veYyTY PITTA RI VV IIRI IVI Mrs. Henry Dudeney in the Treasury. It was November, late afternoon, and figh- ing smacks were sailing out. A man and a woman sat ow the rude stone pier--sat in the } his picture, feover, midst of careless, charming jostle--color el- bowing sound! They were not very young, byt merely the sort of people with that some- thing called 'personality' which vaguely stirs you. She wore an air of discreet and tem- pered elegance, and he was dne of your lean, eager men, leaving behind him always a mere impression of flashing, eye and mobile mouth, Their world to-day was all a bubble and a blue salt wash; boom of the sea, creak and strain of the little ships, shouts from tke full- throateds fishermen, to whom this was the vital 'hor. * They came running along the pier, cafrying in red and blue cotton hand- kerchiefs their. provision far the night. Some ere already in the boats, some were scramb- ling up: pith. odd agility, with barbarous shouts t to be.a part of this daily act of n One saw quickly flung rope- 4 /the flourish of feet in sea-boots. jounided sharp and stood out clear; s' of 'penetrating turquoise were in the upon the waters. 'sane; of the boats, lamps stuck up near the, 15. were already lighted. All night ioe the hose lamps would bob'above the At- i all 'night long the soul of every fisher- = puld be meshed within his net. ne man add woman vagitely watched. "wad with them also a vital hour; not, as mple fisher folk, just the daily excite- tone of those bours which shall fo 'the course of your whole life. Boats were weftily swelling and sailing: as for their ship--~0f' Fate--one of them was sternly dis+ posed to scuttle it. They sat--close--until the last boat sailed away; until the autumn night was just at that stage of darkness when everything is boding, She shivered. 'You're not cold, Mary? 'No, no; not cold--afraid, and of you.' ' We'd better move', He rose abruptly. 'I sha'n't see you again." That's for the best, and it is inevitable. And yet how horrible, my own, that you should be afraid--of me! Why, I'd let nothing rougher than the sweet south wind come near you. They went off the pier and along the wharf, in a mood of passion and struggle. They were fighting a mere feather, so practical per sons would have said; practical persons for- ever call true things by false names! The turbulent two passed a rude building which was the fishermen's 'club. Uncouth figures sat within, They distilled a rich air of lolling; they smoked a great deal; they did not seem fo say one word. 'Some day---perhiaps--I shall get my big picture out of them, whispered the man, frowning and smiling, looking mournful apd exultant, 4 'Not,' he added with scorn, 'a mcney-mak- ing thing--money's easy--but the canvas that shall make me famous. 'Every painter means to do doesn't he? she asked. Of course; they couldn't keep on else. Here is my other--possible--picture. Look at her--quick. Janet Nancurvis. I knew her well; you can't paint the place unless you love the people, Moreover, there is some odd, silent bond between us. * She feels it; so do I---a something that piques me and gratifies her: for she's a queen ever eager for dominion." As he spoke, the old woman marched by. She moved dramatically across the brown- veiled night. They saw plainly, but only for a moment, the dainty, fine texture of her colorless skin, the touch of wildnéss in haughty dark 'eyes 'that remained Bright. She walked with a dignity rare in peasant women, and yet she went with a weary air--of wasting, as if she, for one, had done with, this little world of fishing smacks with vivid sails, and crooked streets that Shel of pilchards. 'She's beputiful, Pau I've often noticed her. 'Isn't she? Andi with some dark 'amorous history, I've been told jut they are so de- vout---or such thorough-paced sinners--these fisher folk, always in extremes, that you can't properly weigh up their statements. I've beg- ged her to let me paint her, and she won't. They dread the evil eye; it is most difficult to; get models down here at St. Brigid, But --oh, never mind her. His voice warmed to fervor, the mood of love came pattering back. In the kind dark- ness these lovers walked hand tight in hand, walked dway from the noisy wharf and along a crazy old street leading to the new part of the town. Again, there were narrow al- leys, but here they led down to deadly waters, and one could just sce rocks, broken and livid; not only these, but the snarling, yel- lowed teeth of successive waves, Here it was that 'he began to speak his trie heart; spoke rapidly, arrogantly, telling out--in ~jerks--long-pondered thoughts. "This is our first affair and a big one,' he said. 'When love overtakgs you at' thérty-- past, in my case--he hangs on to your coat- tails for the rest of your days. Because it'is so new and startling and exquisite, this pas- sion of me for you, of you for 'me, we won't ntarry on the crest of some emotional wave-- and come to shipwreck: I'm blest if we do. Darling, are you listening, and do you think me mad? 'I'm listening.' She laughed a little and fondly; she huddled to him, close, caressingly. He could just sée that delicate, high pro- file of: hers--cold, aloof. Mary sat, as:it were, on a peak of high breeding; or say she wore--as severe habit--some air of serene detachment. She was pious -and pure; she was nothing but the sweetest" essence of Puritanism, The 'lack of outer emotion in her rested him, wearied as he was by tlie. society of volatile 'and. definitely gifted : women. She was just leisurely and well bred. * She was utterly different--and that was why he loved her, Mor he had found out fér Kim- self the white fire that sometimes blazes with- theses calm women. The very mode and matiner of her coming here--practical, dutiful--had attracted ' him. She was staying in the one Tigtel of the place with a" sister who had been ordered to St Brigid for her health. He adored her sensible air of the settled income ahd the recognized sogial canons--those things which, until' he met her, he had gibed at. «In brief, he had met the one woman who mattered. You're good,' he continued abruptly. You'd do anything for religion, : You'd give pie up? Bini 'I should have--in the end--to give up any- thing 'or anyone who /got--between. But 1 don't understand.' 'You will, dear Heart; I'll make yom, and; Mary, do ler me keep my amm--so. ere isn't a soul abott, and to-morrow you will be gone.' They went slowly tp and down the little salt and silent street, in the brooding, fond way of lovers, 'You--you needn't let me go--for good It might have been the flutter of a gull's wing, that pallid, fine quiver of her mouth 'Sweetheart, my most dear, I must--and, yes, for good: that Grtle round word in mare. senses than one. Don't you see that you' re devout and that I don't believe in a Si thing? . You would be trying to pull me up; '1 should be tumbling down. It would break your beautiful brave heart. 1 might outward conform--to keep you whole: but that would mean wrecking my own soul. ' It isn't as if I gibed at religion; I don't; it's a big thing-- the only thing we are here for. if 1 said, with feeble folk, that I'd bees through with it. Nothing of the Kind; 1 shall | was never reach up to it. I'm dumb; 1 feel--no- thing. I'm as hard as the glittering blue seas I paint; no mysticism.' 'But you would believe in time. 'Dearest, you have the devout woman's lovely faith; not only in her cteed but in het close influence. It's mo good: Imaging, Mary, the quiet tragedy of beifig a man's wife --on_ earth; and knowing that he. 'stood' for ever outside the gate--of heaven. When you saw him in the coffin--say he went figst--that would be the last you'd ever see' 'It would be terrible, terrible; should go into outer darkness." He could feel, as she spoke, her sudden, stricken pallor; he could feel the shocked retreat of her waist gd his arnf 'drew fogind it, "We should have no single spiritual tie, my own one love, and earthly ties we fold away when we slip our bodies, Think! We should resolve eventually into the sterotyped marriage moad---which is three parts resigna- tion. 'And the fourth part? 'Dutiful tradition. I can't bear such a pro- spect after our perfect lovemakiig--in such a perfect place. How I worship you, Mary, and how it hurts to lét you go! But I'm not worthy to serve at Love's. altar, my darling dear.' His voice trembled. thdat he Here close, twinkling lights of fishing smacks far out upon the water, salt of the spray on one's lips and cheek, he impulsively stood stock still and was fiercely holding = her--reckless, ardent, most quixotic. It 'was certainly true of him, that thing his' brother painters said--that one never knew. where hq would break out next. '1 shall pray for you,' she said, voice muffled. 'Love, I know that you will; your prayers I'éhall 'be the masts to which I cling. And whio knows, Mary,' --he was caressing her hair, limp, long hair and dark--his 'lps "moved along the salt-sprinkled locks--'a miracle may be worked, For I am never a man to be moulded by slow processes; Faith will be sudden with me, beautiful light, as Saul of Tarsus saw--would you, would you? Oh, but it won't be for years, and probably not at all. You will have married someone. else by then. '1 shall never marry could I possibly?' How true she sounded--inflexibly constant! 'You'll wait--really? 'Paul' She was holding him tight, she was speaking fast, she was losing that serene, calm manner of the securely grounded wo- man. 'You are spoiling our two lives for a fantasy----and that is an artist all through.' 'Dear! Fantasy is the only real thing; it's another word for mysticism. Doesn't your own Bible teach you? 'I begin to feel that you may be right,' she admitted thoughtfully, after conscientious pause. 'And we shall never meet again? 'Never. You would not wish, you could not bear to meet--as friends?' 'Oh, never, never!' Her voice was vehement; protest of her burned cléan through the night --it made a shining hole in "darkuess. They were at the foot of a flight of steps, steps leading ta the upper road, where new, ambitious houses were land the big hotel, Heavily, in silence, they went up these stéps. 'I'l leave you here,' he said tersely, when they stood at the top. 'Bid good-bye to your sister for me; make apologies--say the usual hollow things, wan't you? And what time do you go to-morrow? 'Early, soon after nine. We run straight through to Paddington, once past Plymouth." He could see her wet face; there were lamp-posts--all sorts of civilized equipments --here in the upper street, It was a different world. 'If I'm true at last to my baptismal name; if * 'm--Paul,' he said quaintly, and smiling at her, dealihg, so, some haggard caress--'If 1 wire, will you come? For we must meet at St. Brigid--nowhere else. Her head lifted; she looked the proud loyal woman that she was. 3 }b 'By the next train--if its twenty years hence. And if 1.don't come, you'll know I'm dead. her low anyone else, How still, the fierce and helpless watcher. After all; it was his decree that she should go--for good. "And, somehow' he kfiew "that he was right; for the life bf him Heé"eould not stop her. That would be sacrilege. 'She's wishful and you should work yout will on her atore she dies.' The speaker was a battered, Moka man in' ted 'throat worked as he spoke; his dim blue eyes were mournful yet bravado. This was Captain Nancutvis. He and Paul stood in the steep and twisted street winding down from wild country te wild, sea. Mou tains at the back were [ost in mist; sea below was impalpable. St. Brigid wept this warm September day; heavy "drops falling 'on the flaming leaves of trees, pathetic little gurgles from ditches, a petulant rushing through from the waterspouts of houses. Doors stood wide open--for it was a car- essing climate; if you looked within, you saw suits of solémn black, saw well-oiled heads heads, saw little girls with crimped hair and glean pinafores, saw little boys tortured by impeccable cellars, 'She'd let me paint her, you mean? The Captain nodded sullenly. "Tgin't my wish, 'tis her whim, AT 'can't deny, her now--at the last. And you 'can't harm Ber; you'll' see fier but ance. Doé- tor, he says her breath won't last till night time. Shell ebb with the tide, my woman. he said, 'Tl comre--if you're sure,' said Paul softly His eyes gleamed; he felt an odd exulta- ngle | prayer with the rest. It ism't as g the anguished She maved away as she spoke, and he stood, solemn broadcloth--Sunday wear! 'His knbé] tion. Whose hard was it that shot for arrows of one's sudden and mest m: moods? 'Sure? Why, she can't die easy elsy. the Captain, . He stuck his weather-beaten, most. dist ¢d face close. There was 7 strangeness is his eves. The sailors of St. 'Brigid felt, and feel, that the artists were and were possibly possess of devils, It was the Serf drop in his cup to-day, this désire of his wife tq have the her Heth stlin' § in id ' wrestlin' for her sai nly, 'and you'll be FE up a threshold else, mark me. Is. the > 1 'bétween man and man? Shard. out He pi | great brown hand, and Paul's was in it. How queer his voice " wef, warm air--the thin, lifted yoice with the |, PD a mito Vl , pray,' | promise har- ribly sorfy for this stricken sailor hal "known to' love his beautiful wife beyond the: measure of his class. "He felt when he went in that his litter of artist matetials, that his very: nd gs sdilted the death-room. It was full o | sim a ghbor and _relatives--thelr. wide bed with the dull hangings all serious, "stern, quite devoid el a ness or humor; they looked at. jg oc ec % and the Captain made an im that he should start work af er evidently wished him {0 consider himself he complete outcast--until his turn came to pray! 5 Old Janet Naneurvis lay wasted and most startling lovely in the bed, ° The sheet" was smoothly turned over ahove 'her ¢hin, et bands aude kept Tutnblisg at thé knots of he white quilt et pale, mysterions lips ev i he shadows of. old love curves and distracting dimples--moyed. The neigh- bogs hoped 'that she prayed; Paul knew per- fectly well that' she did" not: He had seen the terrible twinkle of her eyes, when he camte in. She had humor, the old woman, and it was stirred to its depths at this momeit. Lying undressed and findlly aloof from them all. at last, she seemed to see' for the first time the comicality of" lifelong neighbors, She also was an eogoist and always had been; complétély so. Perhaps that had formed the sileht botid between her and the painter, There was an air of careless, cynical majesty all over Her, lying there in the big bed with the fusty hangings and the heavy dquilt--as if she knew herself to be the central figure and vastly relished the position! So far, she cer- tainly snapped her fingers full in the face of Death. : The Captain. lived on a, ledge of rock that jutted out to sea; it was a three-roomed place, more, cabin than house. This deathroom was surrounded by the mist and the salt of the mournfully veiled ocean. The window was wide Back, and powdery puffs of mist rolled in--they took, to Paul's eyes, unearthly shap- es. They were heralds 'Outside was a muffled wash and suck as the waves broke, and 'you could hear the wild shrieks of gulls as, phantom, they flew past. He 'could just sce the sharp white edges of their wings. portent. A woman who stood: by the bed head, and who scemed overweighted by the twinkl'ng black 'beads on her tight bodice, kept grotesque time with it--sobbitg of' snif- ling, to the very moment. She got on Paul's nerves, this woman, and she séemed to im- mensely amuse sick Janet Nancurvis, The fire burned steady; the room was crowded and overhot, but it was siek-bed tra- dition to have a fire.. It seemed to sit, a fierce red spot, upon the sea. Everyone wore Sunday black, and the sun varnished faces of them all might have been cut from some old canvas. Paul rather leng- ed for the deep blue of week-a-day jerseys, for the intense pink or lilac of the womens | blouses, for the nun-like purity their starched sun-bonnets. But gone. must take Opportunity in the particular guise that jade chose! He worked steadily on: Sly eyes were cast sideways at his rough and rapid sketch; the uncanny and passibly evil thing growing with such wicked verity under his fingers. Taking it in' turns, they pouderously read aload "from the Gospel of St. Joun. words were exquisite; they made p man thrill and 'tremble. Yet they meant nothing--to him; he only wished to God that they did. The invalid smiled and twinkled trivmph- antly in the bed. The poor old Captain sat close; with a queer, corded knot in his throat moving up and down fantastically as he swal- lowed alive his mortal anguish. For she was sliding surely out from him--his Janet. She was putting out to sea and all alone--his dear, and a peor enough' navigator! 'Certainly, one worked to-day with a magic skill, with divine and suddenly 'dealt gift! ' One had caught the very feeling of the room: the mystery of wailing sea and cold, slow- | flying gulls; of little, fierce fire, of triumphant, dying woman, of shifting Bupplications. It should be a success, this picture. The big Bible was shat 'up and "away. They were praying new; aloud, colloguilly, with rude eloquence, from the' very heart. © Pail watched them on their knees; he fist | ened: to, them, 'one "by- one. ey. prayed jn t 'the, term's of their calling. Thiey hes t] thé Captain of All: craft to guide this veds et. teady for ~lainching, tothe "desited' sorte. Sore cdlted Him the Captain, sone the 'Pilat;] Satie! iby His sweet name of Jesus} Sd it was" all seafaring and' all" Apostolia and' all tonclng, even to tears if ome: could only" if one's" foul were not stone dead! 'Jt ascended to heaven, it hung about the bed, it floated out upon the mist---salt waters carried it--this fervent supplication for old Janet's soul. She lay listening--perhaps! Lay with her chill hand hight in her hus- band's. Paul looked up with a jump, 'he nearly screamed, when someone touched him-on the shoulder and indicated that his - turn had' come round; that he too must offer' up a prayer. He had been absorbed in his work, he had forgotten the compact. He stood up, obedient, gawky, shy, umac- countably stiff. His knees literally refused to bend. Not a single word would tip hi§ blunted tongue. He looked helplessly through the open window at the vague, suggested waters; he' listened to the mocking, mocking of the sea. This was a slight yet a stupend- ous predicament. It all meant nothing to him--this vaunted matter 'of religion. He had long ago given up hope, and Mary had resolved into a sad, glad dre#n; into the poor sweet 'might have been'; the pensive secret burden that so many | ha' a proud. : NE or Nad a man been' told-+ta A fogheorn sounded at intervals--sullén, of } The | forsook him a fel : "J6. Was to him--riothing. ol to , them "Twas so real: and, were: deep w the wonders of Gi t and he was | ed helplessly y ge the Ey woman sadn 1 emotional | daly § were : He n the bed, s ; Ee them--that which, had bei him, the align. pow at this most the { He looked" at her; she As beseechingly. rayer.: The m, he was no I sterious face gueen of e occa bi moved, afrai ; 'the leaven A the tlass, Which hiad made her a sitem friend to } i There was certainly something mystic be-| tween them; or why had she ide dor him, of "aptail close to Mis. & 1 tell you, he 'eoked' mode which-so neatly approached ti "Paul dropped down--the ni! He had meant to pray, whew apostolically; since, the tof ¢ 3 souls 'must be so. "He 3 : mn the artistic side, as be walked from his si to the 'Captéin's 'sea-gitt e. Directly he went into, the room and began to work he had' forgotten. Kneeling down he thought of. St. Thomas, bthe ang who, of all the disciples, niost had nis sympathy and understanding, What was it St. -Thorsas said? He could remember-- | § nothing! The one word in the English lan- guage was just--nothing! He could not link words into the shortest chain. It was hdrrible; for they wefe all waiting, and the, robm seemed to be instinct with sup- pressed growl. « It grew--with the moments. They were a wild lot--always; and most when their sacred feelings were stirred. They would -as soon pick him up and throw him oyt into the sea as look at hith, these big, lawless fellows. Kneeling" there, duriib, fool, he rather wished that they would. would make an end, it. would be gasier. when one' came to think of it, lacking re- Higion, lacking love, there was nothing: much worth living fer With longing, wilh memory --passiomate, tangled, dver so far off-he thought of Mary and' of their brief, most heavenly, love time 'together. They were certainly more sullen, threatening, the neighbors in the room. For hie was floufing them on their most sensitive side; and 'the more fervid of them were pro- bably prepared te admit that he was in league with the devil to wreck Janet's soul; that some wile of Satan brought him there: for, always, they suspected and hated the painters of the place, not, nor ever would know; he sobbed out the Publican's prayer, 'Lord, be merciful,' . Janet Nancurvis said it too, He: heard her suddenly broken voice, ! worn-ont breathing--the last = crhel gasps. H¢é felt her quick collapse, her 'pleading, "bleating sobs, Her dying thanksgiving. 'And they all knew that--perhaps fhroysh -~ window, past the powdery mists, and ogt into the warm salt_air--her soul had set fqrth for the Port. 1 The nasal 'Amen' of neighbors went round the room. as Paul "dropped his' head on 'the knotted quilt, hiding his face in' those long, sensitive hands that seem $0 yomanish to (fishermen, There was a faint rushing in the room al- S', - wings, not l 'It was of 'more war Id say what Yot? This rain 'drops; not brush of hearty red. burming of the fice. tears--perhaps, too, of somethin vellous." For who of them 'aif ¢ was in the room and what 'was was-- Pentecost! The miracle was worked. © There, kneeling, it 'wis' all' made plain. He saw--he beligved. The light came--as to Saul of Tarsus. It was childistily simple, securely' true; superb, etermal. He understood, he trusted; he knew that this was to be no motient 6f hectic, brief emotion. Somewhere surely 'Mary was also praying--and for him--as she would until she died. 'A hand fluttered on his shoulder; it was a wotnan's this time. When he looked up-- hagghrd, glad, subtly illumined; a changed man, born again, as the devout fishermen would have phrased it--he saw that Janet was dead. And every oue of them in the room stared solemnly from the new, superb placidity of ler 'face' to the calm, high joy jon his: Next morning=--Monday--the shone, sun i} the ships danced, and very early he wired to Mary the whirling word 'Come.' There was only one possible train - that would bring her, and that came twisting infa St. Brigid, * between about dusky. time; when séa and sky were crimson, when little sandy, coves, were pallid, and you only saw the wan 1 shadows of: blue stars: Would she come? nearly" three. s may block the way. in three years, even between those 'who . deeply, deeply love. The tide of Circumstafice is very sttong; "his scythe. He watched the tralia" setpent out * of the tunnel, He could see strings of lights in the witching old fishing town; he marked the tremor of the beautiful wateégs. s insurgent heart was) certainly strangling hina; he dared not look. Then, taking courage, he tursied is head. Atid he saw her. She was looking eagerly out of the window, not changed a bit. = She had come. She was alive vp and free-- Mary! He hurried along atform. The little train stood still. The small sta- tion, crazy, Lilipullan, delightful, wads all bustle: barbarous § shoittings, smell of pil chards- for always there were, at this time of the year, sending off pilchards! She was Jere--close; head wreathed in' viglet, She salt air already blowing her dark Jocks They held hands, they gave one mutual, floating breath, they could not say one word --not yet.. He was devouring her, curve by of us eagry. «It was uothing--a mere formula. Then why curve, tint by tint. The crimson sun was on her. 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