or Marriage

Two years elapsed. The operation had given me back the use of my eyes. I was in the city of Turin with a friend. The sight of a beautiful face lured my companion and myself into the cathedral of San Giovanni. It was the face of a young girl of about twenty-two; a face of entrancing beauty. Seated with my friend, I watched her until she rose and left with her companion, an old Italian woman. For a moment I caught a look of her dark, glorious eyes as she mechanically crossed herself with holy water. There was a dreamy, far-away look in them, a look that seemed to pass over one and see what was behind the object gazed at.

We followed her out of the cathedral and saw the old woman speak to a middle-aged, round-shouldered, bespectacled man of gentlemanly appearance.

"Do English gentlemen stare at their own countrywomen in public places like this?" said a voice at our elbows.

I turned to see a tall man of about thirty standing just behind us. His face, with its heavy moustache, sneering mouth, and darkened, sullen eyes, was not a pleasant one, and his impudent question annoyed me. My friend, with a few sharp retorts, delivered to him a crushing snub, and the man turned away, scowling. We saw him cross the road to the middle-aged man who had been speaking to the old Italian woman and her charge. And then we, too, went our way.

The girl's face haunted me, but we never saw her again in the city of Turin.

Some weeks later, when I was wandering through London, I suddenly came upon her in the company of her old nurse. I tracked her to her lodgings and there engaged rooms myself. An accident to the nurse, whose name I discovered was Theresa, gave me an opportunity of introducing myself. The girl spoke to me, but her voice and her manner was strangely apathetic. She seemed never to know me unless I spoke to her, and then, unless I asked questions, our conversation died a natural death. To make love to her seemed impossible, and yet I loved her passionately.

At last, by aid of bribes, I managed to secure the qualified assistance of Theresa. She promised to place my proposals before the girl's guardian. Of Pauline herself—such was the girl's name—Theresa would say nothing. When I asked her if she thought the girl cared for me, she replied mysteriously and enigmatically.

"Who knows? I do not know—but I tell you the signorina is not for love or marriage."

Theresa fulfilled her part of the bargain, and I received a visit from the middle-aged man I had seen in Turin. His name was Manuel Ceneri. His sister had married Pauline's father, an Englishman, March by name. He consented readily to my marriage with Pauline on one condition. I was to ask no questions, seek to know nothing of her birth and family, nothing of her early days.

Pauline was called into the room. I took her hand. I asked her to be my wife.

"Yes, if you wish it," she replied softly, without even changing colour.

She did not repulse me, but she did not respond to my affection. She remained as calm and undemonstrative as ever.

At Dr. Ceneri's strange urgency, Pauline and I were married two days later.

III.—Calling Back the Past

"Not for love or marriage!"

I learned all too soon the meaning of Theresa's words. Pauline, my wife, my love, had no past. Slowly at first, then with swift steps, the truth came home to me. The face of the woman I had married was fair as the morn; her figure as perfect as that of a Grecian statue; her voice low and sweet; but the one thing which animates every charm—the mind—was missing. Memory, except for the events of the moment before, she had none. Of all emotion she was incapable. She was sweet and docile, but her whole existence was a negative one. Such was Pauline, my wife.

When I was convinced of the truth, I placed her in charge of Priscilla and hastened to Geneva to seek an explanation from Ceneri. I should never have found the doctor had not chance thrown me in the way of the very Italian we had met outside the cathedral of San Giovanni. Knowing that he knew Ceneri, I spoke to him. At first he refused to have anything to do with me, but when I mentioned Pauline's name, he asked me what concern I had with her.

"She is my wife," I replied.

"Your wife!" he shouted. "You lie!"

I rose furiously, and bade him choose his words more carefully. After a few moments he apologised, asking me whether Ceneri knew of our marriage. "Traditore," I heard him whisper fiercely to himself when I replied in the affirmative.

After some further remarks, he consented to take me to Dr. Ceneri, telling me that his name was Macari. My interview with the doctor was somewhat unsatisfactory. Pauline had had a shock, but the nature of that shock he refused to disclose. Macari, before her illness, had imagined himself in love with her, and was furious at my marriage. One thing, however, the doctor told me, just as I left, which partially explained his consent to our union. He had been her guardian, and the fortune of L50,000 to which she was entitled he had spent in the cause of Italian freedom. Though he had betrayed his trust, he considered the cause justified the act; but he had been glad, none the less, to make her some compensation by marrying her to a wealthy Englishman.

When I left Dr. Ceneri, I met Macari lurking outside. He declared that in a few weeks he would come to England and explain much that Ceneri had left unsaid.

Several months later he kept his promise. Ceneri, he told me, had been arrested in St. Petersburg for participation in some anarchist plot, and was on his way to Siberia. Of his own personal history he discoursed at length. His name, it appeared, was really March, and he was Pauline's brother. In common with his sister, he had been robbed by Ceneri of his fortune.

He asked to see his sister, but when they met, Pauline showed no recollection of him. He called often, and she watched him, I noticed, with an eager, troubled look. One night, after dinner, as he described how, in a battle, he had killed a white-coated Austrian, he seized a knife from the table, and illustrated the downward blow with which he had saved his own life. I heard a deep sigh behind me, and turning, I saw Pauline in a dead faint. I carried her to her room. When she came to herself again, or rather when she rose in her bed and turned her face to mine, I saw in her eyes, what, by the mercy of God, I shall never again see there.

With eyes fixed and immovable, and dilated to their utmost extent, she rose and passed out of the room. I followed her. Swiftly she passed out of the house into the street, and without the slightest hesitation, turning at right angles, moved swiftly up a long, straight road. After turning once more she stopped at a three-storeyed house. Going up to the door, she laid her hand upon it. I tried to lead her gently away, but she resisted. What was I to do? The house was an empty one. I paused. Once before my latch-key had opened a strange door. Would it open this one? I tried it. It fitted exactly.

Without waiting for me, Pauline ran in ahead. I shut the door. All was darkness. I could hear Pauline moving about on the first floor. I followed her, and, striking a match, found myself in a room with folding-doors. It was furnished, but the dust lay deep everywhere. Pauline stood in the middle of the room, holding her head in her hands, striving, it seemed, to remember something. I entered the back room with the candle I had found. There was a piano there. Something induced me to sit down at it and to play the first few notes of the song I had heard that terrible night.

A nervous trembling seemed to seize Pauline. She crossed the floor towards me, and I made room for her at the piano. With a master hand she played brilliantly the prelude of the song of which I had struck a few vagrant notes. I waited breathlessly, expecting her to sing. Suddenly she started wildly to her feet and, uttering a wild cry of horror, sank into my arms. I laid her on a sofa close by. As I held her there, a strange thing happened.

The room beyond the folding-doors was lit with a brilliant light. Grouped round a table were four men. One of them was Ceneri, the other Macari. The third man was a stranger to me. These three men were looking at a fourth man—a young man who appeared to be falling out of his chair, clutching convulsively the hilt of a dagger, the blade of which had been buried in his heart, clearly by Macari, who stood over him.

I cannot explain this vision. I only saw it when I held Pauline's hand. When I let her hand drop the scene vanished. You may call it cataleptic, clairvoyant, anything you will; it was as I relate.

IV.—Seeking the Truth in Siberia

Macari called on me the day after this strange scene to ask me about the memorial to Victor Emanuel.

"Before I consent to help you," I said, "I must know why you murdered a man three years ago in a house in Horace Street."

He sprang to his feet and grasping my arm, looked intently into my eyes. I saw that he recognised me in spite of the great change that blindness makes in a face.

"Why should I deny the affair to an eye-witness? To others I would deny it fast enough. Now, my fine fellow, my gay bridegroom, my dear brother-in-law, I will tell you why I killed that man. He had insulted my family. That man was Pauline's lover!"

He saw what was in my face as I rose and walked towards him.

"Not here," he said hastily, "what good can it do here—a vulgar scuffle between two gentlemen?"

"Go," I cried, "murderer and coward. Every word you have spoken to me has been a lie, and because you hate me you have to-day told me the greatest lie of all."

He left me with a look of malicious triumph in his face. I knew he lied, but how could I prove that he lied? Only Ceneri could tell me the truth. He was in Siberia, and, mad as the scheme seemed, thither I determined to go to get the whole truth from his lips.

I exerted all the influence I possessed. I spent money freely, and with a special passport signed by the Czar himself, which placed all the resources of the Russian police at my disposal, I passed across Russia into Siberia. At last, after travelling thousands of miles, I came up with the gang of wretched prisoners in which the doctor was. Showing my papers to the officer in command, I was taken at once to the awful prison-house. I had him brought to me in a private room, and placed before him food and drink.

"I want to ask you some questions," I said, "questions which you alone can answer."

"Ask them. You have given me an hour's release from misery. I am grateful."

"The first question I have to ask is—who and what is that man Macari?"

Ceneri sprang to his feet. "A traitor! a traitor!" he cried.

It was Macari who had betrayed him. Macari was no more Anthony March, the brother of Pauline, than I was, and Pauline had never had a lover in the sense in which Macari had used the word.

Pauline was an innocent as an angel. The lie I had come so far to destroy had dissolved. There was one other question I had to ask. Who was the man Macari had killed, and what had he to do with Pauline? Ceneri's face turned ashen as I asked him the question. It was some moments before he understood that I was the man who had stumbled into the room. Then he told me all.

The murdered man was Anthony March, the brother of Pauline. As he had already confessed, Ceneri had spent all the trust-money of which he was guardian for Pauline and her brother, in the cause of Italian freedom. When the young man grew up, the time drew near when Ceneri must explain all and take the consequences. The evil day was delayed by providing him with money. That money ran out. Ceneri and the two other men, fearful of the consequences to all of them, decided upon a plan to silence Anthony. He was to be lured to the house in Horace Street, and to leave it as a lunatic in charge of a doctor and keepers. But Macari ruined the plot. He was in love with Pauline, and Anthony had spoken contemptuously of such a match for his sister. A few insolent words at the house in Horace Street, and the passionate Italian's knife had found its way into the young man's heart. It was Ceneri who had saved my life when I stumbled upon the scene. The third sharer in the tragedy, who had drowned Pauline's shrieks in a sofa cushion, had since died raving mad in a cell. That was the story.

I hastened back to England, leaving money behind me to provide a few comforts for the unfortunate prisoner. I went direct to the little village where Pauline was staying with Priscilla. I could see that she remembered me but as a person in a dream. I had to woo her now. Of our marriage she seemed to have forgotten everything. Though all the old apathy had disappeared, and her mind had once more awakened in her beautiful body, she did not remember that. I despaired at last of winning her, and I determined to bid her good-bye forever. As I sat in the woods with her for the last time, gloom in my heart, I fell into a doze. I was awakened by kisses on my cheeks. I sprang to my feet. In front of me stood Pauline, and looking into her eyes, I saw that she loved me.

She had realised on my first return that I was her husband, but had determined to find out if I loved her. As I said nothing, so she too had remained silent.

"Gilbert," she said, "I have wept, but now I smile. The past is passed. Let the love I bore my brother be buried in the greater love I give my husband. Let us turn our backs on the dark shadows and begin our lives."

Have I more to tell—one thing only. We went to Paris for our real honeymoon. The great war was over, and the Commune had just ended. In the company of a friend I saw some Communists led out to be shot, and among their faces I recognised Macari.

* * * * *



FENIMORE COOPER

The Last of the Mohicans

James Fenimore Cooper, born in New Jersey on September 15, 1789, was a hot-headed controversialist of Quaker descent, who, after a restless youth, partly spent at sea, became the earliest conspicuous American novelist. Apart from fiction, Cooper's principal subject was American naval history. Though he made many enemies and lived in turmoil, the novelist had a strain of nobility in his character that is reflected throughout his formal but manly narratives. Love interest rarely rises in his stories beyond a mechanical sentimentality; it is the descriptions of adventure that attract. Nowhere are Fenimore Cooper's vivid powers of description more apparent than in "The Last of the Mohicans," the second in order of the Leatherstocking tales. In the first of the series, "The Pioneers," the Leatherstocking is represented as already past the prime of life, and is gradually being driven out of his beloved forests by the axe and the smoke of the white settler. "The Last of the Mohicans" takes the reader back before this period, to a time when the red man was in his vigour, and was a power to be reckoned with in the east of America. The third of the famous tales is "The Prairie," in which Cooper's picturesque hero is laid in his grave. Despite this, the author resuscitates him in the two remaining volumes—"The Pathfinder" and "The Deerslayer." Of these five novels, and, as a matter of fact, of all Cooper's works, "The Last of the Mohicans" is regarded as the masterpiece. In it are to be found all the author's virtues, and few of his faults. It is certainly the most popular, having been translated into several languages. It was first published in 1826. Cooper died at Cooperstown, the family locality, on September 14. 1851.

I.—Betrayed by the Redskin

It was the third year of the war between France and England in North America. At Fort Edward, where General Webb lay with five thousand men, the startling news had just been received that the French general, Montcalm, was moving up the Champlain Lake with an army "numerous as the leaves on the trees," with the forest fastness of Fort William Henry as his object.

Fort William Henry was held by the veteran Scotchman, Munro, at the head of a regiment of regulars and a few provincials. As this force was utterly inadequate to stem Montcalm's advance, General Webb at once sent fifteen hundred men to strengthen the position. While the camp was in a state of bustle consequent on the departure of this relieving force, Captain Duncan Hayward detached himself from the throng, and conducting two ladies, the daughters of Munro, Alice and Cora, to their horses, mounted another steed himself. It was his welcome duty to see that the ladies reached Fort William Henry in safety. In order that they might make the journey the more expeditiously, they had obtained the services of a famous Indian runner, known by the name of Le Renard Subtil, whose native appellation was Magua.

The party had but five leagues to traverse, and Magua had undertaken to lead them a short way through the forest. The girls hesitated as they reached the point where they left the military road and had to take to a narrow and blind path amidst the dense trees and undergrowth. The terrifying aspect of the guide and the loneliness of the route filled them with alarm.

"Here, then, lies our way," said Duncan in a low voice. "Manifest no distrust, or you may invite the danger you appear to apprehend."

Taking this hint, the girls whipped up their horses and followed the runner along the dark and tangled pathway. They had not gone far when they heard the sounds of a horse's hoofs behind them, and presently there dashed up to their side a singular-looking person, with extraordinary long thin legs, an emaciated body, and an enormous head. The grotesqueness of his figure was enhanced by a sky-blue coat and a soiled vest of embossed silk embroidered with tarnished silver lace. Coming up with the party, he declared his intention of accompanying them to Fort William Henry. Refusing to listen to any objection, he took from his vest a curious musical instrument, and, placing it to his mouth, drew from it a high, shrill sound. This done, he began singing in full and melodious tones one of the New England versions of the Psalms.

Magua whispered something to Heyward, and the latter turned impatiently to David Gamut—such was the singer's name—and requested him in the name of common prudence to postpone his chant until a safer opportunity. The Indian allies of Montcalm, it was known, swarmed in the forest, and the object of the party was to move forward as quietly as possible.

As the cavalcade pressed deeper into the wild thicket, a savage face peered out at them from between the bushes. A gleam of exultation shot across his darkly painted lineaments as he watched his victims walking unconsciously into the trap which Magua had prepared.

II.—In the Nick of Time

Within an hour's journey of Fort Edward two men were lingering on the banks of a small stream. One of them was a magnificent specimen of an Indian—almost naked, with a terrific emblem of death painted upon his chest. The other was a European, with the quick, roving eye, sun-tanned cheeks, and rough dress of a hunter.

"Listen, Hawk-eye," said the Indian, addressing his companion, "and I will tell you what my fathers have said, and what the Mohicans have done. We came and made this land ours, and drove the Maquas who followed us, into the woods with the bears. Then came the Dutch, and gave my people the fire-water. They drank until the heavens and the earth seemed to meet. Then they parted with their land, and now I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and have never visited the graves of my fathers. When Uncas, my son, dies, there will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores. My boy is the last of the Mohicans."

"Uncas is here," said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones. "Who speaks to Uncas?" At the next instant a youthful warrior passed between them with a noiseless tread, and seated himself by the side of his father, Chingachgook. "I have been on the trail of the Maquas, who lie hid like cowards," continued Uncas.

Further talk regarding their hated enemies, the Maquas, who acted as the spies of Montcalm, was cut short by the sound of horses' feet. The three men rose to their feet, their eyes watchful and attentive, and their rifles ready for any emergency.

Presently, the cavalcade from Fort Edward appeared, and Heyward, addressing Hawk-eye, asked for information as to their whereabouts, explaining that they had trusted to an Indian, who had lost his way.

"An Indian lost in the woods?" exclaimed the scout. "I should like to look at the creature."

Saying this, he crept stealthily into the thicket. In a few moments he returned, his suspicions fully confirmed. Magua had clearly led the party into a trap for purposes of his own, and Hawk-eye at once took steps to secure his capture. While Heyward held the runner in conversation, the scout and the two Mohicans crept silently through the undergrowth to surround him, but the slight crackle of a breaking stick aroused Magua's suspicion, and, even as the ambush closed on him, he dodged under Heyward's arms and vanished into the opposite thicket.

Hawk-eye was too well acquainted with Indian ways to think of pursuing, and, restraining the eagerness of Heyward, who would have followed Magua, and would have been undoubtedly led to the place where the scalping-knives of Magua's companions awaited him, the scout called a council of war.

The position was serious in the extreme, how serious was disclosed that night as they lay hid in a cave.

Suddenly, with blood-curdling yells, the Maquas surrounded them. They were surrounded completely, and, to add to the terrors of their situation, they discovered that their ammunition was exhausted. There seemed nothing to be done but die fighting. It was Cora who suggested an alternative: that Hawk-eye and the two Mohicans should make for Fort William Henry and procure from their father, Munro, enough men to take them back in safety. It was the one desperate chance, and the Mohicans took it. Dropping silently down the river, they disappeared. Duncan, David, and the two girls were left alone; but not for long. As the night drew out, a body of the Maquas, swimming across the river, entered the cave, and made the whole party prisoners.

It was Magua who directed all these operations, and it was Magua who announced their fate to his prisoners. Alice should go back to her father, but Cora was to become his squaw in an Indian wigwam.

"Monster!" cried Cora, when this proposal was laid before her. "None but a fiend could meditate such a vengeance!"

Magua answered with a ghastly smile, and, at his command, the Indians, seizing their white victims, bound them to four trees. Stakes of glowing wood were prepared for their torture. Once more Magua offered the alternative of dishonour or death. Cora wavered, but Alice strengthened her resolution.

"No, no!" she cried. "Better that we die as we have lived, together."

"Then die!" shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk at the girl's head. It missed her by an inch. Another savage rushed to complete the terrible deed. Maddened at the sight, Duncan broke his bonds, and flung himself on the savage. He was at once overpowered. He saw a knife glistening above his head; it was just about to descend. Suddenly there was a sharp crack of a rifle, and his assailant fell dead at his feet. At the same moment Hawk-eye and the two Mohicans dashed into the encampment. In a few moments the six Indians, taken by surprise, were killed; only Magua lived. He seemed to be at the mercy of Chingachgook. Already he lay apparently lifeless. The Mohican rose with a yell of triumph, and raised his knife to give the final blow. Even as he did so Magua rolled himself over the edge of the precipice near which he lay, and, alighting on his feet, leapt into the centre of a thicket of low bushes and disappeared.

III.—"The Jubilee of Devils"

The party had reached William Henry only to leave it again. Montcalm asked for an interview with Munro, and through Duncan, who acted as the latter's representative, explained that it was hopeless to think of holding the fort. General Webb had withdrawn the relieving force, and the English were outnumbered by about twenty to one. With chivalrous courtesy, the French general proposed that his brave enemies should march out with their arms and ammunition and all the honours of war. These conditions Munro sadly accepted. Compelled to be with his men, Munro entrusted his daughters to the care of David.

According to the conditions of the surrender, the troops marched out. Behind them came the women and stragglers, the French and their native allies watching them in silence. At the other side of the plain was a defile. The troops slowly entered this, and disappeared. The rear-guard of civilians was now left alone on the plain. Cora, as she pressed slowly onwards with her sister and David, saw Magua addressing the natives, speaking with his fatal and artful eloquence. The effect of his words was soon seen.

One of the savages, attracted by the shawl in which a mother had wrapped her baby, seized the child, and dashed its brains out on the ground. As the mother sprang forward, he buried his tomahawk in her brain. It was the signal for a massacre. Magua raised the fatal and appalling war-whoop. At its sound two thousand savages broke from the wood and fell upon the unresisting victims. Death was everywhere, and in his most terrific and disgusting aspect.

"It is the jubilee of devils," said David, who, in spite of his uselessness, never dreamed of deserting his trust. "If David tamed the evil spirit of Saul, it may not be amiss to try the potency of music here."

He poured out a strain of song that echoed even over the din of that bloody field. Magua heard it and, through the throng of savages, rushed to their side.

"Come," he cried, seizing Alice in his blood-stained arms; "the wigwam of the Huron is still open!"

In vain Cora begged him to release her sister. Across the plain he bore her swiftly, followed by Cora and David. As soon as he reached the woods, he placed the two girls on horses that were waiting there, and, never heeding David, who mounted the remaining steed, dashed forward into the wilds.

IV.—Captives of the Hurons

Three days after the surrender of the fort, Hawk-eye and his two Mohican companions, accompanied by Munroe and Duncan, stood upon the fatal plain. Everywhere they had searched for the bodies of the two girls, and nowhere could they be found. It was clear to Hawk-eye that they still lived, and had been carried off by Magua. With untiring energy he at once set off to try and discover the trail. It was Uncas, who, finding a portion of Cora's skirt caught on a bush, first opened up the line of pursuit. He it was, too, who read the track of Magua's feet on the ground—the unmistakable straddling toe of the drinking savage. An ornament dropped by Alice, and the large footprints of the singing-master, laid bare to the trained intelligence of the Indian scout everything that had happened.

As they reached the outskirts of a clearing, they perceived a melancholy-looking savage in war-paint and moccasins seated by the side of a stream watching a colony of beavers busily engaged in making a dam. Duncan was about to fire, but Hawk-eye, roaring with laughter, stayed his arm. The savage was none other than David.

Alice and Cora were near at hand, and Duncan was all eager to make his way to their side. Hawk-eye so far humoured his whim as to consent to his visiting the encampment disguised as a medicine man.

As soon as he entered the camp he declared that he had been sent by the Grand Monarque to heal the ills of the Hurons. The chief to whom he spoke listened to him for some time, and then asked him to show his skill by frightening away the evil spirit that lived in the wife of one of his young men. Duncan could not refuse, though he felt certain that the trial of his skill would result in the detection of his disguise. Just as the chief was about to lead the way to the woman's side, Magua joined the group, to be followed shortly afterwards by a number of young men bringing with them a prisoner. A cry went up, "Le Cerf Agile!" and every warrior sprang to his feet. To his dismay, Duncan saw that it was Uncas. Magua gazed at his captive gravely for some time; then, raising his arm, shook it at him, exclaiming, "Mohican, you die!"

Duncan's conductor led him to a cave which went some distance into the rocky side of the mountain. As he entered, Duncan saw a dark; mysterious-looking object that rose unexpectedly in his path. It was a bear, and though the young soldier knew that the Indians often kept such animals as pets, its deep growls, and the manner in which it clutched at him as he passed up the long, narrow passage of the cave, caused him not a little uneasiness.

Having shown him the sick woman, who, it was clear, was dying, the Indians left the supposed medicine man to fight the devils by himself. To his horror, Duncan saw that the bear remained behind, growling savagely. Watching it uneasily, he noticed its head suddenly fall on one side, and in its place appeared the sturdy countenance of the scout. As quickly as he could Hawk-eye explained how he had come across a wizard preparing for a seance, how he had knocked him on the head and taken the bear's skin in which the charlatan had proposed to make his magic.

While the scout rearranged his disguise, Duncan, searching the cave, in another compartment discovered Alice. But even as the girl was in the first throes of delight at this unexpected meeting, the guttural laugh of Magua was heard, and she saw the dark form and malignant visage of the savage.

"Huron, do your worst!" exclaimed the excited Heyward, as he saw that all his plans were brought to nought.

"Will the white man speak these words at the stake?" asked Magua, turning to leave the cave. As he did so the bear growled loudly and threateningly; believing it to be one of the wizards, Magua attempted to pass it contemptuously. Suddenly the animal rushed at him, and, seizing him in its arms, completely overpowered him. Duncan at once ran to the scout's assistance, and secured the savage.

At Hawk-eye's suggestion, Alice was wrapped up in the dying woman's clothes, and, completely hidden from view, was carried out of the cave.

"The disease has gone out of her," explained Duncan to the father and husband who waited without. "I go to take the woman to a distance, where I will strengthen her against any further attack. Let my children wait without, and if the evil spirit appears beat him down with clubs."

Leaving the Indians with a certainty that they would not enter the cavern and discover Magua, Duncan and the scout made their way to the hut where Uncas lay bound. Entering with David, they released the Mohican, and immediately hastened to take the next step suggested by the resourceful Hawk-eye. David was secure from all harm; so the scout, stepping out of his bear-skin, dressed himself in the singing-master's clothes, while Uncas donned the wizard's disguise. Thus arrayed they ventured out among the natives, leaving David within. Without being suspected, they passed through the encampment; but they had not got far before a yell announced that their subterfuge had been discovered. Uncas cast his skin, and having used their rifles with deadly effect, he and the scout made their escape into the woods, taking Alice with them.

V.—Hawk-eye's Revenge

Magua, for motives of policy, had, while keeping Alice in his own hands, entrusted Cora to the neighbouring tribe of Tortoise Delawares. Thither went Magua, to find that the scout and his companions were before him. Nothing daunted, Magua almost persuaded the Tortoises to surrender the girl. As the chief of the tribe hesitated how to act, Uncas stepped forward and bared his breast. A cry rose from all present, for there, delicately tatooed on the young Mohican's skin, was the emblem of a Tortoise. In him the tribe recognised the long-lost scion of the purest race of the Delawares, who, tradition said, still wandered far and unknown on the hills and through the forests.

But in spite of Uncas's authority, the Indian law could not be set aside. Cora was Magua's captive of war. He had sought her in peace, and she must follow him. By all the laws of Indian hospitality his person was sacred till the setting of the sun.

As soon as the Maquas had disappeared, the Tortoises made ready for war, with all the grim and terrifying ceremonies of their race. As hour after hour slipped by, the savage spirit of the tribe increased in fury. Uncas alone remained unmoved. Standing in the midst of the now maddened savages, he kept his eyes fixed upon the declining sun. It dipped beneath the horizon; at once the whole encampment was broken up, and the warriors rushed down the trail which Magua had followed.

As soon as they came in touch with the enemy, a desperate and bloody battle was fought. Under the leadership of the two Mohicans and Hawk-eye, victory swayed to the side of the Tortoises. Huron after Huron fell, until only Magua and two companions were left. Then, with a yell, Le Renard Subtil rushed from the field of battle, and, seizing Cora, ran up a steep defile towards the mountains. On the side of the precipice Cora refused to move any farther.

"Woman!" cried Magua, raising his knife, "choose—the wigwam or the knife of Le Subtil?"

Cora neither heard nor heeded his demands. Magua trembled in every fibre. He raised his arm on high. Just then a piercing cry was heard from above, and Uncas leapt frantically from a fearful height upon the ledge on which they stood. He fell prostrate for a moment. As he lay there, Magua plunged his knife into his back, and at the same moment one of the other Indians stretched Cora lifeless. With the last effort of his strength Uncas rose to his feet, and hurled Cora's murderer into the abyss below. Then, with a stern and steady look, he turned to Le Subtil and indicated with the expression of his eye all that he would do had not the power deserted him, Magua seized his nerveless arm and stretched him dead by passing his dagger several times through his body.

"Mercy!" cried Heyward from above. "Give mercy, and thou shalt receive it!"

For answer, Magua raised a shout of triumph, and, leaping a wide fissure, made for the summit of the mountain. A single bound would carry him to the brow of the precipice and assure his safety. Before taking the leap he shook his hand defiantly at Hawk-eye, who waited with his rifle raised.

"The pale faces are dogs! The Delawares women! Magua leaves them on the rocks for the crows!"

Making a desperate leap, and falling short of his mark, Magua saved himself by grasping some shrub on the verge of the height. With an effort he pulled himself up. Hawk-eye, whose rifle shook with suppressed excitement, watched him closely. As his body was thus collected together, he drew the weapon to his shoulder and fired.

The arms of the Huron relaxed and his body fell back a little, but his knees still kept their position. Turning a relentless look on his enemy, he shook his hand at him in grim defiance. But his hold loosened, and his dark person was seen cutting the air, with its head downwards, for a fleeting instant, until it glided past the fringe of shrubbery in its rapid flight to destruction.

* * * * *



The Spy

Cooper's first success, "The Spy," appeared when he was thirty-two, and his novel-writing period extended over a quarter of a century. The best tales—the famous Leatherstocking series—were begun two years after "The Spy." Susceptible patriotism has discovered in his writings an anti-English bias, but "The Spy" is rather a proof of balanced judgment in the midst of sharp national antagonisms.

I.—Uncomfortable Visitors

Near the close of the year 1780 a solitary traveller was pursuing his way through one of the numerous little valleys of New York State which were then common ground for the British and Revolutionary forces. Anxious to obtain a speedy shelter from the increasing violence of the storm, the traveller knocked at the door of a house which had an air altogether superior to the common farmhouses of the country. In answer to his knocking, an aged black appeared, and, without seeming to think it necessary to consult his superiors, acceded to the request for accommodation.

The stranger was shown into a neat parlour, where, after politely repeating his request to an old gentleman who arose to receive him, and paying his compliments to three ladies who were seated at work with their needles, he commenced laying aside his outer garments, and exhibited to the scrutiny of the observant family party a tall and graceful person, apparently fifty years of age. His countenance evinced a settled composure and dignity; his eye was quiet, thoughtful, and rather melancholy; the mouth expressive of decision and much character. His whole appearance was so decidedly that of a gentleman that the ladies arose and, together with the master of the house, received anew and returned the complimentary greetings suitable for the occasion.

After handing a glass of excellent Madeira to his guest, Mr. Wharton, for so was the owner of this retired estate called, threw an inquiring glance on the stranger and asked, "To whose health am I to have the honour of drinking?"

The traveller replied, while a faint tinge gathered on his features— "Mr. Harper."

"Mr. Harper," resumed the other, with the formal precision of the day, "I have the honour to drink your health, and to hope you will sustain no injury from the rain to which you have been exposed."

Mr. Harper bowed in silence to the compliment, and seated himself by the fire with an air of reserve that baffled further inquiry.

The storm now began to rage without with great violence, and on the way being led to the supper-table a loud summons again called the black to the portal. In a minute he returned and informed his master that another traveller desired shelter for the night.

Mr. Wharton, who had risen from his seat in evident uneasiness, scarcely had time to bid the black show the second man in before the door was thrown hastily open and the stranger himself entered the apartment. He paused a moment as the person of Harper met his view, and then repeated the request he had made through the servant.

Throwing aside a rough great-coat, the intruder very composedly proceeded to allay the cravings of an appetite which appeared by no means delicate. But at every mouthful he turned an unquiet eye on Harper, who studied his appearance with a closeness that was very embarrassing. At length, pouring out a glass of wine and nodding to his examiner, the newcomer said, "I drink to our better acquaintance, sir; I believe this is the first time we have met, though your attention would seem to say otherwise."

"I think we have never met before, sir," replied Harper, with a slight smile, and then, appearing satisfied with his scrutiny, he rose and desired to be shown to his place of rest.

The knife and fork fell from the hands of the unwelcome intruder as the door closed on the retiring figure of Harper; listening attentively he approached the door, opened it—amid the panic and astonishment of his companions—closed it again, and in an instant the red wig which concealed his black locks, the large patch which hid half his face, the stoop that made him appear fifty years of age, disappeared.

"My father! my dear father!" cried the handsome young man.

"Heaven bless you, my Henry, my son," exclaimed the astonished and delighted parent, while his sisters sank on his shoulders dissolved in tears.

A twelvemonth had passed since Captain Wharton had seen his family, and now, having impatiently adopted the disguise mentioned, he had unfortunately arrived on the evening that an unknown and rather suspicious guest was an inmate of the house.

"Do you think he suspects me?" asked the captain.

"How should he?" cried Sarah, his elder sister, "when your sisters and father could not penetrate your disguise."

"There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying for an indifferent observer," continued young Wharton thoughtfully, "and his face seems familiar to me. The recent fate of Andre has created much irritation on both sides. The rebels would think me a fit subject for their plans should I be so unlucky as to fall into their hands. My visit to you would seem to them a cloak to other designs."

II.—The Disguise That Failed

The morning still forbade the idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the last to appear, and Henry Wharton had resumed his disguise with a reluctance amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent.

While the company were yet seated at breakfast, Caesar, the black, entered and laid a small parcel in silence by his master.

"What is this, Caesar?" inquired Mr. Wharton, eyeing the bundle suspiciously.

"The baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little good baccy."

To Sarah Wharton this intelligence gave unexpected pleasure, and, rising from her seat, she bade the black show Birch into the apartment, adding suddenly, with an apologising look, "If Mr. Harper will excuse the presence of a pedlar."

The stranger bowed a silent acquiescence, while Captain Wharton placed himself in a window recess, and drew the curtain before him in such a manner as to conceal most of his person from observation.

Harvey Birch had been a pedlar from his youth, and was in no way distinguished from men of his class but by his acuteness and the mystery which enveloped his movements. Those movements were so suspicious that his imprisonments had been frequent.

The pedlar soon disposed of a considerable part of the contents of his pack to the ladies, telling the news while he displayed his goods.

"Have you any other news, friend?" asked Captain Wharton, in a pause, venturing to thrust his head without the curtains.

"Have you heard that Major Andre has been hanged?" was the reply.

"Is there any probability of movements below that will make travelling dangerous?" asked Harper.

Birch answered slowly, "I saw some of De Lancey's men cleaning their arms as I passed their quarters, for the Virginia Horse are now in the county."

"You must be known by this time, Harvey, to the officers of the British Army," cried Sarah, smiling at the pedlar.

"I know some of them by sight," said Birch, glancing his eyes round the apartment, taking in their course Captain Wharton, and resting for an instant on the countenance of Harper.

The party sat in silence for many minutes after the pedlar had withdrawn, until at last Mr. Harper suddenly said, "If any apprehensions of me induce Captain Wharton to maintain his disguise, I wish him to be undeceived; had I motives for betraying him they could not operate under present circumstances."

The sisters sat in speechless surprise, while Mr. Wharton was stupefied; but the captain sprang into the middle of the room, and exclaimed, as he tore off his disguise, "I believe you from my soul, and this tiresome imposition shall continue no longer. You must be a close observer, sir."

"Necessity has made me one," said Harper, rising from his seat.

Frances, the younger sister, met him as he was about to withdraw, and, taking his hand between both her own, said with earnestness, "You cannot, you will not betray my brother!"

For an instant Harper paused, and then, folding her hands on his breast, replied solemnly, "I cannot, and I will not!" and added, "If the blessing of a stranger can profit you, receive it." And he retired, with a delicacy that all felt, to his own apartment.

In the afternoon the sky cleared, and as the party assembled on the lawn to admire the view which was now disclosed, the pedlar suddenly appeared.

"The rig'lars must be out from below," he remarked, with great emphasis; "horse are on the road; there will soon be fighting near us." And he glanced his eye towards Harper with evident uneasiness.

As Birch concluded, Harper, who had been contemplating the view, turned to his host and mentioned that his business would not admit of unnecessary delay; he would therefore avail himself of the fine evening to ride a few miles on his journey.

There was a mutual exchange of polite courtesy between the host and his parting guest, and as Harper frankly offered his hand to Captain Wharton, he remarked, "The step you have undertaken is one of much danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself may result from it. In such a case I may have it in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your family for its kindness."

"Surely, sir," cried the father, "you will keep secret the discovery which your being in my house has enabled you to make?"

Harper turned to the speaker, and answered mildly, "I have learned nothing in your family, sir, of which I was ignorant; but your son is safer from my knowledge of his visit than he would be without it."

And, bowing to the whole party, he rode gracefully through the little gate, and was soon lost to view.

"Captain Wharton, do you go in to-night?" asked the pedlar abruptly, when this scene had closed.

"No!" said the captain laconically.

"I rather guess you had better shorten your visit," continued the pedlar, coolly.

"No, no, Mr. Birch; here I stay till morning! I brought myself out, and can take myself in. Our bargain went no further than to procure my disguise and to let me know when the coast was clear, and in the latter particular you were mistaken."

"I was," said the pedlar, "and the greater the reason why you should go back to-night. The pass I gave you will serve but once."

"Here I stay this night, come what will."

"Captain Wharton," said the pedlar, with great deliberation, "beware a tall Virginian with huge whiskers; he is below you; the devil can't deceive him; I never could but once."

III.—A Dangerous Situation

The family were assembled round the breakfast-table in the morning when Caesar, who was looking out of the window, exclaimed, "Run, Massa Harry, run; here come the rebel horse."

Captain Wharton's sisters, with trembling hands, had hastily replaced the original disguise, when the house was surrounded by dragoons, and the heavy tread of a trooper was heard outside the parlour door. The man who now entered the room was of colossal stature, with dark hair around his brows in profusion, and his face nearly hid in the whiskers by which it was disfigured. Frances saw in him at once the man from whose scrutiny Harvey Birch had warned them there was much to be apprehended.

"Has there been a strange gentleman staying with you during the storm?" asked the dragoon.

"This gentleman here favoured us with his company during the rain," stammered Mr. Wharton.

"This gentleman!" repeated the other, as he contemplated Captain Wharton with a lurking smile, and then, with a low bow, continued, "I am sorry for the severe cold you have in your head, sir, causing you to cover your handsome locks with that ugly old wig."

Then, turning to the father, he proceeded, "Then, sir, I am to understand a Mr. Harper has not been here?"

"Mr. Harper?" echoed the other; "yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone, and if there is anything wrong in his character we are in entire ignorance of it."

"He is gone—how, when, and whither?"

"He departed as he arrived," said Mr. Wharton, gathering confidence, "on horseback, last evening; he took the northern road."

The officer turned on his heel, left the apartment, and gave orders which sent some of the horsemen out of the valley, by its various roads, at full speed.

Then, re-entering the room, he walked up to Wharton, and said, with some gravity, "Now, sir, may I beg to examine the quality of that wig? And if I could persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue coat, I think you never could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis."

Young Wharton made the necessary changes, and stood an extremely handsome, well-dressed young man.

"I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginian Horse," said the dragoon.

"And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of His Majesty's 60th Regiment of Foot," returned Henry, bowing.

The countenance of Lawton changed from quaintness to great earnestness, as he exclaimed, "Then, Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!"

Captain Lawton now inquired if a pedlar named Birch did not live in the valley.

"At times only, I believe, sir," replied Mr. Wharton cautiously. "He is seldom here; I may say I never see him."

"What is the offence of poor Birch?" asked the aunt.

"Poor!" cried the captain; "if he is poor, King George is a bad paymaster."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Wharton, "that any neighbour of mine should incur displeasure."

"If I catch him," cried the dragoon, "he will dangle from the limbs of one of his namesakes."

In the course of the morning Major Dunwoodie, who was an old friend of the family, and the lover of Frances, the younger daughter, arrived, took over the command of the troop, and inquired into the case of his friend the prisoner.

"How did you pass the pickets in the plains?" he asked.

"In disguise," replied Captain Wharton; "and by the use of this pass, for which I paid, and which, as it bears the name of Washington, is, I presume, forged."

Dunwoodie caught the paper eagerly, and after gazing at the signature for some time, said, "This name is no counterfeit. The confidence of Washington has been abused. Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer me to grant you a parole—you must accompany me to the Highlands."

IV.—Justice by Evasion

The Wharton family, by order of Washington, now removed to the Highlands, out of the region of warlike operations, and Captain Wharton was brought to trial. The court condemned him to execution as a spy before nine o'clock on the morning following the trial, the president, however, expressing his intention of riding to Washington's headquarters and urging a remission of the punishment. But the sentence of the court was returned—approved. All seemed lost.

"Why not apply to Mr. Harper?" said Frances, recollecting for the first time the parting words of their guest.

"Harper!" echoed Dunwoodie, who had joined the family consultation. "What of him? Do you know him?"

"He stayed with us two days. He seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship."

"What!" exclaimed the youth, in astonishment, "did he know your brother?"

"Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise."

"But," said Dunwoodie, "he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?"

"Indeed he did, and cautioned him against this very danger, bidding him apply to him when in danger and promising to requite the son for the hospitality of the father."

"Then," cried the youth, "will I save him. Harper will never forget his word."

"But has he power," said Frances, "to move Washington's stubborn purpose?"

"If he cannot," shouted Dunwoodie, "who can? Rest easy, for Henry is safe."

* * * * *

It was while these consultations were proceeding that a divine of fanatical aspect, preceded by Caesar, sought admission to the prisoner to offer him the last consolations of religion, and so persistent were his demands that at last he was allowed a private interview. Then he instantly revealed himself as Harvey Birch, and proceeded to disguise Captain Wharton as Caesar, the black servant, who had entered the room with him. So complete was the make-up that the minister and Wharton passed unsuspected through the guard, and it was only when the officer on duty entered the room to cheer up the prisoner after his interview with the "psalm-singer" that the real Caesar was discovered, and in fright hurriedly revealed that the consoling visitor had been the pedlar spy.