CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3337.U6 
 
 Until the day break a novel by Robert., Bu 
 
 3 1924 022 229 433 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022229433 
 
Until the Day Break 
 
Until the Day Break 
 
 A Novel 
 
 By 
 
 Robert Burns Wilson 
 
 "Until the day break, and the shadows 
 
 fiee away, I will get me to the mountain 
 
 of myrrh, and to the hilt of frankincense." 
 
 —Sons of Solohoh. 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons 
 New York:::::::::::::i900 
 
 k 
 
A;. (ifz.'L'^U 
 
 Copyright, igoo, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 TROW DIREQTORY 
 
 PHINTrNQ AND BOOKBtNDINO OOMPANY 
 
 HEW YORK 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prelude 1 
 
 PART ONE 
 A Dream and a Forgetting 11 
 
 PART TWO 
 A Meeting and Pabbwell 67 
 
 PART THREE 
 The Thread oe Scarlet 97 
 
 PART FOUR 
 Silence and a Shadow 194 
 
 PART FIVE 
 Dusk and a Crimson Cloud 342 
 
 PART SIX 
 Night — and a Star at Daww 280 
 
 L'Bntoi 335 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 PEELUDE 
 
 We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
 The slow funeral pyre of the dead summer 
 had dwindled to a few late-glowing embers. 
 The fires which had burned through three 
 moons upon the changing autumn hills with 
 almost unwaning glories, were at last smoulder- 
 ing into ashes. 
 
 It was late November. A spirit of pleasing 
 melancholy pervaded nature throughout, and the 
 silent earth seemed, not unhappily, listening to 
 " the low persistent requiem of the rain." If 
 the drabbled and restless spirits of discontent, 
 which wander about in all seasons, came to stand 
 without the windows of Mrs. Winchell's sitting- 
 room, or even to press their pallid faces against 
 the tearful panes, they did not seem to enter. 
 All within was suffused in a warm glow of com- 
 fort, comfort and quiet such as never enter 
 the abode of ignorance or squalid misery, nor 
 1 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 the homes where fashion and the folly of osten- 
 tation have been allowed to break down the 
 boundaries of good taste. If any fault were to 
 be found with Mrs. Winehell's sitting-room, one 
 might say it had an over-tone of intellectual re- 
 finement. The little quick-witted looking clock 
 upon the mantel-piece, the bronze figures at its 
 either side, the candlesticks, the portraits on the 
 wall, the very chairs, seemed to be thinking, 
 quietly but busily. Even the perfect and in- 
 tricate geometrical figures in pale gold upon the 
 olive ground of the wall-paper seemed to con- 
 centrate their attention upon you, and to be 
 calmly surveying the smallness of your intel- 
 lect, insomuch that you felt compelled to think 
 with all your might to assert in your own mind 
 your presumed right to be an individual ; and 
 then you would blush as you imagined every- 
 thing about you was smiling in some occult in- 
 animate way while listening to your awkward 
 thoughts, stumbling upon the stairway of con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 It was evident that some intense spirit had 
 left an impress there which had not yet worn 
 away. 
 
 Mrs. Winchell and her son Arthur sat before 
 the drowsy fire. A round table, whose deep 
 crimson cover was almost hidden by tastefully 
 arranged books and periodicals, and flooded 
 with the light of a large globe-lamp which rose 
 2 
 
PRELUDE 
 
 from the centre of it, was drawn tip before them 
 to fill a broken circle. Among the books upon 
 the table were five elegantly bound volumes of 
 essays, mostly upon philosophical and psycho- 
 logical subjects, one of which Arthur Winchell 
 had been reading and now held carelessly half 
 closed, resting it upon his knee and gazing 
 absently beyond into the fire. The book was 
 bound in morocco of a deep maroon color, and 
 ornamented with gold deeply stamped into the 
 yielding leather. It was such binding as one 
 loves to handle caressingly ; feeling the charm 
 of expressed thought entering at the finger-tips, 
 deriving an exquisite sense of contact with the 
 spirit of the pages within. Upon the back of 
 the book in question was engraved, or stamped 
 in gold rather, the image of a strange-looking 
 flower, upon which the light from the lamp fell 
 at such an angle that it shone in the half gloom 
 vnth startling intensity. 
 
 The brilliant gleam attracted Arthur WincheU's 
 attention and seemed to recall him out of his 
 revery. Holding the book up before him and 
 bringing it so as to vary the light upon it, he 
 fell to studying the clear-cut engraving of the 
 flower, as he had done, perhaps, a thousand times 
 before. 
 
 " Mother," he said, presently, " this picture has 
 a strange fascination for me. I wish I could 
 have seen the real flower. It seems, sometimes, 
 3 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 that I have seen it somewhere, in dreams, may- 
 be. Did father never find but that one ? " 
 
 "Never but that one," said Mrs. Winchell, 
 musingly. " He had the picture of it engraved 
 and printed on all his books." 
 
 Letting her hands fall listlessly in her lap, 
 where they nestled in the snowy fabric with 
 which they had been busy, Mrs. Winchell 
 leaned her head "back in her chair and rocked 
 herself slightly, thinking with closed eyes. 
 
 "I still have the one from which that was 
 made," she said, slowly. " I do not think that 
 gives the shape of the real flower very well. The 
 one they copied was pressed and had been dead 
 and dry for a long time." 
 
 " Could you guess the color ? " said Arthur. 
 
 " No, it was faded entirely. Nothing left but 
 ashen gray ; your father said it was purple ; I 
 think purple and white mingled, like a passion- 
 flower, something. 
 
 " There is a very strange history connected 
 with that flower, Arthur," she continued, lean- 
 ing forward and looking across the table at her 
 son. " A very strange story ; I will tell you all 
 about it some day soon ; I would have told you 
 long ago, but " 
 
 " But what, mother? " For she did not go on. 
 
 " But for the fear of awakening — I mean, for 
 the fear of the possible effect of it upon you. I 
 hope, Arthur dear, you will never develop men- 
 4 
 
PEELUDE 
 
 tal tendencies which I fear you have to some 
 degree inherited from your father. I could even 
 ■wish you might never have any inclination to 
 literature ; there is so much unhappiness, so 
 many disappointments that seem inseparable 
 from all literary aspirations. I am almost glad 
 you have not seemed ambitious in that way. 
 Your poor father was very imhappy." 
 
 Arthur Winchell looked down and fingered 
 nervously the pages of the book he held. He 
 was conscious that a confused expression of 
 guilt might be stealing over his face. He felt 
 his mother's look fixed intently upon him. 
 " Mother dear," he said, and leaning forward, 
 he took up the poker, spearing the coals upon 
 the fire in an embarrassed fashion, " I have 
 written a story." Then turning, he caught the 
 anxious, loving look which questioned him. " I 
 hardly know that I intended it for publication 
 when I wrote it. Perhaps I had some thoughts 
 of sending it somewhere to surprise you with it, 
 if it should come out at all. 
 
 " I would like to read it to you now, though, 
 and have you tell me just what you think of it. 
 I only wrote it at night, you know — not to waste 
 any time," he continued, rather inconsistently, 
 and in a very low tone; for he was recall- 
 ing the hours of feverish thought in his quiet 
 room when all the house was asleep, the bright 
 lamp, the oft-relighted pipe, the writings and 
 5 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 rewritings, the beginnings without number, the 
 flutters of hope, the lapses of despair, and the 
 final outcome which only brought at last a dreary- 
 sense of disappointment and vague regret which 
 he could neither account for nor shake off. With 
 these recollections thronging upon him he stared 
 steadily into the fire, nervously smoothing his 
 temple with the tips of his fingers. 
 
 "Just like your father," said his mother, in a 
 voice which trembled slightly, but which was 
 like music to hear. She arose and laid her work 
 upon the table. "Just like your father," she 
 repeated, softly, and coming across, she stood 
 behind Arthur's chair, looking down with moist 
 eyes. He reached back, and taking her hands in 
 his, drew them about his neck and kissed them 
 alternately. Both were silent a long tin;ie. In 
 that deep love what need for words? >' 
 
 " He was very unhappy;" she continued, her 
 thoughts going back to other days, " Very un- 
 satisfied and wretched; he always read every- 
 thing to me before sending it to be published. 
 I could never criticise, I could only give him my 
 sympathy. His own arguments seemed to de- 
 press him greatly, and he would often declare 
 there was little use in writing anything ; strange 
 contradiction, he was always calling himself a 
 fool for trying to be wise; giving himself no rest 
 night or day in his untiring'search after strange 
 and hidden knowledge, he would still assert 
 6 
 
PRELUDE 
 
 that the hope of happiness for man depended 
 largely upon his ability to remain in ignorance 
 of the truth." 
 
 "But he was always kind-hearted, mother, 
 was he not?" said Arthur; "he didn't allow 
 these things to change him in any way ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no," she answered, quickly ; " he was 
 tender and loving always. More than once I 
 have listened to his cold analysis of some subject 
 which we had invested with a halo of sentiment 
 or sanctity until all near approach to it seemed 
 cut off; but he would shred it to its original 
 fibres and hold it up before our startled eyes 
 with the triumph of a god that feared nothing. 
 Yet the exercise of this power brought only a 
 transient happiness which seemed to vanish 
 with the moment. This was at the lectures he 
 used to give. After, when we were sitting alone 
 before the fire at home, he would lean his head 
 upon my breast and weep like a child, his tem- 
 ples burning as with a fever, and his hands cold 
 as ice. Then it was I used to bring him comfort 
 by re-asserting my faith in our primitive beliefs, 
 or by reading some story of childish trust in 
 things which wise men laugh at ; sorrowfully, and 
 in our long talks he would always end by say- 
 ing : ' Margaret, dear, this is best, best for us all.' 
 Yes, Arthur, your father was always, always gen- 
 tle and loving, but he fretted his lite away with 
 what he called to the last, his foolish wisdom." 
 7 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 After some moments of silence, Arthur arose, 
 and kissing his beautiful mother fondly, went 
 away to bring the manuscript of his story, on 
 which, in spite of himself, he had builded some 
 hope. 
 
 When he had gone Mrs. Winchell took up the 
 volume he had been reading, and sinking into a 
 chair, leaned upon the table, tenderly turning 
 the leaves back to the title-page. Once more she 
 read the dedication. Then turning to another 
 page she looked long and lovingly upon the 
 engraved portrait there, with the familiar auto- 
 graph under it, the same she had read with hap- 
 pier eyes at the close of many a love-letter ad- 
 dressed to her. 
 
 It was a refined, handsome face, clean-shaven 
 and pale, the dark hair carelessly pushed back 
 from the temples. The eyes deep-set under a 
 clear, smooth brow, seemed lighted with a half 
 defiant gleam, the slightly aquiline nose and 
 square, firm chin added to the determined cast 
 of the face, but the mouth wore an expression of 
 ineffable tenderness ; gentleness, sadness, and 
 painful sensitiveness spoke in every curve and 
 line of the lips. Tears gathered in her eyes as 
 she gazed on the face before her. " So young," 
 she murmured, "so young and so unhappy." 
 She closed the book hastily, drying her eyes, 
 for she heard Arthur's steps upon the stair. 
 
 " Here it is, mother," he said as he entered. 
 8 
 
PKBLUDE 
 
 " I hope you can give me some encouragement, 
 but I want you to say just what you really think 
 about it." 
 
 He drew the chair his mother had just quitted 
 up nearer to the fire, and laid the manuscript 
 upon the table. " There was no trouble getting 
 the material," he went on; "the whole thing 
 came into my mind without effort, almost with- 
 out thought, but I have had much trouble in 
 getting it all arranged and expressed. I can't 
 guess how it is going to sound, but I believe I 
 cannot make it any better." 
 
 Mrs. Winchell had resumed her seat and pre- 
 pared to listen. Arthur busied himself for a 
 little while putting fresh coals upon the grate and 
 arranging the lamp nearer his side of the table, 
 then taking up his manuscript with a very un- 
 successful assumption of careless ease, began to 
 read, in a voice which, even to himseM, sounded 
 in an unnatural key, the following story, which 
 he had entitled " Until the Day Break." 
 
PAET ONE 
 
 A DREAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 For man also knoweth not his time : as the fishes 
 that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are 
 caught in the snare so are the sons of men snared, in 
 an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them. 
 
 Oh, I have passed a miserable night ! 
 So full of ugly sights — of ghastly dreams — 
 That, as I am a faithful. Christian man, 
 I would not spend another such a night 
 Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; 
 So full of dismal terrors was the time. 
 
 John Lubbock had just left his home to go to 
 his place of business. The pleasant side-street 
 along which he walked had become to him an 
 outlying portion of his life. Its familiar feat- 
 ures had come to reflect, in some indefinable 
 fashion, the moods and desires which possessed 
 him ; vain Teachings out of the life within, which 
 never came to anything, insomuch that he often 
 fell to wondering what they were meant for and 
 what really did become of them. 
 
 He had walked the same side of the street for 
 more than ten years, moving at much the same 
 11 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 easy pace, thinking almost the same thoughts, 
 bound' on the same journey, and at about the 
 same time of the day. Nothing had ever hap- 
 pened to break up, for long, the pleasing mo- 
 notony, nor did anything seem at all likely to 
 happen. 
 
 He struck, from time to time, with his light 
 cane, at the whirling seeds which fell like living 
 things, fluttering down from the branches above ; 
 for it was May, and the spreading maples which 
 lined the streets were brave in living green, and 
 the winged seeds fell in showers and completely 
 covered the pavements. 
 
 Perhaps, as they rustled down and playfully 
 tapped on the rounded dome of John Lubbock's 
 ridiculous derby hat, they served to recall to 
 him the times long ago, when he would have 
 been filling his pockets with the greenest of 
 them to pinch them in the faces of his play- 
 mates. They didn't call them' the winged seeds 
 of the white water-maple then, but simply 
 "squirters." At all events, when one tapped 
 more loudly than usual, he smiled under his stiff 
 beard, so that his face visibly, shortened, em- 
 phasizing the crow's-foot lines which radiated 
 from the converging point until each eye seemed 
 a good momentary representation of sunrise as 
 Holbein would have engraved it. 
 
 John Lubbock lived with a married sister, 
 and was the youngest and leanest of what was 
 12 
 
A DEEAM AND A POEGETTING 
 
 known, at home, as the " fat firm " of Pritchard, 
 Farley, and Lubbock, publishers. Buy Harring- 
 ford used to say, " Such a trio in leaf gold on 
 the binding of any Kterary work, was a dead 
 weight which no buoyancy of style known to 
 aspiring print could possibly OYercome;" and 
 once when one of his books hung fire in the 
 market, Lubbock having twitted him respecting 
 it, he retorted, " You couldn't catch any fish even 
 with attar of roses on your bait, John, you have 
 too many sinkers on your line, and they keep 
 your hook in the mud. You ought, in all con- 
 science, to leave off that last one ; that's death 
 to any effort." 
 
 Lubbock was thinking of Ruy Harringford at 
 this moment, and reflecting with some bitterness 
 on his long absence. Harringford had been away 
 on his wanderings more than two years, no one 
 knew where ; he had seemed to drop out of life, 
 so far as he himself was concerned. True, the 
 " fat firm " had in that time published three 
 small volumes for him, two made up of com- 
 pactly written sketches and essays, mostly on 
 nature, and one story, a rather strong piece of 
 imaginary work, Lubbock thought, which had 
 quite a run, despite the " sinkers." 
 
 But let me describe John Lubbock and have 
 done. He was about forty, a Uttle above the 
 medium in stature, and would have been de- 
 scribed as "heavy set," if not fat. He was 
 13 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 dressed in a gray business suit, and wore a full 
 beard of tawny brown, close trimmed, as was Ms 
 hair. His eyes were " yearning " blue, and he 
 was a bachelor. He walked like one whose life 
 holds no great expectances, and as to his abili- 
 ties, Harringford hit him off as " a man of huge 
 intentions but of small performance." One thing 
 was certain, a kinder heart, or a truer, to friends 
 or an honest purpose, never beat in the breast 
 of man. 
 
 After walking a few blocks along the shady 
 street, Lubbock stopped in front of a large, 
 rather dingy-looking brick house set back from 
 the street, with a side-ground of considerable 
 area ; a retreating sweep of green all dappled with 
 sunlight and shadows under the overarching 
 of tall locust-trees whose interlacing boughs were 
 heavy with snowy blossoms. Beyond, through 
 the rough green-lichened trunks, one could catch 
 glimpses of a high vine-covered brick wall, and 
 beyond that lay a great garden which should 
 have been called a wilderness, but it was a most 
 pleasing, pathetic wilderness, a woven and tan- 
 gled remembrance of bygone glories ; a garden 
 where the cucumber magnolia had shaded alike 
 the melon, vine, and the dark-red rose ; where 
 the plum-tree dropped her unripe fruit upon the 
 marble steps leading down to the neglected ter- 
 race, and on the lower ground the drooping 
 branches of the great weeping-willow had swayed 
 
 14 
 
A DKEAM AND A FOKGETTING 
 
 against the tasselled corn. The place was a soul's 
 paradise to Harry Ainsworth, and the arched 
 "way into it, with its rusting iron gate, shadowed 
 by mock-orange trees, had no angel to forbid an 
 entrance. "Within that garden Ainsworth was 
 wont to feed his mind with as much zest as 
 though its fruits had been forbidden, though 
 each tree was to him a veritable tree of knowl- 
 edge. He was at this time the sole arbiter of 
 destinies in the deserted mansion, which was 
 known thereabout, familiarly, as the " Old Har- 
 ringford House." It will be almost superfluous 
 to add that the house was reputed haunted. 
 
 In front, the lawn was enclosed from the street 
 by a low iron fence of ancient design. An aged 
 negro woman, who had just finished with the 
 huge stone step at the door, was now on her 
 hands and knees scrubbing the well-worn bricks 
 in the paved way which led to the gate, until they 
 seemed to glow with newly aroused circulation. 
 John Lubbock leaned on the low fence and 
 coughed slightly. 
 
 " Howdy, Mist' Jawn," said the wrinkled old 
 dame, drawing herself quickly to a more human- 
 like position, and looking over her shoulder 
 without rising. 
 
 " Howdy, Aunt Huldy," said John ; " would 
 you mind asking Mr. Ainsworth to come down 
 to the door a minute ? " 
 
 " Mist' Ainsworth ? you'll fin' him right dai, 
 15 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 Mist' Jawn, 'creering round in de gyarden dar; 
 en dey ain't no good a cummin' fum hit, nuther, 
 ketchin' dem yar buttahflies en a killin' um wid 
 dat intment, no dey ain't. I just done say so to 
 Mist' Ainsworth, but shoo ! — he ain't no mo' 
 mind me den one dem June-bugs dat he done 
 got stickin' on cawd-bode up in de room dar ; 
 hit's plum owdacious, dat's what hit is ! " 
 
 " But, aunty, he is a scientist, you know, 
 and " 
 
 " Scientisses. What's seientisses ? Cawn't 
 anybody knowd what de buttahfly was 'fo de 
 scientisses done ketch um wid dat intment en 
 stucked um up on de cawd-bode ? Cawn't dey 
 tole de blue buds putty fo' dey's jammed full ob 
 cotton en jounced onto a wire with glass beads 
 whar dey eyes was, en— en dey cyouldn't sing no 
 chune ef de sun war a stannin' still en waitin' f o' it. 
 No dey cyouldn't, dat dey cyouldn't, um — um ! 
 scientisses en scientisses ef yo like, but dey ain't 
 no good comin' fum it ; no whar, nur no how. 
 I'se done got plum feared fo' to stay in de house, 
 dat's what I is. Ain't de good Lawd done say 
 dat no sparrar ain't gwine to fall to de yuth 'thout 
 him takin' notice ? en ee ain't gwine ter fergit all 
 dem sparrars and buttahflies en — en — June-bugs 
 what Mist' Ainswuth done 'stroyed up dar, no 
 ee ain't ! " And therewith Aunt Huldy fell upon 
 the dirty face of an unsuspecting brick with such 
 a scouring as wellnigh lifted it from its bed. 
 16 
 
A DREAM AND A FOEGETTIN& 
 
 " Mister Euy is coming before long, aunty," 
 said Lubbock, slowly. 
 
 Aunt Huldy sat bolt upright and dropped 
 her scrubbing-brush, which fell on its back, 
 and lay there, a bristling picture of unregarded 
 misery. 
 
 " Wal, gr'et day in de mornin' ! Wat's yo' 
 sayin', honey ? My Lawd ! Marse Euy done 
 cumin' ? when he done gwine get hyar ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you that exactly ; he'U be here 
 before long, though, that's certain." 
 
 " Wall, gr'et-mess / I'se plum glad fo' dat, dat 
 I is ; 'kase I done bin sho nuff skeered 'bout 
 dem June-bugs 'en sparrers up dar — 'deed I is, 
 Mist' Jawn ; en I kin reckleck yit sump'n dat 
 Marse Euy say fo' he done went gambastin' ovah 
 de face of de yuth. He 'low dat dey was mo' 
 gumption in de wabble of a blue-bird dan all de 
 sientisses in de worl'. I disremember now 
 if 'twar gumption — anyways, 'twar sump'n way 
 off yonder — didn't b'long to de yuth, nohow ; 
 but, my Lawd, ef he's cumin,' hit looks like dat 
 dar's plenty got to be looked to, sho." And 
 once more, sans ceremony, the scrubbing-brush 
 was going through its paces in a fashion that 
 must haTe obliterated effectually any lingering 
 recollections of neglect. 
 
 At that moment a young man, bare-headed and 
 flushed from exercise, darted around the comer 
 of the house in mad pursuit of a large butterfly, 
 17 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 which he succeeded in bringing down with his 
 net before it could escape into the street. 
 
 "Hello, you loitering sinner, good-morning 
 to you, you'll excuse me, my lord," he said, 
 breathlessly, kneeling down and placing one 
 knee on the handle of the net to keep the hoop 
 close to the ground. " Just a moment and then 
 I'U come till ye, my lad." He took a rather 
 large bottle from the left breast-pocket of his 
 coat and drew the cork with his teeth. Leaning 
 closely and eagerly over the net, and pressing 
 down the fatal meshes until he had his beauti- 
 ful prisoner quiet, he applied, with the tip of his 
 forefinger, a drop of the deadly chloroform, the 
 " intment " which was Aunt Huldy's continual 
 text. There was a shudder or two, only, and 
 the divine creature, so full of life and happiness 
 but a moment before, was dead. Replacing the 
 bottle in the same pocket, Ainsworth, for it was 
 he, drew from another pocket a small square 
 of perforated card-board, to which he quickly 
 secured the butterfly with an invisible piece of 
 wire, and theme it was, ready for the use of the 
 " scientisses." 
 
 " There is something in the construction of 
 this iris which interests me," he said, fastening 
 the card-board to his lapel in a professional way, 
 and indicating one of the eyes on the wing from 
 which all motion had gone. 
 
 " Well, hang me, Ainsworth," said Lubbock, 
 18 
 
A DEEAM AND A POEGETTING 
 
 who had silently watched the performance with 
 a lugubrious countenance, " hang me if I don't 
 agree with Aunty Huldy ; that's a -villanous 
 thing to do, science or no science." 
 
 This brought an ecstatic grunt from Aunt 
 Huldy, which she followed by an absent-minded 
 scouring of one unfortunate brick that must 
 have bewUdered its idea of even-handed justice 
 throughout the rest of its existence. 
 
 Ainsworth acknowledged both expressions of 
 opinion with a good-natured smile. " True — 
 true, for both of you, my good friends ; but, 
 Lubbock, my dear fellow, don't be depressed, 
 it's only on a par with the general movement. 
 Everything rounds up to about the same thing 
 at the last, you know; how is it 
 
 The dew is on the lotus. Rise great sun 
 And lift fay leaf and mix me with the wave ; 
 Om mani padme hum, the sunrise comes, 
 The dew-drop slips into the shining sea. " 
 
 " Well said, my boy — very weU said ; that is 
 exceeding beautiful ; but while you were in that 
 neighborhood you might have qtloted Buddha 
 himself, and I think perhaps, more to the pur- 
 pose : 
 
 Kill not, for pity's sake, and lest ye slay 
 The meanest thing upon its upward way." 
 
 Ainsworth glanced down at the dead wonder 
 a moment, and continued, half regretfully, " Its 
 19 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 upward way ! I wish I could think it. But, 
 my dear Lubbock, the upward way must con- 
 tinue in the offspring; this creature must be 
 what it is ; and, besides, if it was a good butter- 
 fly — which no doubt it was — it will have already 
 provided for all that. You should know that 
 some tender stem is even now, somewhere, 
 bulging with a growing grub which is per- 
 haps interfering with some plant's life upon its 
 upward way. In taking this life I have, after 
 all, only done what nature was intending a little 
 later ; am I less kind ? But I toss you back a 
 counter compliment, my serious-minded friend 
 — and I warn you, I am about to turn my atten- 
 tion to worms — book-worms, especially — those 
 comfortable fellows who wriggle along the book- 
 shelf of life and grow fat on the mulberry-leaves 
 of literature, winding themselves up in such a 
 cocoon of fine-spun, silken quotations that even 
 the keen probe of science has so far failed to — 
 to a — " he stooped quickly and plucked up a 
 flower from the grass. His ever-watchful eyes 
 had detected a small insect entering it, and he 
 deftly imprisoned the luckless adventurer with 
 his thumb and finger — " failed, I say, as yet 
 to find their use, exactly, in our present ac- 
 cepted cosmogony." 
 
 " Oh, well, heaven mend you, my friend, and, 
 in the meantime, have a care that the worm does 
 not take occasion to turn his attention to you. 
 20 
 
A DEBAM AND A FOKGETTING 
 
 Tour worm is your only emperor for diet, you 
 know : ' We fat all creatures else to fat us, we 
 fat ourselves for maggots ; your ' " 
 
 " Hold, hold," said Ainsworth, with unusual 
 gayety, " I'll finish your quotation for you ; ' your 
 fat publisher and your lean author — two dishes 
 but to one table, there's the end.' I say, John, 
 my dear child, get you to your shelf, you are too 
 musty for this world, you smack of mould and 
 ancient rime. You are too good to like any- 
 thing original — even original sin. Tou are a 
 sorrowful realization ; you have a depressing 
 tangibility about you which suggests the un- 
 looked-for materialization of some unhappy 
 ideal. I wish Euy Harringford were here, he 
 could apostrophize you as you deserve." 
 
 "Harringford, yes ; that's what I came by for ; 
 I wanted to ask you about him. Have you 
 heard when he is coming ? " 
 
 " Well ! by Jove ! I can't accuse you of sud- 
 denness with your question," said Ainsworth, 
 " but I suppose anything must even moderate 
 its pace when it moves with you. I expect Kuy 
 in a week or two — though he has not answered 
 my letter as yet, but I know he will come." 
 
 " Well, save your spice for the unregenerate ; 
 you'll be lamb-like enough when he gets here," 
 said Lubbock — " and good-by to you, my dying 
 gladiator, your bachelor days are nearly at an 
 end. I may get a glimpse of an angel ; and if 
 21 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 I do, may I say you are looking remarkably 
 well? I trust you will uphold the dignity of 
 your profession at the last. Good-by." 
 
 John was walking away — rather briskly for 
 him. Ainsworth stood looking after him half 
 wistfully, nervously pinching to pieces the flow- 
 er he had plucked up. Suddenly he raised his 
 arms above his head, while a violent tremor 
 shook his whole frame. 
 
 " John," he-called, in a faint, shrill voice. 
 
 Lubbock turned, looked at him for an instant, 
 and hurried back. Ainsworth had staggered a 
 step or two, and was leaning heavily against the 
 fence. His face was deadly pale, and his out- 
 stretched hand, which Lubbock grasped between 
 his own warm palms, was icy cold. 
 
 "Why, Harry, old fellow, what's this?" he 
 said, his voice thick and strange sounding, for 
 his big heart was in his throat, half choking his 
 utterance. " How are you ill ? What hap- 
 pened " 
 
 "I am not ill— it's gone now — whatever it was 
 — you see — I don't know what to think, exact- 
 ly." He put his hand on Lubbock's shoulder, 
 and straightened himself up. " Do you believe 
 there can be such things as presentiments, 
 John ? " he asked, half smiling. 
 
 "Presentiments — no — ^yes — well, that is — I 
 hardly know — many people think so, but I 
 22 
 
A DEEAM AND A PORGETTmG 
 
 doubt it," Lubbock answered. " Why, have you 
 had one ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Ainsworth, looting serious again. 
 " If there are such things, at all, I think I have. 
 A momentary vision that came and passed away 
 in a flash, but more inconceivably appalling than 
 anything I have ever dreamed of. It has shaken 
 me completely. What do you suppose could be 
 the cause for such a thing ? " 
 
 " I can't see," said Lubbock ; " but what was 
 the trouble — was anything really presented ? " 
 
 " No, nothing defined at all — some unknown 
 terror, but none the less real. However, it was 
 gone before I could grasp it. Perhaps the soul 
 understands even where the intellect fails. Any- 
 way, it is just as I tell you. I never felt any- 
 thing so frightful." 
 
 " It's queer," said Lubbock. " You are sure 
 your heart's sound ? " • 
 
 " Perfectly. I never had any trouble in my 
 life." 
 
 " Well, I want you to stop racing around the 
 way you do with your head bare. Your heart 
 may be all good, as you say, but there's no tell- 
 ing what effect the sun may have on your pump- 
 kin head, do you hear? Now you go up to 
 your room and stay there, and no more of this 
 foolishness — scaring a man's life out in broad 
 daylight. Are you sure you feel perfectly well 
 again ? " 
 
 23 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 " Oh, yes — yes, indeed. I tell you it wasn't 
 physical at all. There's no touch of it left; 
 it all seems like foolishness now ; but, John, I 
 feel as though I had lived years since you said 
 good-by. I wish you would stop in as you 
 come home ; will you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I wUl," said Lubbock, pressing his 
 hand heartily, " and now do as I tell you — go 
 to your room and rest up; you've broken my 
 day completely, confound you. I have prom- 
 ised Evelyn to watch over you until you are safe 
 in her care, and I will. Good-by," he added, 
 pressing Ainsworth's hand with some emotion. 
 
 Ainsworth stood smiling, his face flushed and 
 his eyes alight with the fires of youth and per- 
 fect health. 
 
 "Yes," he said, " I trust there's no danger." 
 
 Evelyn Weir was one of the loveliest girls in 
 that Southern city noted for the beauty of its 
 daughters. 
 
 Young, rich, accomplished — gifted, even — she 
 was to be Harry Ainsworth's wife within a fort- 
 night. Euy Harringford, his life-long friend, 
 was to be his best man, and John Lubbock — 
 dear, fat John — ^was to give the bride away ; for 
 she was an orphan, living with an aunt, by mar- 
 riage, a widowed lady, who seldom left her 
 house. 
 
 All was arranged. They would have a little 
 24 
 
A DKBAM AND A FOEGBTTING 
 
 "run" somewhere. Kuy would be home to 
 stay, and would live in the old house, with Aunt 
 Huldy to care for him. 
 
 Ainsworth's heart sat lightly in his bosom. 
 He felt a glow of pardonable vanity; for was 
 not Evelyn proud of his intellect, and what 
 might he not achieve with her love to aid and 
 inspire him ? The vision of sweet days stretched 
 out before him. He turned and ran gayly across 
 the lawn, sprang over the flower-border on to 
 the clean pavement, and stood on the door-step. 
 " Aunty," he said, almost tenderly, taking some 
 money from his pocket, " you have always taken 
 good care of me, and now I want you to take 
 this and spread a little dinner for yourself 
 and your friends — have some good wine and 
 just drink a glass to my good health and long 
 life, won't you — long life and happiness ? " He 
 gave her the money, turned into the hall and 
 ran lightly up the stairs. 
 
 Aunt Huldy looked after him a moment, 
 and then at the silver which lay on her wrin- 
 kled palm, and lifting her coarse apron, she 
 wiped the tears harshly from her poor dimmed 
 eyes. 
 
 " Dar now, bless me I wat I go 'busin' dat 
 chile fo' ? Hit looks lak I hain't got no 'ligion 
 left, ner raisin nuther. Ef ee des would stop 
 cu'in dem June-bugs an' buttahfliea up, ee's do 
 bestes man in de whole yuth." 
 25 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 The scrubbing went on for a little time longer, 
 and then Aunt Huldy, crooning aU the while a 
 disconsolate hymn " chune," took up her bucket 
 and brushes and made her way to the back of 
 the house. 
 
 John Lubbock continued on his way, eying 
 the pavement in the front of him abstractedly as 
 he walked. From time to time he reached up 
 and lifted his hat partly from his brow, only to 
 pull it down closer to his eyes, a habit with him 
 when inwardly disturbed, an involuntary seeking 
 of mechanical aid to concentration of thought. 
 Unconsciously, his outward actions gave unerr- 
 ing indication of his mental state. He carried 
 his walking-stick closely pressed high up under 
 his left arm, his steps were quick and of uneven 
 length, and his whole manner unusual. Ains- 
 worth's strange distemper puzzled him, and 
 brought to mind some of Harringford's theories 
 about presentiments. 
 
 Arrived at the next corner he stepped to the 
 curb and looked up the street for a car. Just 
 then be heard his name called by a very small 
 voice, and turned to find a slender-necked, 
 pathetic-looking little boy holding out a soiled 
 note, so soiled that it must have been carried 
 some time. The story of a long, hot journey was 
 printed on it with the little finger-marks. In- 
 stinctively, John Lubbock's hand sought his 
 Test popket^ for, slow of movement himself, he 
 26 
 
A DEBAM AND A FOEGBTTING 
 
 had a quick and perhaps exaggerated sympathy 
 — often noticeable in stout persons — respecting 
 those who are compelled to bear up against the 
 horrors of fatigue. It was with a pleased sur- 
 prise that John Lubbock beheld the tattered 
 youth before him made suddenly radiant by the 
 possession of unlooked-for wealth, and gazed 
 after him in absolute bewilderment as he scudded 
 out of sight, borne away on newly inspired 
 legs. 
 
 The note was from Euy Harringford asking 
 Lubbock to come to him. He was in the city at 
 the hotel. Lubbock was greatly astonished. A 
 carriage was not to be found at once in that 
 out-of-the-way part of the city, and it was with a 
 vague sense of uneasiness and impatience that he 
 climbed into the slow street-car, trying to resign 
 himself to the imposed delay. Naturally he fell 
 to picturing his meeting with his friend, whose 
 long absence had been a puzzle to him. He 
 expected to find him changed, but how ? He 
 sat looking out of the open car in an absent 
 way, and fell to guessing. He was destined to 
 find more of a change than he thought for. In 
 his boyhood Euy Harringford had been sup- 
 posed to be subject to the eternal vigilance of a 
 certain savage uncle, who brought him up in a 
 manner to make him covet liberty at any price ; 
 but as he was never under that old gentleman's 
 baleful eye when he could escape it — which was 
 27 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 pretty often, the eternal vigilance not being, by 
 any means, confined to one side — ^Euy's subju- 
 gated condition had no real existence except in 
 the mistaken fancy of the old man's mind, which 
 fancy was itself somewhat shaken at last by the 
 appearance of a letter post-marked Liyerpool, 
 England, from which city his nephew had just 
 started to foot it over Scotland, when at that 
 very moment he was thought to be surveying 
 for a certain turnpike company in the adjoin- 
 ing county. 
 
 There were trials and dangers innumerable, 
 heart - longings and home-sicknesses — dark, 
 dreary days and long stragglings against mis- 
 fortunes, through which the brave spirit battled 
 to achieve at least some measure of success. 
 
 The savage old gentleman read from time to 
 time Euy's letters to the press and learned to 
 feel a kind of ill-natured pride in their author, 
 and Kuy was somewhat astonished to find he 
 had left him the "Old Harringford House" for 
 a possession, until he found that it had resulted 
 from the dear old gentleman's desire for a last 
 consolation in the way of an unexpected disap- 
 pointment to some relatives who had crowded 
 — a little over-confidently — his irasciblfe death- 
 bed. 
 
 The old house, however, proved to Kuy an 
 inheritance which did not enrich him. First he 
 wrote and placed it in the hands of an agent, 
 28 
 
A DEEAM AND A FOEGETTING 
 
 who rented it to all sorts of people, and at last, 
 hearing of Harringf ord's return, departed with 
 all he had collected of rents, as is, at times, the 
 manner of agents. 
 
 When Harringford returned he brought with 
 him the companion of all his travels and trials, 
 Harry Ainsworth, and they, too, made their 
 abode in the old house, with Aunt Huldy, the 
 uncle's old servant and the ministering angel of 
 Euy's stormy youth, to keep house and " care " 
 for them. Euy's father had died in the house 
 before he could remember, and the property 
 had gone to his uncle for debt. There was, too, 
 the story of some long-ago tragedy connected 
 with the place, which legend Aunt Huldy had 
 often detailed with the exaggeration and relish 
 for dark doings which distinguish her race. 
 
 It was at this time, while pursuing their 
 studies together, and at the same time earning 
 their living with their pens, that Harringford 
 and Ainsworth became acquainted with Evelyn 
 Weir. Harringford fell deeply in love with her 
 at once, but he was not sanguine. He thought 
 he saw plainly her preference for Ainsworth, 
 and manfully tried to smother out his own tort- 
 uring passion. He gave no sign and Ainsworth 
 suspected nothing of the soul's hidden tragedy 
 when Harringford determinedly set his foot on 
 his heart's hope and tore himself away from the 
 sight of her who seemed to him the living em- 
 39 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 bodiment of all that could be desired in life. A 
 realized ideal, a beautiful image, which haunted 
 him wherever he turned, like a lovely but cruel 
 angel. And in the bitter years which followed, 
 when Ainsworth's letters to his self-exiled friend 
 would be telling of the priceless gift of Evelyn's 
 love, which he had won, or containing perhaps 
 a " message " from " her " begging him to come 
 back soon and sending " her love ; " then he 
 could not see the bowed head, nor the letter 
 crushed in the convulsed fingers, nor hear the 
 moans which shopk the strong frame as the 
 lonely heart cried out in fierce anguish against 
 the cruelty of destiny while the old battle was 
 fought over once more. 
 
 Thus the dreary days went on for Harringford 
 until two wretched years had worn themselves 
 away. He had been miserable, but not idle. 
 Par from the din of the world's busy ways he 
 had hidden himself, and amidst the quiet of fair 
 fields and the dreamy solitude of summer wood- 
 lands, he had sought for peace and comfort, and 
 although rest could not come to him he learned 
 truly to love the music of the streams, and the 
 nameless children of the forest grew to seem 
 like friends as he threaded the fragrant and 
 shadowy pathways. 
 
 But often the heart-breaking song of some 
 familiar bird would awake the old despair and 
 wring his memory-haunted . heart as with the 
 30 
 
A DEEAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 gripe of death. Then it would be that he would 
 sink down upon some mossy bank, digging his 
 fingers into the yielding ground, the hot tears 
 blurring all the shimmering, sun -lit vale below 
 him ; while the bright-eyed songsters flitted 
 about among the silken green leaves near at 
 hand, curiously eying the strange huge creature 
 that had thus invaded that sacred retreat. 
 
 Thus passed the slow hours and days and 
 months, each big with unrecorded sorrows. 
 Alone, among the quiet country-folk, whose 
 ways had grown gratefiil to him, for, as though 
 informed by some fine instinct, they seemed to 
 know, and never trouble him, his hours were all 
 his own, and for want of employment they began 
 to grow unbearable. It was then he wrote the 
 little romance which at once caused a murmur 
 of approbation and gave to his name a new and 
 unexpected value. But he heard but little of it 
 all. Sometimes a letter reached him which 
 caused a bitter smile, but Lubbock's letter of 
 sincere and hearty congratulation awakened a 
 transient glow of satisfaction, almost of pride 
 and ambition. "You have put your soul iato 
 it and they see it," John wrote. And he had. 
 Then- came Ainsworth's request for his attend- 
 ance at his prospective marriage. A request 
 which he had been expecting with a kind of 
 terror, but he pulled himself together, trying 
 bravely to patch up a semblance of his old de- 
 al 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 parted gayety of manner and came home, came 
 before he had intended, before he was expected 
 indeed, as Ainsworth said. 
 
 The cause for this sudden move will appear 
 in what follows here. 
 
 When John Lubbock took his seat in the 
 darkened, silent-moving elevator of the hotel, he 
 felt in some vague way, as the door was shut 
 and the machine began its mysterious move- 
 ment, that here was a fitting emblem of that 
 strange compelling power which we call destiny. 
 Let the passengers sit or stand, look at each 
 other or read, be composed or uneasy, careful or 
 thoughtless, laugh or weep, no matter, they are 
 carried on to their destined landing. And 
 though they might think of doing so, they will 
 not step out until the door be opened. Heavy 
 heart or light weighs no more nor no less. Hu- 
 man joy or sorrow will not disturb the hidden 
 force which acts with the same noiseless preci- 
 sion, whatever be the emotions that distract the 
 beings which are thus borne along, and when the 
 appointed place is reached, there is nothing for 
 the helpless soul to do but — 
 
 "Third floor!" 
 
 The phrase, uttered in low, well-bred tones by 
 
 a languid sphinx in faultless attire, put a period 
 
 to Lubbock's philosophizing. The open-work 
 
 iron door slid back, and, rising, he followed the 
 
 32 
 
A DEEAM AND A POKGETTING 
 
 porter out into the limitless regions of carpets, 
 oil-cloth and white paint, thus by his own action 
 finishing out his interrupted line of thought. 
 Perhaps few things are more depressing than 
 our tame submission to the mechanical associa- 
 tions of human life. 
 
 We follow a star or a lackey with equal enthu- 
 siasm, as the surrounding conditions demand or 
 permit ; and usually, perhaps, with a preponder- 
 ance of hope in favor of the latter. 
 
 Lubbock followed his guide along the hall's 
 dismal length, snifl&ng ill-naturedly the inevi- 
 table hotel atmosphere. 
 
 "Kuy Harringford has lost his senses," he 
 thought. "I can't understand it — it's not like 
 him to coop himself up all day in one of these 
 labelled sepulchres." 
 
 Just then the apparition ahead of him stopped. 
 " This is his number," he said, as though indi- 
 cating the den of some registered animal. 
 
 Lubbock's mental comment was appropriate, 
 but need not be recorded. He knocked softly 
 on the door. 
 
 "Come," said a voice that was as resonant 
 and melodious as the deep note of a violoncello. 
 
 Lubbock opened the door. 
 
 The figure which arose before him was very tall, 
 very stately, almost majestic. It was Harring- 
 ford — but changed — ^oh, how changed ! There 
 was the same half -haughty uplifting of the whole 
 33 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 frame, the same broad shoulders and ample 
 chest, the same admirable poise and adjustment 
 of parts, the same symmetry and native grace 
 which had so often made Lubbock recall Ham- 
 let's speech about the paragon of animals ; there 
 was no physical breaking up, but a strange pallor 
 sat upon the face, like a supernatural light, and 
 the eyes — which had always seemed like deep 
 wells in which star-images were twinkling-r- 
 overflowing fountains of hope from which, mirth 
 bubbled continually, appeared now as though 
 the unhappy soul leaned forward and looked out 
 through them, steadily, hopelessly, as might a 
 woman watch through her window for one who 
 will never return. They burned with painful 
 brilliancy, and were fixed upon Lubbock's own 
 with a look of speculative intensity that thrilled 
 him to speechlessness and pierced his heart as 
 with a flaming shaft. A thousand swift sen- 
 sations of self -accusing regret went through his 
 mind like lightning, and when he saw the un- 
 natural attempt of his friend to smile, he felt 
 the stinging tears forcing their way into his 
 vision. - 
 
 Their hands met in a prolonged, convulsive 
 clasp. 
 
 Strange creatures we are : had Lubbock given 
 utterance to the words which arose to his lips, 
 he would have said : 
 
 " Merciful God, Harringford, what has come 
 34 
 
A DKEAM AND A FOEGETTING 
 
 to you ? what can I do? " What he really did 
 say was : " Why, Euy, my dear boy, I am glad 
 to see you looking so well." 
 
 Well, perhaps it is best so ! We are never 
 deceived by it, but we like it no less. The fact 
 was, Lubbock, for the moment, was shocked 
 out of his senses. 
 
 " I got your note just a little while ago. I 
 had stopped to ask Ainsworth about " 
 
 "Ainsworth? — you have seen him then?" 
 Harringford interrupted quickly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When? Is he well?" 
 
 " Only an hour ago " 
 
 " And he is alive and well ? " 
 
 "Alive — yes, indeed; of course he is alive, 
 and well, too, I should say ; I never saw him 
 better!" 
 
 " Well, thank God ! " said Harringford, as he 
 pushed a chair toward Lubbock and sank down 
 in his own ; " thank God for that at least." He 
 leaned forward, resting his elbow on the little 
 table which stood beside him, and on which a 
 waiter containing his untouched breakfast still 
 remained, covered with a large napkin. 
 
 " Look here, E.uy," said Lubbock, lifting the 
 white cloth, " you are ill, you have eaten noth- 
 ing, and it is afternoon ; you haven't even drunk 
 your coffee ; everything is cold as a stone. What 
 are you trying to do with yourself, anyway, stay- 
 35 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 ing away two whole years and never letting us 
 know where, then coming back and cooping your- 
 self up in this beggarly cell of perdition? " Lub- 
 bock was on his mettle now. " Why didn't you 
 come to us, or let us know when you were com- 
 ing? Where did you get that look? Was there 
 an accident on the railroad ? I am going to have 
 some wine sent up here; you must get out of this." 
 
 " No accident, no — nothing ; never mind the 
 wine, John — wait — I'll drink this coffee. We'll 
 go after a little ; wine fails to cheer as it is 
 famed to do. Tou have relieved me greatly — 
 about Ainsworth. What I want to know, at 
 once, John, is whether everybody is well — Ains- 
 worth — Evelyn — Aunt Huldy ? 
 
 " Yes, all of them ; everybody well — well as 
 health and riches and perfect happiness in the 
 near prospect can make them. And not a con- 
 founded drop of that villanous stuff are you 
 going to drink. I am going to have my way 
 for about the space of a short whUe, and when 
 I get through with you I want you to tell me 
 simply and plainly exactly what kind of a phan- 
 tasmagoria it is that you have got dancing 
 about on the fox-fire-lighted screen of your 
 brain. You have stayed in the woods until you 
 have lapsed into a primitive state. In your 
 ideal semi-barbarism you have allowed yourself 
 to be elevated into the seventh heaven of human 
 misery, and don't seem to be in the least con- 
 36 
 
A DREAM AND A POKGETTING 
 
 scious of your condition. You have even for- 
 gotten how to order a breakfast." 
 
 During this rhodomontade, Lubbock had rung 
 the bell several times. A waiter was now 
 knocking at the door ; John opened it and de- 
 livered his order in " good set terms." 
 
 " For two — yes — and be quick," were his last 
 words as he closed the door again. 
 
 " You need a guardian, Harringford," he re- 
 sumed ; " and you may as well begin now to look 
 upon me in that light, and I am convinced that 
 this present moment is the time for me to enter, 
 actively, upon the duties of my office. I am 
 going to have for you something that I know 
 will straighten you up at once." 
 
 Harringford sat looking at his old friend with 
 affectionate eyes. " John," he said slowly, " as 
 soon as this marriage is over, I want you to go 
 with me a little journey somewhere ; I have 
 thought over it often of late. I have a little 
 money now, you know, thanks to your kindness 
 and good management. I want to sit down by 
 the sea awhile, and I want you with me." 
 
 The deep dejection of his tone and manner 
 was unmistakable. Lubbock drew up his chair 
 and sat close to his friend, speaking with great 
 warmth and tenderness. 
 
 " And I will go with you. I have been lead- 
 ing my treadmill life until my soul — if I have 
 any ; neither you nor Ainsworth would ever allow 
 37 
 
UNTIL THE DAY JBREAK 
 
 that I have — is shrivelling up for want of whole- 
 some diet. I will go with you. I want to treat 
 myself to a feast in your company, so just con- 
 sider that settled, now. I don't care where you 
 want to go, I'll go." 
 
 His words expressed no more than his man- 
 ner, and both failed to do justice to all he felt. 
 
 The change in his friend stirred his nature 
 deeply, and his sympathetic affections moved 
 him like an inspiration. 
 
 Harringford's unaccountable melancholy ap- 
 palled him ; it seemed a monstrous metamor- 
 phosis that could not be endured. The power 
 to inspire affection in others is a rich possession 
 of the soul, but to feel an affection which can 
 lend to us the power to do for others what we 
 cannot accomplish for ourselves is a richer pos- 
 session still, and the wonders which can be 
 wrought by a vital, earnest sympathy is, per- 
 haps, one of the greatest mysteries of life. 
 
 In an hour Lubbock had made a new man of 
 Ruy Harringford. He never flagged in his 
 friendly persistence until he had secured for 
 him whatever of grace may be won by kindly 
 ministering to the needs of the body, and just 
 how much of heavenly grace is thus to be ob- 
 tained is known to aU who have lived to any 
 purpose whatever, or given other than super- 
 ficial thinking to our conditional and complex 
 existence. Everyone knows the uplifting of the 
 38 
 
A DEEAM AND A FOKGETTING 
 
 spirit which comes by bathing the face in clear 
 cool water, while such a trivial thing as a crum- 
 pled tie serves to bring disorder into the house 
 of thought. 
 
 Lubbock played the part of an angel — ^wing- 
 less and rather heavy, but angel no less. He had 
 Harringf ord's trunk brought in a hurry ; swore 
 at proper intervals, and in good orthodox fashion. 
 He sat at table eating and drinking — out of his 
 hour — as though to eat and drink from morning 
 until night had been with him a pleasing and 
 life-long occupation, notwithstanding the loud 
 outcries of his conscience against the outrage 
 upon his digestive economy. He talked inces- 
 santly, encouraging Harringf ord about his work, 
 detailing pleasant things he had heard of it and 
 making great plans for the future. He told 
 joke after joke, and did most of the laughing 
 himself, laughing loudest when he saw the red- 
 eyed demon of dyspepsia dancing a nightmare 
 hornpipe on the rim of his plate or glaring at 
 him over the edge of his wineglass. 
 
 " And now, Buy, my boy," he said at last, 
 " seeing that your green and sickly fiend seems 
 to have posted to the moon and left ' the world 
 for us to bustle in,' let us begin by finding out 
 just how we stand with it. First, then, I am 
 your friend — through good or evil — I am your 
 friend always. Tou won't need one should rise 
 from the dead to tell you that. I think you are 
 39 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 nursing some hidden grief ; are you not in some 
 trouble? If you have some serious trouble, 
 don't you think you ought to tell me of it ? " 
 
 It is hard to say just what Lubbock had in his 
 mind. He felt that he was treading on very 
 sacred ground. He scanned mentally the wide 
 range of probabilities, he even surmised wildly 
 the possibilities. Harringford seemed looking 
 into his soul's centre, so piercing was the un- 
 wavering gaze he bent upon him, but Lubbock 
 met it with a frank, open look that was equally 
 unflinching; secure in the perfect sincerity of 
 I his honest affection, he had nothing to fear. He 
 leaned forward, and laying his hand on that of 
 his friend, continued, speaking slowly, in low, 
 clear tones : " Harringford, don't let your re- 
 gard for me induce you to speak where you feel 
 you should be silent, but if you need a friend's 
 help, trust me. I will see you through your 
 trouble, whatever it may be and wherever it may 
 lead, even to the death." 
 
 "I know it, John, I know it," said Harring- 
 ford, struggling with his emotions ; " but there 
 is really nothing so serious. I have an old 
 trouble which I must learn to bear; there is 
 no help for it here ; I may speak of it after 
 awhile. What I want to speak of now is an- 
 other matter. Night before last I had a most 
 horrible dream, and since then I have not been 
 able to escape the remembrance of it for a mo- 
 40 
 
A DKBAM AND A POEGETTING 
 
 ment, I have not been able either to eat or 
 sleep, scarcely to think a rational thought. This 
 is the cause of my coming without writing — I 
 got in so late, too, last night. I'll soon be my- 
 self again now " 
 
 " A dream ? " said Lubbock, surprised. 
 " What kind of a dream? About whom — Ains- 
 worth ? " he asked, quickly, recalling Harring- 
 ford's anxiety to hear of him. 
 
 " Yes, it was about Ainsworth, and the most 
 frightful that could be imagined. But why — 
 what made you think it was of him ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said Lubbock ; " I just 
 wondered — go on — let me hear what it was." 
 
 " Well, you see, I had just had a letter from 
 Harry, asking me to be best man for him, and 
 telling me all about the marriage, and I suppose 
 that was on my mind. I dreamed I had come, 
 and, of course, started to go to Harry's room the 
 first place. Everything seemed as tangible as 
 life itself. It was broad day and I saw the old 
 house as plain as I see you at this moment, and 
 as I came near, Harry himself leaned from his 
 window, saw me coming, and made a motion of 
 recognition with his hand, which I returned, 
 and quickened my steps until I reached the 
 gate ; here I had some difficulty ; the latch 
 seemed to have been changed to the other side. 
 At last I got it to open, and went in, thinking 
 how clean the pavement looked. In the middle 
 41 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 of it I saw growing up between the bricks a 
 flower, one that I have never seen since I was 
 in India, five years ago ; I remembered — wonder- 
 ing at it ; I stooped down and plucked it off, and 
 as I did so, I heard some one crying. I went in 
 and found old Aunt Huldy sitting on the floor 
 of the haU, sobbing and wringing her hands. 
 She did not seem to know me, but kept on 
 muttering and moaning to herself. I asked her 
 what had happened. She said she had seen a 
 death's-head moth down in the cellar, and knew 
 it was a warning that something dreadful was 
 coming. Just then my eyes fell upon the flower 
 in my hand and in it I saw a miniature, a per- 
 fect picture of Evelyn — Evelyn Weir." 
 
 Here Harringford stopped, and putting his 
 hand up to his throat, turned quickly to the 
 table and, taking up his glass, swallowed some 
 wine. " Just then," he continued, " a sharp cry 
 came from above. I ran quickly up the stairs 
 and opened the door of Harry's room. He was 
 sitting in his chair by a large table, facing me, 
 his back to the open window. I started to walk 
 toward him, as I thought, when I felt the room 
 grow suddenly dark, and I saw that the walls 
 had changed and seemed to be made of rough 
 stones. I could distinctly see the glitter of 
 dampness and perceived a sickening odor as of 
 a close, imused cellar. The light faded out en- 
 tirely and I stood groping in absolute darkness. 
 43 
 
A DREAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 A chilly horror came over me. I spoke to Harry, 
 but there was no answer; then, knowing the 
 direction of his chair, I stepped forward, reach- 
 ing out to feel for him. In a moment my hands 
 rested on some object, but, merciful heaven! 
 the shuddering dread which that contact in- 
 spired, the loathing, the despair, the awful fear, 
 it cannot be described ; I could neither move 
 nor cry out ; my whole body seemed changing 
 to stone, but my mind was supematuraUy alert. 
 I knew what it was I was touching, yet I could 
 not lift my hands : knew it in spite of the pitchy 
 darkness as well as I knew it when a strange 
 light filled the place and I saw Harry Ains- 
 worth sitting before me a hideous shrivelled 
 corpse, dried to the lightness of a mummy and 
 shrunken to a skeleton, f) 
 
 " His hands were raised high, straight above 
 his head, and as I struggled to loosen my hands 
 from their involuntary hold, I could hear parti- 
 cles, which my efforts had shaken from their 
 places, falling down within the dreadful hollow 
 of the body. 
 
 " I tried again and again to call out, but my 
 tongue felt as though swollen until it choked me. 
 At last I seemed able, little by little, to move, 
 and had succeeded by dint of pushing, sliding, 
 and digging my fingers into the ground (for I 
 had sunk down upon the floor of the place), to 
 get back a few feet from the horrible thing ; but 
 43 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 just when I thought I was going to escape, the 
 ghastly figure leaned forward and I saw it was 
 going to fall upon me, the dreadful arms would 
 be about my neck. I suppose I had reached 
 the utmost of what nature can endure, and with 
 the superhuman effort I made to cry out I 
 awoke. The shrill echoes of my own voice filled 
 the room ; I found myself sitting upright in the 
 bed ; my lamp was burning dimly. My first 
 feeling was one of intense relief to find it all a 
 dream. The next instant I was stricken through 
 with new terror; a gaunt shadow was moving 
 along the opposite wall ; there could be no mis- 
 take, it was the shadow of a human being. It 
 crossed the entire side of the room, turned the 
 corner and advanced along the left-hand wall 
 toward me. I watched it intently, fascinated by 
 unspeakable dread. It came on until it reached 
 the door that opened into the hall, through 
 which it seemed to vanish. 
 
 " I could sleep no more. I sat as one stupe- 
 fied, waiting for day. I have always thought 
 my nerves strong as the strongest, but that 
 dream has shaken me more than all the realities 
 I have endured in my lifetime. I have not been 
 able to rest at all, and started here next day. I 
 got here late last night, and I tell you frankly, 
 that dream haunted me so that I was afraid to 
 go to the old house and try to call Harry up. 
 I suppose this superstitious dread is an almost 
 
A DEBAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 inexcusable wealmess, but it is like many others 
 which afflict us, it is not to be done away with. 
 You will well imagine, John, how relieved I am to 
 hear that all is well with Ainsworth, for, strange 
 as it seems to me now, my greatest fear has been 
 that I would in some way find my dream true. 
 I want you to go with me up to the old place ; 
 I cannot be satisfied imtil I have seen Harry 
 for myself." 
 
 " That's just what I want to do," said Lub- 
 bock. " I stopped there this morning to speak 
 to Ainsworth of your coming home ; he was not 
 expecting you. If you are ready, we wUl go 
 now. I ordered a carriage to wait as I came in ; 
 I suppose it is at the door. I want you to get ' 
 this dream phantom out of your mind ; there's 
 nothiag in it. Dreams don't come true in our 
 day, Euy. It was a frightful thing, and I don't 
 wonder at your being worried over it, but I think 
 Ainsworth will be able to convince you that he 
 is considerably alive and would seriously object 
 to being mummified. Come, we'll soon have 
 you laughing at your superstition." 
 
 In" fact, Lubbock was anxious to be out in the 
 open air ; he was just a little dazed by the day's 
 experiences. He recalled the scene with Ains- 
 worth in the morning, and now here was Kuy 
 Harringford, looking like an inspired ghost, 
 telling a dream that, to say the least, was some- 
 what suggestive of the horrible. He didn't at 
 45 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 all like the movement of things. He felt himself 
 growing more and more depressed, and he 
 chafed under it. 
 
 " Fill your glass there, Ruy," he said ; " here's 
 to the eternal rest of your nightmare ghost; 
 drink, and for God's sake, man, do try to look a 
 little more cheerful." 
 
 Half an hour later they were driving at a slow 
 pace along the shady side-street on which the 
 old Harringford house was situated, within a 
 block or two of their destination. The dark 
 cloud seemed slowly lifting from Harringford's 
 mind, and under the influence of Lubbock's 
 companionship he had almost grown cheerful. 
 
 Their talk had been about literature. " Oh, 
 well," Harringford was saying, " it is the circum- 
 scribed range of our vision which makes us 
 elated or depressed by the outcome of the mo- 
 ment. If we could only school our souls to look 
 beyond, we would see that all criticism must be 
 impotent finally. The world's big mind is at 
 last made up, and in the end the great seal is 
 set, approving or condemning, regardless of in- 
 dividual opinion. The final result is determined 
 in either case the moment the work is done, 
 only we cannot know it, and if we could only re- 
 member that when the time does come for the 
 pronouncing of the irrevocable fiat, we shall 
 most Hkely long since have found the peaceful 
 happiness of unconscious dust, no more to be 
 46 
 
A DREAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 disturbed by good or ill ; we woiild not feel as 
 we so often do, but we cannot liTe in this eter- 
 nal projection, and there is not much for us but 
 to fall back upon the comforting egotism of 
 faith. Our work must be its own reward ; our 
 love for it, our pleasure in the doing must 
 content us. All anxiety about what is beyond 
 this is really but vanity and Taxation of spirit. 
 But love, that is true love, repays us now, 
 whether it be for art or for some — " The 
 monologue broke off suddenly. " Look, John," 
 he said. 
 
 Lubbock glanced at him, and following the di- 
 rection of his eyes, saw, coming down the steps 
 in front of the house just opposite, Evelyn 
 Weir. She looked like a goddess leaving her 
 temple. 
 
 In a moment Lubbock had stopped the car- 
 riage, and both he and Harringford joined her on 
 the sidewalk. There was the usual interchange 
 of greetings and compliments. Harringford 
 bore the unexpected meeting with a fair show of 
 outward calm, though his trembling hand and 
 exceeding pallor betrayed the intensity of his 
 suppressed emotions. 
 
 " We were just upon our way to the old place," 
 he said, " and if you will allow us we will walk 
 the rest of the way and pray for your good com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Then you must pray for yourselves ; you 
 47 
 
TWTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 have forestalled me. I was about to ask you to 
 walk a little farther and spend the eTening with 
 us ; we dine at five. I have many congratula- 
 tions and some scoldings for you, Mr. Harring- 
 f ord ; but I can forgive you much for this pleas- 
 ant surprise. But you are always surprising 
 us." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, thank you. Miss Evelyn; 
 you are very kind to say so ; we are about mak- 
 ing an unceremonious, call on an acquaintance of 
 yours who lives not far from this." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Evelyn, with a confused smile, 
 blushing visibly. "Well, at least I shall ex- 
 pect you later ? " 
 
 " I shall be delighted," said Harringford. 
 
 " And," John put in, " of course you include 
 Harry in this invitation ? " 
 
 " Oh, to be sure — I want all of you ! Mr. Har- 
 ringford, I will not wait until then to congratu- 
 late you on your latest success. We are all very 
 greatly pleased with your last book. I am 
 charmed with the touch of romance, yet I can 
 but wonder where so cheerful a man can get 
 air that sadness from ; one would imagine the 
 writer quite a melancholy person, I think, not in 
 the least like yourself. I never thought you gave 
 much heed to the affections." 
 
 It was Harringford's turn to blush, which he 
 did. 
 
 " I think some change has come to you ; can 
 48 
 
A DEEAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 it be possible that some fickle lass has broken 
 your raerry heart for you ? " 
 
 Harringford grew white again. He turned to 
 her, looking steadfastly into the smiling eyes. 
 
 " No fickle lass, I fear," he said, and stopped. 
 
 Both stood silent, looking at each other. It 
 was only for a moment, and each turned away 
 without a word ; whateyer of the truth was rec- 
 ognized was buried in silence by mutual con- 
 sent. 
 
 " You see," said Lubbock, " he has been for 
 some time a devoted worshipper at the feet of 
 the dismal goddess solitude ; it has had its effect 
 — it always does." 
 
 "Yes, that is true," said Evelyn, not look- 
 ing up. They were nearing the old Harring- 
 ford place. The carriage had followed along, 
 and Lubbock now motioned the driver to turn 
 in. 
 
 " How sweet they are ! — the locust-blossoms," 
 said Harringford, as he caught the scent now 
 from the old trees. His heart gave a great 
 bound. A moment more and he would see 
 Harry — Harry Ainsworth — his life-long friend, 
 whom he loved better than he loved himself. 
 
 The day was perfect. The sky was deep blue 
 and intensely brilliant. The swaying maples, 
 yielding to every movement of the air, were con- 
 stantly greeting each other with soft whisper- 
 49 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 ings, all their silken garments glistening in the 
 sun. Life, hope, happiness, seemed to pervade 
 all things. Birds sang everywhere ; flowers 
 bloomed, and the butterflies, fluttering about in 
 the sun, looked like strange blossoms blown upon 
 the wind. 
 
 In this quiet part of the city, where the houses 
 retreated from the street, almost hiding them- 
 selves from sight amid the trees and vines and 
 tangled shrubberies of the ample grounds, Nat- 
 ure seemed to have wandered down from the far 
 hills, making a peaceful but complete conquest 
 of the town. People were wont to stand of 
 mornings at their front fences gossiping across 
 the street. Few vehicles heavier than the low- 
 wheeled phaetons, filled usually to overflowing 
 with sunny-haired children, ever disturbed the 
 thick-shaded avenues. At times the sprinkler, 
 looking like some huge green, iron-bound beetle, 
 would pass by on its rounds, leaving a gracious 
 coolness in its wake. The fragrant air seemed 
 ever wandering about in search of something to 
 bless. 
 
 Ainsworth sat by the open window of his 
 study, which looked out upon the side grounds. 
 The snowy bloom of the locusts gleamed in the 
 sunlight against the sky, and the delicious odor 
 stole into the room like some fabled balm of 
 elysium. He listened to the playing of the 
 fountain in the next enclosure, and could see 
 50 
 
A DREAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 the thin jet of water as it lifted above the rose- 
 vines clambering all over the high board-fence 
 which divided the grounds. 
 
 He glanced up at the sky, at the tall shim- 
 mering poplars, and the maples, changing con- 
 tinually from green to silver and from silver to 
 green as they swayed back and forth ; at the tall 
 chimneys and the shining roofs, where an occa- 
 sional pigeon strutted proudly, mimicked by his 
 black shadow upon the shingles; at the ever- 
 busy sparrows as they fluttered and hopped 
 about in their unceasing and happy activity. 
 
 " It is a pleasant world," he thought, his heart 
 filled with a grateful sense of the sweetness and 
 beauty of life on such a day. " With one you 
 love to love you, with health and youth, and no 
 cloud to cast a shadow on the future." 
 
 " It is a good world," he went on, murmuring 
 his thoughts aloud, " a lovely world, and I thank 
 God for it." A mist had gathered in his eyes. 
 
 At that moment there came the sound of 
 voices and footsteps advancing along the street. 
 Presently three people came by the thick group 
 of bushes which hid the fence at the corner of 
 the lawn. They were Evelyn Weir, Euy Har- 
 ringford, and John Lubbock. 
 
 " There he is now," said Lubbock, motioning 
 
 toward the house. Harringford looked up 
 
 quickly, Evelyn gave a shy glance and looked 
 
 down, blushing. Ainsworth leaned out, smiling, 
 
 51 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 made a playful motion with his hand, and has- 
 tily withdrew from the window. 
 
 " What do you both say ? " said Harringford. 
 " I'll bring Harry, and we'll all go for a drive 
 out the Allendale road." 
 
 Both gave ready assent. Harringford laid a 
 strong hand on the iron gate, and in an instant 
 was in the hallway, his anxious foot upon the 
 stair. 
 
 " Ye ain't gwine ter pass me, is you, Marse 
 Euy? Lawd, Lawd, look at dat man ; whar yo' 
 git dat mustaches, chile? Howdy — howdy — 
 howdy — hoo-wee ! ! Looks lak yo' 'bout done 
 quit oyam fo' de ole place en de folks hyar. Is 
 yo' mos' done gambasin' ovah de face uv de yuth 
 yit, hey, honey ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have about finished with the earth, I 
 believe, now. Mammy ; a little while longer, and 
 I'll be back to stay. And how have you been ? " 
 
 " Po'ly, po'ly, Marse Kuy, mighty po'ly ; look 
 lak dey ain't no yarbs kin keep de misery outen 
 dese ole bones, no ways ; no mo' kin dey make 
 um spry agin, Marse Kuy. I'se gwine down de 
 dark valley of triblations fas' es I kin go. Looks 
 lak, yas, yas, but, my Lawd, hit lifs me up to 
 see yo' face back hyar, dat hit do, Marse Buy." 
 
 "Well, now, I am sorry to find you poorly. 
 
 Mammy, but I am going to be at home soon, 
 
 to stay, I hope, and I'll get you something that 
 
 wiU cure you, too. I may have to leave you 
 
 52 
 
A DKEAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 for awhile — ^just now. We think of going out 
 for a driTe, you see," he said, striding up the 
 stairway and making the whole fabric shake 
 under him. A moment more and he was in the 
 upper hall, at Ainsworth's door. His loud re- 
 sounding knock echoed through the empty 
 rooms of the old house. He stood waiting for 
 a little, for the door to open, but there was no 
 response. He knocked again impatiently, and 
 then without waiting, put his hand on the knob 
 and entered. " Aha ! My long lost — " he began, 
 expectantly, but stopped short. No one was 
 there. The room was still as death. He stood 
 listening, thinking Ainsworth had hidden from 
 him. After waiting a few moments in silence, 
 feeling greatly disappointed and a little resent- 
 ful, he knocked on the door of the room adjoin- 
 ing, but there was no answer. 
 
 He felt a hot flush of rising anger, and after 
 an instant's hesitation, pushed the door open 
 and looked in. No one was there. 
 
 This unaccountable action on the part of his 
 friend after so long separation and after Ains- 
 worth had seen his approach, rather stunned 
 Harringford, and in the midst of his perplexity 
 and rapidly growing vexation he hardly knew 
 what to think, much less what to do. 
 
 He came back mechanically into the study 
 again and stood looking about him, endeavoring 
 to coUect his bewildered senses. 
 53 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 " Harry," he called, sharply, " don't be trying 
 any pranks on me now for Heaven's sake ; we are 
 waiting for you, too — and — " His voice faltered 
 and once more he stood listening. A new 
 thought suddenly startled him. He whirled and 
 stepped quickly to the window and looked be- 
 low. No — ^the green grass flecked with the snow 
 of the locust-blooms, was waving happily in the 
 sun ; no one had fallen there. He turned into 
 the room and shouted, " Ainsworth, if you are 
 here, answer me ; this treatment is outrageous. 
 I am going." He took a step toward the door, 
 but stopped to glance over the table ; a chair 
 was placed beside it ; Ainsworth had> evidently 
 been writing only a few. moments before. Books 
 and papers were strewn about ; a large book was 
 lying open with a heavy weight still pressing 
 down the open page ; a writing tablet was placed 
 beside it ; he had seemingly been copying some 
 extracts from a scientific work. 
 
 Harringford looked over these things mus- 
 ingly, half unconscious of time and place, his 
 thoughts borne away on a flood of recollections. 
 A dried leaf from a dusty autumn bouquet on 
 the top of the high book-case fell whirling down 
 through the stillness and settled at his feet ; a 
 fly buzzed loudly on the window-pane behind 
 the slowly swaying curtain. 
 
 The sound of voices in the front of the house 
 recalled him to himself. Ah — that was it — Ains- 
 54 
 
A DEEAM AND A FOKGETTING 
 
 worth had slipped out and gone arotmd some 
 other way just to tease him. With a parting 
 glance about the room, he went out, closing the 
 door after him, and started down the stair; 
 Lubbock was just coming in. 
 
 " So you are coming, are you, at last? Do 
 you know how long we've been waiting ? We 
 had about concluded the meeting had been too 
 much for you both — ^but where is Harry? " he 
 said, stopping at the lower step. 
 
 " Oh, you are in it too, are you ? " Harring- 
 ford said, half angrily. " Has everybody turned 
 fool ? I can't say, John, that I enjoy this ; it's 
 not amusing to me, whatever fun you may find 
 in such play." 
 
 Lubbock who had started to go out of the 
 door, whirled around in amazement. "Why, 
 E.uy," he said, " what is the matter ? Have you 
 lost your senses ? Play — what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Look here," said Harringford, seriously, " it 
 you and Ainsworth have any foolishness on 
 hand, stop it ; you ought to know that I am in 
 no humor for it. I am at a loss entirely, I fail 
 utterly to appreciate or comprehend this recep- 
 tion. Harry seems to be avoiding this meeting 
 with me. I can think of no reason he could 
 could possibly have ; if you know of anything, 
 tell me of it, at once. I have waited as patiently 
 as I can, and unless Harry makes his appear- 
 ance very quickly, I shall leave the house with- 
 5S 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 out seeing him. I do not care to be trifled with 
 further." 
 
 Harringford's face was white, his nostrils 
 dilating, and his eyes ablaze with excitement, 
 while the keen precision of his enunciation 
 denoted his bitter resentment. 
 
 " Oh, well, why, Buy, of course — of course it's 
 all an accident. Tou know Harry would be the 
 last one to hurt you willingly. Don't be hasty 
 — wait up there a moment — ^I'll soon find what 
 is the matter ; he thought we were going by, 
 likely enough." 
 
 Lubbock went back through the house and 
 Harringford turned reluctantly up the stairs 
 again, his anger slowly giving way before the 
 overwhelming preponderance of the fears which 
 once more began to present themselves, with 
 the remembrance of his dream, and the per- 
 plexities which seemed to benumb his mind. 
 He went back along the upper hallway, looking 
 into the empty rooms in a dazed mechanical 
 sort of way, not in the least conscious of why 
 he was doing it. He heard Lubbock's voice 
 several times loudly calling for Ainsworth, and 
 found himself counting the echoes as they 
 bounded from one hollow apartment to another. 
 Again and again he heard the call, fainter now, 
 for it came from outside the house. He forgot 
 everything in the intentness with which he 
 listened for an answer. How long he had been 
 
A DREAM AND A POEGETTING 
 
 waiting in miserable suspense he did not know, 
 when, at last, he heard a door open below him 
 and hasty footsteps mounting the stair which 
 led up from the rear part of the house. 
 
 He took a step forward and began speaking 
 eagerly : 
 
 " Great God, Ainsworth, what could induce 
 you to — " He stopped short. It was Lubbock, 
 breathing painfully, a strained expression of 
 anxious inquiry upon his face. 
 
 "Well," said Harringford, as Lubbock reached 
 the top. 
 
 " Well, I suppose he is not here, Euy ; I can't 
 find him anywhere ; Aunt Huldy says she has 
 not seen him since I was here this morning. 
 He must have slipped away from us for some 
 reason. I don't know what to think about it 
 exactly — some whim, I suppose; stop now, 
 Euy," he said, suddenly laying his hand upon 
 Harringford's arm, " don't fret about it ; there 
 couldn't be anything serious — Harry was at the 
 window just now, you know," he went on appeal- 
 ingly. 
 
 Harringford's face grew colorless. "Come," 
 he said, commandingly, leading the way back 
 into Ainsworth's study.. There they stood a 
 moment or two, looking blankly at each other, 
 then went together into the bedchamber and 
 looked about them without speaking. A vase 
 of flowers stood on the dressing-bureau; the 
 57 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 doors of the wardrobe stood opened, and a 
 dressing-gown was lying upon the floor. 
 
 " Did he not have that on when we saw him at 
 the window?" asked Harringford, pointing to 
 the gown, which seemed to have been thrown 
 hastily aside. 
 
 "I don't know at all," Lubbock answered 
 wonderingly. "I think he did; I don't know 
 at all." 
 
 " Well, John, let us go," said Harringford, a 
 hard-set look coming into his face. " Miss Weir 
 has been waiting all this time for us. This wel- 
 come is satisfying, at least, whatever else may 
 be said of it." 
 
 Sarcastic enough these words seemed merely 
 in themselves, but the tone in which they were 
 uttered was one of deep distress and painful 
 disappointment. " But wait a moment — some 
 explanation will be needed — what shall we 
 say ? " 
 
 " Leave that to me," said Lubbock, " we can 
 only say that we cannot explain." 
 
 To the explanations that were made, Evelyn 
 Weir listened with impatient blushing embar- 
 rassment at first, then with blank and simple 
 amazement, finally with growing pallor and flash- 
 ing, half-veiled eyes that glowed and sparkled 
 with her changing emotions. 
 
 There was an effort on all sides to ignore the 
 impleasant incident, but the effort was too pal- 
 58 
 
A DREAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 pably apparent to be successful. A sudden 
 eclipse seemed to shadow the pathway of pleas- 
 ure, and by a kind of tacit mutual consent the 
 proposed drive was given over, the carriage was 
 dismissed and the little party strolled on toward 
 Evelyn's home, conversing, with forced light- 
 ness, of everything except the one theme with 
 which every mind was busy. The soul seemed 
 to have died out of their talk entirely by the 
 time they reached the gate, and Harringford no- 
 ticed a quaver in Evelyn's voice as she reiterated 
 her invitation to come and dine with her. 
 
 There was a moment's hesitation, during 
 which Harringford struggled with himself. A 
 miserable embarrassment was taking possession 
 of him. 
 
 He could see plainly enough that Evelyn was 
 very much disturbed. There was a look of gen- 
 uine distress in her eyes. " If I only knew her 
 thoughts," he said to himself. " She might wish 
 to be alone." And yet how could he decline ? 
 
 " We will come," he said, quickly, and with a 
 heartiness of manner that was not in the least 
 assumed ; " and," he continued, " till then, good- 
 
 He held her hand in his own for an instant, 
 and despite the May sunshine and the warm, 
 sweet air, it was cold as clay. She turned and 
 went swiftly into the house, and the two men 
 ■walked away in silence. 
 59 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 It was the erening of the next day, and they 
 were sitting together in Lubbock's room. 
 
 "I tell you, John, I can't make it out at all; 
 I made sure Harry would be there." 
 
 "Well, but you forget. Buy, he had no ia- 
 •vitation ; how should he know? " Lubbock an- 
 swered, evasively. 
 
 " Oh, pshaw, John, if he had wished to find 
 me, he could easily have inquired ; he could 
 have guessed where we were. Do you think he 
 needed to wait for an invitation ? " 
 
 "No, I suppose not; but how can you tell 
 what may have prevented him. A thousand 
 things might have happened — I mean — nothing 
 could have happened — don't worry about it. 
 Buy ; you know Harry has no reason for not 
 wishing to meet you; it's absurd." The fact 
 was, Lubbock was feeling much more uneasi- 
 ness than he cared to discover. 
 
 " Absurd, yes," said Harringford, " what you 
 say is perfectly absurd. There is but one way 
 to look at this, John, and that is honestly and 
 fairly. Just wait now "—with an imperious wave 
 of his hand motioning Lubbock to silence — " I 
 put it to you honestly whether or not I have 
 cause to be distressed. Tou know all about 
 Harry's letters to me. You know we have been 
 like brothers — more even — to each other. You 
 know also why I came before I was expected — 
 wait now, let me finish. You know that Harry 
 60 
 
A DREAM AND A POKGETTING 
 
 saw me from the window and you know what 
 has happened since. Now, I ask you, does it 
 not force itself upon your reason that Harry is 
 either avoiding me, wilfully and intentionally, or ' 
 that something has happened to him which pre- 
 vents his coming to me ? Is that not plain to 
 you? Well," he went on, Lubbock having re- 
 mained silent, " what, then, am I to think? It 
 is even easier for me to think that some sud- 
 den harm has come to Harry — unlikely as that 
 seems — than to think that he would willingly 
 turn away from me, giving no sign, showing no 
 cause, knowing that I am here, near him, and 
 yet remain away, contemptuous alike of me 
 and my distress. I tell you I have cause, and 
 good cause, to be worried, and I am," and ris- 
 ing, he began to walk back and forth, nervously ' 
 clasping and unclasping his hands behind him. 
 " Well, Buy," said Lubbock, " all I ask is that 
 you will be patient for a little while — as patient 
 as you can be " — rather doubtfully, having stolen 
 a quick glance at Harringford's face. " You are 
 all too quick with your conclusions ; it's just 
 some whim of Harry's which you will laugh at 
 when you see him ; you are all broken up with 
 your trip, anyway ; what you want now is a good 
 night's rest. You will see ' it all differently to- 
 morrow. Don't be fooUsh — come and sit down." 
 But Harringford was not listening evidently, for 
 he went on pacing up and down in silence. 
 61 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 Lubbock bethought him — "What do you say 
 to walking down by the house? We might 
 see if Harry is there yet." Harringford's only 
 answer was to reach for his hat and start to 
 the door. Lubbock followed with what grace 
 he might. 
 
 The streets were lonely and quiet, for it was 
 past eleven of the clock. The misty moon 
 seemed hanging unusually near to the earth, 
 and dispensed her soft radiance with gentle 
 and even touches, like a silent and continuous 
 benediction. A cool and delicious air was 
 stirring among the branches of the dreaming 
 maples. 
 
 " Kind Heaven, what a night it is ! " said 
 Harringford, with unconscious reverence. 
 
 They walked on in silence, and, reaching the 
 old house, went beyond the gate, till they came 
 to a point from which they could see the window 
 of Ainsworth's room ; it was still open, but no 
 light was to be seen. 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Lubbock, and he went 
 in through the gate and stood under the window. 
 " Ainsworth — oh, Harry " — he called ; but there 
 was no answer. He went to the corner of the 
 house where the eaves dripped and gathered a 
 handful of pebbles. Coming back, he stood 
 away from the house and threw them against 
 the window of Ainsworth's sleeping-room ; they 
 rattled loudly upon the glass, and before the 
 
A DREAM AND A FORGETTING 
 
 soiands had ceased, Lubbock called again, but 
 there was no sign from within, and the two 
 men walked away, both busy with their own 
 thoughts. 
 
 It would be folly to attempt a description of 
 Harringford's state of mind as he lay, vainly 
 longing for sleep. There is no sea so troubled, 
 so remorseless, and so deep, as the sea of thought. 
 That sea has no kindness of death to bring rest 
 to the storm-tossed soul ; there the mind, lashed 
 in the boat of life, which will not sink, is 
 whirled by the giddy waves over the edges of 
 appalling and fantastic gulfs, only to be lifted 
 again and borne along through renewed buffet- 
 ings ; the roar of anger, the loud clarion of fear, 
 the smooth, glassy sweep which rounds the 
 maelstrom of despair — all in their turn and none 
 fatal, save to that dream of wished-for peace, 
 which seems blotted out of the realm of beiag 
 forever. 
 
 So the next day and night came and went, 
 and the next. Four days since the day of Har- 
 ringford's return and still no word of Ains- 
 worth, and not one sign discovered that could 
 give the slightest hint as to the cause of his 
 disappearance. Harringford and Lubbock 
 were moving about Ainsworth's study in a state 
 of bewilderment which admits of no com- 
 parison. 
 
 Aunt Huldy's voice could be heard now and 
 63 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 then, as she wandered about the house, mum- 
 bling and muttering to herself and exclaiming 
 aloud from time to time when some new realiza- 
 tion of her grief came upon her. 
 
 Neighbors had been called in and questioned. 
 Ainsworth's friends everywhere in the city 
 had been consulted. The house, from garret 
 to cellar, and the entire premises had been 
 thoroughly searched ; but all had been fruitless. 
 Detectives had been employed and telegrams 
 sent to all places where Ainsworth was known 
 to have acquaintances ; all had been done that 
 could be done, and now the two men were left 
 to themselves once more, to linger idly about 
 the deserted, silent rooms, to wonder and still 
 to wonder, in abject helplessness. 
 
 " Did you see Miss Weir this morning, John, 
 when you called?" Harringford asked, ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 "No," answered John, reluctantly. "No, I 
 didn't see her ; she is ill. I told them to keep 
 the papers from her." 
 
 Harringford dropped the book he had just 
 picked up from the table, but recovered it 
 quickly and, sitting down, began spinning the 
 leaves with trembling fingers, while he gazed 
 absently at nothing. 
 
 Lubbock, turning away to the window, watched 
 the falling locust-blooms, and listened to the 
 confused murmur of the out-of-door sounds, 
 64 
 
A DEEAM AND A FOEGETTING 
 
 ■which all seemed muffled as in a dream. Thus 
 they remained for some moments in utter si- 
 lence, but suddenly both men turned to look at 
 each other, Harringford rising quickly to his 
 feet. 
 
 They heard Evelyn Weir's voice in the hall be- 
 low. She was talking excitedly to Aunt Huldy. 
 A moment after she came swiftly up the stairs 
 and entered the study. In one hand she held 
 a newspaper, which had been twisted into a roll 
 in her unconscious desperation, and the white 
 fingers stiU clinched it fiercely ; her cheeks were 
 ashen pale, her lips trembling, and her eyelids 
 red with weeping ; her left hand was raised to 
 her throat, and she seemed vainly struggling for 
 speech. She advanced as far as the table. Ains- 
 worth's chair still stood in its place, the large 
 book, with the weight on its pages, still lay open 
 upon the table, the tablet, too, and the pen — one 
 that she had given him— lay beside it. On these 
 things she looked intently for an instant, and 
 then raising her eyes, she fixed them upon the 
 two men who stood speechless. Each of them 
 started visibly. 
 
 For another moment she stood looking iato 
 the two white faces before her ; there was no 
 mistaking what she saw written there. Sud- 
 denly they seemed faded into a gray mist — the 
 window grew dark and the May sunshine 
 turned to blackness. She sank down upon the 
 65 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 chair, leaning heavily upon the table, her 
 lifeless hand pushing the weight from the open 
 book. It fell to the floor with a jarring sound, 
 which rang through the lonely house like a 
 kneU. 
 
PART TWO 
 
 A MEETING AND FAREWELL 
 
 If one could ease an aching heart, 
 By breathing of the mountain air ; 
 
 Or woo the wary soul to part 
 A little from the path of care 1 
 
 I hear the brittle twig beneath her feet, 
 
 And now, I mark 
 Her even step, which stirs the rustling leaf I 
 
 O bid her stay I — 
 Sweet silence of the breathing wood speak thou 
 
 For m^e I pray : — 
 Woo her to linger even as she lingers now 1 
 
 Can she not hear 
 The beating of my heart— is there no sound 
 
 Comes to her ear — 
 No voice, that cries from passion's battle-ground ? 
 
 More than three years had passed away since 
 the strange disappearance of Harry Ainsworth. 
 Every effort to find a clew had failed. Of course 
 there had been a great sensation, and, of course, 
 the press teemed with numberless theories and 
 explanations which answered every purpose, ex- 
 cept, indeed, the one for which they were pre- 
 67 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 sumably written. In most instances such trivial 
 things as simple impossibilities were not allowed 
 to hinder the genius of invention. 
 
 The enthusiastic absurdities which were put 
 forth, in all seriousness — a tithe of which, only 
 found places in print— had they been gathered 
 together and analyzed, would have proven, con- 
 clusively, that the average human mind is a very 
 much overrated thing. 
 
 A strange happening, an unexplainable inci- 
 dent, is a spark which excitement may fan to a 
 flame, and then — if one has spiritual eyes to see 
 clearly in that unusual and unnatural light — 
 one may read some not very comforting truths. 
 Many of the attempted explanations of Harry 
 Ainsworth's fate, if they could be reproduced 
 here, might possibly be entertaining. 
 
 One man insisted, for example, that, being a 
 scientist, he had a balloon anchored on the roof, 
 and for sport, had, on hearing the approach of 
 his friends, run to the attic, climbed through the 
 trap-door and into the balloon, which, of course, 
 collapsed over some wood or river, and so he 
 was unaccountably lost. And, of course, no 
 human eye would be in the least likely to notice 
 a balloon rising over the city in broad daylight, 
 nor would anyone have detected so small an ob- 
 ject careening about for hours — perhaps for days, 
 on the top of the house ; and yet so persistent 
 was this heretofore perfectly docile business 
 63 
 
A MEETING AND EAEEWELL 
 
 man, that at last he had to be forcibly ejected^ 
 together with a second and less happy theory — 
 from every editorial sanctum in the city — and 
 that in the very city, too, where he had lived 
 a sober and industrious life and accumulated a 
 fortune as a result of his strict adherence to 
 sound commercial principles and continued ex- 
 ercise of good common-sense. 
 
 But as the days and weeks grew to months 
 and passed away, bringing no solution of the 
 mystery, the interest flagged, and in a very short 
 time Harry Ainsworth was — so far as the great 
 world was concerned — forgotten ; or was recalled 
 only now and then as an example of the strange 
 things which can and do happen. 
 
 But there were a few who had never ceased to 
 watch and wait and wonder. Among these was 
 the woman Ainsworth had loved. 
 
 It might be more in accordance with what is 
 commonly regarded among the demands of ro- 
 mance to record that she sunk under the dread- 
 ful shock and became a hopeless and melancholy 
 wreck in mind and body, or that she grieved her- 
 self — as many a heart has done, alas ! — into a 
 good green grave; but surely it should be no 
 cause for regret to know that the poor girl 
 recovered, at last, her threatened health and, 
 seemingly, at least, her wonted spirits. 
 
 Evelyn Weir lived to bear her heavy sorrow 
 as only a woman can — patiently, uncomplaia- 
 69 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 ingly, almost cheerfully — lived as thousands of 
 other women have lived and will live, lived to 
 bless and comfort other lives with whatever of 
 love and hope a strong nature may save from the 
 wreck of a perfect happiness — like a fair tree 
 which puts forth on the remaining branches 
 whatever it may of leaf and bloom, seeking still, 
 with what is left, to make its life beautiful, to 
 spread a grateful shelter and hide as best it can 
 the scars of the cruel lightning's stroke which 
 has destroyed the faultless symmetry and come- 
 liness of its first perfect growth. 
 
 She was one who had never forgotten. Of 
 the three others who could not forget, one was 
 dead. Poor old Aunt Huldy, with her simple 
 affectionate heart, full of superstitious fears and 
 haunted by unreasonable remorse, had no power 
 to accept, nor find comfort in, arguments based 
 on philosophical grounds, which might have 
 sufficiently sustained a more intelligent being. 
 The dreadful spectacle, always present to her 
 mind, of what she considered a fearful and sud- 
 den fulfilment of her own prophesying, preyed 
 upon her continually, and while it did not cause 
 her death, perhaps, it did surely hasten it. 
 
 " 'Tain't no use, Marse Kuy," she would say 
 when Harringford would try to cheer her. 
 "'Taint no use nohow. I'se gwine down de 
 dark valley ob de shadow, dat's whar I'se gwine, 
 plumb thu; hit's de woryin' en de misery in 
 70 
 
A MEETING AND FAEEWELL 
 
 hyar, 'bout 'busin' dat po' chile an' a callin' 
 down de Lawd's wrai, dat's what hit air, Marse 
 Buy, dat's what. Looks lak dat I cawn't get 
 no res' hyar, en hit'll toiler clar to de chume ; 
 no, no honey ! dey ain't no yarbs fo' dat ! " 
 
 And so the poor clouded soul went out into 
 that world where God's mercy must have aston- 
 ished her when she came to find no record kept 
 of her slight offending. 
 
 The remaining two who never ceased to recall 
 sadly the shrouded fate of Ainsworth, were 
 Lubbock and Harringford. Of these two men, 
 one was doomed to pass through an experience 
 so fraught with spiritual griefs, so strange in all 
 its unprecedented phases and so painful, that if 
 this history had not been so far followed, in 
 obedience to unknown influences which have 
 impelled its writing, the scenes which now pre- 
 sent themselves as a part of it which must follow, 
 should be left unrecorded here. 
 
 As for John Lubbock, being of a sangiiine 
 temperament and somewhat deficient, perhaps, 
 in accurate penetration, he could pretty success- 
 fully resist the encroachments of harassing 
 thought, and soon formed for himself a theory 
 which in a vague and general way accounted — 
 to his mind at least — for Ainsworth's disap- 
 pearance ; so that in time he began to look 
 upon the matter as settled. Nor was he anxious 
 to subject his conclusions to any severe tests of 
 71 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 analysis, which would, in all probability, have 
 compelled him to seek some other ground on 
 which to shift the vexing question. 
 
 Therefore he was disposed to let well enough 
 alone, being of that nature which is fain to 
 throw off whatever is irksome to it without 
 inquiring too closely into the means by which 
 the burden is removed; so that while Lubbock 
 remembered with true sorrow Ainsworth's fate, 
 it was with a kind of peaceful regret, which 
 prevented the unrestful demon of vain specula- 
 tion from preying upon his mind. 
 
 Not so was it with Harringford. Because of 
 the attitude in which he found himself, and be- 
 cause of the relations he sustained toward Ains- 
 worth — known to his own soul alone — his was 
 a peculiar grief. The wound was more vital, 
 and time could not bring forgetfuhiess to him. 
 Not that he was higher or finer in his nature ; 
 perhaps no nature could well be higher or 
 finer than was that of his devoted friend, John 
 Lubbock, but Harringford was possessed of a 
 delicately constituted organism, which brings 
 the indwelling spirit into continual and a pain- 
 ful contact with the outlying world. 
 
 He could not shut up his soul, as within thick 
 walls, and so defy the assailing phantoms of 
 wounding thought. 
 
 Although his life had been a brave and heroic 
 struggle with poverty and misfortune, he had 
 73 
 
. A MEETING AND FAKEWELL 
 
 borne the battle well, and had always been re- 
 garded as a man who held troubles in but light 
 esteem, for he was by nature of a buoyant and 
 hopeful disposition ; but within a few years 
 many causes conspiring together produced in 
 Harringford a complete psychical revolution. 
 One occurrence after another, each with its 
 attendant influences, had at last hedged in his 
 life as within an unseen barrier. The slowly 
 narrowing circle seemed to be enclosing him 
 within its impassable limits and baffling every 
 effort of his unconquered will to escape from 
 the fated groimd. Some of these causes have 
 no doubt already been guessed, many yet remain 
 to be shown. Perhaps the very spirit of self- 
 reliance which made him shut up his anguish in 
 his own heart — striving to hide his sorrow from 
 every eye — had worked him woe. There might 
 have come relief in some outburst, but his was 
 a dumb grief, wrapped in the silence of an un- 
 yielding pride. But there is no spirit so strong, 
 no nature so self-reliant, that it may not be 
 crushed at last. 
 
 After years of endurance he had received 
 Ainsworth's letter, asking him to attend at the 
 marriage, and he had determined to come, 
 vaguely hoping that the very fierceness of the 
 trial might serve as a death-blow to hope, end- 
 ing all. 
 
 Then came the frightful dream which had so 
 73 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 possessed him with unreasonable fears that all 
 other considerations were driven, perforce, out 
 of his mind. What followed is already known. 
 The sudden transformation of everything for 
 him, caused by Ainsworth's unaccountable dis- 
 appearance, seemed like some enchantment 
 wrought by the mocking powers, which seem at 
 times to usurp the throne of the universe, dis- 
 pensing their blessings with a curse, and with 
 demoniac laughter bestowing their cruel mercy 
 upon the helpless beings of the earth. 
 
 Harringford's heart filled with hope that was 
 torture, and his soul was racked with a grief 
 that made him shudder when his lightning-like 
 thought detected in it a touch of joy which was 
 now like guUt. 
 
 The way was cleared. 
 
 If the woman he loved was to be won, he was 
 free to win her. But how was the way cleared ? 
 Was it true — was Ainsworth dead — and how — 
 and why? — the friend of his life, the brave com- 
 panion of his earlier struggles, who had never 
 failed him. 
 
 Had he failed in aught? No. There was 
 that comfort ; to that rock he held in the whirl- 
 pool which swept around him. He had, at 
 least, been faithful; he had seen, as he be- 
 lieved, the truth ; he had done what he could, 
 going away to hide from them both the wretch- 
 edness which they might have guessed, but now 
 74 
 
A MEETING AND EAEEWELL 
 
 — now, a tragedy had suddenly opened the path- 
 way to a possible happiness. But was it, in- 
 deed, a possible happiness? It seemed like 
 some fair and luring flower, clothed in tempting 
 and unwonted beauty, to win the eye, but with 
 thorns like serpents' teeth, to wound to death 
 the hand that plucked it. It was as though he 
 were suddenly called upon by the fates to set 
 up, in his belated chariot, the dead hopes which 
 he himself had slain, and drive to a humiliating 
 triumph over the dead body of his friend, his 
 late companion in the battle, who was fallen by 
 the way. 
 
 There was no limit to Harringford's powers 
 for self-torture. Whichever way he turned his 
 thought, he encountered the face of a new an- 
 guish ; yet not real faces they were, but masks, 
 and from behind each one the smiling face of a 
 forbidden joy mocked him; albeit, he firmly 
 grasped his bitter cup and drank in silence — de- 
 spairing, but alone. 
 
 In serious truth, the swift-footed ills of life 
 had brought Harringf ord to bay — he was hedged 
 in on every side. 
 
 There is not much to recount of the happen- 
 ings in the years which followed, immediately, 
 Ainsworth's disappearance, though they had 
 been eventful enough, perhaps, for Harringford. 
 There had been, first, the trip with Lubbock, but 
 the ocean only seemed to reflect back his own 
 75 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 spirit's sense of loneliness and desolation. A 
 tragic remembrance harmted him always — such 
 is always in the power of the mind to tinge all 
 the world with its own color. 
 
 Harringford tried to be philosophical, and 
 very soon found out what a poor boastful fool 
 philosophy is. It can no more satisfy the un- 
 happy heart than clay can satisfy the body's 
 hunger. It is easy to say, "What matters it? 
 A little while and I shall be dust, then I shall 
 not care. Why should I care now ? " 
 
 We can easily feel that the time will come, 
 but while life stays in the heart she insists on 
 being satisfied, now ; nothing but the remorse- 
 less hand of death can stop her unceasing cry for 
 happiness. 
 
 With such like thoughts vexing his soul, Har- 
 ringford at last arose and threw his philosophy 
 to the winds. His melancholy turned to mad- 
 ness. He sought no more for rational comfort, 
 but tried to drown thought and feeling amid the 
 insipid waters of a certain social sea ; and for 
 a little his own madness mocked itself into 
 smiling. The patent young men and women 
 served to amuse him for a time. Curious creat- 
 ures they were, and entertaining after a fashion, 
 like some new kind of figures counting just the 
 same however they might be placed ; turned out 
 of some small and easily handled mould, seem- 
 ingly, in Nature's idler moments, and imposed 
 76 
 
A MEETING AND EAREWELL 
 
 upon the world, by her, as actual human beings, 
 in a sort of playful false pretence. 
 
 He soon tired of it all, however, and for a 
 long time Lubbock saw nothing of him, and 
 the unsatisfactory letters which he received from 
 time to time — sent from widely distant points — 
 showed what a restless, wandering life he was 
 leading. 
 
 At last one golden October found them to- 
 gether at a beautiful mountain-resort. 
 
 It seemed just a little strange, but very pleas- 
 ingly so, to Harringford, that Evelyn Weir 
 should be there, but he accepted it as he had 
 learned to accept everything. 
 
 She was accompanied by her rather stately 
 Aunt Delia, whom he always afterward remem- 
 bered as being everywhere present and impart- 
 ing a certain flavor of untold experience not out 
 of keeping with the spirit of the mountains 
 themselves. She seemed like one who had 
 been a chaperone from all eternity, moving in a 
 changeless orbit like the unwearied stars ; per- 
 sistent and ubiquitous as old Time himself. 
 
 It was evident that Evelyn Weir regarded 
 Harringford with peculiar interest, as was but 
 natural. Perhaps, by some subtle intuition, 
 she divined in part the truth ; perhaps it was 
 only a consciousness of the tie which existed 
 between them because of their great mutual 
 sorrow, albeit her heart singled him out for pe- 
 77 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 culiar reverence ; and as for Harringford him- 
 self, she was for him distinct and separate from 
 all other women in the world, as the moon is 
 separate from the stars ; and aS for her beauty, 
 he could conceive of nothing beyond her ; she 
 seemed to him the head and front of perfection ; 
 he looked upon her as he might have looked 
 upon one of the immortals. The nobleness of 
 her spiritual composition seemed to find fitting 
 expression in every feature and movement of 
 her person ; his hopeless eyes followed her in 
 simple adoration. 
 
 They saw much of each other, and there were 
 times when Harringford was tempted to hope — 
 to speak, even — but as often as the thought 
 came to him, it was quickly banished by an in- 
 evitable and mournful remembrance. He was, 
 however, soon lifted out of the spiritual apathy 
 into which he had lapsed, and even seemed at 
 times to have regained something of his wonted 
 buoyancy of mind. The interchange of thought 
 with one so beautiful and gifted by nature and 
 so chastened by sorrow — even though it might 
 lead to nothing better than this reserved com- 
 panionship — Was gracious and ennobling in 
 every way to him ; so that, despite the hidden 
 anguish in his heart, he grew to have clearer, 
 calmer, and more courageous views of life. His 
 old love of nature came back with tenfold 
 strength and tenderness, and his busy imagina- 
 78 
 
A MEETING AND FAREWELL 
 
 tion was ever weaving delightful and fantastic 
 environment for the figure of one adored im- 
 age ; fanciful creations they were, ever-changing 
 visions, of which the woman he loved was at 
 once the sole centre and inspiration. 
 
 Perhaps it was but another madness, but a 
 madness indeed which all men might covet, for 
 it lifted him above the common world, above 
 himself, into a realm in which the soul expands 
 beyond the clay walls of. its prison-house and 
 asserts its divine privileges and powers. 
 
 With regard to Ainsworth himself, it seemed 
 impossible for Harringford to reach any satis- 
 factory or definite conclusion. If each day did 
 not bring a new presentation of that ever-present ' 
 theme, there was at least a hopeless scrutinizing 
 of his former guesses — hopeless, because it aU 
 brought no comfort. If aught seemed now on 
 a review to be absurd, he could not prove it so ; 
 all must still be in doubt and darkness. Some- 
 times he doubted if he had really seen Ainsworth 
 at the open window, yet, there was the corrob- 
 oration from the others ; could it have been only 
 an apparition, seen by all ? This he could not 
 accept. Yet it seemed as easy to believe as the. 
 fact that he had vanished from sight and from 
 life, apparently, within the next minute, almost. 
 
 There was one thought which sometimes 
 startled his soul : could it be possible that Ains- 
 worth had in some way found out the truth, and 
 79 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 in a moment of insane self-abnegation deter- 
 mined to clear the way for what he supposed 
 would be his friend's happiness ? 
 
 Preposterous as this seemed, Harringford's 
 mind dwelt much upon it, nevertheless. But if 
 he could have accepted this theory, which he 
 could not, there would still remain the question, 
 what had Ainsworth really done ; was he alive or 
 dead ? Perhaps he was a wanderer in some far 
 country ; perhaps near at hand, so disguised as 
 not to betray himself, watching to see if what he 
 had intended would reaUy come to pass. Harring- 
 ford carefully recollected what he knew of Ains- 
 worth's peculiar notions regarding life, his habits 
 of thought, his acute penetration, his patience, 
 his passion for purely scientific knowledge, and 
 his intense love of experiment as a test for 
 all things. At times he thought Ainsworth's 
 voluntary self-sacrifice, with the benefit of his 
 friend as a first motive, and the ambitious pur- 
 suance of a new idea into untried and dangerous 
 fields as a second, seemed not at all incompatible 
 with what he knew of his friend's disposition. 
 
 Sometimes this would assume all the attri- 
 butes of extreme probability, almost certainty, 
 and he would start up in a fever of impatience, 
 wildly determined to seek and find his friend 
 and convince him of his insane foUy at all haz- 
 ards, and perhaps — ^within the next hour — the 
 recollection of that dreadful dream or the intru- 
 80 
 
A MEETING AND EAEEWELL 
 
 sion of some new and startling thought respect- 
 ing the unsolved mystery, would completely un- 
 settle him again and utterly dissipate all his 
 plans. 
 
 Would the truth ever be known ? Harring- 
 ford's mind dwelt upon the question with feel- 
 ings that can only be guessed. Although he held 
 main-ly to his first conviction, that Ainsworth 
 was dead, unreasonable as it seemed — for this 
 appeared to him more reasonable than that he 
 should be alive — there were times when he 
 seemed compelled to take the latter view. Per- 
 haps the mind has its own means of thus relax- 
 ing the strain put upon it, changing the burden 
 slightly, as a man might shift a load from one 
 shoulder to the other, finding thus some small 
 relief from weariness, although the burden must 
 still be borne. 
 
 Harringford found himself, from time to time, 
 curiously scrutinizing the people he met, filled 
 with vague suspicions which he was half con- 
 sciously loath to entertain, but which he could 
 not, for his life, banish from his mind. 
 
 Naturally enough, in his talks with Evelyn the 
 subject in which both were so painfully inter- 
 ested was rarely mentioned ; but of late Harring- 
 ford had become possessed of a great desire to 
 know if she had ever doubted like himself : had 
 ever entertained a thought as to the possibility 
 that Ainsworth was still alive. Yet the days went 
 81 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 by in indolent and half-happy dreaming. The 
 time he had set for his return to the old place 
 was drawing near, and still he had not been able 
 to speak; there was something in the dark 
 depths of Evelyn's clear gray eyes that seemed 
 to make it impossible for him. At last, to his 
 utter astonishment, she herself opened the way. 
 It was the last evening of his stay on the moim- 
 tain ; they had been talking, seriously, of many 
 things, Evelyn resting upon one of the rude 
 grape-vine seats which were placed here and 
 there about the half -wilderness " grounds," and 
 Harringford walking up and down before her. 
 How beautiful she looked in her yielding white 
 attire, half enveloped as she was in soft sanguine 
 folds of knitted wool. From time to time she 
 stretched out one faultless hand, stripping off 
 fragments of the fibrous bark from the piece of 
 vine-wood which formed an arm to the seat; 
 and then she would fall to shredding it in girlish 
 fashion, placing the threads together, like a 
 silken skein, across her knees. Harringford 
 watched her, as he paced to and fro, strugghng 
 with the emotions which threatened instantly to 
 overcome him ; striving, evermore vainly, with 
 his thoughts, which made his heart beat so 
 wildly and so loudly that he actually feared she 
 would hear it. 
 
 What would he not give for one moment's 
 freedom — to break away from this insufferable 
 83 
 
A MEETING AND FAREWELL 
 
 bondage — surely there must be some way out — 
 why should he not make one supreme effort and 
 tear asunder the galling strands with which the 
 sure hand of destiny had tied up his life ? 
 
 Why should this hateful Death forever thrust 
 his phantom form betwixt him and his hopes ? 
 
 " Death is mighty, mightier than is Life," a 
 voice seemed to whisper, but his aroused soul 
 cried out aloud within him, drowning all else : 
 
 "Death is mighty, but Love is stronger than 
 Death. Speak — speak now." And so he would ; 
 why should he not? It was but a moment; 
 thoughts flashed through his mind like light- 
 ning; he saw only the one image, as a man 
 slain in battle might see with dying eyes the 
 figure of some saving angel which lingered near 
 him a moment as though waiting to hear if he i 
 would caU. Was not she waiting to bless him ? 
 He would throw himself at her feet and ask her 
 to save him from despair. 
 
 He took a quick step forward. Evelyn raised 
 her mild, unfathomable eyes ; something in the 
 quiet, far-off look in them made Harringford 
 hesitate, even with the burning words hovering, 
 like flame, upon his lips. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, in sweet, low tones 
 which fell upon his soul like a death-knell—" tell 
 me, do you think it possible for the dead to 
 come back and make themselves known to the 
 living?" 
 
 83 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 Harringford turned suddenly, as though a 
 sword had pierced him through, battling fierce- 
 ly, but blindly, with his fate. Surely the rag- 
 ing tumult in his heart would be heard, if he did 
 not quickly regain himself. 
 
 He took a step or two with averted face, and 
 when he spoke his voice rang sharply under the 
 strain of enforced composure. 
 
 "I can hardly tell," he answered. I have 
 always believed it possible, yet without reason. 
 I have never seen anything to prove it, at all. 
 Why ? " he added, stopping again before her. 
 
 " Because," she said, looking at him, calmly — 
 " because I saw Harry last night, in this very 
 spot. I was sitting here alone, watching the 
 moon-rise and thinking of the old days — and in 
 the midst of it all I became conscious of a pres- 
 ence near me ; without feeling at all frightened, 
 I looked about me and saw a figure approach- 
 ing — from the wood. It came on, without mak- 
 ing the least sound and with no hesitation, untU 
 it reached the shadow of those bushes yonder, 
 where it stopped, and then for the first time I 
 recognized it. It was Harry, looking just like I 
 saw him last, with the same suit of light gray ; 
 his head was uncovered, and his hair seemed 
 blown and dishevelled, half hiding his brow 
 and eyes; there was something wavering and 
 uncertain about his figure, it seemed to me to 
 sway with every movement of the air. Perhaps 
 84 
 
A MEETING AND FAREWELL 
 
 it was only for an instant, but it seemed a long 
 time that lie stood looking at me. I tried hard 
 to speak, but could not, and while I watched, 
 feeling as though walled about with the oppres- 
 sive silence which I could not break, he turned 
 away and disappeared, just as he had come, 
 walking, slowly and noiselessly, back into the 
 shadows of the trees, where he vanished. 
 
 " I don't know how long I sat looking after 
 him, but at last my fan slipped from my hand, 
 and so startled me that I sprang to my feet, and 
 for the first time felt afraid. I almost ran along 
 the path toward the house, and met Axmt Delia 
 and Mr. Lubbock coming to look for me. Don't 
 you think it very strange ? I thought I should 
 have been frightened to death." 
 
 " Strange ? — yes," said Harringford. " These 
 apparitions are only projections of the mind, as 
 they say, perhaps . but it is a very strange 
 thing, very." He walked away a few paces and 
 returned. Within the last few moments his 
 sensations might be compared with those of a 
 man who, by sheer force of will and determined 
 self-assertion, had been able, for a little, to over- 
 bear the forces of nature, and had suddenly 
 found himself equal to some supernatural feat — 
 such as walking upon the water or the air, but 
 who, being suddenly surprised out of himself, 
 or, rather, back into himself, had suddenly sunk 
 in the waves or fallen back upon the earth with 
 85 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 the crushing weight of his own weakness and 
 all the unutterable sense of defeat and vain re- 
 gret returned upon him ; but forever afterward 
 filled with the belief that, but for that unfortu- 
 nate diversion from his purpose he might have 
 succeeded, would have been able to stand un- 
 harmed upon the moving hills of the ocean or to 
 have walked above the thunder along the path- 
 way of the storm. 
 
 Harringford had attempted a very much 
 greater achievement and had, as he believed, 
 failed. 
 
 In accordance with the natural processes 
 which govern the minds, and, consequently, the 
 actions of men, he had sought Evelyn mainly 
 for the purpose of knowing her mind respecting 
 Ainsworth ; to find out, in short, if she firmly 
 believed him dead ; but suddenly feeling within 
 himself a sense of some god-like power, he had 
 determined to take his fate in his own hands. 
 
 He was weary of walking in the dark. He 
 would put all to the test and stand or fall 
 by the issue. If he were doomed, at least he 
 would know it ; so, inspired by the thought that 
 "love is stronger than death," he had faced 
 Evelyn, not, now, to ask about Aiasworth, but 
 to ask the question of questions, upon the an- 
 swer of which all things in life, for him, seemed 
 now to depend. 
 
 It is a fine thing, this divine daring to outface 
 86 
 
. A MEBTESTG AND FAREWELL 
 
 destiny ; this laying of strong hands upon the 
 web of our fate with the will to break through 
 it, let come what may ; a very fine thing, but 
 futile. 
 
 Harringford realized the truth of this as he 
 stood looking out into the darkness. Perhaps 
 it was true then and Ainsworth had really been 
 able to return from the unknown land, and 
 again the words came into his mind, but with 
 new import, " Love is stronger than death." 
 
 " It is very strange," he found himself re- 
 peating again. Evelyn raised her eyes, question- 
 ingly. She had lifted the strands of silken bark 
 from her knees and was now twisting them to- 
 gether like a bracelet about her white arm. 
 
 " How graceful, how inimitable is her every 
 movement," thought Harringford, with a pang 
 of bitterness. He was standing before her, his 
 head thrown back, his arms folded high upon 
 his breast, his eyes looking steadily through the 
 gathering twilight, afar into the unthinkable 
 depths, the mysterious infinitude of the over- 
 arching sky. Anon his thoughts came back to 
 the question which he had at first proposed to 
 himself ; it seemed commonplace enough now. 
 
 "Have you ever thought it possible. Miss 
 Evelyn, that Harry might still be alive ; ever 
 doubted that he is dead ? " 
 
 " Never," she answered, quickly, " never for 
 an instant. I know he is dead." Then more 
 87 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 slowly, and with tears showing in her eyes. 
 "Nothing but death could have kept him — 
 nothing." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Harringford. "I feel that 
 what you say is true. The heart that truly 
 loves, divines the truth, though every sense 
 should plead counter and oppose belief. Love 
 is the only lantern for this night of life." 
 
 There was in these words of Harringford's 
 such a tone of hopeless wretchedness, some- 
 thing so eloquent of unconscious despair, that 
 the mere sound of his voice as he uttered them 
 awakened in Evelyn's soul some unsuspected 
 chords untouched before. She never afterward 
 was able to forget the words nor the voice in 
 which they were spoken. 
 
 With a heavy sigh, Harringford sank down 
 on the seat beside her, and leaning forward, 
 buried his face in his hands. He was uncon- 
 scious, seemingly, of her presence. Once more 
 he saw before his eyes the same message, bear- 
 ing still another meaning and written upon the 
 blackness as though in letters of flame, the 
 words " Love is stronger than Death " ; and as 
 Harringford read them, in this new light, aU 
 hope seemed slipping away out of his heart for- 
 ever — and yet — , if he had looked but once into 
 the eyes that were turned upon him at that 
 moment, new hope, new life, would have sprung 
 up in his soul as a fountain springs in the midst 
 88 
 
A MEETING AND FAKEWELL 
 
 of the desert. But he did not look; he felt 
 that he could not without being betrayed. He 
 struggled for calmness, still hiding his face and 
 hoping that Evelyn would speak and break the 
 silence ; but that she could not do. She was 
 herself in need of help ; her bewildered senses 
 seemed unable alike either to confirm a doubt 
 or dispel a conviction ; if she should speak, 
 what should she say ? What ought she to 
 say ? And so these two troubled souls so shaken 
 by passion, so rich in all that goes to make up 
 the value, the beauty of life, for lack of one poor 
 word, were about to drift apart, when they had 
 come within reach of each other's help, at last ; 
 help so much needed and help that none other 
 could give. So it is; the impassable gulf is 
 often but a hand's-breadth. If only we might 
 know! 
 
 Thus might two friends, upon a mountain lost. 
 Meet on the clouded summit, face to face; 
 
 Both faint from dread and toil of chasms crossed; 
 And for the need of one ray to displace 
 
 The blinding mist which kept them still unseen. 
 
 Die, both, despairing — one short step between. 
 
 Thus might two wrecked souls, thinking miles of seas 
 Held them apart, strive, lonely, in one wave, 
 
 Touch hands and sink ; not knowing they should be 
 Laid side by side, like lovers, in one grave. 
 
 So, like a wall of worlds, a veil may hide; 
 
 An inch of darkness, like a gulf, divide. 
 89 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 And so these two, each ignorant of the other's 
 state, needed but a word, a touch, to bring their 
 souls together ; a word only, but there was no 
 tongue to speak it. 
 
 Evelyn sat silent, trembling, not knowing 
 how to offer the sympathy which was ready to 
 overflow from her full heart. At last, as though 
 moved by some divine instiuct, she reached out 
 her hand to lay it on Harringford's wrist. The 
 gentle fingers touched softly against his hair as 
 they descended; but, at that moment voices 
 were heard, and Harringford roused himself 
 suddenly, pushing his locks back hastily from 
 his burning temples, and as he did so his hand 
 struck against Evelyn's. He felt the touch, but 
 thought it only an accident, and rising to his 
 feet, he turned to face again the every-day world, 
 the old inadequacy of the usual life. Evelyn's 
 Aunt Delia, with John Lubbock, had come to 
 join them. 
 
 " Have you ever noticed the cultivated jim- 
 son, Mr. Harringford," she was saying, holding 
 the white trumpet-like-looking flower toward 
 him. 
 
 " Yes," said Harringford, " it is a fair flower 
 to come from the deadly nightshade." Taking 
 the flower in his hand, and turning to Evelyn, 
 he continued : " This should go to you. There 
 is no telling what it might not become in your 
 hiands." 
 
 90 
 
A MEETING AND FAEEWELL 
 
 Evelyn took the flower and stood looking at 
 it sadly. John Lubbock now began profusely 
 setting forth to the Aunt Delia the glories of 
 some place to which he proposed they should 
 walk, and he was putting a good deal of vigor 
 into his work ; the fact was he was keeping this 
 Aunt Delia pretty busy, all in all, and Harring- 
 ford, as he watched him now, could scarcely re- 
 press a smile, noting his unwonted enthusiasm. 
 Lubbock prevailed, however, and they all started 
 on the little journey, Lubbock, with the Aunt 
 Delia, leading the way. Harringford glanced 
 back toward the spot which Evelyn and he had 
 just quitted, and, excusing himself to her for a 
 moment, hurried back, and at last, after some 
 looking, picked up something from the grass. 
 
 It was the bracelet of twisted fibres, which 
 Evelyn had thrown away. 
 
 " What do you want with that ? " she said, as 
 he returned holding it in his hand. 
 
 " I have lost my soul, I think, within the last 
 half hour, and it is just possible it is in some 
 way bound up in this," he answered, thrusting 
 the bracelet into his bosom. " You never can 
 tell exactly where your soul is ; at least so it is 
 with me. Half of the time it is out of my body, 
 it seems to me, wandering about without lodge- 
 ment or shelter. Sometimes I just catch it 
 tumbling headlong over some dizzy cliff, or just 
 barely succeed in dragging it back from where 
 91 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 it has wedged itself between the arms of the 
 coral, in some green-shadowed, dreadful depth 
 of the ocean. It makes me no end of grief, and 
 I could wish it were, like the body of Polonius, 
 ' safely stowed.' It would not greatly matter to 
 me how or where. If it might be locked in a 
 casket or sealed up in a marble urn, or even 
 wrapped up as a piece of common merchandise 
 to be laid away, I wouldn't care greatly how, so 
 it might be disposed of in some out-of-the-way 
 comer, anywhere, and I left in peace from it 
 forever." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Harringford," exclaimed Evelyn, 
 " you ought not to talk like that, really, you 
 ought not." 
 
 " And why not ? " said Harringford, with a 
 bitter smile. " The king, crowned of sorrow 
 and whose narrowing dominion, like mine, is 
 eternally hedged about with the dancing phan- 
 toms from the pit, must needs play his own 
 fool and find his merriment in the pain which 
 tortures him." 
 
 For a little space they walked on together in 
 silence, when Evelyn, lifting her head, seemed 
 about to speak, but at that moment they came 
 up with the others, and Lubbock, unusually gay 
 in manner, broke in with some story he had on 
 hand. He was in quite a gale, it appeared, as 
 though some sudden stroke of good-fortune had 
 befallen him. 
 
 93 
 
A MEETING AND PAEEWELL 
 
 Poor John ; if he had known how far he was 
 mistaken, how very inopportune had been his 
 coming and the intrusion of the Aunt Delia with 
 her " jimson flower," he would have carried that 
 lady, hale and heavy as she was, to the tip-top 
 of the mountain before he would have allowed 
 her to interfere ; as it was, he was greatly 
 charmed with himself and all things about him, 
 and Harringford joined him, with a reckless 
 gayety that might have passed for mirth, but 
 the bitterness with which he spiced his speeches 
 did not escape Evelyn, and she returned from 
 the walk with drooping spirits, her heart 
 weighed down with a sadness such as she had 
 never known before. 
 
 That night, Harringford bade good-by to 
 Evelyn and her aunt together, saying he would 
 leave very early in the morning. Both ex- 
 pressed sorrow at his going and urged him to 
 stay, but " No," he said, " he had much to do — 
 he had been very idle — work was waiting-^he 
 had stayed long, quite too long — hoped they 
 would meet in the city," and so on and so on, 
 with many such like patent phrases which pass 
 smoothly between people, their comers being 
 worn away by much use. His manner was re- 
 served, almost cold. 
 
 Evelyn went away, silently, with her Aunt 
 Delia to her room, and Harringford, after light- 
 ing a cigar and begging Lubbock not to wait for 
 93 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 him, walked out again into the darkness. The 
 thought of rest was far from him. 
 
 Although it was very late when he returned 
 to the house, a number of people were still in 
 the brilhantly lighted parlor. Some one was 
 singing, and singing well, too. Harringford 
 drew near and listened. The clear, sweet voice 
 was wailing forth the refrain of a wild heart- 
 breaking song : 
 
 All hearts have once their songs. 
 
 Though they be dead ; 
 Each spirit knows its wrongs, 
 There is no soul but longs 
 
 For something fled. 
 
 With a sigh that was more like a stifled 
 moan, Harringford passed on and sought his 
 room ; but not to sleep. 
 
 In the chill dimness of the morning Evelyn 
 was awakened by the heavy grinding of wheels 
 upon the gravel near the window. She listened 
 to the hurried trampling to and fro and to the 
 rumbling of the trunks being dragged along the 
 porch floor. They were well-known sounds 
 which told unmistakably of some early depart- 
 ure. So Harringford was going ! 
 
 A strange sense of loss came over her at the 
 thought ; she arose and stole softly on the 
 carpet to the window and peeped out through 
 94 
 
A MEETING AND FAKEWELL 
 
 the shutters. There was the coach, with the 
 burly form of the driver perched on the high 
 seat ; the unreal-looking horses, champing their 
 bits and nodding their impatient heads up and 
 down, and beyond them the blended and un- 
 certain outlines of the spectral landscape ; all 
 was shrouded in a gray mist, with which the 
 half-light struggled feebly. 
 
 They were hoisting Harringford's trunk to 
 the top of the coach. Evelyn's eye caught sight 
 of the initials, E. H., and with a strange per- 
 sistency her mind filled out the blank with the 
 full name, which she repeated mechanically to 
 herself, over and over again. 
 
 Anon she heard Harringford's voice ; he was 
 directing one of the servants to get inside with 
 the rest of his traps ; he would ride outside with 
 the driver. He came and stood not far from the 
 window, pulling on his gloves. He wore a long 
 gray ulster and had his cap drawn down almost 
 to his eyebrows ; for a moment only he turned 
 his face. He was very pale, and looked quite 
 unlike himself, Evelyn thought ; aU his features 
 seemed sharpened by the cold. The swift 
 glance which he cast toward her window had in 
 it the unmistakable tragic quality of all un- 
 spoken farewells. 
 
 Evelyn started as though he had really seen 
 her, her heart beating wildly. She watched him 
 as he climbed to the seat and arranged the rug 
 95 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK: 
 
 about him with firm and certain touches, well 
 betokening the character of the man. 
 
 The Toice of the driver sounded, there was 
 the sudden clattering of hoofs, mingled with 
 the jingUng and rattling of chains and the grind- 
 ing of wheels; in a moment the taU vehicle 
 seemed fading into a cloud ; the figures on the 
 top became but swaying phantoms of the mist : 
 a moment more and all was gone — vanished 
 — like a vision. It was the end of October. In 
 a few days Evelyn was to start with her aunt on 
 a journey which was so planned that it was to 
 reach everywhere and stop nowhere ; it would 
 be a whole year before she would return. A 
 year ! She stood peering out through the shut- 
 ter. So he was gone ! There was nothing to 
 be seen save the chill, gray clouds which wrap- 
 ped the sleeping trees on the mountain's top, 
 which seemed lonely and dreary now. The 
 tears came into her eyes, blinding her vision, 
 and a little shiver ran through her frame. Sigh- 
 ing, she turned away, and creeping back into 
 her warm bed, she buried her face in the pillow. 
 
 96 
 
PAET THEEE 
 THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 No more to sigh for love, nor seek 
 
 The clasp of white and dimpled hands ; 
 
 No more to turn when lips shall speak, 
 Nor stay when some soft eye commands ; 
 
 No more to bend with spirit meek. 
 Fast held in slight and silken bands. 
 
 No more — no more ! The whirling earth 
 May spin to meet the burning sun ; 
 
 I shall not hear the sounds of mirth. 
 Nor know when triumphs shall be won ; 
 
 No house have I, nor home, nor hearth — 
 With hopeless hoping I have done. 
 
 The world is full of heroism. How many are 
 the trembling hands that are unceasingly busy 
 with the skein which fate has given and with 
 which they must be content to weave their por- 
 tion. While the anxious eyes look in vain for 
 the golden thread of happiness that should be 
 there, yet the hands do not remaia idle. The 
 bitter tears may fall down upon the gray flaxen 
 threads, but no one sees them, and the hands do 
 not falter ; perhaps the despairing heart sinks 
 97 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 at sight of the plainness of the fabric which is 
 being woven, the thin lips may grow more pain- 
 fully colorless, and sighs of weariness or sorrow 
 may from time to time escape them, yet they 
 ntter no words of complaint, and the dull threads 
 are woven into the colorless web until the skein 
 is used up, and the task — the task, so hopeftilly 
 begun, so hopelessly and uncomplainingly per- 
 formed — is done at last. Earth has no field 
 that may grow golden flax and if we will have 
 threads of scarlet our own hearts must furnish 
 drops to dye them. 
 
 October was come again, and the little locust- 
 leaves, slowly crisping in the mellow sunshine, 
 fell down, from time to time, upon the weedy 
 grasses about the old Harringf ord house, silently 
 indicating that the dream of summer had de- 
 parted from the earth. Here and there the yel- 
 low and small white butterflies flitted dreamily 
 over the unregarded ground. The morning- 
 glory vines ran riot everywhere, so that one 
 might fancy there were wandering bands of 
 small unseen spirits lifting their delicately 
 tinted trumpets in the cool morning air and 
 blowing a voiceless dirge for the dying year, so 
 fragile and so divinely beautiful were they. 
 
 Now and then one might see the royal purple 
 
 plume of a late-blooming iron-weed glowing 
 
 amidst the sombre company of his fellows, and 
 
 all along the highways the golden-rod was 
 
 98 
 
THE THKBAD OF SOAELET 
 
 glorious. Now and then a shower of flame and 
 crimson mocked the sim. 
 
 Euy Harringford took a quiet pleasure in all 
 these things. He was continually gathering and 
 treasuring up— garnering in his'mind, one might 
 say — transcripts, remembrances, of these ever- 
 changing, ever-beautiful phases of nature, repro- 
 ducing them for contemplation in his lonely 
 hours to his own great pleasure and spiritual 
 profit. He was, indeed, become a true devotee, 
 a serious lover of Nature. He had reached a new 
 world, by a painful path, it is true, but he had 
 reached it. The musk of meadows and mown 
 fields was not with him a mere fancy ; the solace 
 of the silent woodlands had grown necessary to 
 his very life, a certain hunger of the soul drove 
 him continually to the fields. For the old world' 
 as it had once seemed to him, he cared less and 
 less. Unconsciously, he had wrapped himself 
 in a kind of cloud. He walked abroad much 
 and alone, not because he would have chosen it 
 so, but- real companionship had become well-nigh 
 impossible. There are moods into which no 
 other souls can enter. 
 
 He was an earnest student and a steady 
 worker. He had missed the golden thread in 
 his skein, but many a scarlet one, of his own 
 heart's dyeing, glowed in the woof of his life's 
 work. His pen was seldom idle. There was 
 scarcely a day in which he did not write some- 
 99 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 thing. Essays and short romances were, one 
 after another, finished and thrown aside, to lie 
 forgotten among the heaps of papers upon his 
 table. If he was ambitious, it was for some- 
 thing above and" beyond the passing praise of 
 the world. His name was already well-known, 
 and his latest efforts had brought both praise 
 and money, but nothing seemed to touch him 
 further. Lubbock would come in, glowing, with 
 his great generous heart full of unselfish joy 
 over some piece of good-fortune, but if Harring- 
 ford's soul was stirred, it was too deep down to 
 show a ripple on the surface. 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear John," he would say, 
 " these things come; hut they come too late." 
 
 As for the money, he paid no attention to it 
 whatever, and Lubbock assumed a care for 
 which he expected no thanks ; yet Harringford 
 was not all unmindful. 
 
 "We shall see by and by what fate intends," 
 he said to Lubbock one day. " I shall die 
 first, but — I foresee for you the slow decline, 
 the easy slope that finds a quiet vale, the temper- 
 ate tippling on old-memory wines, the tottering 
 staff, the ' lean and slippered pantaloon,' but for 
 your heart, John, your soul — there is for that no 
 shrunken shank, no lean and slippered age. 
 You will be always young, therefore remember. 
 This, taking up one after another the sealed 
 manuscripts : " this is for a quiet summer by the 
 100 
 
THE THKBAD OF SCAKLET 
 
 sea, and this is a jaunt to the mountains, and 
 this — it is a little thin, but it will be worth more 
 when I am dead, perhaps — is to cheer some 
 dull winter's night with friends and good wine. 
 Do you hear, dear John? I am making my 
 will. You are standing between me and the 
 world now ; it will be I — " tapping with his fin- 
 ger the tablet in which he had been writing last 
 — "I who wiU then stand betwixt the world 
 and you. My will is written and you are my 
 inheritor." 
 
 And poor Lubbock, stifling with his emo- 
 tions, overawed by the influence of Harringf ord's 
 powerful and prescient spirit, could make no 
 answer save by the hand-clasp which both 
 understood to mean a sealing of their soul's 
 compact. 
 
 Harringford was living alone in the old house ; 
 taking his meals, for the most part, with Lub- 
 bock, at his sister's. 
 
 A mysterious cloud, an atmosphere of dread, 
 hung about the place like a persistent shad- 
 ow. So peopled with unthinkable terrors was 
 it, that no negro having any inkling of what had 
 happened there, could have been induced, by 
 any bribe whatsoever, to cross the terror-man- 
 tled threshold; so that even the servant who 
 cared for Harringford's rooms came only in the 
 mornings, and he — even then, when the sunshine 
 outside made mock at fear — never passed the 
 101 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 door of an empty room or made a journey to the 
 cellar without icy thrills of expectation, quick 
 throbbings of the heart, and frantically sus- 
 picious glances over his shoulder, whenever any 
 sound broke upon the dismal and mouldy still- 
 ness which pervaded the hollow loneliness of 
 the place. 
 
 Harringford occupied the room which had 
 been Ainsworth's study. Many things had 
 been removed into another room across the hall. 
 The high book-case, containing Ainsworth's 
 books, still remained, and on its top — where 
 Ainsworth's own hand had placed it — was the 
 bouquet of autumn leaves, browned now with 
 age, shrivelled and covered with dust. The 
 same large square table still stood in the centre 
 of the floor, and neatly arranged on one corner 
 of it were certain writing-tablets and scraps of 
 scribbled paper that had been preserved with 
 tender care, and just over the mantel-piece, on a 
 small red-wood bracket, was a square of card- 
 board on which a large butterfly, with out- 
 spread wings, seemed resting, lightly and dain- 
 tily, as if in life. It was the one Ainsworth 
 had caught and placed there on that last morn- 
 ing. It was a habit with Harringford, in 
 moments of deep thought, to fix his eyes 
 absent-mindedly on this creature, gazing on it 
 until he could have sworn that the broad wings, 
 with their wonderful "eyes," were moving 
 103 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 gently, up and down, as if in dreamy flight. 
 Again and again he had risen, to assure himself, 
 by a closer inspection, that this was but a trick 
 of the mind. 
 
 It may haye been — who knows — it may have 
 been the blind and unconscious obedience which 
 all men render to some unknown, unrecognized 
 force that had at last anchored Harringford 
 alone in this fateful spot. 
 
 It may have been a specific result, a natural 
 compliance with some insistent and unreason- 
 able instinct of the spirit ; for the soul does not 
 'need to render continual account at the bar of 
 the mind. Its purposes are not all unfolded 
 nor its plans laid bare for the acceptance of the 
 intellect ; on the contrary, the mind recognizes 
 in this strange essence, this soul, something of 
 that unfathomable divinity in whose presence 
 the intellect becomes a mere unconsulted and 
 astonished spectator, a dumb dwarf that can 
 only behold and wonder. But aside from these, 
 Harringford might have detected, floating on 
 his mental horizon, certain film-like, cloudy 
 semblances of will ; undetermined, dim, defiant 
 thoughts ; unshaped reasons suggesting that he 
 should be in that place, inducing him to stay in 
 that very room, waiting, watching for some sign. 
 Perhaps he had concluded — like many of us — 
 that our theories respecting this existence are 
 aU guesswork. Perhaps, in summing up upon 
 103 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 the result of all his own spiritual endeavors to 
 gain even short glimpses into that mystic region 
 of half-guessed possibilities which seems always 
 to lie so closely about us, he was brought to say 
 to his own heart — as aU men who will be simply 
 honest with their own souls must say — / do not 
 Tmow. 
 
 What if it should be that Ainsworth raigM 
 return — why not ? The spirit is the real man. 
 What do we know of the soul's limitations? 
 What do we hnow of anything ? We dream, we 
 guess, we surmise, until we ourselves pass on 
 and out into that unknown, unknowable beyond ; 
 not knowing if we shall then know the truth 
 about the things of which we can at our best 
 now only conjecture. So Harringford's thoughts 
 ran on. 
 
 And if Ainsworth should indeed find himself 
 really himself, in that after-life, would he have 
 forgotten, all? Would he not remember his 
 life-long friend — would he not guess anything 
 of all the anxiety and distress, and if he should 
 find it possible to come back — in any shape — 
 would it not be, most like, to this friend, who 
 could comprehend, who would so well under- 
 stand, and whose waiting spirit stood — as 
 though it were on the shore of life — looking 
 continually out across that dim, far-rolling sea, 
 listening for the faintest whisper that might 
 come out of the darkness ; and of all places on 
 104 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCAKLET 
 
 the earth, might he not be expected to choose 
 this old familiar room as the place of his ap- 
 pearing ? — this scene of the dear earthly labors 
 in which his heart had found such delight ; here, 
 where he had lived the happiest hours of life ; 
 would he not recall it all ? Would the soul so 
 change that there would be no remembrance, no 
 love of these things which once made up the 
 sum of all it could know of joy and pleasure ? 
 
 Day after day, and night after night, all this 
 visioning, all these vexed imaginings, passed 
 before Harringford's mind in a thousand chang- 
 ing forms. Like most men of any depth what- 
 ever, who have suffered great disappointments 
 and heav^' griefs, Harringford had become 
 somewhat absolute in his manner of thought. 
 The world's accepted theories had little or no 
 hold upon him. For all dogma, as such, he had 
 only contempt, and like all men who really 
 think deeply, he was impatient of the shallow 
 satisfaction peculiar to the multitudes that are 
 held, like caterpillars, in the silken webs of their 
 own spinning; although he recognized, well 
 enough, that while there will be worms, there 
 might be webs. He grew weary of his own 
 doubt. What he longed for, with unutterable 
 longing, was to know, just to know, something ; 
 some one thing on which he might build with 
 absolute certainty ! 
 
 If — he contended — the soul he immortal, it is 
 105 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 immortal now, while it is in tlie body, and if 
 this death be but the freeing of the soul from 
 the body, the soul — being still the same soul — 
 miLst remember. To say that it at once forgets ; 
 that it no longer loves those in whose affections 
 it found itself blest, here, is to say that the soul 
 is dead, which — if the soul be indeed immortal 
 — ^is an impossibility ; therefore, if the soul shall 
 be at all, it must be itself, and remembers and 
 loTes as before ; and so, might it not seek to re- 
 turn ? And if it be not itself, then — there is 
 nothing beyond this dream at all, and we are 
 quits. And so it came to be that Harringford 
 felt at times he would not be surprised if Ains- 
 worth should actually appear before him, and 
 with this mind he lived his strange and lonely 
 life, no longer rebelling against fate, but looking 
 steadily forward, as a man who goes into battle 
 not caring if he fall. Oh, this overmastering 
 consciousness ; this painful recognition of the 
 wonderful beauty of life, its immeasurable-seem- 
 ing possibilities, its hard-set limitations, the 
 weariness of it all. Who hath not felt his soul 
 stir within him only to recoil, aghast, catching, 
 as in a flash, a lightning-like glimpse of the in- 
 evitable trend of all things. 
 
 One evening while Harringford sat reading, 
 
 he heard the front door open and slow feet 
 
 heavily ascending the stair, but the sounds so 
 
 blended with his thoughts that the feet seemed 
 
 106 
 
THE THEBAD OP SCARLET 
 
 progressing along the lines before his eyes, as 
 in a dream, and it was not until Lubbock had 
 opened the door that he lifted his eyes from the 
 page and smiled a vague welcome upon his 
 friend. 
 
 " Come back, if you can, Buy, from wherever 
 you are, and let us talk awhile. You read too 
 much, entirely too much, of late," he said, tak- 
 ing a seat in the chair which always stood ready 
 for him; "entirely too much. Here, have a 
 good weed — rather have your pipe, eh — well, 
 light up and let us have a cheerful smbke. I 
 teU you, you are coming on, old man ! that last 
 story of yours is going to score you a good 
 broad mark. You are cutting a wider swath 
 than you could have done three years ago. 
 Euy, you'll put up a wind-row with the best 
 of them yet — 'New-mown hay and the dying 
 daisies ' — that's what they s£ly of it." 
 
 Harringford's face, which looked very pale in 
 the lamplight, flushed slightly and a strange 
 light flashed for an instant in his eyes, as when 
 a white flame bursts from a column of smoke. 
 He relinquished his book, turning the open 
 page downward upon the table, and, as he did 
 so, the trembling fingers and swollen veins of 
 his hand showed how fiercely the hidden heart 
 was beating. 
 
 " What do you read ? " asked Lubbock. 
 
 " Fisk— Fisk's ' Destiay of Man.' It's beauti- 
 107 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 ftil but not comforting," Harringford answered. 
 " He foreshadows an ultimate, a final good, but 
 lie unconsciously lays bare the cruelty of nature. 
 The individual goes down in the march. The sal- 
 vation that shall save us has not yet been found. 
 I think Drummond inspires more hope, but," he 
 added, drearily, " he, too, turns to foolishness ; 
 however, I suppose anything will do, while it 
 shall seem to engage us until we have passed 
 from this vale. The destiny of man must be 
 settled somewhere. Perhaps we see but little 
 of the truth, but the little we do see is, I fear, 
 not greatly conducive to a flow of spirits." 
 
 i"I fear you are turned misanthrope, Euy; 
 you ought to let these things alone. After all, 
 there is little use in thinking; you know the 
 words of the greatest of all teachers, the great 
 philosopher, ' Take no thought for the morrow.' 
 We can add nothing to our stature by taking 
 thought ; but, speaking of the destiny of man, 
 it's my own particular destiny that weighs upon 
 my mind, now that I have found it out. Look 
 at me, Buy ! do I look like a confidence man ? " 
 
 " Well, I ha.ve seen men I should have sus- 
 pected sooner," said Harringford, laughing a 
 little. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Well ! " continued Lubbock, bracing his well- 
 rounded figure back in the chair " I have found 
 out that my destiny is to inspire confidence in 
 everybody ; you don't see it, eh ? Well, I'll 
 lOS 
 
THE THEEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 show you. I have become a regular reservoir; 
 the unwilling keeper of a thousand unsolicited 
 confidences. I know — The phase of my life 
 which you know best might not lead you to 
 think it, but I have another world in which I 
 am obliged to live and move and have my be- 
 ing ; and there, in that world, every irresponsi- 
 ble and newly-inspired mortal who gets it into 
 his head that he has made a brilliant discovery, 
 namely, that it is not good for man to be alone, 
 makes it his duty to seek me out, and I am 
 made at once the confidant of all his hopes and 
 fears and must give my advice. Well, you can 
 imagine how it is. I have gotten now so that I 
 know them as soon as they fasten their eyes on 
 me, and I have always advised for marriage, see- 
 ing that their happiness seemed to lie that way, 
 and, as a result, I am absolutely weighed down 
 now, under an accumulation of responsibilities 
 of which I never dreamed, and the growing bulk 
 of them is threatening to crush me to the earth, 
 and— What is that, Euy ? " Lubbock exclaimed, 
 breaking off suddenly. 
 
 "What is what?" 
 
 " That noise — didn't you hear a noise just 
 now — downstairs ? " 
 
 " I heard something. I thought it was just the 
 
 wind outside," said Harringford, going to the 
 
 door. Lubbock arose, and both men listened. 
 
 A sound, like quick, soft footsteps came up 
 
 109 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 from below and a draught of cool fresh air rose 
 in their faces as they leaned over the balus- 
 trade. 
 
 "John, did you leave the front door open ? " 
 
 "Why, no — I don't think so — maybe I did 
 fail to fasten it securely," Lubbock said, doubt- 
 fuJly. 
 
 Certain remembrances had come back to both 
 men as their eyes met with startled meaning 
 glances. There came a sound as of a door closed 
 softly. 
 
 " Wait," said Harringford, " I'll get a light 
 and we'll go down. I think you have left the 
 front door open." 
 
 They went down the stair together. The front 
 door stood wide open, and two or three large 
 dried sycamore leaves rustled along the naked 
 floor of the hall, pursued by slight, whirling 
 gusts of the fitful wind. They closed the door 
 and went back through the empty house, look- 
 ing cautiously about and listening from time to 
 time, but they heard only the echoes of their 
 own footsteps, mocking, suggestive sounds, that 
 died away, slowly, in the hollow rooms. 
 
 " Must have been the wind," said Lubbock, 
 as they retraced their steps. 
 
 He was convinced, however, that he had heard 
 steps of some sort, and he noticed the agita- 
 tion which Harringford tried in vain to hide. 
 A sudden resolution shaped itself in his mind, 
 110 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 and by tlie time they had reached the room 
 again he determined what to do. " 
 
 For a little while he sat talking, glibly and 
 aimlessly, smoking vigorously and sending great 
 puffs half way across the room, to the great con- 
 sternation of a few antique mosquitoes that were 
 dangling, in a state of chronic agitation, about 
 the lamp-shade. 
 
 Harringford sat listening in silence, and as 
 Lubbock watched him now, he realized fully, 
 for the first time, how strangely listless and pre- 
 occupied was his manner, and noticed his un- 
 changing pallor and his thin, nervous hands, 
 with the thumbs ever turning inward, to be 
 clasped tightly against the palms. 
 
 " "What memories are these," thought Lub- 
 bock, " which keep tugging at his heart ; what 
 is it that he should keep it from me ? " 
 
 And he recalled again the words Harringford 
 had uttered once when he had sought to come 
 closer to his life : " I have an old trouble which 
 I must learn to bear. There is no help for it 
 here." " No help ! " Something in Lubbock's 
 heart rebelled against these words. His love 
 for Harringford was even greater than he him- 
 self was aware. Why should there be " no help ? " 
 The thought maddened him. " Euy," he said, 
 " I have a favor to ask of you." Harringford 
 looked up, questioning. 
 
 " I have an old friend who lives among the 
 111 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 hills near Fern-cliff Springs ; I am going there 
 to visit for a week — a week or ten days — and 
 I want you to go with me. I need not tell you 
 that you will be welcome. It is rather a peculiar 
 old place,^and the country about it is, I think, 
 strangely interesting. It has a quality of sug- 
 gestiveness, something above mere picturesque- 
 ness ; I think you would be inspired by it. You 
 might make it the scene for a story — and the 
 autumn coloring is gorgeous — I know you would 
 enjoy it. We will drive, and I want to start 
 very early in the morning, so you will better 
 just get what you need into your valise and 
 come with me now." Then seeing an expression 
 of reluctance comiag over Harringf ord's face, he 
 continued : " Don't disappoint me, Euy, I have 
 set my heart on this. Sister will have a nice 
 little breakfast for us, and I want you to come 
 home with me to-night." 
 
 And his face wore such a look of anxiety that 
 Harringf ord at once consented and began mak- 
 ing ready. 
 
 Half an hour later they went forth together. 
 The wind swept about the old house wrathfully, 
 making the tall weeds nod stiffly and fretting 
 the dead leaves which had taken shelter in the 
 eddy by the great stone step. 
 
 The locust-trees moaned and creaked, and 
 rattled their brittle branches against the wall of 
 the house as though battling with their own 
 113 
 
THE THREAD OF SCARLET 
 
 shadows, which swayed back and forth mimick- 
 ing their slightest movements, and the flame in 
 the solitary gas-lamp, out among the sycamores, 
 was so blown and vexed that at times it threat- 
 ened to cease altogether and leave the restless 
 branches to fight it out in the dark alone. The 
 gloomy portal was passed, the door was drawn 
 shut with a bang, the key turned with a grating 
 protest, the heavy lock snapped sullenly, the 
 two figures passed out through the gate, and 
 the first step toward the final revelation which 
 was to clear up the mystery of Harry Ains- 
 worth's disappearance was taken at last. 
 
 Although Lubbock himself was a little slow 
 in his movements, generally, his wits were quick 
 enough when once seriously aroused, so that he 
 had little trouble to give his hastily arranged 
 visit all the air of a fore-intended and duly pre- 
 meditated affair. In truth, he had promised to 
 make this visit, but had about given up hoping 
 that he could find time for it, so that now — con- 
 fident of the welcome which awaited them — he 
 had not hesitated to make use of a circumstance 
 so happily suited to his sudden purpose — a pur- 
 pose which sprang out of his deep affection for 
 his friend. He thought he saw the necessity 
 for an effort to divert Harringford's mind. He 
 felt that he must do something to make a break 
 in that steady current of thought as one might 
 113 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 roll a stone into a stream, forcing it, for a little 
 at least, to change its channel. 
 
 Harringford's mental drift seemed to him like 
 the smooth and glassy movement of deep water 
 when it runs straight and swift and silent 
 toward a sudden plunge, a headlong leap into 
 the abyss. 
 
 The moment this sudden fear was born in 
 him, he wondered he had not felt it long ago. 
 But he was a man subject only to spasms of 
 mental alertness. His mind was not of that 
 character which is unconsciously and contin- 
 ually active, like a bow that is always bent, with 
 the arrow of attention drawn to the barb; so 
 that things came to him, usually, unannounced 
 — ^fuUy rounded up, as when a man, mistaking 
 moonlit water for a smooth solid rock, steps 
 boldly out and finds himself floundering wildly, 
 the treacherous current roaring in his ears, and 
 the whole world transformed for him on the in- 
 stant. And so it was that Lubbock frequently 
 found himself struggling in a kind of despera- 
 tion, with some sudden and unlooked-for reali- 
 zation. This is, to some degree, the manner of 
 us all, and otherwise, perhaps, much of life's 
 happiness would be done away. Sometimes, 
 indeed, a strange indwelling spirit seems to 
 compel a continually sustained alertness — an 
 eternal projection and forecasting of thought in 
 some powerful mind — then, we have the seer, 
 114 
 
THE THREAD OF SCAELET 
 
 tlie prophet ; but no true prophet was ever a 
 happy man. 
 
 What the eagle fails to see, the earthworm 
 knows. So in the case of Ainsworth, where in- 
 tellect had failed, where reason had been baffled, 
 and where thought had blindly gone astray, the 
 subtle instinct of nature, working dumbly, with- 
 out direction or intent, was destiited to succeed; 
 revealing, at last, the unguessed truth which 
 should lead to the complete solution of this 
 painful mystery. 
 
 Harringford's visit was, perhaps, . pleasant 
 enough. He was possessed of a genuine and 
 almost childlike curiosity — which is, after all, 
 the health of the mind — and the interest 
 awakened by the scenes among which he wan- 
 dered at will, though it was very quiet, was 
 nevertheless deep ; 
 
 — for sorrow hears 
 With quicker sense 
 Than careless joy, and seeks in field and stream 
 
 A recompense 
 For harsher notes, which fret the cords of music's 
 wonted dream. 
 
 We need only relate one incident of this visit. 
 Lubbock had seemed to shake himself loose 
 from the world. He cast off utterly at least 
 thirty of the four and forty years that time had 
 put upon him, and burst every fetter which his 
 115 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 humdrum life had riveted upon his spiritual 
 limbs. He scoured about the fields like an 
 urchin of twelve, waded in the brook, fished for 
 minnows, and pursued with persistent ingenuity 
 the frantic and indignant crawfish ; fell into the 
 water, and laughed so loudly as to frighten the 
 wondering sheep almost out of their wool. 
 There was nothing so absurd that he would not 
 undertake it. There were no remembered boy- 
 ish tricks that he did not try. He attempted 
 to climb for nuts, got to the first bough, broke 
 it, and fell with a thud that shook the earth. 
 He tried to " skin the cat," and failed to make 
 the turn, in which plight he would have died of 
 apoplexy if Harringford had not come to his 
 relief. He ran imminent risks of his life, with 
 bulls and vicious rams, making hair-breadth and 
 breathless escapes. 
 
 Deep as had been Harringford's love for him, 
 it now grew deeper every day. He felt the 
 charm of something which words cannot exactly 
 express ; he was lured away from the careful 
 sadness of his life, and made to laugh until the 
 tears rolled down his cheeks. Two days before 
 he would not have believed it possible. 
 
 In the midst of all this, however, a jealous 
 and unrelenting fate, waiting, sword in hand, 
 made a sudden thrust out of the bitter past, and 
 reached her truant with the biting point. 
 
 It happened that one day Lubbock had been 
 116 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 carried away by some friends on a hunting ex- 
 pedition, and Harringford, not feeling inclined 
 to go, had remained at home, alone. Toward 
 evening — having been wandering about all day 
 — he was standing at last near the great high- 
 way, resting, and dreamily watching the sunset 
 which burned through the tree-tops, dulling the 
 splendors of the autumnal forest. Slowly the 
 flames waned and a soft rose-tint was spreading, 
 fan-like, far up into the luminous silver and lilac 
 of the changing sky. A few small clouds which 
 floated like ships upon that distant heavenly 
 sea, and which glowed like fire at first, were 
 visibly darkening each moment. 
 
 On one of these Harringford had fixed his 
 eyes, watching it with sorrowful thoughts. 
 
 "Is it true," he asked himself ; "must all 
 things fade like this — and why ? " Where shall 
 the human heart ever find an answer to that 
 question ? 
 
 Presently he heard voices and laughter min- 
 gled with the sound of wheels, and looking along 
 the roadway, saw several vehicles coming. In- 
 voluntarily he retreated a few paces and waited 
 till they could pass. The carriages were all 
 open and he could distinctly see the inmates. 
 The first two carriages had gone by — he had 
 merely glanced at the people in them ; the last 
 one was just passing. He had been toying with 
 some branches of a yoimg tree against which he 
 117 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 leaned. Suddenly his hand closed about them 
 with a straining grasp, and his eyes, wide with 
 wonder, and glowing with the light of recogni- 
 tion, followed steadily the figure of Evelyn 
 Weir until the carriage was out of sight. For 
 a moment her face, smiling and happy-seem- 
 ing, had been turned toward him, blotting out 
 aU else — as when a meteor falls upon our path ; 
 and the man who sat beside her, that tall 
 figure, that broad florid face with the long 
 yellow whiskers, floating jauntily from either 
 cheek — where had he seen that man before ? 
 
 Stunned, bewildered, and made suddenly 
 wretched, ho tiu:ned away blindly, and in his 
 heedless haste tripped over something and fell, 
 striking his hand against the bristling trunk of 
 a thorny locust, lacerating it so that it began to 
 bleed profusely. He scarcely noticed his hurt, 
 but walked on mechanically, binding his hand- 
 kerchief about his wounded hand, and thinking 
 "wherewith shall one bind up a bleeding heart." 
 
 The rose-tint had deepened to crimson. A 
 stretch of blue-gray cloud lay along the edge of 
 the sky, and against that was limned the sad 
 horizon of the world. A few stars blossomed 
 slowly on the field of night, and the thin new 
 moon, glimmering faintly, hung like a drawn 
 bow in the west. The soft air, full of hauntiag 
 whispers and burdened with heart-breaking 
 remembrances of departed summers, came 
 118 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCAELET 
 
 slowly wandering past, bearing sweet odors from 
 far-off lands, now melting into nothingness. 
 
 In the long grasses, glistening now and sere, 
 the crickets chirped in merry chorus. The 
 dead leaves rustled softly beside the twilight 
 path — why do all these things find lodgement 
 in the longing, hungering soul of man ? What 
 infinite capacity for bitter joys, what wild, 
 enchanting sorrows! 
 
 As one walks in a dream, so Harringford 
 moved on through the gloaming, seeing all, 
 hearing all, yet neither looking nor listening. 
 Nothing was lost, though he sought nothing. 
 The soul — ^the mysterious spirit — now held sway 
 alone and seemed to walk apart, beside his 
 body, which stumbled on from field to field. 
 
 Now and then a startled bird, scared from its 
 place of rest, fiuttered away through the bushes, 
 and once a rabbit scampered before him 
 through the dusk. 
 
 The cattle, standing like motionless, dark 
 spectres in the gloom, ceased to chew the cud 
 for an instant, and stared at him as he passed. 
 
 He saw and noted all, but aU was unreality. 
 The world, himself, life and death, memory and 
 hope, the laughter and the tears — an airy vision 
 all, and he, a shadow ; it was Euy Harringford 
 no more. What was this label on the crum- 
 bling clay? Who will christen the undying 
 soul? He was a nameless entity, a spark, 
 119 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 struck out of that great universal spirit, alone, 
 unhappy; wandering here, upon the hopeless 
 earth. What was it all, this beautiful, cruel, 
 fantastic dream ? Why not break bonds, why 
 not return to rest ? 
 
 An hour later, Lubbock, not finding Harring- 
 ford in his room, was sitting on the porch smok- 
 ing, momentarily expecting him to appear. 
 
 "Mooning about in the fields, I suppose, and 
 will be laid up with a cold next," was his in- 
 ward impatient commeiit. 
 
 At last he arose and went up to Harringford's 
 room with some thought of mending the fire, for 
 the nights were growing chill. In one corner, 
 on a table, a lamp was burning dimly and a pile 
 of books, beside it, cast a dark shadow over 
 one-half of the room. To the right of the fire- 
 place, was a window in a shallow off-set, which 
 looked out upon a stretch of fields. The long 
 curtains were pulled aside and a large, cushioned 
 arm-chair stood facing it, indistinguishable in 
 the gloom. The small fire had burned low, and 
 the red embers gave forth only a diffused and 
 slumberous glowing. Lubbock drew up a capa- 
 cious chair, which seemed, dumbly, to suggest 
 ease and rest, for a shape like his, and having 
 laid upon the fire a lump of coal, settled himself 
 in front of it and watched, absently, the inter- 
 esting processes of its slow disintegration and 
 feeble, crackling combustion. 
 130 
 
THE THREAD OF SCARLET 
 
 By and by, glancing toward the table, he 
 noticed some half-folded sheets of paper lying 
 with lines of writing plainly visible under the 
 glow of the lamp. 
 
 What then! perhaps Harringford had left a 
 note — perhaps he had been called away! He 
 arose and, going to the table, glanced over the 
 sheets of paper, with a strange smile and a little 
 exclamation of surprise. Arranging the light to 
 suit him, he went back to his chair again, taking 
 the papers with him. How many manuscripts, 
 by that same hand, he had gone over. With a 
 certain pride of critical judgment, inseparable 
 from the literary instinct, he began to read : 
 
 Hath autumn clothed these hills serene 
 With glory, wrapping fold on fold ; 
 
 The flame and crimson-clouded green, 
 The scarlet and 
 
 " Well, may I be hanged ! This is what he 
 has come to — egad, it's worse with Euy than I 
 thought." 
 
 Then, settling his eye-glasses more firmly on 
 his somewhat rebellious nose, he began again 
 and read the verses, slowly and carefully, twice 
 over. 
 
 Hath autumn clothed these hills serene 
 With glory, wrapping fold on fold ; 
 
 The flame and crimson-clouded green, 
 The scarlet and the gold. 
 131 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 These hills, that neither strive nor pray, 
 
 Nor weep for hopes unsatisfied ; 
 But only thus unmoved alway, 
 
 In changeless peace abide. 
 
 No longing and no pain, no care — 
 No heart -ache and no wounding fears ; 
 
 No shattered faith, no soul's despair, 
 No sighing and no tears ! 
 
 And yet — ^with budding breast,' the Spring, 
 Did bless them in her soft embrace. 
 
 And only loosed her clasp to bring 
 The Summer in her place. 
 
 The languid, lavish Summer, warm 
 With love did smother breast and brow ; 
 
 And Autumn's jewelled, regal arm 
 Is thrown around them now. 
 
 And I — alas ! — whose troubled breast 
 A hungering heart holds all the year. 
 
 What have I gained to make me blest. 
 What joy doth seek me here 1 
 
 O these ! the mellowing golden lands ! 
 
 With riches heaped, all round me spread ; 
 And I — I lift my empty hands 
 
 To hide the tears I shed ! 
 
 Unsatisfied, unsatisfied ! 
 
 What is this tie which holds me here ? 
 Why in distress do I abide. 
 
 And tempting rest so near ? 
 
 Having finished, Lubbock arose and placed 
 the manuscript where he had found it upon the 
 
 123 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCAELET 
 
 table, and turning the lamp lower, he put it 
 down again behind the pile of books and went 
 back to his chair, where he remained for some 
 time lost in deep thought. 
 
 Like a great many other men, his ideas about 
 poetry were not very well defined. He had 
 always regarded it as a sort of misty, mystical 
 island, separated entirely from the great conti- 
 nents of human thought and action; an island 
 of uncertain boundary, full of strange and fan- 
 tastic growth, whither unfortunate and self- 
 exiled souls drifted, to wander about half hope- 
 lessly, breathing an unnatural atmosphere and 
 groping forgetfully among the clouds, which 
 distorted and magnified their proportions, 
 whenever they were caught sight of by those 
 who sometimes cast a glance that way from 
 afar. Yet he was not insensible to the flatter- 
 ing blandishments of verse. The very move- 
 ment and music of it tricked his mind into a 
 sort of unwilling but sincere admiration ; but 
 he was content to allow himself to be pleased, 
 without any very deep speculations as to the 
 cause ; which was perhaps wiser, after all. 
 
 But, at all events, the lines he had just read 
 had set him to thinking. Perhaps there was 
 something dwelling in his own heart that 
 stirred responsive — some unsuspected chord 
 which had been touched, however lightly. 
 
 His thoughts drifted up the shadowy pathway 
 123 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 of the past, along the ragged, ill-defined shores 
 of the life that is lived. Ever and anon Buy 
 Harringford's face stood forth among the crowd- 
 ing, mask-like phantoms, and from him his 
 thought wandered to Ainsworth and then to 
 Evelyn. He, too, had seen her pass by. He 
 thought it all over again — Euy's return — ^his 
 strange dream and Ainsworth's stranger disap- 
 pearing — Evelyn's unswerving devotion to his 
 memory and then — the image of the man he 
 had seen beside her ! It came to him — where 
 had he seen him before ? In vain he tried to 
 remember. 
 
 In his revery his glance wandered toward the 
 large chair which was turned to the window. 
 A small jet of blazing gas, shooting out just then 
 between the bars of the grate, like a little plume 
 of flame, threw a sudden light over into the 
 shadow. 
 
 Lubbock started violently. He was sure he 
 had noticed a hand hanging down over the side 
 of the old chair. He fixed his eyes on the spot 
 and waited for another jet of blaze. Again the 
 puff burst forth, shedding a vivid light for an in- 
 stant. This time there was no mistake. It was 
 a hand ; partly hidden by a white wrapping, but 
 the bandage had slipped and was partly hang- 
 ing loosed, and partly resting upon the floor. 
 
 "Euy ! " he said, softly, "have you been here 
 all this time?" 
 
 124 
 
THE THEEAD OF SCAKLET 
 
 Not getting an answer, he arose, and going to 
 the table, he turned the lamp up to a full blaze, 
 and removing the shade, placed it so as to let 
 the light shine full across the room. 
 
 Still he could make out nothing distinctly, 
 for looking full at the light had blinded his 
 vision, which was not very good at the best. 
 
 " Are you asleep, old man ? " he said, a little 
 uneasily, moving near to the chair, in which he 
 now made out the figure of his friend, crouched 
 down heavily, his head leaning forward and to 
 one side, with one arm hanging supinely, till his 
 hand almost touched the floor. 
 
 Lubbock had laid a finger gently on Harring- 
 ford's shoulder and had opened his mouth to 
 speak again, when he saw very plainly the hand- 
 kerchief, partly bound about the hand but half 
 loosed and hanging. It was dabbled with 
 blood. Every faculty of Lubbock's mind and 
 heart recoiled, reeling under the sudden shock, 
 and, for an instant, there was an absolute blank. 
 Then the crushing thought descended upon him, 
 splitting the darkness like a bolt of lightning — 
 forking, flashing, and crackling before his eyes. 
 Dead ! The earth seemed to sink under him 
 like a plummet. The sky seemed to part and 
 ebb away in ever-dividing fragments, while he 
 alone remained, upheld in the thick blackness 
 of the terror which closed about him. One 
 thing other only was left from the faded earth 
 125 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 and heaTen ; one word, that loomed in huge let- 
 ters, blazing upon that background of nothing- 
 ness. The one word, Dead 1 
 
 Not knowing what he did, he quickly got 
 held of Harringford under the arms ; and so 
 great was the energy lent him by his despair, 
 that despite the disadvantage of his position, he 
 lifted him out of the chair and was staggering 
 backward toward the window. Painful as had 
 been the last few moments, perhaps the unex- 
 pected transition was more painful) when, sud- 
 denly straightening himself, Harringford stum- 
 bled against the chair and caught Lubbock's 
 arm to keep from falling, at the same time 
 exclaiming, 
 
 " Look here, John, old man, what in the name 
 of peace are you trying to do ? " 
 
 Lubbock made no answer whatever — for the 
 very good reason that he could not — and break- 
 ing away from Harringford he ran across the 
 room, where he sank, kneeling beside the bed, 
 and with his face buried in his hands, feU to 
 sobbing hke a child. And so we are, all, only 
 children, when we are not acting. 
 
 His spiritual fabric had suffered such a fear- 
 ful wrenching that it was not an easy matter to 
 readjust it, and it was some time after before 
 Harringford's kindly efforts could restore him 
 to anything like his wonted moral equilibrium, 
 so rudely had the soul's balance been jostled. 
 126 
 
THE THREAD OF SCARLET 
 
 Even after he liad become comparatively calm, 
 the ground-swell of his vexed emotions would 
 burst the door of speech with half-angry mut- 
 terings and exclamations. 
 
 "Well, confound a man, anyway," he would 
 say, recalling the outrageous shock and the ac- 
 cidental causes which had led up to it, " con- 
 found a man who rambles about all day hunting 
 for a good place to fall and tear his hands to 
 rags and then comes home, and, after writing a 
 string of idiotic verses, sits down in the dark to 
 sleep and bleed, with equal felicity and indiffer- 
 ence. Confound such a man, I say." 
 
 An evening or two later found Harringford 
 at home again, trying to take up the thread of 
 his interrupted labors. But it was sorry work. 
 There was a burning pain at his heart. The 
 vision of Evelyn as she sat, radiant and smiling, 
 beside the florid stranger in the carriage, was 
 always before him. He had always thought of 
 Evelyn as one sanctified by sorrow — removed, 
 by her devotion to the memory of his friend, far 
 above the common world and its everyday trivi- 
 alities ; walking, surrounded by a halo which 
 wrapped her Uke a celestial garment, upon a 
 plane all unknown to ordinary mortals. Was it 
 all a mistake ? Was everything a mistake ?. 
 Was it for this he had abstained from speaking 
 his heart to her, lest he should grate upon the 
 sacred silence of her sorrowful remembrance? 
 137 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 He grew heart-sick and weary of thinking. By 
 and by Lubbock happened in, and Harringford 
 was glad to see him. He always seemed to 
 bring with him an atmosphere of hope and com- 
 fort. 
 
 " Well, have you got back all your scattered 
 wits yet, John ? " 
 
 " No, that I have not ; at least half of them 
 are sailing around Fern-cliff Springs still — Oh, 
 did you know Miss Weir has returned ? " 
 
 " No — yes — I guessed so," said Harringford. 
 " I saw her passing with some others — on their 
 way from the railway station, I imagine." 
 
 " Yes, I saw her ; but have you heard the 
 news about her ? " 
 
 " News — no — about her ? " Harringford felt 
 the blood gathering heavily about his heart. 
 " What is it ? " he asked, trying to make his 
 voice steady. 
 
 " Well, she is to be married soon — so they 
 say — and who do you think ' the minion of fort- 
 une ' is ? You — do you remember a long-legged 
 Englishman we saw once at the sea-shore, wor- 
 rying everybody's soul out with lawn-tennis? 
 They met this summer, I believe, on the moun- 
 tains, somewhere — ^Black Mountain, or Boan, 
 one of those places ; I never thought she would 
 marry, and I am half-inclined to doubt the truth 
 of the report, now; but there is no telling, a 
 
 woman's heart — who knows what it is " 
 
 128 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 He ran on, unconsciously but ruthlessly tear- 
 ing away the last prop with which his friend 
 had stayed his sinking soul. A heavy sigh 
 made him look up to find Harringford's eyes — 
 full of fierce questionings — fixed intently upon 
 his own. The very quaUty of life seemed to have 
 vanished out of the air, so vainly he labored for 
 breath to form some words of reply. His tongue 
 refused its office and his stiffened lips would ut- 
 ter nothing, but his whole heart spake in his 
 eyes, and Lubbock read in them enough to make 
 him guess the truth, and it was a recognition of 
 this which made Harringf ord turn away, with a 
 slight laugh of bitterness, still trying vainly to 
 hide the utter wretchedness of his soul. 
 
 But why should he struggle always ? Hope 
 was gone now, and he grew suddenly weary, as 
 he thought of life, with hope gone out of it, 
 comfortless and dreary, as the sky without the 
 sun. He saw the pitiful image of himself as a 
 super-sentimental fool. He had waited, wor- 
 shipping an exalted ideal whose very perfections 
 had caused despair in him; but it had been 
 something just to wait and worship, and now — 
 the bank of sand on which he was standiag was 
 crumbling under his feet, and his beautiful ideal, 
 the celestial image of his thoughts, was totter- 
 ing to its fall. Something within him, might- 
 ier than himself, arose and arrayed itself against 
 the implication, something that was like the 
 139 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 divine spirit in the hearts of heroes, which re- 
 fuses to accept defeat. 
 
 " It is a falsehood ! I would stake my soul 
 upon it ! " he said, fiercely, turning upon Lub- 
 bock. " What is there in that man to appeal to 
 a woman like " 
 
 A sudden sense of the consummate vanity of 
 such a speech made him break off in the midst of 
 it. He sat still and silent, feeling his cheeks burn 
 with shame. Had not he had hopes — he — that 
 she might forget ? Had he not thought of him- 
 self as one worthy, perhaps, to be loved ? Had 
 not the words been upon his very lips ? Why 
 should he think himself the only one for whom 
 she might forget the past ? Alas, how hardly . 
 vanity dies within a man ; it has more lives than 
 the sky has stars. Harringford arose abruptly 
 to his feet and walked to the window. He could 
 not calmly entertain the picture of himself which 
 the simple honesty of his mind presented before 
 him. To be a fool, that could be borne, seeing 
 it was the unhappy, but natural, condition of 
 mankind — but to be a conceited fool — that was 
 unbearable. He shook his head and threw his 
 arms, out wildly, as if to banish the thought for- 
 ever. 
 
 " What is it. Buy ? " said Lubbock, who had 
 been watching him ; " is there nothing that can 
 comfort you ? " 
 
 Harringford turned and looked at him, noting 
 130 
 
THE THEEAD OP SCARLET 
 
 the expression of tender solicitude in Ms eyes : 
 the patient, watchful, untiring devotion of an un- 
 failing friend. 
 
 " Yes," said Harringford, coming nearer and 
 seating himself, " there is something that can 
 comfort me. The love and sympathy of the 
 only soul that has never failed me." 
 After a slight pause he continued: 
 " I have a little story to tell you, John," 
 And beginning at the beginning, he gave his 
 friend the history of his love for Evelyn, from 
 the first. Lubbock listened quietly enough until 
 it came to where — as he contended — Evelyn's 
 aunt and himself had come upon the scene at a 
 moment most inopportune — though, as a matter 
 of fact, neither he nor Harringford could guess 
 how inopportune — nevertheless the remem- 
 brance of it seemed to awake in -Lubbock a kind 
 of frenzy that might . have been accounted 
 divine, but for the profanity mingled with his 
 fervid expressions of self-condemnation. 
 
 " But that maiden lady, Euy — Heaven forgive 
 me for referring to her in that manner — but you 
 couldn't guess — " he went on to say, in an at- 
 tempted extenuation — " she had the ' budges ' to 
 that extent, and was so beset with fidgeting to 
 be with you two, that I thought I should lose my 
 mind racking my brain for excuses to detain 
 her. She exceeded all I have ever known." 
 And he became so wrought upon, thinking of 
 131 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 it, that Harringford had to change places with 
 him and turn comforter himself, in order that 
 he might be allowed to finish with the little 
 which yet remained to be told, and at the end 
 of it Lubbock sat silent for awhile, thinking 
 furiously, speaking at last, solemnly, from the 
 depths of his conviction. 
 
 " And they say she is the peculiar champion 
 of this Englishman. If it be a match, I'll war- 
 rant it to be of her planning." 
 
 Then he lapsed into silence again and fell to 
 biting his beard, but after a few moments he 
 arose with the air of a man who had made up 
 his mind. 
 
 "Euy," he said, laying his hand upon his 
 friend's shoulder, "don't be distressed. I be- 
 lieTe this report to be a mistake. I know her 
 mind better. I am pleased and happy that 
 you have told me all about it at last. I half 
 guessed it once, but afterward thought I had 
 been much mistaken. Don't give way to these 
 useless broodings; you have too much in you 
 to think of despairing ; remember 
 
 ' The clouds are heaviest when they turn to tears ; 
 Wight has no terrors Day may not destroy ; 
 Dead is the bloom before the fruit appears ; 
 Sad must the heart be ere it tastes true joy.' 
 
 " Think of the poor devil who wrote that — 
 There are better days, Euy, I am sure of it ! I 
 133 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 must leave you now," looking at his watch, " I 
 have an engagement, but I'll see you again, and 
 very soon." 
 
 It was not very often that Lubbock had an 
 inspiration, but when he did have one, he lost 
 no time before acting upon it. Meeting him at 
 this moment, enveloped in his long gray ulster, 
 with the high collar turned up, and with very 
 little visible above it, save his round-topped 
 hat, one might not, at first glance, have taken 
 him for an inspired man ; but he was that, never- 
 theless. 
 
 Evelyn Weir was reclining haK-buried in a 
 thick-cushioned chair, gazing, dreamily, into the 
 fire ; her feet resting upon an ottoman of crim- 
 son plush. She held a prettily-bound book in 
 her lap, one little thumb, thrust between the 
 leaves, keeping the place where she had been 
 reading. It was Harringford's last romance, 
 and the scene of it was in the mountains, partly. 
 Egotistical, as she argued it to be, and flatter- 
 ing, as she inwardly insisted on thinking it, she 
 saw herself pictured in the pages. Who could 
 say what her thoughts were? Sometimes the 
 sweetest of smiles played an instant about her 
 parted lips. 
 
 Sometimes the flickering light of the fire 
 crept under her lashes, sparkling there with 
 unwonted brilliancy, as though a tear had risen. 
 133 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 Who could say ? There came a loud ring that 
 startled her a little. 
 
 " Would she see Mr. Lubbock for a moment ? " 
 " Certainly, she would see Mr. Lubbock." 
 
 Perhaps the consciousness of his errand and 
 the image of its performance, not yet performed, 
 did not sit so jauntily on Mr. Lubbock's heart 
 as he could have wished. A number of whirl- 
 ing and spasmodic phantoms seemed to be flit- 
 ting, with appalling gayety of movement, before 
 his eyes as he entered the large hall, all suf- 
 fused in the red glow of a hanging-globe light, 
 which globe, as he caught sight of it, made him 
 think of the burning world and the day of judg- 
 ment. A bachelor, with all a bachelor's timid- 
 ity, what was it that he had undertaken to do ? 
 What was the aunt compared to the niece ? 
 
 The ulster was akeady off and hanging on 
 the rack. His hat he had just placed on the 
 peg for the third time. There was no excuse 
 for further delay, and there was Evelyn Weir, 
 herself, smiling at him from the library door. 
 He felt a little shudder run all over him, like a 
 thousand nimble, icy-footed spiders. By a 
 mighty mental effort he went down to his boot- 
 heels after his resolution, and succeeded in 
 dragging it up' to his heart, which was by this 
 time leaping frantically about, somewhere near 
 his tie. 
 
 He noticed that Miss Weir started a little 
 134 
 
THE THKBAD OF SCARLET 
 
 when slie grasped his hand — and no wonder, it 
 was like frost for coldness ; nevertheless, he 
 managed to follow her into the library, making 
 a few commonplace remarks, while the furniture 
 seemed to be leaping about the room like 
 trained leopards in a cage, and the smile which 
 had got itself twisted upon his stiffened features 
 seemed to stick there, as though it were carved 
 out of cold steel and riveted on. It was a 
 dreadful plight to be in. The branch of a tree, 
 blown by the wind, rattled against the window, 
 and instantly his thoughts flew out, as though 
 the sound were some friendly call to them. 
 
 How he wished, even now, that he might be 
 the branch of a tree, a dried leaf wheezing in 
 the wind, a cobblestone trampled in the street 
 — anything, so that he might escape being him- 
 self. But something must be done. Evelyn 
 was evidently wondering at his long silence. 
 
 " Miss Weir," he began solemnly, " I have a 
 communication of some importance to make to 
 you, and I trust " 
 
 Evelyn arose to her feet instantly, pale and 
 trembling, her eyes searching his face, her 
 breast heaving with sudden agitation. 
 
 "To me — a communication — is anything — is 
 it serious ? " 
 
 Merciful Heaven, he thought, this will never 
 do. 
 
 " Oh, no, no — not at all — not at all, nothing 
 135 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 in the least serious. Be seated — be seated, my 
 dear child; there is nothing to be frightened 
 about, nothing in the world, I assure you." 
 Strange to say, his courage had all come back. 
 He was master of himself again and, therefore, 
 of the situation. 
 
 " Oh, no," he went on, Evelyn having resumed 
 her seat, " what a fool I am to cause you this 
 uneasiness. But before I tell you what I have 
 come for, I suppose it wiU be entirely in order 
 for me to congratulate you ? " 
 
 " Congratulate me — you mean on my return 
 home? Thank you. I am truly glad to be 
 here." 
 
 "Well, I didn't mean just that," said Lub- 
 bock, looking into her eyes ; " I meant to con- 
 gratulate you on your prospective marriage." 
 
 " Why, where did you get such an idea ? " 
 she said, changing color a little, but looking 
 straight at him with frank, surprised eyes. " I 
 thought you serious, and you are jesting." 
 
 " Indeed, I am far from it ; on the contrary, 
 your answer is of great moment to me — and to 
 another it is of much greater moment. It is — 
 to be just plain honest, I think — simply a matter 
 of life and death, and it is for that reason, my 
 dear friend, that I am come to you, as a friend 
 iu behalf of a friend, though without his knowl- 
 edge, to ask you kindly to waive the natural 
 reserve you may feel in speaking of this matter 
 136 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 and to tell me, frankly, the truth about this 
 reported engagement between yourself and Mr. 
 Milton." 
 
 During this speech Evelyn had turned very 
 pale, but flushed a little at the direct question. 
 Lubbock waited for her answer with very visi- 
 ble anxiety. 
 
 "Why, certainly, Mr. Lubbock; after what 
 you tell me, I should think it criminal to jest 
 with you, and I assure you I have no hesitancy 
 in trusting so true a friend as I know you to be. 
 It is true that Mr. Milton has perhaps shown 
 some preference ; he has, really, asked my hand 
 in marriage, and my Aunt Delia has been, and 
 is, very zealously, his friend, and very desirous 
 that I should accept him ; but — " and a pecul- 
 iar smile stole over her face and lighted her 
 eyes up with a brilliancy that had something of 
 defiance in its sparkling — " but you know I am 
 of age now, and I advise entirely with myself in 
 such matters. I will be as frank with you as 
 you could wish me. There is no engagement, 
 and there will never be any, between myself and 
 the gentleman you speak of ; I am just a little 
 surprised that you could think it." 
 
 " But I did not, I did not believe it ; I said 
 as much," Lubbock was quick to answer, " and 
 so did Euy ; when I told him, he was " 
 
 The words were out now Nothing could 
 stop them. They seemed to echo and re-echo 
 137 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 from every comer of the room. Every wire in 
 the piano seemed to be repeating them over and 
 over. Evelyn was blushing painfully. 
 
 Evidently he was in for it now, and it is but 
 simple justice to say that he arose to the de- 
 mands of the occasion. He just confessed that 
 he had taken it upon himself to come and speak 
 in behalf of his friend. He had, he said, just 
 found out the truth at last and felt bound to 
 speak and to speak at once, and so, while Eve- 
 lyn sat holding her book before her face to 
 screen the fire-light from it, he went on, telling 
 her in glowing words the story of Harringford's 
 unselfish love for her through aU the years; 
 how respect for her sorrow had sealed his lips ; 
 how he had striven to forget and could not ; 
 how he had followed his task, through the dark 
 days and years, with her image for his inspira- 
 tion. He spoke of his griefs, his hopeless de- 
 votion, and of the despair which he believed 
 would end his life. The love in his own warm 
 heart for his friend urged his thoughts into 
 words, lent fire to his brain and eloquence to 
 his tongue. He forgot himself in the earnest- 
 ness with which he told the history of his 
 friend's unhappy affection. 
 
 " I do not know," he said in conclusion, 
 
 " whether I shall get forgiveness from either of 
 
 you ; I shall hope for it — I had no choice — I 
 
 could not rest after I knew the truth, and now 
 
 138 
 
THE THEEAD OP SCARLET 
 
 that you know it my heart is lighter. I would 
 have you remember, always," he continued, ris- 
 ing to go, " that I am your devoted friend, and 
 if you ever need my service, at any time, you 
 have only to command me." 
 
 Evelyn had not removed the book from be- 
 fore her face during his entire speech, through- 
 out which she had remained in silence, and as she 
 arose now, she still held it so as to shield her 
 face from his eyes. She did not wish him to 
 know that her cheeks were wet with tears ; but 
 she held out her hand, for good-night, saying 
 that he need not wait longer than now for her for- 
 giveness, and that she should always think of him 
 as a friend on whom she could call at any time. 
 
 So Lubbock departed, and only noticed how 
 perfectly self-possessed and calm he really was, 
 when he found himself, half-way along the 
 square, with his ulster safe under one arm and 
 his hat still in his hand. 
 
 No one was near to see, however, and he got 
 them both on in less time than it takes to tell it. 
 He walked on, with a certain jauntiness of step, 
 inwardly congratulating himself on his own per- 
 formance, intending to go straight to Harring- 
 ford. But little by little the flush of his success 
 began to cool upon him, and before he had gone 
 many blocks on his way, the self-congratulatory 
 accent had died entirely out of the lively little, 
 air he had been softly whistling, and he began 
 139 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 to wonder if he had really any just cause for the 
 dim suspicion, now crossing his inind at shorter 
 and shorter intervals, that there was just a 
 bare possibility of his having played the fool ; 
 and with that thought the cold spiders were 
 busy with him again. He stopped near the 
 turning of a street to think. He felt a growing 
 conviction that a little time for serious medita- 
 tion was what he needed most just now. Har- 
 ringford seemed, more and more, a dangerous 
 sort of man to meet. 
 
 This was a new business with him. For the 
 first time in his life he was brought to a stand- 
 still by a moral hurdle which he did not know 
 how to climb, and he dared not attempt to jump 
 it, and so he simply stood, and looked. One 
 part of his mind made careful note of the man- 
 ner in which the bricks were placed about the 
 roots of a tree which sprang out of the pavement 
 just in front of him, and another part was sail- 
 ing out over the fields, it seemed, seeking about, 
 in thickets and other unfrequented spots, for a 
 possible place of safety; while still another 
 faculty was busy picturing Evelyn Weir and 
 her probable state of mind. Why did he not 
 wait for her to say something, to give some kind 
 of expression to what she must have been think- 
 ing. He thought of returning to her ; but no, 
 that would not do now. Evidently he had 
 played the fool. There was but little doubt in 
 140 
 
THE THEBAD OF SCARLET 
 
 his mind about that now. Just then a police- 
 man, following his long shadow, came past the 
 corner on his rounds. He glanced at Lubbock, 
 standing there like a stork in a trance. Lub- 
 bock turned and began retracing his steps, feel- 
 ing the policeman's eyes boring through the 
 back of his ulster; pursued by a Tague con- 
 sciousness that he was perhaps a fit subject for 
 arrest. His own room seemed now the proper 
 asylum for a man who was fast becoming a 
 lunatic, and thither he betook himself, to think 
 it all over and then to change his position un- 
 easily, and still to think it all over. 
 
 Harringf ord was far from happy ; for though 
 he was ready to grasp at any straw, he was able 
 to glean but little comfort from Lubbock's as- 
 surances. After Lubbock's departure he had 
 tried to lose himself in a book and so escape his 
 vexing thought; but it was useless. He only 
 read with his eyes, while his mind wandered 
 away from the page continually. He threw the 
 book aside, and opening the tablet in which he 
 had been writing, tried to force his thoughts 
 into the artificial channel of composition, but 
 the voice within his heart would not be hushed ; 
 it was in vain to try, and after an hour's sad 
 luxury of thinking, which was also fruitless, he 
 arose and went out to walk. The night had 
 turned mild. The sky was misty and a strong 
 wind was blowing from the south. 
 141 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 It was sometHng just to be stirring. There 
 was a certain sense of pleasure in the mere 
 assertion of physical power — for he was a man 
 of splendid mould and make, and his bodily 
 strength, his wonderful animal excellence, 
 seemed still to defy the blighting touch of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Mile after mile he sped along the deserted 
 streets, stemming the sudden gusts that swept 
 past, whirling the withered leaves against him 
 and making the flames in the gas-lamps flare and 
 roar again. It was late when he came in, at 
 last, resenting inwardly this lonely returning 
 home ; but feeling withal a sense of freshness 
 and renewed strength for the steady battle 
 which can only end with death. He was half- 
 way up the dark stairway when he heard a 
 cry that made him stop and listen. 
 
 The cry was startlingly human-like, and 
 seemed to come from some of the empty rooms 
 below. In a moment it died away into a wretch- 
 ed moaning, which was followed by a scratching 
 noise that puzzled him no little. After waiting 
 for some time— the sounds not being repeated — 
 he went up to his room, leaving the door open a 
 little way, so that he might hear, and drawing 
 his chair in front of the fire, sat down, intend- 
 ing to listen. He recalled what Ainsworth had 
 often said about the strange noises he had heard 
 in the old house and for which he had never 
 143 
 
THE THREAD OP SCAELET 
 
 been able to account. "I wish I could find 
 something," he thought to himself. But the 
 quiet still continuing, his thoughts wandered 
 off to other things, and he was at last drifting 
 into unconsciousness when he was startled by 
 the same cry, only it sounded much louder, and 
 heart-rending beyond belief. It was not one 
 cry only, but a quick succession of wails, and as 
 the lugubrious notes swelled and echoed through 
 the hollow rooms, he sprang to his feet, inwardly 
 protesting, with a kind of mental desperation, 
 against the horrible cachination, which, by its 
 dreadful insistency, awakened a sympathetic 
 anguish in his own breast. 
 
 " What can it be? " he thought, striding out 
 into the hallway. The cries had died down 
 now into low moanings, and as he listened, 
 intently, leaning over the balustrade, he could 
 hear again the scratching noise. His mind ran 
 quickly over the possibilities. He had been 
 away for more than a week. Surely no human 
 being was in the house ; it must be a dog ; the 
 cry might be made by either in great distress- 
 but how could a dog have effected an entrance ? 
 Then he remembered how they had found the 
 front door open on the night of their departure, 
 and the sounds like light, swift footsteps on the 
 floor of the hall, the softly-closed door — ^it seemed 
 plain enough ; it must be a dog. He went back 
 into his room and took up the lamp, but put it 
 143 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 down again and stood thinking a moment ; then 
 he went into his sleeping-room and came back 
 with a candle. Cutting this in two, he put one- 
 half into a heavy brazen candlestick — an old one 
 he had been keeping for ornament on his mantel. 
 Lighting this hmriedly, he went out and along 
 the hallway, down the back staircase and into 
 the lower hall. He was making his way toward 
 the rear of the house and was passing a small 
 door which opened in, under the stairway, when 
 he heard suppressed sounds that evidently came 
 from the cellar. 
 
 The door stood an inch or two ajar. For, 
 though it was made to close by means of a 
 spring, the contrivance was so weakened by rust 
 and long use that the door always swung open 
 a little, leaving a small crevice. Holding his 
 hand, as a guard, about the flame of the candle 
 to keep the draught from extinguishing it, Har- 
 ringford now pushed this door open with his 
 shoulder, pausing a moment on the little plat- 
 form inside, to let it shut softly behind him, and 
 then, holding the light a little above his head, he 
 went slowly but steadily down the dingy flight 
 of steps. Several bloated and speckled spiders 
 ran quickly out on their webs to stare at the 
 passing flame, and as quickly retreated again 
 into their funnel-like lairs, leaving all the out- 
 spread filmy fabric quivering behind them. 
 
 Damp stains glittered here and there upon 
 144 
 
THE THEEAD OP SCAKLET 
 
 the walls, and the air was filled with musty 
 odors. In the spaces between some rotting 
 boards which lay upon the ground, groups of 
 fungi had sprung up in dismal little groves, 
 looking like diminutive pale umbrellas. There 
 were slight scuttling sounds, made by the rats 
 as they fled in sudden consternation, and one 
 bold, gray-haired old fellow Harringford saw 
 watching him from the mouth of his retreat, his 
 black eyes gleaming with baleful but speaking 
 intelligence. 
 
 Glancing sharply about him, Harringford 
 made his way along the broad, gloomy passage, 
 into the divisions of the cellar which lay imder 
 the forward portion of the house. He had never 
 been here since the time when they had made 
 search for Ainsworth, fearful of what each look 
 might disclose. Half-remembered objects, long 
 stored away in these regions, now seemed to 
 come forth from the uncertain shadows toward 
 the flickering light. There was no lack of fan- 
 tastic and frightful suggestions for an imagina- 
 tive mind, but his fancies only brought, now, a 
 half-smile to Harringford's face as he surveyed 
 the grotesque, inanimate things, whose only 
 crime was in the bulky proportions of their use- 
 lessness ; a kind of ponderous efi'rontery, in thus 
 persisting to- be, after their days of service were 
 at an end. 
 
 He retraced his steps along the passage. 
 145 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 There was one more apartment which he now 
 prepared to enter, snuffing his candle and 
 spreading the wick, to improve the flame. A 
 wide, square, unusual-looking opening in the 
 wall, just opposite the steps, led into it, and 
 crouching down, with the light thrust out ahead 
 of him, Harringford went in, glaring about him 
 with expectant eyes. At one end of the place 
 the rough stone foundation of a chimney jutted 
 out, and in the angle which it formed with the 
 wall a few boards stood leaning, and against 
 these a great heap of rubbish had been thrown. 
 Harringford remembered it all well enough. 
 The packing out of numerous boxes — received 
 by Ainsworth — together with all sorts of nonde- 
 script litter, had been scattered about the cellar, 
 and he himself had ordered the servant to clear 
 the place up. The boards in the corner also 
 had probably been placed there by Ainsworth 
 himself, and Harringford remembered now hav- 
 ing moved them, glancing, aimlessly, behind 
 them, at the time Lubbock and himself were 
 hopelessly looking about the cellars for some 
 sign. It was on this heap of rubbish that he 
 now fixed his eyes, advancing with the light in 
 his right hand, held above his head and shading 
 his eyes with his left. The thick darkness 
 seemed to resist the feeble rays. He took a 
 step or two nearer ; there was a sudden stirring 
 on the heap of rubbish. He stopped, looking 
 146 
 
THE THREAD OP SCAELET 
 
 intently toward the spot. He now saw that the 
 rubbish had been recently disturbed. It had 
 been pulled away from the wall and partly scat- 
 tered about. Some of the decaying boards had 
 been thrown down, and as the light fell now on 
 the others, he saw that they were freshly marked 
 with deep scratches. 
 
 A thrill of conviction ran through him, feel- 
 ing himself upon the eve of a discovery. Still 
 he could make out nothing distinctly amidst the 
 the rubbish, which was flattened and hollowed 
 out, like the lair of some wild beast. With a 
 feeling of half-angry impatience, he took an- 
 other step forward — there came a low, threaten- 
 ing growl — he raised the candle aloft and bent 
 nearer, shading his eyes. Slowly, a grizzled, 
 shapeless head was lifted, and two eyes, that 
 glowed, like balls of fire, from their hollow sock- 
 ets, glared at him over the edge of that wretched 
 abode in which their owner — whatever it might 
 be — had taken shelter. 
 
 " Come, poor fellow," said Harringford, his 
 voice just a little unsteady. 
 
 Instantly there was a shuddering movement 
 within the lair, and a grayish, wrinkled, leathery, 
 speckled, skeleton-like thing, half-human, half- 
 animal seeming, clambered and slid down over 
 the intervening obstacles, and, with horrible, 
 phantom-like movements, with suppressed chat- 
 terings and human-like whimperings, the creat- 
 147 
 
UNTIL THE DAY" BREAK 
 
 ure came, swiftly, scrambling and crawling 
 amidst the moving wisps of straw and debris, 
 straight toward him; but in that uncertain 
 light Harringford could make out nothing, and 
 for the moment his senses were utterly con- 
 fused. With an involuntary convulsive move- 
 vement of his arm, he brought the candle down 
 through the air with a lightning-like movement 
 that extinguished it. The thick darkness seemed 
 to leap against him. Dashing the candle-stick 
 to the ground, with an exclamation of anger, he 
 reached wildly down through the gloom and 
 grappled the animal fiercely with both his hands. 
 He could feel the ribs, plainly, as his fingers 
 gathered the thick hairy skin in their frantic 
 grasp. 
 
 For the instant his actions were obedient 
 only to the unreasoning instincts of self-preser- 
 vation, but in the next, he was master of him- 
 self again. There was a sharp cry, followed by 
 a half -savage, half-conciliatory growl, interrupted 
 by hurried and noisy mastication. The poor 
 brute was ravenously devouring something. 
 Harringford's touch convinced him of the truth 
 at once. It was a huge dog, shut in and starv- 
 ing to death. " By Jove," he thought, " he's 
 making the most of his opportunity; he has 
 done for my piece of candle already." He 
 smiled, inwardly, thinking of his predicament, 
 at the same time loosing his hold and patting 
 148 
 
THE THREAD OF SCARLET 
 
 the beast gently; but his friendly action was 
 answered by a fierce warning, and he could 
 easily imagine the heavy lip curling and curv- 
 ing back from the white, dangerous fangs. 
 What if the dog, driven mad by his hunger, was 
 about to attack him there, in the dark ? Nerv- 
 ously he began feeling about on the ground for 
 the heavy candlestick, but he could not find it. 
 He stepped quickly backward, feeling with one 
 hand for the wall behind him, while with the 
 other he searched in his pockets for a match. 
 In a moment he was against the wall. He could 
 hear the beast moving toward him — there was not 
 much time. The match was found at last ; but he 
 struck it too roughly, in his hurry, and the brim- 
 stone fell, with feeble sputterings, to the ground. 
 
 Quickly procuring another, Harringf ord forced 
 enough composure to strike it carefully on one 
 of the stones behind him. The friendly light 
 relieved his mind at once. The wretched beast 
 was some distance from him, making weak but 
 frantic endeavors to gather in the fragments of 
 the candle, which had escaped his first well-in- 
 tended efforts. 
 
 " Poor devil," thought Harringford, " what a 
 time he has had of it here ; he is too weak to 
 hurt anything." 
 
 Looking about him he soon found a splinter 
 of resinous-looking pine, which he lighted with 
 a match. 
 
 149 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 " A little fire and brimstone, even, is not a bad 
 thing to mingle with outer darkness — at the 
 proper time and place," he thought to himself, 
 coming closer to the dog, who now, despite his 
 fear of the light, wagged his tail feebly, in 
 friendly recognition. 
 
 Harringford remembered the animal well 
 enough now. He had seen him often, prowling 
 about the place, and had fed him more than 
 once. He stood a moment, regarding the poor 
 brute, sympathizingly noting the long attenu- 
 ated speckled body, the slender pitiful neck, 
 which now seemed unable to support the top- 
 heavy head with its dome-like, Gothic shape ; 
 the long ears which hung pendant, flanking the 
 lugubrious countenance, and the great, mourn- 
 ful, steadfast eyes, that glared with startling 
 intelligence and almost human expressiveness. 
 
 "My grave and reverent senior," Harring- 
 ford said, addressing him, " I cannot leave you 
 here to howl the night out in your loneliness 
 and misery. Come, my poor fellow-creature — " 
 laying a gentle hand on the head that was turned 
 appealingly toward him with whimperings of 
 self - commiseration — " we must make shift to 
 get out of this." And suiting the action to the 
 words he lifted the ungainly beast under his 
 right arm and carried him so — dangling help- 
 lessly, with a ridiculous expression of resigna- 
 tion on his long face — up to his room. 
 150 
 
THE THEEAD OP SCARLET 
 
 Although the hour was late, Harringf ord man- 
 aged to procure something for him to eat, and 
 having made him as comfortable as he could 
 with the help of an old rug, he had the satisfac- 
 tion to note that the patient brute did not seem 
 to share in his own misgivings about the pos- 
 sible effect of so hearty a meal after so long a 
 fast; but rather settled himself to rest with a 
 confident resignation and an indifference to the 
 future worthy of a Greek philosopher— which, 
 indeed, perhaps he was. 
 
 But, Greek or no Greek, or however madly 
 the canine phantoms may have revelled amid 
 the disturbed visions of his slumbers, the dog 
 was infinitely more at ease in his spirit than was 
 John Lubbock — at the same moment — tossing 
 and turning upon his bed. He was like the 
 Psalmist of old — " the visions of his bed troubled 
 him." What was it that he had done ? He had 
 heard somewhere — or had he read it — or had it 
 originated in his own mind ? Anyway, he re- 
 membered the words as though they had oc- 
 curred among the commandments: "Follow, un- 
 hesitatingly, an impulse that your conscience 
 tells you is a good one." Well, that was just 
 what he had done — and yet — ^he could not sleep. 
 What would Euy think when he found it out— 
 and of course he would find it out — ^what would 
 he say? 
 
 And Evelyn — what was she thinking at that 
 151 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 moment ? " Pleased or displeased," he thought, 
 remembering the old game. 
 
 He could not tell, she might be either — happy 
 or distressed. Of course, she said she forgave 
 him, but her goodness of heart, her good breed- 
 ing, would prompt that much. He was all at 
 sea. It seemed an awful thing, this, and at his 
 time of life. It is a queer thing, this protesting 
 of maturity against the ills which it compla- 
 cently looks upon as the right and proper visita- 
 tions of youth and inexperience, yet it was this 
 very spirit of protest, strong within him, that 
 now caused him to rise from his dim bed for 
 perhaps the twentieth time, like a very substan- 
 tial ghost, and to roam about the room in search 
 of his pipe that he might sit before the fire, 
 industriously mingling smoke and meditation in 
 hope of comfort. 
 
 There is, at times, a good deal of consolation 
 in a good meerschaum, for a man who has noth- 
 ing better, but for the most part Misery is a 
 wary visitor, and is not so easily turned out of 
 doors. At all events, the immortal weed had 
 lost its flavor now, and there was nothing for it 
 but to crawl back to his bed, which stood there 
 upon its four stolid legs, doggedly awaiting him, 
 with that sinister vigilance which seems to be, 
 at times, a peculiarly exasperating quality of 
 certain inanimate objects, that by reason of 
 their uses, have gained a close acquaintanceship 
 153 
 
THE THEEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 with humanity. Nothing for it but to toss on 
 through the black sea of night until he could 
 set foot once more upon the pallid shores of 
 momiug, trusting that with the rising sun 
 some inspiration might come to light him out 
 of the mental and moral quagmire into which he 
 had deliberately walked — nay, had forced his 
 way in, as though it were a state to be desired. 
 If Harringford should ever find out all that 
 he had said, and once conceived a thought as to 
 the possibility of his having been made an 
 object of pity in Evelyn's eyes — he would never 
 forget it. Lubbock was sure of that. And 
 Evelyn ! Even now he imagined himself pict- 
 ured in that lady's mind — a brilliant idiot, 
 blinded by his own feelings and undertaking to 
 control elements with which he was about as 
 fitted to cope as a baby to play with lightning ; 
 with a good heart enough, but with absolutely 
 no adequate conception of what was due to his 
 friends or of the common proprieties of social life. 
 No tact, no judgment, no anything. The web of 
 his thoughts seemed to wrap him as in a poisoned 
 garment. He felt himself scorching as with a 
 fever. Social proprieties ! How little they had 
 weighed with him that night, with his heart filled 
 only with love for his friend and the one desire 
 — to help him — to save him, to bring him good ; 
 he had forgotten all else for that, and now — 
 well, he was anything but satisfied with himself, 
 15a . 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 Some way, the reward of conscience seemed to 
 have missed him. 
 
 But John Lubbock is not the only man who 
 has found nothing but bitterness in doing what 
 seemed the right thing to do. Not only what 
 seems, but what is, the right. Yet he had been 
 wise, nevertheless. There is only one rock upon 
 which to stand — the right — because it is right, 
 reward or no reward. If we do right that we 
 may be blessed, rewarded, we are, after all, only 
 hirelings. A man's own heart must decide for 
 him, not that superficial fool called " the world," 
 which has no heart. 
 
 Harringford was late to breakfast the next 
 morning. Lubbock had already been gone 
 some time. They were not to wait for him : they 
 were not to be surprised if he did not come to 
 meals. Some matters of importance would be 
 likely to keep him away for a day or two, his 
 sister explained. 
 
 "Yes," said Harringford, "he spoke last 
 night of an engagement somewhere." 
 
 But Harringford was rather disappointed, for 
 he wished to speak with Lubbock particularly. 
 After luncheon he went to Lubbock's office to look 
 him up, but he was not there, and Harringford, 
 moody and depressed, returning to his room, 
 walking slowly, without umbrella, through the 
 drizzhng rain, wandered from his way, absorbed 
 in thought ; musing dejectedly over the memo- 
 154 
 
THE THEBAD OF SOAELBT 
 
 ries suggested to him by the odor of the wet 
 leaves which hung heavy on the weeping trees, 
 or lay, covering the pavements with matchless 
 designs in gold and green and crimson, mingled 
 with brown and gray ; so beautiful in color, so 
 exquisite in workmanship, that it seemed like 
 sacrilege to tread them under foot. More than 
 once Harringford stooped to pick up some 
 brilliant waif, whose perfect outline and deli- 
 cious coloring appealed to him so that he could 
 not pass it. At each of these he would look 
 wistfully for a moment and then thrust it for- 
 getfully into his overcoat pocket. They were 
 like old-time friends, recognized again, for a 
 moment, amidst the tragic revelries of Nature — 
 stopping to whisper a message only, and then 
 whirling on. 
 
 But the messages, repeated over and over, were 
 not without effect. Harringford began to think 
 of the great silent hills somewhere — what matter 
 where — far-off, away, out of this vexed world. 
 The peaceful solitudes 
 
 Where Tynan-tinted woodlands cast away 
 Their wine-stained, costly glories one by one ; 
 Where wild, fantastic madness and decay 
 Blend intostrange sad silence, like the play 
 Of noiseless phantoms in some world undone. 
 
 There he would go, to live out his days, alone, 
 to pray — not for happiness, now, that was past, 
 155 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 but only for peace. "My peace I give unto 
 you, not as the world giveth." His mind dwelt 
 tenderly, caressingly, on the words of the Mas- 
 ter. Might he not find peace, also, at last? He 
 would labor still, too, for the good and uplifting 
 of his fellow-man, in some way. They would 
 not thank him — ^well, no matter. That thought 
 weighed but little. His idol was broken. The 
 inspiring angel of his life had turned away — 
 well, perhaps he had been too fond of ideals, 
 had over-estimated the value of things, of life 
 itself, even, had overrated himself and his own 
 abilities. The realities in the midst of which he 
 found himseK failed to justify the high notions 
 he had entertained. What, then — there must 
 be another life. A life where peace and self- 
 forgetfulness may be purchased by the sacrifice 
 of ambition and worldly preference. He would 
 go to seek that life. He would go at once. 
 To-morrow should find him on his way. To- 
 morrow! thou vantage-ground of hope and 
 aspiration, for which life and death are battliag 
 continually. To-morrow! what would we do 
 without our To-morroto. 
 
 Harringford had reached now a more busy 
 portion of the city. Once he thought he had 
 a glimpse of John Lubbock in the crowd, but 
 he lost him again. Just then a carriage came 
 by. Behind the glass door a fair image seemed 
 inclining toward him. He turned, and looked 
 156 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 after the retreating vehicle with all his eyes, 
 lifting his hat and speaking an audible greet- 
 ing, although blushingly conscious that it could 
 not be heard except by those for whom it 
 was not intended. The carriage did not stop, 
 and was soon out of sight amid the moving 
 wilderness of the street. How pale she appeared 
 and what a look she gave him. There was 
 something in that look — what was it — that ap- 
 pealed to him as nothing in the world had ever 
 done before. He could not understand it. He 
 could not even try. His very soul had gone out 
 to meet that look, How quick is a lover's eye ! 
 how knowing ; how wise is a lover's heart ! which 
 makes it the more sad that the lover himself is, 
 so often, such a fool. He stood on the curb 
 looking after her — "her." Hope, happiness, 
 love, sorrow — the realm of all tender thought, 
 aU dreams that had ever visited his mind or 
 quickened his heart — the world, life itself, all, 
 were wrapped up in that one word. A sudden 
 wild, imreasonable longing sprang up in his soul, 
 something which that look had inspired in him 
 and which he could no more resist or set aside 
 than he could reverse the law of his being. He 
 must find her — he would find her — and when he 
 did, he would speak. Wherever they should 
 meet, be it where it might — coming down the 
 steps of some friend's house, stepping from the 
 door of her carriage, in the rain upon the glit- 
 157 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 tering paYement, amidst the jostlings of the 
 crowd, no matter — he would find time and place 
 — nothing should prevent him. 
 
 If words could be made to obey the heart's 
 intent, he would know, he would be assured. 
 Already he was making his way steadily back 
 along the street, keeping close to the edge of the 
 pavement so that he might watch the better. 
 
 Could anything have seemed more absolutely 
 hopeless, more utterly devoid of the old world's 
 good common sense? Philosophy, resolutions, 
 dreams of lonely and quiet life, seH-forgetfnl 
 labors for the good of mankind, where were 
 they now? All vanished. Vanished, because 
 of a woman's glance. Oh, divine madness of 
 love! whoever hath never felt thy touch hath 
 never lived. Thou only recompense for this 
 long death which we honor with the name of 
 life; thou only heaven-filled cup, to cheer the 
 barren feast at which we sit, smiling our foolish 
 smiles, until the host shall please to help us to 
 a grave. 
 
 After hurrying along the distance of two or 
 three blocks, Harringford stopped again and 
 stood on the curb, looking across the dismal 
 street. The smoke swept leisurely against the 
 dripping faces of the soot-stained buildings. 
 The shrill whistle of the street-car driver 
 sounded an impatient warning to the heavy iron 
 wagon, failing to cause any acceleration, how- 
 158 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 ever, in its stdlen, sidelong retreat from the 
 track. Light vehicles whirled by, disdaining 
 the slow world which moved on doggedly 
 through the mud. Carriages, surmounted by 
 pyramidal figures in glistening rubber, stood 
 waiting in front of the stores, in which the gas 
 was lighted, for the day was unusually dark. 
 A vender of nuts and fruits, near by, bawled out, 
 from time to time, a lugubrious warning to the 
 passers-by that now was the time to procure the 
 one thing for suffering humanity. 
 
 It was the onward flowing of the steady 
 stream. The usual, unpoetic, dead-level com- 
 monplace stream of rainy-day human existence 
 in a city. Perhaps no spectacle is so uninviting, 
 so perfectly tinted over with a well-mixed and a 
 well-studied tone of misery, or so admirably cal- 
 culated to induce a sense of utter wretchedness 
 in the beholder. And yet, Euy Harringford 
 stood gazing across the scene like one en- 
 chanted. Often he was rudely jostled and was 
 obliged to make violent efforts to keep from 
 stepping into the swimming gutter. 
 
 The wind had grown colder and the slanting 
 rain struck sharply against his face, and his 
 clothes were growing heavy upon him. His 
 restless eyes were glowing. His face was pale, 
 but beautified from the rapt expression by 
 which the uplifted spirit announced its superi- 
 ority to all material things. He fumbled the 
 159 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 damp leaves in his pocket with cold fingers, and 
 a sharp pain now and then flitted across his 
 brows. Curious glances were bestowed upon 
 him by the passers, accompanied by smiles, at 
 times, that might mean anything — or nothing. 
 There are few faces that show any meaning in a 
 smile, after maturity. The genuine smile per- 
 tains, for the most part, only to childhood. 
 The shabbily dressed and rather youthful-look- 
 ing fruit-vender, however, seated under his 
 flimsy and dilapidated oil-cloth shelter, the tat- 
 ters of which sported playfully in the wind, was 
 doing a bit of genuine, unconventional staring, 
 through a pair of large, black, unabashed eyes, 
 which were turned toward Harringford very 
 frequently, with looks denoting very natural 
 wonderment and unmistakable and growing 
 interest. 
 
 But Harringford was oblivious. I suppose 
 the great world, judging from outward appear- 
 ances, would have set him down in its mind an 
 amplified fool, and, it may be, that a full knowl- 
 edge of the feelings which possessed him would 
 only have strengthened that opinion. WeU, it 
 is, perhaps, a dangerous luxury to difier, sharply, 
 with the great world ; haply it is an injudicious 
 thing to do, and yet Harringford was, at that 
 moment, a very wise man. Wise, with a wisdom 
 that is not in the books. Wise in the wisdom 
 of Nature, beside which the wisdom of Solomon 
 160 
 
THE THEEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 is but a poor thing ; before which the gravest 
 philosopher or stoic is as a child, merely, full of 
 unmeaning babblings. We can afford to leave 
 him for a little while, even as he stands : bereft 
 as he seems to be of all the kindly ministrations 
 in which the worldling feels himself most blest 
 and happy. 
 
 After John Lubbock had left her, Evelyn Weir 
 sat thinking, until a late hour. She was, per- 
 haps, as much disturbed as he, but not, we are 
 glad to believe, quite so unhappy. 
 
 The stiU air of the quiet room seemed ringing 
 with a soundless reverberation of the words he 
 had spoken. She could hear them all over 
 again, or was it that she could see them ? For 
 that is the way words seem to repeat themselves 
 to us at times — we seem to see them written on 
 the air. It is almost as though we might touch 
 them; so that one is often constrained to be- 
 lieve in a sixth sense which combines in itself 
 all the qualities existing separately in the other 
 five. 
 
 At aU events, she sat, thinking and thinking 
 and thinking, as we all do at times ; not because 
 we can reach any definite conclusion, not be- 
 cause we expect to, even, but simply because it 
 turns out that the mind will not rest when once 
 thoroughly aroused, until it has exhausted itself 
 by this strange, and in most cases, fruitless, 
 161 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 labor which we call thinhing ; even though the 
 mind should realize clearly, in the beginning, 
 that the labor will be vain. Our thoughts seem 
 to travel on over the tortuous track, until they 
 either stop, as against a solid wall, or get bewil- 
 dered and lost in some shifting labyrinth where 
 consciousness, itself, fades amid the fleeting 
 shadows. Then they return, to go eagerly and 
 carefully over the same road again, with no ap- 
 parent loss of interest in every crook and turn 
 of the way : although they must inevitably 
 bring up at the same unsatisfying goal ; and thus 
 they will go, and keep us waiting the while, over 
 and over and over, until their steps grow slower 
 and slower and the patient feet, clogged and re- 
 tarded by sheer weight of weariness, are brought 
 to a stop at last and the strange, mysterious, 
 silent spirit of life within, slowly folds her wings 
 and we are at rest — at rest, but only when we 
 cannot know it — asleep. With the first dawn 
 of consciousness the noiseless, nimble feet are 
 busy again : and so they go, indenting with the 
 ebb and flow of the waves, like the birds one 
 may see at the ocean beach, ever close upon the 
 verge along the whispering shore — ^the birds 
 along the shore of the ocean ; our thoughts 
 along the shore of life. 
 
 Stretching out, far beyond this undefined 
 shore, lies the great sea. Some time all our 
 thoughts will blend with the ebbing wave and 
 163 
 
THE THKEAD OP SCARLET 
 
 then — ^then, it must be, they will be at rest for- 
 ever. 
 
 " He has loved me always, and he loves me 
 now." 
 
 Like a refrain these words repeated them- 
 selves in Evelyn's heart when she awoke, late, 
 the next morning. She could hear the subdued 
 music of the rain as it softly struck a million 
 gentle notes upon the leaves of the glorious ma- 
 ple outside, which was showering its golden 
 gifts upon the fresh green lawn and weeping, 
 the while, a flood of crystal tears. 
 
 I cannot say that Evelyn was happy, and yet 
 why not ? For happiness is, after all, but a fig- 
 ure of speech. She arose, dressed, had break- 
 fast, and sat down to read — the usual, every-day 
 routine ; and yet, to-day, there was more in all 
 these things than had been in them yesterday. 
 I know not if it be happiness, but it is some- 
 thing which, when we have it, makes us pity 
 ourselves in the days when we did not have it ; 
 makes us kindlier, gentler to others who, we im- 
 agine, do not know the strange joy which makes 
 the darkest day bright for us, the meanest pros- 
 pect lovely. We are so rich that we feel we 
 must owe something to everybody. Certainly, 
 Evelyn had never looked so beautiful. There 
 was a caress in every glance of her eyes. Noth- 
 ing was commonplace. A celestial grace ac- 
 companied her every movement. Her heart 
 163 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 overflowed with pure and thankful emotions, like 
 a cup gently shaken when it is brimming with 
 precious wine. The world is new with every 
 day. It is because our hearts are burdened with 
 the memories of the past, that we grow old ; but 
 for this, we too would renew our lives each day, 
 and, like the earth, be young and full of hope 
 forever. 
 
 In the afternoon Evelyn was sitting by the 
 window in the library — ^her own, it was now — 
 the window where she used to sit, listening to 
 her father's readings, while the redbreasts 
 hopped about on the lawn, glancing up curi- 
 ously at her, standing so still, sometimes with 
 such seeming attentiveness to what was said 
 that she half-believed they understood it all, 
 perfectly. Even now, as she sat looking out, 
 she saw the very same robins — so they seemed 
 — so like they were, and they glanced up, too, 
 as though they remembered her well enough, 
 standing very trim and straight on their slender 
 legs, their breasts all dabbled from the wet 
 grass. 
 
 " And I am a woman now," she was thinking ; 
 " and this is life that I am living, and what am 
 I making of it ? What am I really doing, for 
 myself or for any one ? " 
 
 Vainly she tried to realize, to herself, what 
 she must actually appear and be, in unmerciful 
 truth. It is a hard thing for any one to do. 
 164 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 This day must bring something ! Something 
 she would do! Some good deed performed, 
 some kindly action done, should be hers to re- 
 member, before darkness closed again over the 
 world. 
 
 Slowly her eyes came back to the book which 
 lay upon her lap. It was the romance she had 
 been reading the night before, and now she had 
 finished it, and saw herself pictured by a 
 loving hand ; she was pleased but saddened 
 by it. It seemed to her she was drawn as 
 she ought to be, not as she was. And why 
 should she not be like that ? Was it impossible 
 to be in one's own person the actual embodi- 
 ment of such an ideal ? The last few pages had 
 awakened in her a strange longing, and she now 
 went over them again, trying to catch the full 
 spirit of them. There was something ineffably 
 sad in them, though she could not just fix it. It 
 seemed to her a strange piece of writing, and the 
 book ended with a few lines which might have 
 appealed to her but slightly if taken by them- 
 selves, but placed as they were, at the close of 
 the romance she had just read, they seemed, 
 now, full of meaning. Again she read them 
 over : 
 
 Grood-by, good-by, life is one long farewell. 
 
 Farewell ! Why do I vainly seek to keep 
 The joys that would be flitting ? None will dwell 
 
 For long in my poor house ; but I'll not weep, 
 165 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 Nor bid ye tarry. See ! the world outside 
 Hath better, far, to offer. Go — go — go I 
 
 Quick, lest I waver, lest my tearful pride 
 Melt into weakness, and I, bending low, 
 
 Beseech ye to remain! Ye shall not say 
 
 I prayed, and all in vain, that ye should stay I 
 
 I would my house were better, and God knows 
 
 I sought to make it so ; I sought with tears 
 Through summer's heat and in the winter snows 
 
 To build it other than it now appears ; 
 And why I failed I know not. fain, oh fain. 
 
 Would I have entertained ye with the best, 
 If that were mine to give, but all is vain ; 
 
 My house is no fit lodge for heavenly guest I 
 Joys lightly go, despite our tenderest care. 
 But Sorrow stays, content with scantiest fare. 
 
 Musing, she let the book sink softly on her 
 knee. 
 
 " He loved me always, and he loves me now." 
 
 Her thoughts had caught the trick of the 
 measure agaia and her mind dwelt on this verse 
 of hers with a kind of miser delight. And so 
 she sat, lost in a revery, her hands clasped, her 
 head bent forward. A fair picture she was, 
 against the gray light of the window ; like some 
 of the wonderful pictures men painted of old — 
 when they painted not for gold but for love. 
 
 There came a ceremonious little knock at the 
 
 door which she did not hear, but it was no 
 
 matter, apparently, for the door was opened 
 
 softly and two ladies in black entered. Evelyn 
 
 166 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 still not looking up, the stately Aunt Delia 
 thought proper to announce her presence by a 
 shrill little cough, which was quite a formidable 
 little herald — quite characteristic and intensely 
 feminine. 
 
 The other lady was the good Aunt Evelyn, 
 the sister of Evelyn's father, " with whom she 
 lived," as Evelyn expressed it, though the house 
 and all that belonged to it, were her own. A 
 gentle and motherly woman was this Aunt Eve- 
 lyn, and quite subdued-looking compared with 
 the trenchant Delia, the unwinking chaperone, 
 with whom we have already some slight ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Aunt Evelyn seated herself quietly, after the 
 manner of mild persons who are conscious of 
 growing weight and, perhaps, a little dulness, 
 and Miss Delia also settled into a deep chair, 
 with certain flutterings and starchy rustlings 
 which seemed natural and necessary accompani- 
 ments of her make-up. 
 
 " Ahem ! my dear," she said, " we've been 
 having such a talk — sister and I — about — ah — 
 Mr. Milton. I think Mr. Milton is svxih a nice 
 man." 
 
 Evelyn placed her book endwise on her lap, 
 and leaning her elbow on it, rested her chin in 
 her hand ; pushing herself back further in her 
 chair, with a slight movement of impatience. 
 
 "About— ahem— Mr. Milton. We— that is, 
 167 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 sister and I — really think you ought to reconsid- 
 er, my dear, considering everything — ahem. He 
 sent me a note yesterday; such a beautiful, 
 such a beautifully written note — " bringing forth, 
 at the same time, the crisp and scented witness 
 from her convenient pocket — "such a nice note, 
 asking me to speak with you. It really seems 
 to me cruel in you not to reconsider. He is 
 obliged to leave to-night, you know, and he 
 wishes to call this afternoon. How beautifully it 
 is worded." Eeading : " ' Every hope I have de- 
 pends on her decision. She is an angel who has 
 troubled the waters of my life. Without her, my 
 existence is as nothing. With her, the world 
 would be, to me, a paradise.' Now, isn't it, my 
 dear? Eeally, I don't see why you shouldn't 
 think of it again. Mr. Milton is so nice and so 
 different — ^and you — you " 
 
 " I am so indifferent. Yes, Aunt, I fear that 
 is it. I fear it wlU have to be another Mr. 
 Milton's paradise lost ; angels are really so 
 scarce, you know ; outside of books, and " 
 
 " Well, I am sure, if I — I am sure I don't see 
 how you can make a jest of it when he is so 
 serious, and — he is so superior — ^so nice, and so 
 — so — different. ' ' 
 
 " Yes, I know. Auntie, dear, and I am rather 
 nice and superior about some things myself, too, 
 don't you think ? " Evelyn said, rising and lay- 
 ing her book upon a table. " And now I am 
 168 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 going to be serious, too — very serious. Do you 
 know — have you ever thought, what it is you 
 are urging me to do, exactly ? Tou are using 
 all yotir wits to have me marry a man I do not 
 love. I do not know what it is, precisely, that 
 in your mind justifies marriage and makes it 
 honorable, but I can assure you, my own ideas 
 of that relation are very clear and absolute. 
 
 " I would not choose to marry a moral and 
 mental entity, made up of admirable qualities ; 
 to bind myself, by sacred vows, to an institution 
 for which I might have the profoundest respect 
 and esteem, but nothing more. If ever I should 
 1 marry at all, I should wish to marry a man that 
 I loved, and yoii — that are so punctual and per- 
 sistent concerning the forms of religion — you 
 counsel me to hush every appeal of conscience 
 and, kneeling before the holy altar, promise, in 
 the presence of God and men, to love, honor, 
 and obey, when I could not do any one of the 
 three. You would have me turn a sacrament in- 
 to a farce, invoking God's blessing with a false- 
 hood on my lips, and then rise to receive the 
 congratulations of my friends. Such a mar- 
 riage is a mockery of every teaching of Christ 
 and an insult to Nature. Any form, however 
 proper in itself, may enclose as much evil as 
 good. Am I serious enough ? I trust not too 
 serious, dear Aunt. I wish only to make myself 
 clearly understood. If I think at all, I must 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 think for myself, and in a matter of this kind, 
 surely, I must choose for myself. I could never 
 marry where I do not love. I do not know if it 
 be always safest, happiest, but it must be best, 
 for I know it is right." She struck sharply 
 on the bell which stood upon the table. There 
 was a moment's silence. " See that the carriage 
 is ready, directly," she said, when the servant 
 appeared. 
 
 " What ! you are not going out — you will at 
 least see him when he calls ? " said Miss Delia, 
 rising. 
 
 "Why, yes. Aunt, I am going out; but — " 
 she said, smiling, and taking her aunt's hand in 
 hers with true tenderness — "if he calls, you 
 give him my final answer j won't you, please? 
 It is the same — No, with thanks. You can make 
 it sound better some way, you have such a 
 command of language, you know, Auntie dear, 
 and it is my wish that it should be beautifully 
 worded, like the note. You will, won't you? 
 That is a dear. I am obliged to go ; I must do 
 some good before the day is over, and he would 
 much rather hear you say it than to hear me ; 
 and then. Auntie dear, you know he is so — 
 different." And she kissed her. 
 
 "Well, I am sure— well — ^I — will." Aunt 
 Delia was just a little bewildered and withdrew 
 herself under cover of a safe and entirely satis- 
 factory cloud of unmeaning graciousness. 
 170 
 
THE THEBAD OP SCAKLET 
 
 " I know I am right," Evelyn said, softly, to 
 herself, when she was gone. 
 
 "Yes, dearie," said the quiet Aunt Evelyn, 
 rising and coming close to Evelyn. "Yes, dearie, 
 you are always right." She had a darling boy, 
 who was sleeping among the indistinguishable 
 dead under the sod, somewhere on the field at 
 Gettysburg, and the way Evelyn's head was set 
 upon her shoulders, recalled him painfully. 
 She caught the girl to her breast and kissed her 
 again and again while the tears coursed down 
 her plain and patient face. " Isn't it a bad day, 
 dearie, for you to be driving ? " she said, at 
 length, drying her eyes. 
 
 " Well, yes, it is ; but I don't mind the rain," 
 Evelyn said, patting her gently on the shoulder. 
 "I have felt all day that I must accomplish 
 some good, for some one, before night comes. I 
 will go to see Nora Dale, she has a charity 
 school — besides, I know some people I wish to 
 look after, and I must be stirring ; I have but 
 an hour or two until dinner. Good-by, Auntie 
 dear. You will always love me ? " 
 
 "Always, my dear child, always," said the 
 good Aunt Evelyn, kissing her tenderly. 
 
 In a little while Evelyn was being whirled 
 along the wet streets in her carriage, her 
 thoughts keeping pace with the flying wheels. 
 She was conscious of a keen exhilaration. She 
 saw her poor people, making half a dozen of 
 ,171 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 them supremely happy, had a talk with her 
 friend, Nora Dale, and was on her way to 
 execute an errand for Aunt Evelyn. She 
 glanced continually out of the wiadow. Sud- 
 denly she saw Harringf ord looking very discon- 
 solate in the rain. Her heart began to throb 
 violently. He was not looking. She thought 
 of asking the driver to stop. Just then she saw 
 Harringford look toward her and knew she was 
 recognized. She saw his lips moving as he 
 raised his hat. She longed to stop the carriage, 
 but in the confusion of her mind she hesitated, 
 and in an instant he was lost from sight. Why 
 did he not motion her to stop — why could she 
 not just stop and speak to him? and yet it 
 seemed she could not. She felt, in some way, 
 defrauded, disappointed, unhappy. She sat 
 looking straight in front of her. Her cheeks 
 were very pale and her thoughts were very 
 busy ; her hands were trembling, too, and the 
 tears were very, very near her eyes. ~ If he had 
 known that now ! The commission — the errand 
 she was to do? — she had forgotten! Where 
 were they? She hadn't the slightest idea! 
 Daniel must have mistaken her direction ; they 
 must be far past the place ! And so they were. 
 At last Evelyn explained to the wet and shining 
 gum-coated sphinx outside, which made answer : 
 "I done stopped dah. Miss Evlyn, 'deed I is, 
 en yo' say, ' Go on, nev' mine.' Yessum, I 
 173 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 knows whar 'tis, mighty well. I git yo' dah 
 agin. Tessum, 'deed yo' say, 'Go on, nev' 
 mine.' " 
 
 " I wonder if I did," she thought to herself as 
 they retraced their way ; " I must be losing my 
 mind." 
 
 The store was reached at last, however, and 
 the sphinx descended to ward off the drip with 
 an umbrella as she stepped out, imder the 
 awning. 
 
 "Now, Daniel, drive to the book-store and 
 get whatever there is there for me and come 
 back here." 
 
 " Yessum." And once more the dripping 
 figure seemed to become a part of the vehicle. 
 " Miss Evelyn's mighty cuyus to-day, looks like," 
 he murmured to himself as he drove away. 
 "We was right dah- wen we tu'n 'roun,' en she 
 didn't say nothin' 'bout stop'n' dah twell wese 
 plumb back hyar ag'in. She mus' be studyin' 
 'bout sump'n' sure." 
 
 "Everybody must wait for a wet day to 
 go shopping," thought Evelyn, as she looked 
 about her in the crowded store. But she was 
 in no great hurry ; besides, she wanted a little 
 time to muster her courage for what sh« had 
 to do. 
 
 " This is the counter, I think," she said to her- 
 self, moving toward a group of ladies who were 
 keeping up an animated discussion over the 
 173 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 latest styles and their relative merits. A pale- 
 faced, delicate-looking man, who had been wait- 
 ing upon them, had, just then, been forced to 
 retire because of a fit of coughing, and Evelyn 
 just got a glimpse of his face as he motioned to 
 one of his fellow-clerks to take his place, the 
 veins in his neck and forehead swollen painfully 
 by the paroxysms which rendered speech im- 
 possible. 
 
 "Mr. Truesdale's — is this Mr. Truesdale's 
 counter ? " she asked, as one of the young men 
 leaned affably toward her. 
 
 "Mr., Truesdale's — ^yes — ^I'U bring him in a 
 moment," the young man said, gasping desper- 
 ately between his words and blushing to the 
 roots of his hair as he retired, his heart flutter- 
 ing like a bird in a snare. Alas, what power to 
 wound or bless, belongs to beauty! Evelyn 
 had not been in that store very often ; perhaps 
 she might have remembered having seen that 
 young man — perhaps — and yet, he worshipped 
 her — worshipped as the moss-star worships the 
 rose; treasuring up the remembrances of her 
 unconscious glances as the brook clasps its little 
 fragments of the far-off sky. 
 
 Evelyn felt a little tremulous and uncertain, 
 as she tried to formulate in her mind what she 
 wished to say to Mr. Truesdale. It was only a 
 moment until he stood before her, bowing, a 
 patient smile on his pale face, and the tears 
 174 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 caused by his spell of coughing still glistening 
 in his eyes. Evelyn reached over and shook 
 hands with him, cordially. 
 
 " I called to see Mrs. Truesdale to-day," she 
 said, and remembrance of the pretty, anxious 
 little face with the appealing eyes, and the tragic 
 despair she had read in them, lent her the cour- 
 age of which she felt herself in need. " I called 
 to see Mrs. Truesdale, and we had quite a talk, 
 and — I — I thought I might ask you to do me a 
 great favor." 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes ; he would be only too glad." 
 " A great favor," she went on. "I have some 
 property at the edge of town, which straggles 
 out into the fields in an uncertain way, the place 
 is almost like the country, and I am just look- 
 ing for some one to take charge of it for me." 
 The face before her brightened visibly, seeing 
 which, she went on with more assurance. 
 " There are several cottages, and one of them I 
 have furnished out — Aunt Delia liked it so 
 much. If you would be so good now, I would 
 like you and Mrs. Truesdale to Uve in it, and 
 take care of it for me, and you could look after 
 my houses and lands, you see, and still have 
 time to work your garden, and — and I thought 
 you would like it, and I would be so glad to have 
 you both there, and — I — I have fixed a salary, 
 too, you know. Minnie wiU tell you all about 
 that, and now, do you think you can come? 
 175 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 Think over it, please, won't you, and let me 
 know to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I will be only too glad, and — and 
 Minnie will — " he hesitated, choking a little, the 
 tears threatening to fall from his eyes — " Miss 
 Weir, this great kindness is — is " 
 
 " Is all to myself," she said, coming to the 
 rescue, " and I am so much obliged to you. 
 Send me word to-morrow. Good-by." 
 
 She walked away with a very light step. 
 There is nothing like a good action to make 
 the footstep light, and she left a very happy 
 man, leaning back against the box-laden shelves 
 with a heavenly vision dancing before his eyes. 
 A cottage — furnished — no rent to pay — a gar- 
 den — summer — flowers — health — a salary — and 
 his dear little wife cheerful and happy again. 
 It must be a dream. " Would he be so kind," 
 that was the way she had put it. Well, yes, 
 he thought he would. That evening, when he 
 returned home, his wife met him, smiling 
 through her happy tears, and Joy, like a radi- 
 ant angel, sat beside their hearth-stone. 
 
 " Sweet are the uses of adversity." 
 
 " Blessed are the merciful, for they shall ob- 
 tain mercy." 
 
 Kindlier shine the stars when the soul is at 
 peace with Heaven. 
 
 Evelyn made her purchases at another coun- 
 ter, and a moment after stepped out under the 
 176 
 
THE THEEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 awning and glanced along the styeet, looking for 
 her carriage. She did not see it, but she saw a 
 very well-known figure, very tall and straight, 
 and muifled up in gray ; a statuesque figure and 
 a rather defiant profile, against a harmonious 
 background of mist and rain. There came into 
 her mind the vivid recollection of a certain 
 morning on the mountains just a year ago. 
 Then, he had seemed to vanish from her into the 
 clouds ; now, he seemed as if just put down 
 again, and somewhat bewildered by his situa- 
 tion. A few quick steps brought her near 
 enough to touch, very lightly, the arm of the 
 figure with one little brown-gloved hand that 
 trembled very much indeed; very lightly the 
 fingers touched, but no fabric, known on earth, 
 is dull and heavy enough to intercept the vital 
 current from a touch like that. 
 
 The figure turned suddenly, and faced her. 
 
 " Mr. Harringford,' ' she said, her voice falter- 
 ing just a little. 
 
 " Miss Weir," he answered, taking her hand 
 in both his own. 
 
 There was a moment's silence between Evelyn 
 and Harringford, while they looked into each 
 other's eyes, but in that moment each one read 
 over a whole volume, got it by heart — a volume 
 which can never lie forgotten on the shelf of 
 life while there shall be left on earth two human 
 hearts to learn over again the only lesson of 
 177 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 which we shall never tire — " the sad, sweet lesson 
 of loving." 
 
 She did not withdraw her hand at once from 
 the strong clasp which enfolded it so fondly, 
 and which was eloquent beyond the power of 
 words; and when she did she repaid the rob- 
 bery reluctant with such a look as would have 
 enriched a king. 
 
 " It is a whole year since I have seen you." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, simply. 
 
 " What are you doing here, standing in the 
 rain?" 
 
 "Looking for you," said Harringford, with 
 supernatural frankness. " And you," he con- 
 tinued ; " may I ask, what are you doing here ? " 
 
 Evelyn glanced up, with a smile that played 
 upon her face like a celestial light. " I — was — " 
 her lips trembled a little, " I was — looking for 
 you," and with that the crimson mounted to her 
 temples. 
 
 At that moment her carriage came up close to 
 the pavement. The servant sprang down and 
 opened the door. 
 
 Harringford leaned down, saying, hurriedly, 
 " Evelyn, there is still a moment in which I may 
 say what I have to tell you. I have loved you 
 always and I love you now — speak — there is 
 time — ^must I go or stay? Just one word." 
 He bent nearer. She had been blushing ; now 
 she turned pale. She took a quick step forward 
 178 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 but turned her face toward Harringford as she 
 passed close, touching him with her fragrant 
 garments, saying as she did so, " Stay." 
 
 "Stay." That word seemed to recreate the 
 world for him. The flames of hope leaped up 
 before his eyes until they appeared reaching to 
 heaven. At once he felt within him as it had 
 been the strength of a thousand men. He could 
 have elbowed the planets out of their course. 
 The passers-by — what, now, were the passers- 
 by ? What were their dull looks, their smiles ? 
 What was the rain ? He did not know of it ; a 
 rain of millstones could not now have crushed 
 down the giant spirit within him. 
 
 He helped Miss Weir into her carriage. She 
 leaned toward him out of the door. "Come, 
 Mr. Harringford," she said, " get in and drive 
 home with me." 
 
 And so he did ; she made room for him be- 
 side her, and he sat down ; the servant closed 
 the door and then clambered up to his seat, 
 smiling, and chuckling to himself; in a mo- 
 ment more the wheels were grinding along the 
 dismal street. The vehicle he drove was but 
 one, unnoticed, among many others of like out- 
 ward semblance — of like outward semblance, 
 yes, but within! Well, perhaps the interior 
 of a carriage, on a gloomy, cold, and disagree- 
 able day, may not seem to be, at first thought, 
 a perfect ideal of heaven ; haply, one might 
 179 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 think it could not truthfully present a fair pict- 
 ure of elysium, but that depends, my dear fel- 
 low-mortal — that entirely depends. So then, 
 the drama was ended, the actors were gone, 
 and the reeking sidewalk became itself again, 
 commonplace, dreary, prosaic ; the rather young, 
 badly-dressed man, who sat under the tattered 
 oil-cloth shelter to sell fruits, looked after the 
 disappearing carriage with sad, large, longing 
 eyes, full of appreciative interest and aston- 
 ishment. In his abstraction he had pushed 
 some oranges from the stand, and as he gath- 
 ered them up, he sighed heavily, and so sat, 
 looking at the pavement, absorbed, dreaming: 
 forgetting to call out the qualities of his wares, 
 forgetful of his empty purse, forgetful of the 
 cheerless misery of his life. Of what did he 
 dream ? God knows ! Perhaps there be no 
 souls that have not their visions. So let him 
 bide. Who does not love to think of the 
 spirit's enchantment ? Each moment in which 
 we forget this empty world is so much real life 
 lived; and well might he marvel, indeed, for 
 had he not just beheld the greatest wonder of 
 the world ? 
 
 Perhaps there is such a thing as wishing to 
 
 see a friend you would like to talk to, but do 
 
 not wish to meet ; if so, that was the feeling 
 
 John Lubbock had when he got the sight of 
 
 180 
 
THE THKEAD OF SCARLET 
 
 Harringford, as he came toward him. There 
 were certain comforting things — or at least one 
 thing — he would much have liked to tell Har- 
 ingford ; namely, that Evelyn was not engaged 
 to the Englishman, if only he might stop there ; 
 but Harringford was a great questioner, and 
 questions, just now, were dangerous. Harring- 
 ford would want to know how he had found that 
 out, and if he told him, then he would want 
 to know how it came about and what else was 
 said, and finally, he could picture himself hedged 
 in and convicted on the spot. And yet, in spite 
 of all these things, it was scarcely an hour after 
 this when he felt an irresistible desire to find 
 Harringford and tell him everything, although 
 his reasons against it remained as good as be- 
 fore. He was now thoroughly convinced that 
 twoscore years' experience is no safe guarantee, 
 in this world, that life has nothing new to offer, 
 no unexpected phases to be met ; neither does it 
 bring the soul into a quiet harbor wherein un- 
 certainty is unknown. Alas, no! Blundering 
 and foolishness do not scorn to be the boon 
 companions of old age, even ; insomuch that one 
 is sometimes almost driven to believe that folly 
 is the chief employment of old men. I do not 
 know that stupidity, the power to make mis- 
 takes, and the inclination to persist in them, 
 necessarily abandons any well-grown human 
 being at any time, anywhere this side the grave, 
 181 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 It was not, perhaps, any moral conviction, nor 
 spiritual deduction, nor any exercise of -wisdom, 
 nor even of common-sense, that made John 
 Lubbock determine to seek Buy Harringford 
 and have it all over with him, although but a 
 little while before he had been doing his best to 
 avoid meeting him. It was simply a demand of 
 his nature which asserted itself within him and 
 which was aiTayed directly against all that he 
 would have called his judgment, his wisdom, his 
 prudence. But he determined to obey it. It 
 was a like obedience which had led him into his 
 trouble, why should it not lead him out ? So his 
 dinner-hour found him at home again, but Har- 
 ringford was not there. After dinner he went 
 down to the old house, running over in his 
 mind, as he went, the expected interview, which 
 seemed an easy thing enough now that he had 
 set his heart to it ; but neither was Harringford 
 to be found there. Well, then, he would at 
 least go to see Evelyn Weir. Now that he was 
 going in for obedience he would be obedient, 
 and the impulse, the demand, within, being for 
 peace of mind at all hazards, to Evelyn Weir's 
 he went. 
 
 I would like — and I would like it passing well 
 
 — to describe the wise folly, the tearful joy, the 
 
 painful happiness of a real love-scene : following 
 
 and presenting, perfectly, each shade of emotion 
 
 183 
 
THE THEEAD OF SCAKLET 
 
 in the two spirits that approach each other by 
 unseen pathways and meet, at last, enclosed 
 from and forgetful of all the world, within the 
 sacred circle of that diviaest of aU divine mys- 
 teries, the love of one soul for another ; find- 
 ing their brief heaven only by losing them- 
 selves each in each. I wpuld like it, I say, 
 and that passing well, for I should then have 
 surpassed all mortals who have ever taken up 
 the pen, and I could then lay down my own, 
 assured that I had achieved a fadeless immor- 
 tality. 
 
 I cannot even attempt the poor semblance of 
 such an achievement, which I might, with infi- 
 nite and nameless anguish of soul, hope to com- 
 pass. I should but mar the picture which each 
 mind conceives for itself, for I could not escape 
 the compelling touch of ineffable sorrow which 
 is inseparable, interwoven with all great beauty 
 and glory ; heart-thrilling but unstable visions 
 which appear before us for a little time only, 
 until we put forth a trembling hand and touch 
 them, and with that they are vanished forever. 
 
 All great beauty and glory on the earth or in 
 heaven, are of Love and what Love enacts and 
 inspires. If God be not Love, no more can he 
 be God ; and we, if we love not, neither can we 
 be the children of God's love, nor can any spark . 
 of His nature find lodgement within us. 
 
 Happiness is such a beautifier, such am ad- 
 183 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 vantage, in every way, to man and to all things, 
 that I sometimes wonder why God should not, 
 for his own pleasure, make true the optimist's 
 dream of a world that is aU good, wherein all 
 are happy. Happiness is such a stranger on 
 the earth, that when we see her, at times, walk- 
 ing beside some fellow-mortal, we are lost in 
 wonder ; and so overpowering is the magic of 
 that presence that even the saddest souls forget, 
 for a little, their own tears, perceiving the 
 sweetness and beauty of joy, though it be not 
 for them. 
 
 " And so, dearest, at last, at last, I draw the 
 breath of life for the first time ; and looking into 
 your eyes, as I do now, I seem to see but dimly, 
 and I know what it means to say ' The joy of 
 tears ! ' My heart is at rest, at peace with all 
 the world. Time flows by me like a brook, lap- 
 ping a peaceful shore with soft and rhythmic 
 murmurs that lull my spirit to undreamed-of 
 ease. Visions of the meadows' marge, with nod- 
 ding flowers in the happy sun. Odors like the 
 breath of June, waving of elder-blossoms in the 
 winnowing air — these float like pictures before 
 my eyes. I seem to hear the throbbing of your 
 heart as though it were the music of a harp 
 whose strings are fretted by a skilful hand, and 
 whose answering cadences have power to charm 
 away all weariness of care forever. And the 
 184 
 
THE THEEAD OP SOAKLET 
 
 past is passed, the waiting and the sorrow, and 
 we are our own ! " 
 
 "Yes," answered Evelyn, with a smile that 
 would have made a prince of a beggar. 
 
 There was silence while Harringford looked, 
 long and lovingly, into her wonderful eyes. At 
 last he said, " How well now I can comprehend 
 what must have been the immortal anguish of 
 that heart which cried out amidst the Scottish 
 hills, 
 
 " ' And closed, for aye, the sparkling glance 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly. ' " 
 
 What a dreadful thought it is," and he turned 
 away suddenly to hide the tears that started 
 from his eyes. " Twaddle ? " Yes, just. And I 
 would to God we might never have need for 
 other. 
 
 By and by Harringford stood before her, 
 feasting his eyes upon the beauty which had 
 once filled him with despair. He seemed to 
 have grown taller, and every feature appeared 
 to have taken on a nobler grace ; every fibre of 
 his being was filled with new life and energy. 
 Hope welled up in his heart, like waters from a 
 fountain, and the radiation from the uplifted 
 spirit within shone upon his face like actual 
 light. 
 
 Evelyn looked him over, proudly, from head 
 to foot. "Do you think you could write me 
 185 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 something ? " reacMng out both her white hands 
 to him, "something that I might keep as a 
 memory of to-night. Could you? " 
 
 " Well, I could try. I feel that I might do 
 almost anything — if you should ask me. You'll 
 give me a subject ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will ; let me think a moment." 
 
 He went to the piano, and picking up a piece 
 of music, brought it and sat down beside a little 
 table, clearing a space and spreading out the 
 blank page before him. " Now," he said, taking 
 up a pen, " have you chosen ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I have," she answered, slowly ; 
 "could you write something in answer to a 
 question ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'll undertake anything. Must it 
 be in verse ? " 
 
 " In verse ? Yes, some simple kind of verse, 
 though not — ^weU — ^not long; what is it I 
 mean ? Not — heroic, I think you call it." 
 
 "Oh, it will be simple enough, never fear, 
 and I don't think there will be trouble to keep 
 it from being long, either, and your question — 
 you must make it short and simple, too, you 
 know, to suit," he said, smiling. " You see, I'm 
 somewhat of a simpleton myself, and, altogether, 
 with you — well, have you got it ready ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have chosen," she said, " and this is 
 my question: 'What Find We Here?' Now 
 dorCt ! What are you smiling for ? " 
 186 
 
THE THEEAD OP SCARLET 
 
 " Well, I think I could answer that, perhaps, 
 without going into the agonies of composition ; 
 I was just thinking that you wiU find me here 
 pretty often in future, if I have my health. . But 
 there, if you are going to look like that — I am 
 serious. Now, don't look at me too often, or I 
 can never get on at all. So, good-night to all 
 men ; here goes." There was quiet for awhile, 
 only accentuated by the sound of the pen at in- 
 tervals ; Evelyn stealing a sly glance now and 
 then at the writer. At length the pen was laid 
 aside and Harringford turned toward her as if to 
 speak, but after looking steadily into her eyes 
 for a moment he took up the pen again and added 
 something, hastily, to what he had just written. 
 
 " There," he said, with a little sigh, " that is 
 the end of it, and now, will your ladyship be 
 pleased to hear it ? — or perhaps you would like 
 to read it for yourself." 
 
 " No," said Evelyn, " I had rather hear you." 
 And so she sat, looking into the fire with spark- 
 ling eyes, her hands clasping each other in her 
 lap, and her color seeming to ebb and flow with 
 the rhythmic swaying of the verse as she listened. 
 
 And Harringford read : 
 
 "What PiifD Wb Hebe?" 
 ' ' What find we here ? " O lovely one, 
 O heavenly eyes so dear ; 
 Think'st thou my longing eyes can shun 
 Delight when thou art near ? 
 187 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK. 
 
 How can I answer as I ought, 
 
 How can my heart be cold, 
 My mind be just, when thou hast taught 
 
 Life's dross to turn to gold ? 
 
 Nay, art thou sad ? grave then am I ; 
 
 What is thy question, dear f 
 We that on earth live, love, and die, 
 
 Thou sayest "What find we here ? " 
 
 " What find we here ? " Turn thou thine eyes 
 Else I my task resign ; 
 The gods themselves could not be wise 
 Looked they in eyes like thine. 
 
 So now my soul cleaves, with swift wings, 
 
 The earth-encircling air ; 
 And this the answer which she brings 
 
 From dark lands and from fair. 
 
 The balm of sorrow and the joy of pain. 
 
 Some music and much care ; 
 Short gleams of sunshine through the falling rain, 
 
 Ambition and despair. 
 
 A little laughter and a world of tears, 
 
 Love and a troubled breast ; 
 Pale, trembling hopes, amidst a host of fears, 
 
 A grave at last, and — rest. 
 
 So saith the soul, and yet, now that I gaze 
 
 Into thine eyes once more, 
 I find my heart forgetting all dark days 
 
 Upon this alien shore. 
 
 Death-griefs there may be, and there may be pain. 
 
 But all is naught to me ; 
 I love — I am not — earth and heaven are vain — 
 
 I only live in thee. 
 
 188 
 
THE THREAD OP SCARLET 
 
 He ceased and sat waiting. 
 
 " For me ! " Her voice wavered a little, and 
 for further answer she held out both her hands, 
 saying only, " It is mine — mine to keep ; and I 
 will keep it always — always — remembering this 
 day." 
 
 There was a loud ring at the door, and the 
 next moment Mr. Lubbock was announced. 
 " Could he see ' Miss Weir ? ' " " Indeed, yes, 
 she would be glad to see him." 
 
 Harringford glanced at Evelyn, saying, "keep 
 your seat when he comes in — let us surprise 
 him." And seating himself on a low stool 
 beside her, he took her hand in his, whispering 
 something, hastily, in her ear. And so they 
 waited for Lubbock to come in, which he did, 
 the next moment, with quite a brisk step ; for 
 he flattered himself that he had profited by 
 past experience and determined to allow him- 
 self no time for indulging in useless terrors. 
 But he came to a sudden stand-still in the 
 middle of the room as his eyes fell upon the, 
 apparently, unheeding group. Evelyn and Har- 
 ringford both lifted their eyes and regarded 
 him blankly. 
 
 " God bless my soul," he said, and stopped, 
 unable^to go on. 
 
 " Amen," said Harringford. 
 
 " Do you wish to see me ? " asked Evelyn, 
 calmly. 
 
 189 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 "Tes — ^no — no — well, I had thought — thought 
 of speaking to you — for a moment — if you were 
 not otherwise engaged — but " 
 
 "But she is engaged, John — we are both 
 engaged, in fact; but if you would have it 
 ' otherwise ' why — well — it might be wise in us 
 to consult with you, being a man of large experi- 
 ence in such matters." 
 
 But Lubbock was not heeding, not having 
 comprehended anything that was said very well, 
 his mind being full of his own troubles, and he 
 was bowing himself out, behind a succession of 
 blushings that would have made an August sun- 
 set seem lacking in color. " The servant," he 
 said, " had mistaken — had said, in fact " 
 
 " Here," said Harringford, rising and cutting 
 him short; "come back here, you incorrigible 
 idiot ; we want your blessing, especially now, 
 for idiots are, after all, the rightful enfants du 
 bon Dieu. Come " 
 
 " Yes," said Evelyn, holding her hand out to 
 him, " Did you not promise your service to me 
 when I should need it ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, my dear but erring children — " 
 Lubbock began, perceiving the trick they had 
 been playing upon him, and entering at once 
 into the spirit of the occasion — "if it's a blessing 
 you are in need of — though I fail to see it my- 
 self — I will even out-Balaam. Balaam, and I am 
 ready to bless you from every point of the com- 
 190 
 
THE THREAD OF SCAKLET 
 
 pass, though it should take me a month to get 
 through with it." 
 
 There were many explanations and congratu- 
 lations, amid much laughter and a few painless 
 tears, which dried quickly in the glow of per- 
 fect happiness which shone upon them like the 
 warmth from the zenith-crowning sun, and Lub- 
 bock descanted nobly and with sustained ferror 
 on the beauties of love, to the great, and pleased, 
 astonishment of his audience, and of himself 
 more than all — for his expectations of himself 
 were easily surpassed — and he was soaring, with 
 a childlike delight and with confidence and ease, 
 in undreamed realms where he never thought 
 to spread wing. 
 
 There is a strange fi^e that lurks upon the 
 earth, even yet, thank God ! It may be seen 
 glinting the streams and running among the 
 summer grasses; it glances from the faces of 
 the rocks and glows in the deep shadows of the 
 woodland. I have seen it in the winter, burn- 
 ing upon the gray and frozen slopes, wreathing 
 the naked trees for an instant with a blinding 
 glory and leaping thence into the air, upon 
 which it seemed to ascend to heaven. Haply, 
 the old Promethean flame hath not expired. 
 It may be the immortals are with us still, and 
 we had but the eyes to see. Albeit a spark of 
 this fire had fallen in Lubbock's path. A flame 
 had mounted to his brain ; he did not know just 
 191 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 how it was, and he did not greatly care. The 
 whirl of unsuspected events had seemed to 
 catch him up in the midst of a quiet life, and if 
 it were the Lord's will that he should spin be- 
 fore the eyes of his friends, like an inspired tee- 
 totum, why, he would even spin ; and so he spun, 
 and for an hour he may be said to have lived. 
 
 "And now, my dear friends," he said in con- 
 clusion, "if you should ever feel that you have 
 need of further advice respecting this new and 
 most happy relation, you will always find me 
 ready to harangue you ; ready with that pleas- 
 ing and peculiar readiness with which all men 
 discourse upon subjects of which they know 
 almost nothing whatever. I have lived to see 
 the obliteration of many fears and the realiza- 
 tion of some of my dearest hopes. I am con- 
 tent." 
 
 One might like to linger here for a little, but 
 it may not be. It pains one to turn away — to 
 break from the magic circle enclosing these 
 three, as a musical, soft-lapping zone of water 
 might enclose and soothe to peaceful rest the 
 central isle of some lagoon which sleeps secure 
 upon the chafing bosom of the sea. It might 
 please better, but it is the Jloioing of the stream 
 which gives it a voice to sing : 
 
 For the brook is always flowing, 
 Though it ever seems to stay; 
 193 
 
THE THEEAD OP SOAELET 
 
 Though it always seems bestowing, 
 
 Yet it ever takes away ; 
 As the sunset's crimson glowing 
 
 Turns the landscape into gray. 
 
 And all things pass away. We love to gild 
 
 The iron ploughshare with poetic gold ; 
 Still doth the furrow turn and graves are flUed- 
 There is no joy can hold. 
 
 193 
 
PAET FOUE 
 
 SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 Is, then, the land of dreams a living land, 
 And is this living land, a land of dreams. 
 
 And I, a shadow of the shimmering sand 
 On which the sunlight gleams 1 
 
 Would we return 
 
 Once we had crossed to death's unlovely land 
 And trod the bloomless ways among the dead, 
 Lone and unhappy — after years had iled 
 With twilight wings along that glimmering strand : 
 If, then, an angel came, with out-stretched hand 
 To lead us back, and we recalled, in dread. 
 How soon the tears that, once, for us are shed 
 May flow for others — how, like words in sand, 
 Our memory fades away — How oft our waking 
 Might vex the living with the dead heart's breaking — 
 
 Would we return 
 
 Would we return? 
 
 " Oh, well, in the name of heavenly grace. 
 Buy, what is the use of happiness at all, if you 
 cannot just accept it and — and — well, just he 
 happy ? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Harringford, quickly, 
 looking up, and gleams of light seemed to 
 194 
 
SILENCE, AND A SHADOW 
 
 flash from liis eyes as he spoke. "I don't 
 know, but I must suppose that question sounds 
 to you, for the moment at least, like a sensible 
 one; and perhaps it might be, coming from 
 some being not human ; but in fact, it is one of 
 the kind whose only value is, that they may 
 serve to show how utterly empty are the phrases 
 in which we deal, seriously putting them forth 
 as though they were filled with wisdom. If I 
 could answer that, I could also tell you why 
 bealuty saddens us, why joy makes us tremble, 
 why the anemone dies in June, and the sorrel 
 blooms aU the summer long, why the earth 
 turns, : why the locust is armed with thorns 
 and the adder with fangs; or where thought 
 isprings, or what life is, or where the soul flies, 
 or why a bird sings, or any of the thousand 
 unanswered and unanswerable questions which 
 Nature propounds to us with every onward step 
 we take in the path of life — this pleasing, beau- 
 tiful, painful, and mysterious journey from the 
 cradle to the grave ; every hour of which is big 
 with more wonders than are written in all the 
 books that men have made. If you will answer 
 your own question, I will fall down and worship 
 you:" 
 
 ■ " No," said Lubbock, " don't expect me to turn 
 fool altogether and attempt to answer my own 
 questions. I am neither psychologist nor meta- 
 physician that I know of, yet, thank Heaven." 
 195 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 "Yes, that is the way of it," Harringford 
 went on, not smiling ; " all things turn to light- 
 ness and vanity. All that is on the earth, life 
 and all that belongs to it, all that we have 
 builded up, is only like so much foam, made up 
 of innumerable bubbles. Bom of the mysterious 
 forces, we rise, somewhere amid the Tanishing 
 millions, standing, each of us, in our own minds, 
 an example of Nature's greatest achievement, 
 her most glorious triumph, after countless ages 
 of infinite labor. We feel like giants, and lay- 
 ing about us furiously, smash a few bubbles, 
 and suddenly, in the midst of it all, ourselves 
 disappear and are forgotten in a moment ; and 
 if there could be left of us so much as a voice, 
 only, that might speak, even for once, it could 
 only say, ' I was — I am not — I thought I was a 
 god, I was hut a bubble.' " 
 
 "Nonsense," said Lubbock, "even the bub- 
 ble, while it lasts, does not refuse to be happy ; 
 it accepts, and wears graciously the garment 
 which the sunbeam offers. You see I can phrase 
 you, too." 
 
 " But do I refuse happiness ? You exasperate 
 me with your tape-line measurements. What 
 have feet and inches to do with infinity ? Even 
 a fool does not refuse to be happy. I tell you 
 there are things of which we do not even dream, 
 or if we do, we count it as being only a dream ; 
 and yet we do not know what a dream is, nor 
 196 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 sleep, not even what we are. And these things 
 are about us all the time. I know it. I catch 
 glimpses which so startle my soul that I can 
 scarcely contain myself for the anguish it brings 
 me to see that nothing of it whatever is be- 
 lieved at all ; and in the dreadful sense of lone- 
 liness, which comes over me, I am glad to grasp 
 the hand of some fellow-creature on his own 
 terms, so that I may be assured that I am stiU 
 in this breathing world. You cannot know all. 
 I have been so happy, for a little while ; it is 
 the very intensity of my happiness that fills me 
 with fears. It is of no use to laugh at them ; I 
 have tried that. Philosophy is nothing, reason 
 is nothing ; there is something within us whicli 
 makes advance upon other ground, discarding 
 utterly these so-called sure steps, which are so 
 acceptable to the general mind. I have no for- 
 mulated behef to bolster up, no pet theory 
 which I would have accepted ; I would be only 
 too glad to escape from it all, to be at peace 
 and find the rest, and seeming content, which 
 others enjoy. Even my nearest friends have 
 only smiles of unbelief for what they are pleased 
 to call my chimerical griefs — but let it pass ; I 
 have already foreseen my own going out into 
 the shadow-world — it is no matter ; but I had a 
 dream of a space for happiness here ; to that I 
 have always clung; now, I see— oh, well — you 
 will only believe when all has come to pass; 
 197 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 and after all, you could do nothing to prevent 
 it." 
 
 " ' It,' — thfere it is again—' it,' and yet when 
 I ask you what ' it ' is, you cannot give me the 
 slightest idea. I will swear, Euy, if I did not 
 know you so well, I would say your mind was 
 unsettled. Think of it for a moment. A. man, 
 in the very perfection of health, who has run a 
 steep course, and run it well, and now, with the 
 goal in sight, halts, falters, turns sick at heart. 
 Talk about belief. My faith in you has been, 
 always, greater than your own. Are you a man 
 to turn back because there is a lion in the way? 
 'Why, I would have wagered my immortal soul 
 upon it, that you would have fought your way 
 through, if there were a thousand lions in the 
 way. Why, man, you are about to lay yoUr 
 hand upon the prize : and here you begin to turn 
 pale, because of some intangible phantom, some 
 undiscernibls shadow, which you say you see, 
 yet cannot locate, nor describe. Why, these 
 sickly fancies, these unreasonable intuitions are 
 womanish, merely; they are enough to make 
 me think I have been mistaken in my man." 
 
 " Enough ; and so you are," said Harringford, 
 with a sharp ring in his voice. " I have done 
 seeking for a soul. There is nothing in anything. 
 Go before I quarrel with you — but, no — don't 
 carry that thought away with you." At once his 
 voice dropped, and his words came in subdued 
 198 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 and melancholy tones, low and strangely musical. 
 " I wish there were only lions, as you say, but 
 there is something far beyond what you hare 
 pictured. I have no more to ask. Let your 
 faith in me die here, and leave me to myself. I 
 do not care to be mocked further. After all, we 
 are alone, forever." 
 
 These last words were uttered as though he 
 were already left to himself, and, indeed, although 
 Lubbock spoke more than once, he made no 
 answer, but, with his elbows upon the table, and 
 his head resting heavily on his hands, he sat, 
 looking straight before him, fixedly and forget- 
 fully. And so Lubbock thought best to leave 
 him — seeing he was in no mood for words — and 
 yet he looked back, feeling a pang of regret, 
 finding that Harringford took no note of his 
 going, remaining still and immovable as a statue. 
 '< I'll be hanged if I know exactly what to do," 
 he thought, turning ■ in the doorway. " I'll see 
 you again soon, Euy," he said, for want of some- 
 thing better. 
 
 "Very well," Harringford answered, "and 
 when you do — remember " 
 
 Lubbock waited a moment, thinking he would 
 speak further, but he did not, and went away re- 
 luctantly, feeling not well satisfied with himself. 
 After he was gone, Harringford sat still for 
 some time. At last he arose and went out to 
 try the old remedy — a long, fierce walk in the 
 199 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 open air. Strange, it is, this turning of the 
 soul to Nature ; seeking to cure itself of griefs 
 for which it finds no cause clearly defined, 
 though it half-guesses the cause to be within 
 itself. 
 
 After an hour or two Harringf ord returned to 
 his room, having by sheer bodily exercise, and 
 by dint of breasting the blustering wind, suc- 
 ceeding in escaping partly from the thoughts 
 which oppressed him. 
 
 Arranging his lamp, he sat down and began 
 to read. But there are times when all the 
 thoughts men have put down in books seem 
 shallow and far from the purpose ; they do not 
 reach us then, they are not at all commensurate 
 with the needs of our souls, they seem tame and 
 commonplace when compared with the emotions 
 that stir within us. The soul seems never to 
 have learned the trick of crying out in print. It 
 is, perchance an impossibility. By and by Har- 
 ringf ord closed his book and sat thinking — re- 
 belling, inwardly, against his thoughts. " Why 
 should we value anything ? " he said to himself. 
 "Nothing seems to have power against this 
 demon of thought. It makes or unmakes at 
 vnll. Why, then, do I not bar the door ? Which 
 is I, myself — I, who protest against this brood- 
 ing spirit, or is it I, who dwell in thought, and 
 so — am I that which vexes the clay I inhabit ? 
 
 "Why am I compelled to fear myself ? Per- 
 200 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 haps, eTen as the body contains and nourishes 
 the seeds of death, which will, in time, overthrow 
 it, so this spirit finds its own powers, accom- 
 plishing the death of its own peace. Oh, well, 
 it may be only a parting sting of the old un- 
 happy life which is loath to leave me. To- 
 morrow I shall see Evelyn, and I shall be happy 
 again." 
 
 For a week or more he had been supremely 
 happy. All the earth changed for him, all old 
 theories of Ufe were swept away. When he 
 walked, he seemed to walk on the air ; soft whis- 
 perings were in his ears ; comforting thoughts 
 stole into his heart and nestled there content ; 
 every breath was an inspiration ; every influence 
 from Nature soothed his hungering spirit, as a 
 balm from Gilead. He was constrained to smUe 
 at all his old doubts and fears ; even the scars 
 of past sorrows were quickly forgotten, and now, 
 this sudden, haunting fear that had sprung up, 
 without reason, kindled a desperation that was 
 almost madness, seeing he could not escape 
 from it ; and his friend's well-meant attempts to 
 argue him out of his condition had only served 
 to anger him. But there is ever only one final 
 goal for the thoughts of those who love. The 
 heart must turn always to the object of its 
 worship. 
 
 " To-morrow I shall see Evelyn, and I shall be 
 happy." Suddenly his thoughts were diverted, 
 201 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 most unexpectedly. There came the sound of 
 noisy flutterings, and, in a moment after, an unu- 
 sually large insect began darting past the lamp, 
 sometimes Hovering for an instant in the strong 
 light. Harringford watched it intently. He 
 knew something of moths and butterflies, hav- 
 ing heard Ainsworth tell some strange things of 
 them, and the great size of this one, with what 
 he caught of the color and markings, recalled to 
 his mind some half-remembered incident of the 
 past, some experience which he could not place 
 for the moment. " A hawk-moth," he thought, 
 " but they are not native here ; it could hardly 
 be that — and he watched it with growing interest. 
 Often it darted close to his head, winnowing the 
 air with its broad mottled wings, but easily elud- 
 ing every attempt he made to capture it. Finally 
 it began, from time to time, to flutter about the 
 bracket which hung against the wall, just over 
 the mantel-piece. 
 
 As wajs said before, the square of card-board 
 to which was fastened the butterfly taken by 
 Ainsworth on that last morning, was placed on 
 this bracket; and it was perhaps the life-like 
 appearance of this insect which attracted the 
 other. Once or twice it seemed about to settle ; 
 and Harringford watching his opportunity, came 
 very nearly taking it prisoner. For an instant 
 it seemed to flutter fiercely in his grasp, and to 
 his utter astonishment, when his hands touched 
 203 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 it, it gave forth, a succession of squeaking sounds. 
 In a moment his recollection was complete^ — it 
 was a death's-head moth. A thrill of supersti- 
 tious fear made every fibre tingle. He stepped 
 back quickly and sat down, gazing blankly at 
 the carpet, while a swift procession of images 
 passed before him. India — yes — there was 
 where he had first seen the death's-head moth. 
 The recollection of a certain night came back ; 
 but that could not be all ? No, oh, ay, and then 
 he vainly attempted to follow the thought which 
 fled from him again into the dim shadow of for- 
 getfulness. He could only dimly descry an 
 elusive remembrance, and the pursuit was vain. 
 With an effort, he brought himself back to the 
 present and sought to shake off the sensations 
 which oppressed him, and which seemed to 
 hang upon him like actual weight which it re- 
 quired physical force to resist. Dreams ! What 
 had he to do with dreams ? That was all past, 
 all past. What had this to do with him ? He 
 was happy, was he not? Evelyn loved him, 
 she would be his wife within a month — and her 
 image, her miniature, which he had seen in that 
 dream, appearing on the hollow disk of the 
 strange flower — the flower — oh — the flower — 
 why, it was a strange flower, too — that, too, he 
 had seen first in India. It, also, had to do with 
 the death's-head moth. At that moment the 
 fanning wings touched his head ; he sprang to 
 203 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 his feet and struck savagely at the creature, but 
 it was gone. Growing more composed, he 
 looked carefully for it ; but no, it was gone alto- 
 gether. He took the shade from the lamp, 
 threw coals on the fire, made all the light he 
 could, but the moth had vanished — and where ? 
 He sat down, half-smiling. Perhaps it had not 
 been there at aU; perhaps it was but an illu- 
 sion. He sat chafing his hands, holding them 
 out now and then to the warmth. The room 
 seemed strangely chilled, and yet the night 
 was very mild; he remembered he had only 
 lighted the fire for the cheer of the blaze. " I 
 must have dropped off to sleep. What a riddle 
 it all is, anyway," and for a good hour he sat 
 before the fire, lost in deep thought. 
 
 But the morrow came, and with the morning 
 came new hopes. The world was rich in the 
 glories of autumn, for October was but little 
 more than half gone, and the next evening found 
 him radiant and happy ; all his melancholy van- 
 ished, as mysteriously as it had come. Evelyn's 
 love comforted him, wrapped him about as a 
 charmed mantle; her words of cheer repeated 
 themselves in his heart. He was strong again, 
 self-confident, self-reliant. He never tired of 
 picturing to himself her smiling glances, which 
 told of her pride, her faith in him and in his 
 work — his work — that thought brought him 
 back to the present moment. He lighted his 
 204 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 lamp and arranged his papers before him, bend- 
 ing over them with a little sigh of happiness. 
 Oh, the sweetness, the beauty of labor, labor in 
 which the heart takes pleasure; how the soul 
 hovers over it, revels in it, magnifies it, while 
 the heart fondly follows the patient mind, and 
 the flattering fancy leads hope a wild dance, 
 persuading her that the light which flickers 
 upon the page is the gleaming of immortality. 
 
 Oh, dangerous, pleasing realm — the fleeting 
 and fair heaven of vexed and unhappy spirits ! 
 For hours there was quiet in the room, as Har- 
 ringford, bending over his work, urged his pen 
 on from sentence to sentence, through page 
 after page. At last, laying it aside, he leaned 
 his head forward upon his hand, his delighted 
 mind wandering afar, along the enchanted path- 
 ways, amid the wide fields of the creator's world. 
 
 His thoughts were busy, building, building, 
 buildiag, while his pallid features took on a 
 touch of that peculiar beauty which comes, at 
 times, to the faces of all who follow fondly some 
 lofty ideal. Suddenly there was a loud flutter- 
 ing of wings close by his ear — his fanciful world 
 vanished in a flash, and with a bound his spirit 
 came back to the present — he started up with 
 an exclamation of impatience. The huge moth 
 of the night before was darting about the table, 
 striking clumsily against the books and papers, 
 now here, now there. One moment he could 
 305 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 hear ity away in Some dim comer of the roomj 
 the next, it would pass close by him. He felt 
 exasperated^ as though some flippant yisitor had 
 intruded upon his secure hour. It was no dream, 
 this. This was evidently the same creature 
 whos6 presence had filled, him with a sort of 
 terror the evening before. He had no such 
 feeling now. He felt only the desire to be rid 
 of the noisy intruder. He arose, and opening 
 the door, succeeded after a while, in driving it 
 outy and had the satisfaction to see it take its 
 flight along the dark hall and disappear. 
 
 Ilesu:ming his seat, he gathered up the broken 
 threads! of thought and was soon lost again in 
 reverie. At length thie image he wished arose 
 before his vision, and taking up his pen, he be- 
 gan to write vigorously. He had traced, per- 
 haps half a sentence, when the moth whizzed 
 past his face, so startling him that his pen swept 
 the page with a line like the course of a comet, 
 and he glated about him in bewilderment for 
 some means of relief. He tried the door again, 
 but the moth refused to be driven Qtit^'and at 
 last, after many futile efforts he sat down, de- 
 termined to watch the movements of hi& fantas- 
 tic visitor. Swiftly it swept the gloom, now in 
 straight lines, now in graceful circles. Some- 
 times it seemed to dance upon the air^ Seen 
 by the light of the lamp against the dark shad- 
 owy, its creamy color looked almost white. 
 206 
 
SILEHCE AND A SHAPOW 
 
 Sometimes its movements were so quiet that 
 not the slightest sound from its fanning wings 
 could be heard; then, with a quick flout, it 
 would dash wildly about the room, fluttering 
 madly behind the curtains, or bustling and 
 sputtering among the diisty papers and dead 
 leaves on top of the high book-case, with such 
 inconceivably loud knockings against whatever 
 came in its way, that Harringford could hardly 
 believe his own senses. It seemed absurd,, that 
 great, soft, downy-looking creature to be la,imch- 
 ing itself against things in that manner, like an 
 ancient battering ram, with a hundred Epmans 
 at the ropes. 
 
 Harringford could scarcely repress a smile as 
 he, listened "That is part, of it," he thougl^t, 
 "part of this strange energy we call life, cased 
 up in that unreasoning, winged worm, furiously 
 knocking itself about, untiLfinally it will break 
 its habitation and go out^and where to ? God 
 only knows. Perhaps, we are just as senseless 
 seeming, if we could know all." By and by the 
 moth came to hover about the dead butterfly on 
 the bracket, darting away and returning again 
 and again, as though fascinated by it ; perhaps 
 it recognized some likeness to itself. 
 
 Once it alighted upon the page immediately 
 
 under Harringford's eyes, resting for a moment 
 
 upon the half-finished sentence, the writing of 
 
 which it had so effectually cut short a little before. 
 
 207 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 It turned itself about, moving its wings gently, as 
 though pleased to bathe in the glow of the lamp. 
 Harringf ord watched it with great interest ; he 
 could plainly see the markings which pictured a 
 human skull, and which gives to the insect its 
 ghastly name, the death's-head moth. The broad 
 wings were mottled and specked with brown, and 
 were full five inches from tip to tip. " How poor 
 Harry would have been charmed by this thing," 
 he thought. He made a quick movement, think- 
 ing to capture it, but with a series of plaintive, 
 squeaking cries it fluttered madly about the table 
 and at last made good its escape. Harringford 
 pushed his chair back hurriedly, remembering 
 the old superstition about the dust which this 
 creature is said to cast from its wings, and 
 which causes blindness in anyone upon whom it 
 falls. 
 
 " I do not wish to lose my sight just yet," he 
 thought; "but it is rather a poetic idea and 
 worthy of the Oriental mind," and immediately 
 he became absorbed in the romantic possibilities 
 of the thought. But what was this wanderer do- 
 ing here, so far from its native shores ? He had 
 thought this species belonged to the other side 
 of the water, altogether, and was rarely, if ever, 
 found here ; and why not capture this one and 
 make a study of its habits at his leisure ? 
 
 At once he began looking about for the moth. 
 It was resting, with wings outspread to the full, 
 208 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 against the wall, near the little bracket over the 
 mantel-piece, and to all outward appearances as 
 moveless and dead as the butterfly whose 
 brighter hues and more graceful mould had re- 
 mained unchanged after more than four years. 
 Harringford arose and approached cautiously. 
 The death's-head semblance seemed to him 
 startlingly distinct. At another time he might 
 have felt some superstitious fears, might have 
 regarded this visitor as an iU omen to himself ; 
 but to-night he was confident, life was strong 
 within him, and he easily banished the morbid 
 thoioghts that had so long haunted his mind, re- 
 fusing to entertain any of the wild fancies which 
 the occurrence may have suggested. The moth 
 remained perfectly still until he was quite near 
 to it, when it suddenly took wing, and flew di- 
 rectly over his head. He turned quickly, looking 
 everywhere in the room, but it had disappeared 
 altogether. He was a little surprised, and after 
 waiting a moment, crossed the room and opened 
 the door, looking out along the hall, and to his 
 greater surprise, it was there, and kept passing 
 and repassing, right before him, plainly visible 
 as it crossed the band of light which streamed 
 out from the open door- Sometimes he could 
 follow its flight, with his eyes, far out along the 
 hall, and often it would seem to be gone alto- 
 gether, then as he watched, it would come back, 
 silently, looking twice its real size in the half- 
 209 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 gloom. At last it was so long away in one of its 
 flights, that Harringford, thinking it gone alto- 
 gether, went back into his room and closed the 
 door. 
 
 He was about to seat himself again when he 
 found the moth flying around and around him 
 in a circle. Feeling a little worried with the 
 creature, without trying to think just why, he 
 hastily took up a newspaper, and folding it into 
 a sort of clumsy weapon, determined to be rid of 
 the tormenting intruder, even if he should be 
 obliged to strike it down, though he felt he would 
 rather not kill it ; but when he came to look for 
 it, it was gone again. He went quickly to the 
 door, and saw it making the same slow journeys. 
 He felt sure it must fly some distance beyond 
 the range of the long hall; perhaps into the 
 empty rooms, perhaps down the stair ; a sudden 
 fancy entered his mind — he would take the lamp 
 and follow it. As he prepared to do this, he was 
 half conscious of a kind of heart-sickness for a 
 moment, and a voice seemed whispering in his 
 ears, "Don't go — don't go." But he scouted the 
 idea ; his curiosity was aroused ; besides, would 
 it not return the moment he had settled himself 
 to work ? He would go. He took up the lamp 
 from the table and started. Hardly had he 
 reached the hall before he found the moth, 
 moving along, just in front of him, with noise- 
 less waverings to and fro, keeping ever within 
 210 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 the light from the lamp, but always just out of 
 reach, and always just ahead of him. 
 
 Harringford was half conscious of the appar- 
 ent absurdity of the performance ; but there are 
 times when the very absurdity of the thing lends 
 to it a peculiar and fantastic fascination, and so 
 it was now with Harringford. This ghastly 
 thing seemed to invite him, and why should he 
 not follow ? He felt no fears. If there really 
 was anything to be superstitious about, he would 
 be only too glad to discover it ; and so he fol- 
 lowed on, the moth still keeping its wavering 
 course along the dismal hall. Beaching the 
 stairway, it began to descend; fluttering back 
 and forth, a little way before, over the awkward, 
 winding steps. 
 
 Harringford went slowly down after it, step- 
 ping carefuUy, and steadying the heavy lamp 
 with his disengaged hand. When he reached 
 the lower hall he saw the moth, considerably in 
 advance of him, almost invisible in the darkness ; 
 suddenly it disappeared altogether. He went 
 on, however, and stood just opposite the door 
 under the stairway. It was the one, before de- 
 scribed, which gave on the cellar steps. He was 
 about to pass on to the rooms in the rear when 
 the moth appeared again, coming through the 
 crevice, by the door from the cellar, returning 
 immediately as it had come. He pushed the 
 door open and went in. The moth, with phan- 
 311 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 torn-like dalliance, advanced before him, ever 
 disappearing and returning in its uncertain flight 
 amid the deepening gloom. Slowly Harringford 
 followed down the steps into the dismal passage. 
 For a moment he had halted at the top, feeling 
 a touch of reluctance to go further, but he had 
 quickly overcome it and determined now to fol- 
 low the strange creature until it should stop 
 somewhere — it could not go much further — ^f or 
 now it had turned aside and entered the low, 
 square opening into the place where he had 
 found the dog. There was no outlet to this 
 apartment of the cellar save the one through 
 which the moth was now going and coming ; ap- 
 proaching the light, only to recede again quickly 
 into the darkness. 
 
 Harringford hesitated. His remembrances of 
 that place were neither comforting nor reassur- 
 ing; nevertheless, he went in, crouching a little, 
 holding his lamp lowered and at arm's length in 
 front of him. All was just as he had seen it last. 
 The rubbish was scattered about. Some decaying 
 boards, which had been thrown down, were still 
 lying near the chimney foundation, and just 
 above them the moth was now fluttering, pale 
 and ghostly-looking, against the blackened wall. 
 Harringford approached quickly, just in time to 
 see it disappear behind the two or three boards 
 which were still standing, leaning, in the angle 
 formed by the chimney and the wall. These he 
 212 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 threw aside quickly, and, as he did so, saw the 
 moth entering — not without some difficulty — a 
 narrow crevice or slot, through a wide, dark- 
 stained board or plank, which seemed to be built 
 into the chimney itself. His curiosity was now 
 thoroughly aroused. He began making a close 
 inspection, and found that the plank through 
 which the insect had entered, was really a door 
 of some sort; for after brushing away the 
 shrouding cobwebs, he found the rusted hinges 
 showing plainly enough, and that the crevice 
 through which the moth had disappeared, had 
 once, probably^ been a key-hole ; though it bore 
 but slight semblance now to anything other 
 than a passageway for mice or other small ver- 
 min. The door itself appeared to be between 
 four and five feet high, and by looking closer he 
 saw that the woodwork continued, carrying the 
 same dimensions, on up along the side of the 
 chimney and through the floor of the room 
 above; but so completely covered over and 
 hidden was it with dusty cobwebs, that even a 
 close inspection would hardly have detected any 
 apparent break in the rough stonework ; but 
 near the ground it was now visible enough. The 
 rotting wood had been scratched almost through 
 in one place. 
 
 Harringford stooped and looked at the marks. 
 "The dog," he thought, " what was he after?" 
 He had for the moment forgotten the moth ; now 
 213 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 his thoughts came back to it. " This is where it 
 lives — I'll have it yet." He put the lamp down 
 carefully on the ground to one side and looked 
 about him for something with which to break 
 the place open. For a time his search was in 
 vain, but at last he found a short iron bar, flat- 
 tened and wedged-shaped at one end — it was 
 the thing Ainsworth had used for opening his 
 boxes; it was brown with rust. Harringford 
 seized it eagerly, and inserting one end of it 
 at the top of the narrow door, began to force it 
 open. Evidently there was some sort of lock 
 which held it, for the upper hinge gave away 
 first and the door was soon forced outward, two 
 or three inches, but the short lever was no 
 longer effective, Harringford leaned forward 
 and peered, for an instant, into the opening. 
 His senses refused to translate any definite idea 
 of what he thought he saw. Suddenly, straight- 
 ening himself, he drew a quick breath, making as 
 though he would have exclaimed, but the words 
 died with a hollow whisper in his throat. An 
 ashen paleness overspread his face, and drop- 
 ping the bar upon the ground, he laid hold on 
 the top of the door with a frenzied grasp that 
 had in it the strength of twenty men. 
 
 For a moment the fabric held, but only for a 
 moment. With a desperate surge, which com- 
 passed the last atom of strength that was in him, 
 Harringford tore the door from its place, falling 
 214 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 with it himself, as he brought it crashing to the 
 ground. Eising to his knees, he reached out 
 quickly with his right hand, grasping the stones 
 in the rough wall, to keep himself from falling, 
 and there he remained, fixed, glaring at the 
 opening before him, his face set, rigid and move- 
 less, as though chiselled out of gray marble. 
 One would have said he was dead, but for the 
 frightful gleaming eyes, dilated with unspeaka- 
 ble horror, fixed, scintillating with the unnatural 
 fires which were consuming the despairing spirit 
 within him. 
 
 The moth — oh, yes, the moth was there — the 
 death's-head moth ; and it was resting, quietly 
 enough now, with wings outspread; resting 
 upon the hollow breast of what had once been a 
 human being ; and above it was the real death's 
 head, leaning forward, as if to look about it, with 
 its hollow, sightless eyes, after so long impris- 
 onment. The arms were raised high as they 
 could reach, straight above the head, A rope 
 hung down out of the place, and was piled in 
 many coils and loops upon the shoulders, and 
 twined about the arms as well. This rope, the 
 shrivelled, upraised hands, with their claw-like 
 fingers, seemed still vainly endeavoring to grasp. 
 The garments, faded and sear as they were, re- 
 tained, still, something of the wonted former 
 mould— something which suggested a recogniza- 
 ble, though vanished, personality, and gave to 
 315 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 the figure a horrible life-like semblance, which, 
 by contrast and association with the death's-vis- 
 age that surmounted it, was more dreadful than 
 would have seemed the hidden, and merely indis- 
 tinguishable, skeleton. Mere nothingness seemed 
 now to retain the form and functions of living 
 entity ; death seemed to have a tongue where- 
 with to speak, and the shrunken lips, silent and 
 breathless though they were, seemed busy with 
 the ghastly history which they alone might utter. 
 After all, there is a terrifying simplicity in 
 the revealed fact, which appalls the mind. Our 
 mysteries are solved, and then the things we 
 made much of are as nothing, but instead of 
 finding ourselves upon firmer ground, as we 
 might reasonably expect, our footing is swept 
 away and we are left trembling upon the brink 
 of an abyss, into which we do not even dare to 
 look. Then we see how short is our vision, how 
 vain are our knowledge and our strength, how 
 foolish is all our wisdom, and how impenetrable 
 is the darkness amid which we grope, unknowing 
 if the fabric of things shall hold for us through 
 the coming hour. Death is perhaps a spiritual 
 mystery to us, for the reason only, that our souls 
 revolt from the miserable image of this common- 
 place ending — because of the utter futility of 
 any attempt to coimect any ideas of beauty or 
 happiness with the barren and brutal fact of 
 physical dissolution. 
 
 916 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 To one who was a stranger, who did not know 
 this figure leaning forward, now, until the lamp- 
 light pictured the fearful shadow of it upon the 
 wall, it might have been only the remnant of 
 what had once been a fellow-creature, no more .; 
 but to Harringford this was the dreadful index 
 pointing to the vanished life — a particular life, 
 which was present stiU despite the body's wreck, 
 inseparably interwoven, with his own. All that 
 he knew of the joys, the follies, and the suffer- 
 ings of that life, its loves, its hopes, its aspira- 
 tions, were summed up for him in one word — 
 Ainsworth. Merciful God ! The fruitless sur- 
 misings, the vain regrets, the purposeless griefs ! 
 His intuitions had served for nothing ; now the 
 dream was no longer a half -forgotten airy phan- 
 tom, but a destroying reality, 
 
 A dizzy sense of sinking came over.him, with 
 inward tremblings and nausea. His thoughts 
 seemed to spin in a whizzing circle before his 
 eyes. Once or twice he passed his hand across 
 his forehead, and felt the cold drops coursing 
 slowly down from his temples. He was uncon- 
 scious of his action— he had forgotten whether 
 there was a life in which he had part or if it had 
 ceased long since ; and yet, his senses were very 
 busy. He even noted the brilliant micaceous 
 particles of the stone, shining in the lamplight. 
 He could feel, as it had been a crushing weight, 
 the dreadful stillness which seemed to have in it 
 217 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 something deadly. There were large stones at 
 the base of the chimney foimdation, and from 
 under one of these a huge rat came half-way out 
 and watched with evil-gleaming eyes. A feeling 
 of unbearable loneliness came over Harring- 
 ford. " I must find someone," he thought ; " I 
 
 must find John " He turned himself about, 
 
 and laying hands upon the wall behind him, arose 
 slowly to his feet. Half-way along this wall was 
 a small window, which opened to the side- 
 ground, on a line below the windows of his own 
 room; at this window he heard now a sharp 
 rapping against the glass. For an instant he 
 turned toward the sound — was this some new 
 terror ? Well, no matter ; let it come. His 
 soul was in that state of desperation in which 
 he would have faced either death or the devil 
 himself, indifferently. Slowly he went for- 
 ward, and took up the heavy lamp. When he 
 reached the foot of the steps, he stopped for 
 an instant listening — someone was entering 
 at the front door above — now there was the 
 sound of footsteps coming along the naked 
 floor of the hall. With firm-set teeth and fierce 
 gleaming eyes he advanced upward, steadily, 
 step by step, holding the light aloft, so that 
 it shone full in his face, which was white as 
 marble. 
 
 John Lubbock had left home early on that 
 morning, and having returned by a late train, 
 218 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 was just passing by on his way back. He 
 glanced up at Harringford's window, hoping he 
 would see a light ; for, late as it was, he was 
 half inclined to stop and see Harringf ord. All 
 was dark there, but a white glow, which seemed 
 to rise from the ground by the side of the house, 
 attracted his attention. 
 
 "That is the cellar-window," he thought. 
 "What can he be doing there at this time of 
 night ? " He went in and made his way, among 
 the weeds, to the window, which was partly be 
 low the surface of the ground. He stooped 
 down as low as he could and looked in ; but the 
 little panes were splashed with sand by the 
 rains, without, and curtained closely by the 
 spiders' webs, within, so that he could make out 
 nothing distinctly, but thought he glimpsed a 
 figure rising from the ground. He had a key to 
 the front door, and this he had taken from his 
 pocket as he came along, intending to go in if 
 Harringford should still seem to be up. He 
 now had it in his hand, and with it he struck 
 five or six times against the glass. Again he saw 
 the shadowy outlines of a human figure, and saw 
 the light lifted from the ground. The figure he 
 thought to be Harringford's. 
 
 Rising, he went quickly around to the front 
 
 door and let himself in. The hallway was dark, 
 
 but he knew the situation of the door which led 
 
 to the cellar, and toward this he advanced as 
 
 219 
 
UKTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 quickly as lie could. Suddenly tke door opened, 
 and Harrittgford stood before him. 
 
 " Great God in heaven ! is that you, Ruy 
 Harringford ? " he exclaimed, starting back 
 against the wall. 
 
 " Tes — don't stand ofif — I was just starting to 
 find you — come with me, John, I have reached 
 the end^at last." And Harringford turned his 
 face toward the door, pushing it open with his 
 hand as he spoke. 
 
 " What is it, Euy — what has happened — are 
 you hurt ? " Lubbock came close to him, speak- 
 ing in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " No, John, no — come, I will show you — I 
 have — I have just found Harry's body." 
 
 Lubbock looked at him for an instant, speech- 
 less. His mind was busy. Suddenly his whole 
 bearing changed; he. had concluded. The in- 
 tense expression of anxious inquiry left his face, 
 and was replaced by one of hopeless anguish 
 and sorrowful compassion. 
 
 " Come, Euy," he began, persuasively, " come 
 with me up to your room ; I want to talk with 
 you; I have some good news to teU you," 
 and he laid a caressing hand on Harringford's 
 arm. 
 
 " No, no," said Harringford, impatiently, " I 
 
 know what you are thinking, John, and I could 
 
 haK wish it were true, but you are mistaken ; 
 
 my mind is clear as your own — come— prepare 
 
 320 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 yourself — we have tlie truth at last. Come with 
 me and see." 
 
 And without a word further, Harringford 
 turned and went slowly down the steps again, 
 Lubbock following, bewildered and silent. 
 
 "It is here," said Harringford, when they had 
 reached the place. " Look ! this is all there is 
 of us, John, after all." Lubbock gave utterance 
 to a gasping exclamation of horror, as his eyes 
 fell upon the shrunken, fleshless head, with its 
 tangled, bushy locks, gray with dust and mould. 
 
 Harringford placed the lamp upon the ground, 
 and the two men stood, silent, looking at the 
 indescribable object before them. 
 
 " Oh, this is horrible ! " Lubbock said, at 
 last, rousing himself with an effort. " How did 
 it happen, Ruy, how did you find it ? " 
 
 "Do you see that — on the breast, there ? " 
 
 " No — yes — what is it ? I don't see well." 
 
 " It's a moth — a death's-head moth. The 
 cursed thing came into my room and fretted me 
 until I determined to follow and capture it. I 
 followed it down here, and it went into that 
 place. I was curious, I had never seen the 
 thing before, and I tore the door open. You 
 see what I found." 
 
 " But what is this thing ? " Lubbock said ; 
 " what kind of a trap is it ? Bring the lamp, 
 Buy ; did you never know of this place be- 
 fore?" 
 
 221 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 " Never," said Harringford. " As I tell you, 
 I saw it for the first time a moment only before 
 you came." 
 
 Both began to make closer examinations. 
 "You see it is perfectly invisible up yonder," 
 said Harringford, "and all these boards were 
 stacked here in the corner, against the door of 
 it. You remember ? We moved some of them 
 when we were looking about in here." 
 
 "Yes," said Lubbock; "why didn't we see 
 it, then, I wonder ? " 
 
 " It must have been covered up with webs 
 and litter," said Harringford. 
 
 " Yes, but what was it like when you found 
 it?" 
 
 " See here, " said Harringford, lifting up the 
 door and turning it about, against the wall, 
 "you remember that dog? You see he must 
 have been scratching here ; he had this rubbish 
 all torn away from it. I might have seen it 
 then, but I never thought of looking behind 
 the boards. I saw where he had been tearing 
 at them, but I thought nothing of it. Now I 
 see why it was " 
 
 Harringford turned away, leaning against the 
 the wall, feeling himself growing sick at the 
 thought. 
 
 " This is dreadful, dreadful," Lubbock went 
 on, as though speaking to himself ; he stooped 
 and looked up into the dark, square hollow of 
 223 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 the box-like arrangement, taking hold of the 
 mouldy rope which hung down within it. 
 "Why, where does this go to? It seems to 
 go on up through the house." Suddenly he 
 straightened up, with a startled look. " Euy," 
 he said quickly, "where does this chimney run? 
 What rooms are over this place ? " His thoughts 
 were very busy. 
 
 Harringford thought a moment, and then, 
 glancing toward the little window in the wall 
 behind him, said, " That window is just below 
 my room ; this chimney must be the one which 
 goes up between the two rooms that I " 
 
 " That Ainsworth occupied," Lubbock broke 
 in; "and there is a closet on this side the 
 chimney in his — in your room. My God! what 
 a hellish fatality — quick — there is not a moment 
 to lose," and while Harringford looked on in 
 utter amazement, Lubbock stooped to the floor, 
 and with frantic hands gathered quickly an arm- 
 ful of the musty straw which was scattered 
 about the place, and rushing to the little win- 
 dow, began iilling the square oflfset so as to 
 completely darken it. 
 
 " Why, what is it, John, what do you mean ? " 
 But Lubbock paid no heed until he had com- 
 pleted his work, then turning to Harringford, 
 " What do I mean ? Do you not see the dan- 
 ger you are in ? If this be known, you are lost 
 
 — nothing could save you " 
 
 323 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 " Oh, well, why don't you speak out — plainly 
 —what is this riddle ? " said Harringford, with 
 a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "Eiddle? Have you lost your understand- 
 ing? can you not see? If this be known, you 
 will be accused of miirder — not only accused — 
 you will be convicted." 
 
 " Nonsense, John," Harringf ord began. But 
 even as he spoke a shudder made his voice 
 quiver. "Why, the absurdity of such a 
 thing " 
 
 ' Absurdity ! — ^the devil. Ruy, don't turn idiot 
 now, at the moment when you have most need 
 for all your wits. Come, get out of this," and 
 he took up the lamp and started. " Not a word, 
 but come ; I know what I am doing." And he 
 led the way with determined steps, Harringford 
 following in bewildered submission, all his 
 faculties stunned, feeling as though his heart 
 were dead within him, and seeing his late pro- 
 mised happiness, like some tinsel fabric, dis- 
 solving in the darkness before him. 
 
 " Now," said Lubbock, when they had reached 
 the room ; "now we can talk it over." He put 
 the lamp down on the table and closed the 
 door ; then he went into the bedroom, and looked 
 about it carefully. Coming back into the study 
 he opened the closet, and began knocking with 
 his hands against the inside, next to the chim- 
 ney. " I don't see it, exactly, but there must be 
 234 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 some secret entrance," he said, coming out 
 again. . 
 
 He glanced at Harringf ord, who had sunk into 
 a chair and was leaning forward, his face buried 
 in his hands, oblivious of all around him. Lub- 
 bock looked around the room, and going to each 
 of the windows, he drew the heavy curtains 
 securely ; then he came close to Harringf ord and 
 laid his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Euy," he said, " come, man, rouse yourself, 
 what we have to do, must be done — ^before the 
 morning." He looked at his watch. " It is al- 
 most two o'clock now; come, this is the time 
 for courage and action. You are in dreadful 
 danger, dreadful sorrow, Euy; I know it, but 
 you must help me. I will get you out of your 
 danger or share it with you." 
 
 Harringf ord straightened himself and looked 
 at Lubbock, astonished. "I was not thinking 
 of that," he said. "What is to be done about 
 Evelyn ? I dread to think of the effect on her 
 when all is known." 
 
 Lubbock drew a chair up quickly and sat 
 down beside him. " Look here, Euy," he began, 
 " We may as well come to a perfect understand- 
 ing at once about this matter. This must never 
 be made known to Evelyn, nor to anyone else — 
 never." 
 
 " Why, you are crazy ; that is simply an im- 
 possibility. Do you think I could ever bear a 
 235 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 burden like that? No, I must be freed of it," 
 and Harringford started to his feet and began 
 pacing the floor. 
 
 "Euy," said Lubbock, with great feeling, "for 
 God's sake, for your own happiness, and, what 
 is more to you, for the sake of the happiness of 
 those who are most dear to you, don't set your- 
 self against me in this. I understand and ap- 
 preciate, to the full, your wish to have every- 
 thing cleared up at once. But you are in a coil 
 where the only alternative is a choice of evils. 
 I will not plead your own danger, but think for 
 a moment of the misery you would bring on her. 
 Trust me ; I see my way clearly here ; I would 
 be willing to do as you wish, and to suffer the 
 consequences with you, if there were any need 
 for it, if it would be of any use, but it would 
 not be. Do I not see the net that would be 
 woven about you ? Nothing on earth, nothing 
 that love or friendship could devise, could save 
 
 you." 
 
 " But I don't see it at all ; do I count for so 
 little, that I must defend myself against a dead 
 man's rights — the rights accorded him by com- 
 mon humanity?" 
 
 "Count for so little," said Lubbock, with 
 some show of rising anger. "You count for 
 little more than a fool, now ; like all men who 
 are in love, you can see only from one stand- 
 point. Do you want to see yourself supplanted 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 by a dead man's memory? Can you answer 
 that? " In his anxiety and impatience Lubbock 
 spoke unguardedly. 
 
 The shaft struck in the gold, but it was a 
 dangerous speech, and destined to bear bitter 
 fruit 
 
 Harringford stopped in his walking and turned 
 away, pale and silent, quivering in every fibre, 
 as though a serpent's fang had struck him to 
 the heart. The words had been meant for kind- 
 ness, but there was a brutality in them that was 
 like a blow in the face ; their very truth pierced 
 him like a two-edged sword. What had he not 
 suffered because of that memory already ? He 
 had sacrificed his happiness once, and now, that 
 he had found it again, that same memory arose 
 like a spectre from the death-pit, demanding 
 still, in the name of former ties, that he should 
 rob his heart of its new-found wealth, and bank- 
 rupt his soul, paying to the last farthing this 
 crushing debt, which a merciless fatality had 
 imposed upon him, and which he did not, right- 
 fully, owe; demanding that he strip the last 
 hopes from his life and cast them into the grave, 
 as though they could bring comfort to the clay, 
 or warm for a moment the coldness of that 
 cheerless couch. Harringford did not speak, 
 but his silence was far more efi'ective than any 
 argument of words could have been. 
 
 There is a creature more subtile than death, 
 227 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 more changeable than life, with more colors than 
 a chameleon or the sky, and as immortal as the 
 soul ; many are outwardly sceptical of its exist- 
 ence, but few pass from life without encounter- 
 ing it. There is in every heart a mirror to re- 
 flect that sorrowful image, and mean must be 
 the soul that is not touched, seeing the face of a 
 fellow-mortal changed by that blighting shadow, 
 the death-in-life image of Despair. 
 
 Lubbock sprang to his feet and grasped Har- 
 ringford's hand. " Forgive me, Euy, forgive 
 me," he cried ; " I spoke hastily, brutally, out 
 of my fears; believe in me, trust me. I see 
 your trouble, but don't give way to it. I tell 
 you Evelyn loves you, and only you ; I know it, 
 I have good cause to know it. Be cheered; 
 love cancels everything. It is for her sake, as 
 well as your own, that I ask you to be coun- 
 selled by me in this. I see all the dangers 
 which seem to be hidden from you. What 
 could possibly be gained by letting her know ? 
 True, Harry was your friend, but have you not 
 acted a friend's part ? Who can prevent fate ? 
 Evelyn believes him dead; she has outlived 
 her early sorrow ; why would you revive now a 
 fruitless grief ? What could you give her but a 
 dead body and a horrible remembrance? It 
 would only bring a cloud over her life, it would 
 endanger your own — perhaps it would separate 
 you forever." 
 
 223 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 Harringford started at the thought. "But, 
 John, it seems too — oh, it is too horrible." 
 
 " I know it, I know it ; but it only seems so. 
 I do not ask you to act unworthily; there is 
 really no injustice to the dead. Even if you 
 could bring any good to Harry now, which you 
 cannot, you would not be doing right to sacrifice 
 another in order to do it." 
 
 " You are hindering your judgment by a senti- 
 ment, noble enough in itself, I admit that, but 
 by giving way to it you would work harm that 
 nothing could repair. I tell you, Euy, you must 
 not stand off from me now. Tou must not leave 
 me to stand alone here. Come, be guided by me. 
 We will fight it out together. Don't think that 
 I underrate the burden which I am asking you 
 to bear ; I do not ; but I ask you to bear it. I 
 ask you for your help now ; for courage, coolness, 
 and action here, and for endurance hereafter. 
 The last atom of my strength shall be yours to 
 help you. We must put sentiment aside — I 
 mean this feeling of yours about Ainsworth — 
 there are other and worthier sentiments that 
 should outweigh this with you. It is not now 
 of the dead you should think, but of the liv- 
 ing. The dead suffer nothing. If you will not 
 think of yourself, think then of Evelyn. I tell 
 you my way is the right way ; there is nothing 
 else can be done. Everything in life for you 
 depends upon the decision of this moment, 
 329 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 and I implore you, in the name of Evelyn's 
 love for you, to listen to me. Together we 
 will meet this cursed fatality, and together 
 we can overcome it. To-night we must be 
 iron; to-morrow we can be flesh and blood 
 again." 
 
 "Well, John," Harringford answered, drawing 
 himself up with a determined air, as if to set in 
 place again the disjointed attributes of life and 
 hope within him, " be it then as you say. For 
 her sake we will do as you think best. Tou are 
 the older man, and you are in a position to see 
 your way clear, and, though there is something 
 in me which revolts from this course, I will trust 
 your judgment. As for me, I cannot think now. 
 All the fiends from hell seem to encircle me. It 
 seems best as you put it. May God forgive me 
 if I am wrong." 
 
 " Be at rest there," Lubbock said. " I know 
 we are right ; and now we cannot delay a mo- 
 ment. That body must be buried out of sight, 
 forever, within the next hour. We will better 
 choose the place now, Euy, before we go down, 
 don't you think?" 
 
 "Where?" Harringford asked, turning his 
 face away. 
 
 " Why, just there where it is ; don't you think 
 so? " Lubbock said. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, John ; not there in the cellar. 
 Poor Harry ! Let us not leave him in that 
 230 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 horrible place. I could never bear to do it. Let 
 it be outside, somewhere under the sky." 
 
 " But, Euy, you forget; there is great danger." 
 
 " Oh, well, it cannot be helped. If this must 
 be so, let us at least give him a grave on which 
 the rain can fall, where the grass can grow. I 
 could never consent to leave him down in that 
 place." 
 
 " Where, then, do you think ? " 
 
 " Why not in the garden ? To the right of 
 the gate, there is a sheltered place under the 
 tree ; why not make him a grave there ? " 
 
 " Well, then, let us do that. Perhaps it is 
 safer, too j the waU is high. But we must work 
 in the dark. Let us go ; we have no time to 
 lose, not a moment." 
 
 And so they went down together, silently, and 
 in the darkness, for they dared not carry the 
 light; stealing softly down the creaking stair 
 and along the hall, back through the rear of the 
 house, fear dogging their footsteps as persist- 
 ently as though their souls were, in truth, as 
 guilty as their cautious and covert movements 
 would have argued them to be. But there was 
 no faltering now. Strange and ghastly as was 
 their mission, it must be performed. The inevi- 
 table trend of circumstances had forced them 
 into a position in which nothing but their sense 
 of innocency could have sustained them; for 
 there was no retreat. 
 
 231 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 Dismally the door creaked on its rusted 
 hinges, as they slowly opened it enough to let 
 them out. A wary step or two down and they 
 stood in the little paved plot among the trees at 
 the back of the old house. The garden-gate was 
 but a little way off. A soft wind was stirring 
 slightly, and from time to time the rustling 
 leaves were driven and tumbled across the pave- 
 ment, continuing their journey noiselessly upon 
 the grass. The sky, with its sprinkled stars, 
 was partly shrouded by light, swift-flying clouds. 
 The blurred moon was far down in the west, and 
 the sweet odor from the distant fields came on 
 the air. The two men stopped and looked about 
 them. Harringford drew a long breath, sighing 
 deeply, and turniag, looked for a moment up at 
 the dark house, with its blackened chimneys, 
 looming against the sky. " Oh, God," he said, 
 under his breath, "how I wish it were morning! " 
 
 "Come," said Lubbock, "is there anything 
 here to dig with? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so — in there," pointing to a shed 
 in which wood had been kept. 
 
 What moments were these for both of them — 
 the groping about, the whispered questions and 
 answers, the horror within the house, which 
 seemed following them about, guessing out their 
 intent. Never before had they heard such 
 ghostly murmurings among the trees ; never be- 
 fore had the stars seemed to look so curiously 
 232 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 down through the swaying leaves, nor had the 
 branches ever cast such strange-shaped, moving 
 shadows on the ground. 
 
 But what they sought was found at last, and 
 passing through the iron gateway they entered 
 the great garden wilderness and turned aside, 
 under the low branches of a tree which leaned 
 out from the wall near by. 
 
 There was not much light, but there was 
 enough. The earth was soft and yielding, and 
 the noiseless spade was busy. Soon the fra- 
 grance of the upturned groimd stole out upon 
 the air. 
 
 Once or twice the steel grated against a stone, 
 as it was being urged amid the clay, and once a 
 bird chirped softly in the tree above; but for 
 these, the stillness remained unbroken. By and 
 by there was a slight clinking sound, as the 
 spade was set down against the wall. " Come," 
 said Lubbock, in a whisper, " Buy, our work is 
 but half done." And the two dark figures came 
 out again from the black shadows, and stole like 
 phantoms back through the gateway into the 
 house. The creaking door closed slowly, and 
 the key turned softly in the lock. 
 
 They were stealing up the groaning stairway 
 again, feeling their way in the dark, when both 
 men halted abruptly, each laying a hand upon 
 the other, at the same moment, dumbly caution- 
 ing him to silence. " Sh ! Listen ! " whispered 
 233 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 Lubbock. They leaned forward over the rail- 
 ing, holding their breath. " It's a bat," said 
 Lubbock; "don't you hear it striking against 
 the wall ? I have watched them, they do that 
 way, often." Presently there was the sound of 
 wings passing through the air nearby them. 
 
 Harringford drew himself back quickly. " No, 
 John," he said, " it's the moth again ; don't you 
 notice the peculiar sound the wings make? " 
 
 For a moment they stood listening to the fan- 
 ning of the invisible wings, which gave a sound 
 like evil whisperings, as the moth passed and 
 repassed, cleaving the darkness in its phantom 
 flight. 
 
 " Come on," said Lubbock, leading the way ; 
 and, in a moment after, they were in Harring- 
 ford's room, with the light of the living world 
 once more about them. Both men breathed a 
 sigh of relief, and Harringford sat down, show- 
 ing plainly the wretched weariness which op- 
 pressed him. 
 
 " Ruy, we must think of something ; we can- 
 not carry the body without wrapping it up some 
 way — what is there here ? " And Lubbock be- 
 gan looking about the room. 
 
 Harringford was not listening. " Strange," he 
 said, speaking to himself—" strange, that the 
 soul should be the helpless victim of its own 
 perceptions and associations. That transfigured 
 worm is as harmless as a withered leaf, and yet, 
 234 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 the strongest reason cannot set aside the impres- 
 sions which the spirit seeks to treasure up, 
 though they are a bane to its comfort. Per- 
 haps this moth flying in the darkness, bearing 
 about with it that indelible and ghastly image, 
 would be the better emblem of the after-life for 
 some of us; for will not this death's-head mor- 
 tality stamp its image upon the undying spirit, 
 remaining with it, stUl, wherever it may go, fol- 
 lowing forever a sorrowful and immortal mem- 
 ory?" 
 
 "Euy," Lubbock called from the other room, 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Where is that big shawl — that travelling 
 shawl of yours ? " 
 
 "It's there— on the shelf of the wardrobe, I 
 think." 
 
 Lubbock appeared a moment after, spreading 
 out before him a large coarse gray shawl. 
 
 Harringford guessed the intention. 
 
 " Poor Harry ! It will not be the first time. 
 Many a night when we were on the ocean to- 
 gether I have seen him wrapped up in that, sit- 
 ting upon the quarter-deck, watching the path 
 of the moon upon the water. What a voyage 
 he has taken since ! Life, love, intelligence, the 
 so-called immortal things are vanished, and 
 that commonplace, soulless fabric remains, un- 
 changed, unmarred. It is a humiliating evi- 
 dence of our limitations that we accept such a 
 335 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 farce seriously, what poverty it bespeaks, that 
 we should cling to it, counting ourselves rich in 
 such a possession." 
 
 "Tes, yes; but come, we cannot think of 
 these things now ; it will soon be morning." 
 
 " I wonder if it will? " said Harringford, rue- 
 fully. " I feel as if the sun could never rise 
 again." 
 
 " It would rise Just as bright as ever, if all 
 that are now only asleep were dead," said Lub- 
 bock. "Let us learn from Nature not to vex 
 ourselves with fancies. We must finish what 
 we have to do." 
 
 Let us pass as quickly as possible over the 
 scene which followed here. It was perhaps not 
 more trying and dreadful than thousands through 
 which men have been called to pass, but it 
 ought to be cause for comfort, and an accepted 
 evidence of spiritual health, that the universal 
 mind recoils from too near contemplation of 
 such things, seeking rather to forget the painful 
 truths to which Nature sometimes appears to 
 invite our thoughts. 
 
 They wrapped the body from sight — if body 
 that might be called, which was but a pitiful 
 remnant of what had once been the comely tene- 
 ment of a happy and hopeful spirit — ^performing 
 their sad task ia silence for the most part, for 
 their hearts were burdened with thoughts, such 
 as the mind can frame no speech to utter. They 
 236 
 
SILEKCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 made some discoveries which indicated some- 
 thing of the cause and manner of Ainsworth's 
 dreadful death. If there had been any doubts 
 as to the body being that of Ainsworth, a ring 
 which was hanging loosely on one of the fingers 
 still, and the watch, which they found, stained 
 and blackened, lying at his feet, would have suf- 
 ficed to dispel them. When the watch was 
 opened, his name was found graven in the case. 
 The hands had stopped, marking the half hour 
 between three and four, the exact time, as nearly 
 as they could remember, when they had seen 
 him at the window the day of Harringford's 
 return. The bones of the legs, between the 
 knees and ankles, were shattered, arguing that 
 he had fallen with great force. The arms were 
 fixed in their position, being raised straight 
 above the head. Some pieces of broken glass 
 fell out- from about the breast of the coat, 
 which was pushed up and wrinkled about the 
 neck, and this led them to make closer exami- 
 nation. 
 
 They found that a rather large bottle had 
 been crushed in the inside breast-pocket. The 
 pieces showed that the glass had been thin and 
 easily broken, and on the label, which still clung 
 to one of the fragments, though it was much 
 discolored, they made out, well enough, from 
 the few letters left unobliterated, that it had 
 contained chloroform. A vivid remembrance 
 237 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 came back to Lubbock, seeing this — a bright 
 May morning, more than four years ago, Ains- 
 worth, full of health and hope, and flushed from 
 exercise, coming suddenly toward him in pur- 
 suit of the butterfly, which he captured and 
 killed — killed with chloroform from this very 
 bottle, which he saw him put back into his 
 pocket again. He remembered having intended 
 speaking to him about the danger of carrying 
 it in that way, but he had forgotten in their 
 talk. Then their conversation aU came back, 
 and with a thrill of conviction he recalled Ains- 
 worth's strange presentiment. What a figment 
 of the fancy it had seemed then, and now the 
 frightful reality which it portended was before 
 his eyes. At the bottom of the box-like death- 
 trap down which Ainsworth had fallen, they 
 found a square block of wood, to which the rope 
 hanging down from above was attached, in such 
 a way as to support it by the four comers like 
 a small swinging platform, which could go up 
 or down easily inside the place. The rope lay 
 coiled in a heap upon it. Seeing these things, 
 they began to guess out the tragic terrors of the 
 death that had come upon Ainsworth, in a mo- 
 ment when life and happiness seemed most se- 
 cure. Harringford was kneeling beside the body, 
 bending over it, as if to take a last look. He 
 uttered a deep groan. Lubbock took his hand 
 tenderly, urging him to rise. Alas ! even Lub- 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 bock did not guess all the anguish his friend 
 was hiding in his own heart. 
 
 " There's nothing serious in mortality," Har- 
 ringford said, unconsciously repeating the words 
 of Macbeth. " It seems to me, John, almost an 
 impossible thing, that this meagre heap, which 
 is now no more than a bundle of sticks or dried 
 leaves, could ever have been a living, breathing, 
 creature like Ainsworth, a being to love and 
 to be loved. Cover it up from sight ; there is 
 something in me that rebels against this cold, 
 inexorable machinery of Nature, this building 
 but to destroy, this kindness which is but to 
 kill." 
 
 The burden which they now took up and 
 carried between them was light, and easy to 
 bear; but that other burden — which weighed 
 down upon their souls, not lifted in their hands 
 — how should one speak of that ? 
 
 Small as was the grave they had digged, it 
 was larger than was needed. Softly and in si- 
 lent reverence they put down the poor, slight 
 records of a broken life into the cool, fresh 
 earth. For a moment or two both stood look- 
 ing down into that dark gaping mouth which 
 has a word for every heart, then Harringf ord, 
 reaching up, drew down the bough that spread 
 above him, and breaking off some branches, 
 threw them into the grave. 
 
 "Poor Harry," he said, "let something of the 
 239 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 upper world mingle with his unconscious dust." 
 Then he made a motion to Lubbock, who lifted 
 up a spadeful of earth. "Earth to earth, ashes 
 to ashes, dust to dust." With each pause the 
 mould feU down upon the autumn-leaves, whose 
 gold and scarlet glories were one with the brown 
 earth that sprinkled them, all alike indistinguish- 
 able in the gloom of that dismal pit. 
 
 "God be merciful to us all," Harringford's 
 Yoice continued, and then the gap was quickly 
 filled. The mould nestled again to rest in its 
 wonted place, and the rustling leaves, which 
 drifted in the waking breeze, began to lodge 
 there, swerving to the spot, as though the know- 
 ing vdnd swept, eddying from the wall with 
 some intent to muffle up and hide from the 
 opening eyes of morning, the secret which it only, 
 and the darkness, knew. 
 
 The first pale semblance of the coming dawn 
 was beginning to creep over the earth. The 
 heavens were whitening in the east, and the 
 dark dome of the tall tree, from beneath which 
 the two men now emerged, was gently touched 
 with gray Ught. The moon was gone, and in its 
 place a fiaming star stood, at the sky's far edge, 
 like a shining valediction of the departing heav- 
 enly hosts, which vanish before the coming of 
 the sun. 
 
 There is something so transcendingly beauti- 
 ful, so unspeakably sad in the breaking of the 
 240 
 
SILENCE AND A SHADOW 
 
 morning. The soul leaps forth to meet the pallid 
 image of hope, with a thrill that seems like joy, 
 but in the breast there wakes a nameless sorrow, 
 and tears spring to our eyes ; but whether they 
 be tears of pain, we cannot tell. 
 
 " Come," said Lubbock, for Harringford had 
 stopped, and stood looking past the tree-tops, 
 toward the paliag sky. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, and turning, looked to- 
 ward the spot they had just quitted, and stretch- 
 ing out his hand he repeated, with choking voice, 
 the words from the " Song of Songs " : " Until 
 the day break, and the shadows flee away." 
 
 And so the old iron gateway closed again, and 
 the garden wilderness was left with its own lone- 
 liness. Here and there a late-blooming rose 
 dropped from the stem, as though shattered by 
 some unseen stroke which scattered its fading 
 petals among the weeds. The noiseless fingers 
 of decay were busy, and the quiet was dis- 
 turbed only by the feet of the skurrying wind as 
 it revisited, again and again, its well-known 
 haunts, from which the gracious summer had 
 departed. 
 
 Perhaps, then, better is a dreamless sleep, 
 Where hope awakes no fear, and thought no pain. 
 
 Than is a sleepless dream, in which we weep 
 Tears that are worse than vain. 
 
 241 
 
PAET FIVE 
 
 DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 But when the day is done, a crimson band 
 Lies smouldering in the hushed and darkening west, 
 
 The groups of trees like whispering spirits stand ; 
 The robin's song lifts from his trembling breast ; 
 
 The shadows steal out from the twilight land ; 
 And all is peace and quietness and rest. 
 
 The winter was over and gone. The last snow 
 had disappeared before the returning sun. The 
 south winds had come to blow through the bud- 
 ding maples, and May had covered them with 
 silken leaves. The locusts had bloomed and 
 again had scattered their blossoms upon the 
 grasses about the old Harringford house. The 
 garden was now a tangled wilderness of bloom, 
 and a countless wealth of roses mingled their per- 
 fume on the breath of June. Through it all, the 
 old house had remained unchanged and lonely, 
 desolate and deserted. New green grasses tufted 
 the pavement, even to the very doorstep. Tall 
 weeds stood up, aU about the waUs, as if tiptoeing 
 to get a peep in through the faded shutters which 
 sagged upon their loosening hinges. The spar- 
 rows took possession of every available nook, 
 342 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 and builded tlieir nests wliere they chose ; rear- 
 ing their young with no fears of molestation. 
 The pigeons plumed themselves at leisure upon 
 the roof. No footsteps ever went or came 
 over the threshold. No smoke ever rose from 
 the towering chimneys. Within all was dark- 
 ness and decay, but without, the gladness of 
 summer seemed singing in the air, and under 
 the tall tree which lifted its swaying dome above 
 the garden- wall, the sleeper rested ia undisturbed 
 repose. 
 
 "Well." It was Lubbock who spoke. He 
 had just taken a seat beside Harringford, under 
 the maple on the lawn. Long bars of gold shot 
 across the smooth emerald of the close-cut 
 sward. The air was heavy with delicious fra- 
 grance. Innumerable roses looked over the low 
 palings by the garden, their pink faces tipped 
 with fire by the light of the sinking sun. The 
 great golden disc of the mellow moon hung 
 in the distant ether like a glowing lamp lighting 
 up the eastern heavenly portal. The garden- 
 gate stood open, and the path could be seen 
 leading away between banks of flowers. Now 
 and then the sound of a sweet voice floated out 
 from the open window of the library, accompa- 
 nied by soft notes from the piano — faint and 
 liquid-sounding — suggesting the white and 
 hovering hands whose flngers touched but 
 tenderly upon the keys. 
 
 243 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 Harringford and Ms wife had been home some 
 weeks. 
 
 "Well," and Lubbock laid his hand on his 
 friend's shoulder. 
 
 Harringford lifted his head, slowly turning his 
 pale face full upon Lubbock, looking at him for 
 perhaps ten seconds before he spoke. 
 
 "Well," he answered, "it is a compromise. 
 You must not feel disappointed in me, John, 
 perhaps that is all there is for anyone — a 
 compromise — 'an ill-concluded peace,' if you 
 will, in which fate has the best of us — something 
 we must resign." 
 
 There was a silence for a time, during which 
 Lubbock carefully removed the ashes from his 
 cigar, and Harringford, reaching down, picked 
 up something from the grass at his feet. 
 
 " Perhaps," he continued, speaking slowly, " I 
 am hard to satisfy; perhaps I have been un- 
 reasonable; but we cannot change the nature 
 which is born with us, we cannot change the 
 world nor choose what form we might wish to 
 wear. Perhaps there is no parting here from 
 clouds, and yet I seem to see it in the lives of 
 some, and I have always been a dreamer. I have 
 dreamed always of one short hour of perfect 
 happiness — and peace ; and to that dream my 
 heart will cling and nothing can set it aside. It 
 seems I have exhausted every device. I have 
 had, perhaps, the best of health, love, wealth, 
 2U 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 change of scene, sweet companionship, counsel 
 and sympathy of true and tried friendship. I 
 have resolved, prayed, wept alonfe, and resolved 
 again. I have tried to be patient, trusting that 
 time would not be less potent here than in other 
 cases, but, John, I fear it — fear it with trem- 
 blings that I dare not make known to you ; fear 
 that the burden grows, fear that the cloud is 
 growing darker, and most of all I fear that Eve- 
 lyn feels the blighting shadow of it. Sometimes 
 I see a kind of wonder in her eyes, as though 
 she had looked into my heart, not my face. I 
 know — I know what you would say, I know my 
 heart ought to be happy in such a love, and is it 
 not ? Can I say it is not ? My life has been 
 hers from the first. I only live when she is near 
 me, and, oh, if it could have come some other 
 way, as it might have come, then I should have — 
 what can be the intent of this, John? " and he 
 turned to look at Lubbock, his eyes burning 
 with the hot tears which forced their way in spite 
 of him — " the purpose ? If there be intelligence 
 behind the power which rules us, what can be 
 the purpose in this, that should lead to good ? I 
 could bear that this phantom should follow me 
 wherever I go ; that, I may sustain ; but it is to 
 thrust itself between Evelyn and me — what 
 then ? — then I am lost." He turned away quickly 
 to hide his features, which were convulsed with 
 anguish. The large veins in his forehead became 
 345 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 swollen and corded, and a sharp pain was in his 
 throat. 
 
 " Try not to think of it this way, Euy. I do not 
 mean to preach, only let me get near you, and 
 help you, if I can. I know all the foolish phrases 
 about overcoming circumstances, about putting 
 away trouble, and aU the rest of the idiotic cant, 
 and I cast it all away as utterly useless; only let 
 me urge you to take courage anew. I still be- 
 lieve we are right, I speak from the deepest 
 sense of conviction, and I tell you that I firmly 
 believe you will live to be perfectly happy, and 
 soon, too, in spite of it all. Let us not look back 
 more than we can help. There is nothing to re- 
 gret — only the strange fatality of it ; this must 
 not be allowed to come between you, and it 
 shall not." 
 
 " That is it," Harringford said, turning his 
 face quickly. " It is the strange and persistent 
 fatality of it all, continually thrusting itself 
 upon my mind, which is adding new weight to 
 a burden already as heavy as I can bear. It is 
 because of this unaccountable continuing of it 
 that I am imable to beat back the torturing 
 thoughts which constantly assail me. Do you 
 see this? " And he held toward Lubbock a 
 strange-looking flower. It was this he had 
 picked up from the ground a moment before. 
 A piece of the vine had been plucked with the 
 flower, and he was obliged to loosen one of the 
 24S 
 
DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 little tendrils which had coiled about his finger. 
 Lubbock looked at the bruised and withered 
 thing, wondering what it could have to do with 
 what they had been talking about. Harring- 
 ford continued, " Do you remember, John, hav- 
 ing seen anything more than the broken bottle 
 in Harry's pocket that night ? " 
 
 "No," said Lubbock, "nothing at all." 
 
 "Nor did I," said Harringford; "but there 
 must have been something else. To-day I was 
 over at the old place and I went into the gar- 
 den. When I came to the — the spot, I found a 
 vine growing up out of that very ground ; not 
 one only, but several j they had reached the 
 wall and cUmbed to the top of it, and on one of 
 them was that flower. I recognized it at once ; 
 I have seen them often in India " 
 
 " Well," Lubbock said. 
 
 " Well, there is nothing strange in that, of 
 itself, I suppose; I brought home with me a 
 paper of the seeds which I had gathered myself ; 
 there are three or four kinds, and I had taken 
 a fancy to the name. It is called there the 
 memory-flower. I sent the seeds to Harry and 
 told him to plant them. He put them in his 
 pocket and forgot them, I suppose. Most likely 
 he had them with him when he feU down that 
 place, and they were still with him when we 
 found him. Some of them must have fallen 
 there that night ; that is all natural enough 
 247 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKBAK 
 
 seemingly, but that is not all. This is the very 
 flower I saw in that dream, the one I thought 
 I found growing in the pavement— that had the 
 miniature of Evelyn in it. I need not go over 
 it again ; you know as well as I, all that has 
 happened. Is it not strange that I should have 
 found this very flower growing over Harry's 
 dead body? I know it is all natural — every- 
 thing is that — there is nothing supernatural, 
 strictly speaking — cannot be. We do not need 
 to create an outer realm in order to provide 
 ourselves with mysteries. Death is natural, 
 misfortune is natural; so are fears and the 
 grouping of calamities, yet these are beyond us, 
 and are they not to be dreaded as things over 
 which we have not the slightest control ? mys- 
 teries of which we do not understand even the 
 first letter? Well, I have, perhaps, learned 
 something by living. I have sought to come 
 close to Nature, to these hidden forces which 
 compel all things to exist, as they are, and 
 which prevent them from being other than they 
 are. I have found only one thing, definitely — 
 that I need not have taken a step. 
 
 "I, myself, am part of it; the elements of 
 which I am composed, body and spirit, are as 
 independent of me, of my likes or disHkes, and 
 as inexorable, in their own movement toward 
 the final end, which I may half foresee, but not 
 prevent, as are the great forces which move the 
 948 
 
DUSK AND A CKIMSON CLOUD 
 
 world and hold the eternal stars in their places. 
 There is a time when we will all come to say : 
 
 Here, then, the spirit is alone and blind ; 
 
 The world is lost, I am, myself, no more ; 
 And this loved body grows to me nnkind. 
 
 And thrusts me out upon an alien shore. 
 
 "But all things remain always new to me. 
 The dreams of childhood and the over-awing 
 mystery of all things remain. I am in wonder- 
 land as much to-day, as ever. Nothing has 
 been explained away. The books have given 
 names to things, but they would as well have 
 given any other names, they mean nothing. 
 The creature itself remains itself, behind the 
 label, the same mystery it was at the first. 
 
 " I do not know that it is any advance at all, 
 but I have come to mistrust utterly the wisdom 
 of men. Perhaps, we never can be said to have 
 advanced ; we only move with the forces, never 
 being allowed to hang behind them, and never 
 equal to outstrip their steady pace. I know 
 what you are thinking — we should not trouble ; 
 and that is true; nor would we, if we might 
 choose. Neither would we grow old and wrin- 
 kled, nor would we sufier our eyes to grow dim, 
 nor would we be crooked if we might be 
 straight, nor hideous when we might be fair — 
 and yet we should not trouble, no, not we. I tell 
 you, John, man is expected to be more sublime 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 in this self-forgetful suffering, this uncomplain- 
 ing endurance, than are the gods he worships. 
 Just think of it for the moment. However it 
 may be, in very truth, whatever may lie beyond, 
 unseen ; man's short vision, with which he must 
 content himself here, serves to show him only 
 that all the forces of Nature are against him 
 now, and yet we find him admiring, praising, 
 loving the very forces which he knows must 
 compass his own destruction ; leaning in bliss- 
 ful confidence upon that which speaks no tender 
 assurance to his ever-anxious spirit, and going 
 down, at last, smiling, into the grave which fate 
 has prepared for him, singing a hymn in honor 
 of Death, and cheerfully making his final couch 
 amid the blackness and corruption from which 
 every attribute of his being shrinks with loath- 
 ings and horror such as his tongue cannot speak. 
 It is an attitude and a station more sublime 
 than anything the imagination has yet conceived 
 for gods or angels, and yet it is the simple truth, 
 the every-day — so-called, common-place truth — 
 of this strange existence. The thought puts a 
 crown of dignity upon the brow of the meanest, 
 a crown of which no power on earth or in 
 heaven can dispossess him." He ceased, ab- 
 ruptly, and reaching out, took the flower again 
 from Lubbock's hand, and regarded it intently, 
 in silence. 
 
 The sun had sunk from sight. The great 
 250 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 round moon began to gleam more brightly, and 
 the shadows gathered closely about the darken- 
 ing trees. The dew had begun to fall. A robin, 
 perched high on the top of a maple, sent forth 
 in liquid, wailing notes, his evening-song, and 
 with these sounds Evelyn' s voice mingled, float- 
 ing out upon the still air from the open window. 
 She was singing a hymn. A tear slipped from 
 Harringford's cheek and fell upon his hand. 
 
 "The memory flower," he said, huskily; 
 " memory of the past, memory of the dead, 
 memory of remembrance. It is an immortal 
 flower, whose roots are fixed forever in the 
 human heart." 
 
 " Hist," said Lubbock, softly, laying his hand 
 on Harringford's arm, " here comes Evelyn." 
 
 And it was true ; she was close beside them. 
 Her slippered feet had made no soimds upon 
 the noiseless grass. Perhaps she had noticed 
 Lubbock's action. Harringford did not look up 
 at once, but with a slight laugh raised his hand- 
 kerchief hastily to his eyes. Evelyn stepped in 
 front of him instantly and began pulling his 
 hands away from his face. Lubbock had risen 
 to his feet. 
 
 "Why, what in the world?" she began, but 
 Harringford looked at her, smiling. 
 
 " Nothing, dearest. I should not have wiped 
 them away, for I might have shown you a real, 
 tangible compliment to your singing." He 
 351 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. Lub- 
 bock was looking over the garden fence by this 
 time, and so Evelyn bent down and pressed a kiss 
 on each of Harfingf ord's eyelids, and then one 
 on his lips, saying, with a smile which made the 
 sweetest of dimples on one fair cheek, " When- 
 ever you find any tears there, just call for me. " 
 
 Harringf ord arose and placed his arm about 
 her tenderly. "Come, little one," he said, " this 
 grass is growing damp." And so they went to- 
 gether into the house. 
 
 Lubbock swung himself about and looked 
 after the retreating pair. 
 
 Once Harringford turned his head and called 
 to him to come in. 
 
 " In a minute," he answered, but he did not 
 keep his promise exactly. 
 
 Poor John, there were many thoughts crowd- 
 ing now upon him as he stood alone in the 
 gathering gloom. Thoughts which greatly 
 troubled and distressed him. He was beginning 
 to realize fully the awful weight of the responsi- 
 bility he had assumed. Harringford's morbid 
 mental attitude boded no good. He could not 
 shut his eyes to his friend's growing melancholy, 
 and his increasing tendency to abstractions; 
 despite the influences which had been brought to 
 bear upon him, on which he had surely counted 
 to dispel the shadows from his life. Swift con- 
 jectures as to what might possibly happen 
 352 
 
DUSK AND A CKIMSON CLOUD 
 
 flashed vividly before his mind at intervals with 
 appalling distinctness, filling him with miserable 
 apprehensions. He thought of the old house, 
 shut up and deserted, standing there from day 
 to day, nursing its black secret in sinister silence. 
 He thought of the tall swaying tree which 
 spread its thick branches out over that little 
 plot of ground, fending that ground from the 
 sun by day and from the moon by night, lest one 
 ray should pierce the lacing shadows which 
 gathered there ; those patient, leafy arms, reach- 
 ing outward and downward in protecting curves, 
 as who should say, " Let no man dig the earth 
 here ? " 
 
 He had from the first realized how great were 
 the dangers which threatened from without — 
 actual and tangible dangers, which could be 
 definitely calculated, and therefore determined 
 and provided against. Perhaps these were no 
 greater now than at the first; haply, not so 
 great, but now he greatly feared he should be 
 confronted with an internal enemy, an intangible 
 danger from within, and what was left now to 
 set in combat against this phantom. The other 
 dangers he could set in order, and think how he 
 could meet them — if it should come to that — but 
 this, this haunting shadow, this elusive spectre, 
 where was the weapon to be turned against it ? 
 
 True, he had, even at the first, glimpsed the 
 bare possibility of the danger which he now 
 2S3 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 dreaded. He had not lived his life for nothing. 
 He had guessed something of the labyrinthine 
 complexity, the fearful subtlety of the mind, and 
 was distinctly conscious of a certain risk, but he 
 was equally convinced that there was but the 
 one path to choose. The material danger, as he 
 saw it, he had opposed at once by prompt action, 
 and with material means ; to meet the other he 
 had counted on many things. First of all, on 
 Evelyn's love, absence, new scenes, and greatly 
 on Harringford's own strength of will. Had he 
 been mistaken ? The question seemed to arise 
 now out of the darkness, confronting him and 
 demanding an answer. He had been standing 
 with head bent down heavily upon his arms, 
 which were crossed before him upon the fence. 
 He now came slowly across to the seat under the 
 maple and sat down. By and by he lighted a 
 cigar and smoked it vigorously, the light from 
 the enlivened coal giving, from time to time, 
 swift glimpses of his troubled face, like a pale 
 mask, appearing and dissolving again behind 
 the clouds of smoke which vanished quickly in 
 the darkness. 
 
 Harringford's danger, and his own also, as 
 things now stood, had perhaps not been ex- 
 aggerated. 
 
 Within a few days after the burial of the 
 body, they had made discoveries sufficient to 
 settle pretty conclusively all questions in their 
 254 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 minds as to the cause and manner of Ainsworth's 
 frightful death, and also to prove, to Lubbock at 
 least, that he was right in the course he had 
 adopted. The secret opening into the death- 
 trap, which they felt sure must exist, and for 
 which they set themselves to search, had been 
 found, as they expected, in the closet to the 
 right of the chimney in the room occupied by 
 Harringford, and before him by Ainsworth. 
 There was a sheH in it, at about the height of a 
 man's head ; this they found could be pressed 
 upward at one end. It was but a little, but it 
 was enough to show that the broad shelf con- 
 tinued on over the thick panel which formed 
 the side of the closet, and that it had a groove 
 which fitted down on the end of this panel, and 
 so prevented it from moving. By holding this 
 shelf up, and at the same time pushing and 
 striking against the side in different places, they 
 found that when struck with some force, near 
 the floor, the bottom part receded and the top 
 came forward. From that on their way was 
 clear. The side of the press was found to 'be a 
 panel, which was hung on a strong pivot that 
 passed through it, about half an arm's length 
 from the floor. The pivot was of iron and 
 pierced the stout jambs on either side the panel, 
 which was, from a little above that point down- 
 ward, three or four inches in thickness, all the 
 other part being much thinner. When the top 
 355 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 of this wide panel was drawn forward and down- 
 ward, until the end of it rested against the other 
 side of the closet, the whole secret was revealed. 
 It was simply like a broad, flat lever, the pivot 
 being the fulcrum, and while Lubbock held the 
 long end of it down, Harringford, taking the 
 light, stepped in on the other, and found himself 
 inside the box -like arrangement, which was 
 something like a dumb-waiter, down which Ains- 
 worth had fallen. Looking toward the top he 
 saw a large pulley. The rope still dangled from 
 it, caught on one side, and kept from slipping 
 over it altogether by a large knotted loop. It 
 was evident that this was the rope, part of which 
 they had found coiled about below, and which 
 was attached to the block-like platform upon 
 which the feet of the body had rested. Ains- 
 worth then had entered the place by means of 
 this secret panel, and by some accident had let 
 the rope slip from his hand, and had fallen in- 
 stantly to the bottom. But the mystery was but 
 half-solved. Why had he gone there at all, and 
 of all times at that moment, when he had just 
 seen his friends approaching ? And what could 
 have caused him to let go of the rope — he must 
 have been well aware of his danger! Then 
 there was the mystery of the crushed bottle in his 
 pocket, and the secure closing of the secret door 
 after his fall. 
 
 For days they puzzled over it, and little by 
 256 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 little the truth, or at least what seemed the 
 truth, came out. First they found out why the 
 door had closed after him. It was plain enough. 
 They managed to reach the rope's end and draw 
 it down, finding that it ran easily over the pul- 
 ley, and had room to pass by the end of the 
 panel, which made a platform inside the place 
 when it was turned in a horizontal position, and 
 so the movable block to which the rope was at- 
 tached was easily drawn up until it stopped 
 against the end of the panel upon which Har- 
 ringford stood. Then came the question, How 
 could the block be raised above this? The ob- 
 struction could not be removed without closing 
 the panel. Of course, Harringford could easily 
 have held himself up inside by means of the 
 rope, and when the panel should be closed put 
 his feet down upon the block and draw himself 
 up by means of the pulley, only he was afraid to 
 trust the rope — ^it might break with his weight — 
 so he cast about for other means. 
 
 There was no other way for it ; one of them 
 must stay inside when the panel should be 
 closed. Harringford found that by placing his 
 knees against one side of the place and his back 
 against the other, he could wedge himseK in in 
 such a manner that his body would support 
 itself by its own weight, at the same time leav- 
 ing his hands free. This he did, and when 
 Lubbock had closed the panel, he easily drew 
 257 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 the block up high enough to rest it on top of 
 that part of the panel which swung inside the 
 trap, when it — the panel — was let down to a 
 horizontal position again. Now they could see 
 how Ainsworth could have stepped in on to this 
 block and let himself down, and how his own 
 weight, bearing upon the short end of the panel, 
 would press it downward, causing the other end 
 to lift up, of course, and so serve to close it 
 securely as he slid down past it. But, then, 
 what would he ever want to go down for ? Evi- 
 dently the place had been devised by the builder 
 of the house as a means for secret communica- 
 tion between this room and the cellar. They 
 could easily imagine how a man might let him- 
 self down in it and emerge by means of the 
 door below, but when Ainsworth had discovered 
 it the door must have been securely held by the 
 old rusted lock. It was plain he had never 
 thought of opening it, or at least never had 
 opened it, and the old boards and rubbish were 
 stacked against it; certain it was he had not 
 entered the place with any thought of going 
 down through it. What, then, had been his in- 
 tention? What could have induced him to go 
 in there at all — and at such a time? The 
 thought of his having gone there just to hide 
 from Harringf ord — merely for the sake of a poor 
 trick — they rejected at once as unworthy ; and 
 then there was the crushed bottle of chloroform. 
 258 
 
DUSK AND A CKIMSON CLOUD 
 
 True, it might have been broken by his fall, but 
 it was not likely. 
 
 They tried to reason it out. Ainsworth had 
 been at the window the moment before. They 
 both believed he then had on the dressing-gown 
 which they had found upon the floor in the 
 room adjoining. The doors of the wardrobe 
 had been found open. He must have gone 
 quickly from the window to his bedroom, to put 
 off the gown, and change it for the coat in which 
 they found him. It must be that he had just 
 purchased a supply of the chloroform, and had 
 neglected to take the large bottle from his 
 pocket. Lubbock at this point recalled Aunt 
 Huldy's railings against this " 'intment," as she 
 designated it, and with that came a new thought : 
 perhaps Ainsworth had gone into that place 
 hastily to hide something away. They now re- 
 membered the scientific work which lay open on 
 the table, and from which he had been copying. 
 Perhaps he had been experimenting with some 
 dangerous chemicals — all at once it flashed upon 
 them. He had some secret place in there in 
 which he kept things he did not wish Aunt 
 Huldy to see, knowing her mind about it, or 
 perhaps things which it would be dangerous, 
 even fatal, for her to find and handle. With 
 this idea they went to their search again. They 
 now found that there was a space over the top 
 of the closet, which could be reached only by 
 259 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 means of the secret passage. Perhaps it cannot 
 better be described than by saying that it was 
 like a short continuation of the passage at right 
 angles with itseK. To reach this place, howeyer, 
 one must lift himself by means of the rope and 
 pulley. Harringford made a trial, and found 
 that he could raise himself upon the swinging 
 platform without any difficulty. 
 
 What they found seemed to prove the truth 
 of their conjectures. Harringford had lifted 
 himself — resting his feet on the block— until he 
 could look in, over the shelf. One of the first 
 things revealed by his candle's light was a hu- 
 man skull, which grinned horribly upon him 
 out of the darkness. There were numerous 
 bottles and small glass jars, with small parcels, 
 in mouldy, decaying papers. Several of the 
 bottles and jars were overturned, and one of the 
 latter had been broken. Farther back were in- 
 distinct objects, which Harringford had not been 
 able, definitely, to make out ; they might have 
 been parts of the skeletons of some small ani- 
 mals. Harringford had let himself down, and 
 had come out hastily, pale and staggering with 
 faintness and nausea. The air he had been 
 breathing, he thought afterward, must have been 
 poisoned. 
 
 They closed the place up and never opened it 
 after. The melancholy truth seemed plain 
 enough at last. Harry had found this place, 
 S60 
 
DUSK AND A CKIMSON CLOUD 
 
 and had made use of it, to hide away things he 
 did not care to have seen ; a sight of which 
 would have sent Aunt Huldy out of the house, 
 never to return. No doubt he had been ambi- 
 tious to make some new scientific discovery, and 
 had pushed his investigations far beyond any- 
 thing his friends had suspected, or what would 
 have been suggested by all that he allowed them 
 to see. This, then, was the solution. He had 
 gone into this place to put something away on 
 that secret shelf ; he had stood upon the square 
 block of wood, and had drawn himself up — 
 holding himself with one hand upon the rope — 
 and had reached over with the other to place 
 the thing, whatever it may have been he was 
 hiding away, back, safely upon the shelf. Nat- 
 urally, he was in haste, knowing Harringford 
 would be there in a moment ; he had pressed 
 too heavily against the bottle in his breast- 
 pocket ; the glass was thin, it had broken ; and 
 in the sudden realization of his frightful dan- 
 ger, he had lost, for the hundredth part of a sec- 
 ond, his presence of mind, letting go the rope in 
 a wild effort to escape out of the place ; and had 
 dropped, with his full weight, upon the end of 
 the panel which stood inward from the pivot, 
 causing it to fly up, at the other, and lighter, 
 end, and to close securely after him, locking it- 
 self in the groove of the shelf, which fitted down 
 upon it, while he — with arms upraised, and 
 361 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 grasping with frantic hands, fruitlessly, at the 
 spinning rope — had fallen helplessly to the bot- 
 tom ; and his coat — saturated with the chloro- 
 form, and pushed close up about his head, as 
 they had found it — must have suffocated him at 
 once, even if the fall itself had not killed him. 
 It was too horrible, it was maddening to think 
 of it — the dreadful closing about of the eternal 
 darkness, the sudden obliteration, in the May- 
 day brightness of life and hope, at the very 
 moment when love seemed nearest, when his 
 thought dwelt, enchanted, upon his heart's vision 
 of the future. 
 
 Lubbock thought it all over, however, as he 
 sat alone under the maple. He was anxious 
 to fortify himself in his position, anxious to re- 
 assure himself that he had advised the right 
 thing. The danger, which he had then fore- 
 seen, for Harringford, seemed as clear as ever. 
 He felt morally certain that with the facts made 
 known, Harringford would be accused of mur- 
 der, perhaps convicted, in spite of all that could 
 be done. At the very least, he would be sus- 
 pected, and that to a man constituted as he was, 
 would be worse than death ; and although Lub- 
 bock had found it almost utterly impossible to 
 bring Harringford to this view of the case, he 
 could not, even now, see that he had done 
 wrong in urging the only view that could have 
 262 
 
DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 effect, namely, that Harringford should consent 
 to do what they had done for Evelyn's sake, not 
 for his ovm, for, he had refused, altogether, to 
 listen to the argument respecting his own per- 
 sonal danger in the matter ; nevertheless, Lub- 
 bock could not shut his eyes to it, and it was a 
 danger which existed still. 
 
 There can be no need to elaborate a situation 
 which, by this time, every intelligent reader 
 must have fairly pictured out in his own mind. 
 All that is needed is that he shall put himself 
 in the same attitude, and come to the investiga- 
 tion of the case in the same spirit which would, 
 most likely, have characterized the conventional 
 and unimpressionable world — as Lubbock him- 
 self did, for in that way alone can one be able 
 to judge correctly whether Lubbock acted wisely 
 and rightly. Dreams, presentiments, intuitions, 
 accidental causes, such as the strange appear- 
 ance of the death's-head moth, it must be re- 
 membered, would, perhaps, count for but little. 
 
 Harringford had come home when he was not 
 expected ; he did not — as it would seem he 
 ought to have done — go at once to his friend's 
 room. He had a long consultation with Lub- 
 bock at the hotel. It was his proposition that 
 the others remain at the gate, while he went to 
 bring Ainsworth. He would be supposed to 
 have been the last person who saw Ainsworth 
 263 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 alive. The old house was his own property. 
 He would be supposed to know of the trap in 
 which Ains worth met his death. He was much 
 the stronger man. They were both in love with 
 the same woman. It was quite a while before 
 he came down from the room. After the disap- 
 pearance, it was he that had conducted the 
 search in the cellar, he who had the rubbish 
 heaped up against the place where the body was 
 finally found. He had absented himseK for 
 years, leaving the old house unrented and un- 
 tenanted during all this while. He had been 
 known to be in deep melancholy, and had at last 
 come back to occupy the very rooms in which 
 Ainsworth had lived. He had won the woman 
 for himself. He, himself, found the body, and 
 was alone when he found it. These things and 
 a thousand others could be .brought up against 
 him, and this was the way in which Lubbock 
 had put it to himself. It might be iateresting 
 to some to picture to themselves what would 
 have been the result of making the secret 
 known. 
 
 Neither the probabilities nor possibilities need 
 be enlarged upon here, for they have to do with 
 this history only in so far as his consideration 
 of them influenced Lubbock to take what steps 
 he did. Great as are such terrors, there are 
 greater than these, and it is with those greater 
 terrors, from which nothing, save the mercy of 
 264 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 God, can protect the soul, with which we now are 
 concerned. Against such fears there is no tangi- 
 ble defence, and all the invented and sophisti- 
 cated forms upon which our intelligence is wont 
 to rely, are vain — powerless, against the sure 
 advance of the dreaded evil; even as are the 
 shadows which lace the river's surface against 
 the resistless tide beneath them. The evils 
 which destroy us, steal upon us from a world 
 which lies beyond our ken, and from that same 
 unseen world must come the help which shall 
 save us, if we be saved at all. 
 
 By and by Lubbock threw away his cigar and 
 sat, for a little, looking at the shining of the 
 street-lamp, which was making a halo of emer- 
 ald light, as it came through the clustering, 
 semi-transparent leaves. 
 
 His heart sank with the sense of dread and 
 isolation which came over him. 
 
 His only sister, with whom he had lived, was 
 dead, and he now made his home with Harring- 
 ford. 
 
 He, too, had sought happiness ; sought it in 
 the only way that happiness can be found, per- 
 haps, by a spirit truly noble — in the happiness 
 of others. " Was he, then, not to find it ? And 
 Harringf ord — what of him ? " 
 
 Lubbock leaned his head forward on his 
 hands, thinking. But who shall dare follow the 
 365 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 soul when it enters into its own shadowed abode, 
 and closes the door ; facing its own image and 
 confronting in silence its own unspeakable fears ? 
 
 It was on an evening, perhaps a week after 
 this, that Evelyn and her aunt came into the 
 library, where Harringford and Lubbock sat 
 talking. 
 
 "Look," said Evelyn, holding out a large 
 cluster of hundred-leafed roses, " did you ever 
 see anything so lovely? They are from the old 
 place; that old garden is a perfect tangle of 
 neglected beauty." 
 
 she turned to put them in a large vase, which, 
 with some flowers already in it, stood on a small 
 table near the window. 
 
 Harringford's eyes followed her every move- 
 ment. Her presence was like some enchant- 
 ment. Everything she touched seemed to retain 
 thereafter, always, some transforming essence, 
 imparted by the sacred charm of her beauty. 
 
 In a moment she turned toward him, her whole 
 figure radiant in the sunlight which streamed in 
 through the window. " And this— what flower 
 is this ? " putting her hand up to her breast, 
 where she had placed a strange-looking flower. 
 Pale, yellowish-white it was, stained with pur- 
 ple. " Do you know anything of it ? I never 
 saw a flower like it before — why — dear— what 
 is it ? " Startled, she looked at Harringford's 
 white face, as he sprang toward her. 
 266 
 
DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 "Oh, Evelyn, my darling — quick — quick — 
 take it off ! " he exclaimed, in great agitation, 
 and in an iastant after he stood holding the 
 strange flower in his own trembling hands. 
 
 "Why, what is it? Is it poisonous ? " And 
 she began rubbing her white fingers nervously. 
 
 " No, no — not that," said Harringford, " but 
 it is a — it is an — " he was going to say an ill 
 omen to wear one, but he checked himself, say- 
 ing, instead, "it is an Indian flower, and re- 
 garded there, in India, with great superstition. 
 I — I imbibed some of their fears myself, I think. 
 I don't know why I did it, but I brought home 
 some of the seeds of the plant. Promise me, 
 dearest, that you will not go there any more — ■ 
 I did not know you ever went into the old gar- 
 den — please, don't ever touch any of these 
 again." 
 
 Evelyn promised, still looking, with wide, 
 wondering eyes, first at his face, then at the 
 flower. 
 
 Lubbock, who had comprehended all at a 
 glance, at once engaged the good Aunt Evelyn's 
 attention, and now, under pretext of showing 
 her something, had left the room, and gone, with 
 her, out on the porch. 
 
 " Tell me about it, dear ; what do you know 
 of it ? " Evelyn said, coming close to Harring- 
 ford, and putting one arm about his neck, she 
 leaned her fair head against his shoulder, look- 
 267 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 ing down at the flower, which he held before 
 him, upon the palm of his hand. 
 
 "There is nothing to tell, darling, nothing 
 much — it is said to have an eflfect upon the mind 
 of one who looks long upon it, making him re- 
 call all the sorrow of his life, as its name im- 
 plies." 
 
 " And what is the name of it ? " Evelyn said, 
 softly. 
 
 Harringford had lifted from the table an old 
 leather-bound Bible. He now placed the flower 
 between the yellow leaves. 
 
 " It is called, in the Indian language, ' Hafiza- 
 phul,' " he said, "which, in English, means 'the 
 memory-flower.' " 
 
 He closed the book slowly, and put it down 
 upon the table, and turning, he caught his wife 
 to his heart, in a long silent embrace. She felt 
 only the passionate kisses which were pressed 
 upon her upturned face, and she was happy. 
 What, if she had guessed aught of the wretched 
 anguish hidden in the heart whose fierce throb- 
 bings she could hear, but not the voice of the 
 stifled grief within it ? 
 
 Both men sat up talking until a late hour that 
 night. 
 
 " Well, then," said Lubbock, at last, " why 
 not just tell her?" 
 
 Harringford turned his thoughts inward upon 
 his own heart, and searched it, unsparingly, un- 
 268 
 
DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 mercifully. Why was it? Did he doubt her 
 love? Not that — surely — no, that he could not 
 doubt. No, why should he dissemble? It was 
 because of fear. Fear — " Love casteth out fear " 
 aye, so it did, and did he not love? Was he 
 not loved ? How, then, was it that he found in 
 his heart this deadly fear ? There was no deny- 
 ing it. It was there. 
 
 What if she should always after think of him, 
 thoughts which she would hide from him — seek 
 to hide even from herself. What if her heart 
 should ask her, " Why did he not tell me at the 
 first ? " What if thoughts — thoughts against 
 which neither love nor hate nor tenfold strength 
 of wiU can oppose a barrier — should forever 
 after picture him to her mind bearing the 
 body out to hide it away — the body of a man 
 who had loved her — could ever her love for him 
 banish the picture once the necromancy of 
 thought had set up the fatal image in her brain ? 
 No, he knew too well the power of the mind, its 
 powers and tendency, even, to retain to its own 
 hurt, things which the heart rejects, and from 
 which the soul turns away — but in vain. 
 
 Deeper, still deeper, he bent his piercing vis- 
 ion. He would search his heart to its centre. 
 He would at least be honest with himself. The 
 hot blood mounted to his face, then went back, 
 and left it pale again. Oh, it was of no use^t 
 was there — the thought was there: "Do you 
 269 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 wish to supplant yourself with a dead mam's 
 memory?" 
 
 There they were — ^the very words. Memory 
 had preserved them with miser care ; had set them 
 in fadeless letters, deep down in his heart — set 
 them within the very centre of the heart, which, 
 all his life long he had striven to keep unselfish; 
 often fondly believing that he had done so, and 
 now — well, let him not flinch — the blot had not 
 been found before, only because it was so deeply 
 hidden. 
 
 Again the crimson crept, like a flame, into his 
 cheek, and sank again, leaving it colorless as 
 
 " Well, John," he said, " I might answer your 
 question in many words, but they are not needed. 
 It is a killing truth, but you shall have it. It is 
 because I am afraid. I am just not brave enough 
 to do it. I could burn at the stake easier." 
 
 After this Lubbock sat for some time silent. 
 At last he said : " You must try to shake off 
 these fears ; they are unwarrantable, altogether. 
 You foresee too much and wear your strength out, 
 battling with spectres of things which do not ex- 
 ist. Think of it for a moment ; do yon imagine 
 that Evelyn, loving you as she does, could — when 
 she knew the whole truth — entertain one thought 
 of you that would bring you pain to know ? I 
 think you are making a mistake. 1 advised for 
 silence once, and I still think I did right ; but 
 270 
 
DUSK AND A CEIMSON CLOTJD 
 
 now everything has changed, much has come 
 about since then ; remember, it is through fear 
 that we fail ; besides, it is but justice to her. 
 She sees that you are troubled. Have you the 
 right to shut up your sorrow from her? Your 
 sense of right ought to direct you in this." 
 
 "Eight," said Harringford, breaking in, almost 
 savagely, "there is no right! I wish to God 
 there were, and that He would open my eyes, so 
 that I might see plainly, and I would foUow it, 
 if the next step dropped me into the abyss. But 
 there is no such thing ; it is a shadow, an idea 
 of the mind. Men stumble upon something in 
 their path ; they are fain to get away from it, to 
 go around it or over it as the case may be ; an 
 idea strikes them, for the first time, perhaps; they 
 call it KlGHT, and act upon it, and may, perhaps, 
 succeed. Eight — it is a chameleon, that may 
 change a thousand times within the hour ! It 
 suits its complexion to every man's mind. It 
 exists only by relation, and the relations which 
 give it its life are imposed upon us by the blind, 
 hap-hazard of that chance which attends on the 
 onward sweep of the one great, all-governing, 
 bat unheeding Law." 
 
 "Eight is but the shadow upon the dials of 
 our own building. It points in a different direc- 
 tion or marks a different figure, at the same time, 
 on every one of them that can catch the sun's 
 ray, and yet, each man thinks he has harnessed 
 871 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 the sun, and has made successful note of Time's 
 passing footsteps. Poor souls ! they do not re- 
 member that we are the shadows which are fleet- 
 ing by, while Time stays, etemal-visaged and 
 unmoved forever ; and that the undying sun, 
 fixed in the heaven's centre, knows naught of all 
 the dials on which his scattered beams may 
 happen to fall. 
 
 " ' My sense of right ought to direct me what 
 to do.' What a poor, sickly, inadequate phrase is 
 that, to apply to a situation like mine. It is like 
 trying to stay a plague by some feeble, pious con- 
 juration. Sense of right ! Why, it was by follow- 
 ing my own sense of right, and yours, that I have 
 come to be placed as I am now. It would seem 
 that if I had any sense at all, I should try to 
 avoid what seems right to me, seeing the evil to 
 which it has brought me ; henceforth, let me 
 rather follow blindly where destiny shall lead, 
 and accept with resignation whatever fate may 
 have in store ; for, after all, the first is what we 
 all do without knowing it, and the last we must 
 do in the end, because we can do no better." 
 
 When Harringford ceased this bitter speech, 
 a gray cloud seemed to have settled on Lub- 
 bock's face. Did Harringford in his heart treas- 
 ure up against him the reproach his words im- 
 plied? He refused to believe it, and quelled 
 the suspicion in its, very birth, for it caused a 
 pang that was not to be borne. 
 272 
 
DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 And Lubbock was right. 
 
 Nothing could have been farther from Har- 
 ringford's mind; he had been speaking with 
 almost incredible rapidity; his words flew out 
 like sparks from a wheel. 
 
 What he had said was only in the way of illus- 
 trating the thought upon which his mind was 
 intent. 
 
 Lubbock divined as much, but for some mo- 
 ments he sat looking blankly before him, and 
 when he began speaking again there was a 
 tremulous sadness in his voice which touched 
 Harringford to the quick. 
 
 " Well, Euy," he said, " I have tried only to 
 be a friend. I, too, have had my dreams." His 
 voice faltered a little. " One of them was, to 
 see you happy at last. It seems impossible now 
 that I shall ever realize it. I cannot undertake 
 to answer your arguments. They are not easy 
 to answer. But there is something within me 
 which moves me to warn you against such reason- 
 ing. It is only following an endless round which 
 can in no way satisfy the soul. It is like setting 
 the rudder at a fixed angle on a self-propeUed 
 boat, and sailing forever in a circle upon the 
 surface of a lake whose waters are of a depth 
 far beyond all our computations. It is better 
 to steer for some one point, which the eye sin- 
 gles out, and toward which the heart inclines, 
 even though we be wrecked upon that coast, or 
 373 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 go down in a storm before we have reached it. 
 Do you not believe it ? " 
 
 "Do I not? Indeed I do; with all my 
 heart. Why, my dear John, we are at one ; it 
 is but a confusion of terms. In your mind it is 
 the being guided by the, finally, unerring com- 
 pass of conscience within ; in mine it is being 
 led by the unseen spirit which, for want of a 
 better name, we call destiny. Conscience is the 
 eye that sees the unseen, destiny is the spirit 
 which leads across the unknown. But we may 
 not despise the circle. There is much to be 
 said for the circle. The globules of our blood 
 are rounded, so are the drops of rain which 
 nourish the earth. The very stones in the run- 
 ning stream incline to grow round. The life of 
 man is a circle, so is the life of a nation. The 
 earth, itself, and the moon, are round, so are the 
 orbits in which they journey. The countless 
 stars hold always their unwearied course in 
 unending circles, and the suns, about which 
 they wheel, are globes of fire. The great and 
 all-embracing circle will round itself, at last, 
 when the separated dust of all the worlds shall 
 mingle again in the chaos from which they 
 sprang. Existence, from lowest to highest, is 
 but a circle of circles. The duration of time is 
 best typified by the circle, and it forms, to the 
 mind, the only satisfying image of eternity. 
 Therefore, as I said, the circle, as an emblem, 
 274 
 
DUSK AND A CKIMSON CLOUD 
 
 is not to be despised. There must be, some- 
 where, a point at which all lines shall at some 
 time meet, and to that point we are drifting, 
 John, all of us, whether we know it or not, and 
 whether we will or no. Haply, there is an 
 advance — perhaps we had rather think of going 
 onward in a straight line. It may be that the 
 advance is like the spiral of the eagle's flight, in 
 wide, slow-climbing circles, but upward forever , 
 at least let us so try to hope." 
 
 He had risen while speaking. 
 
 Lubbock regarded him with much astonish- 
 ment. There was an unlooked-for cheerfulness 
 in his tone, which puzzled Lubbock, completely. 
 He felt, too, that it was not the assumed cheer- 
 fulness of hidden sorrow. 
 
 It was sincere, unconscious, evidently; the 
 assured and even utterance of one who had done 
 with all things; whose heart was swayed no 
 more by passion, or hope, or fear ; as though, 
 having stepped aside out of life, he calmly 
 commented upon it, feeling only those relations 
 with it which might exist between a student 
 and his subject. 
 
 But the strangest part of it was, that Lub- 
 bock felt pained, rather than gratified, by this 
 change. He would rather Harringford had 
 continued to rail against everything. It was 
 not so much the matter as the manner of his 
 speech which surprised him, and it was neither 
 275 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 of these, so much as it was his own spiritual 
 perception of some indefinable transformation 
 in the personal bearing of Harringford himself. 
 There is nothing in nature so subtle as that 
 involuntary process by which one soul is made 
 aware of another soul's attitude ; even when all 
 the tangible evidences may be against the as- 
 sumption. 
 
 Lubbock was conscious of some moral altera- 
 tion in Harringford. Outwardly, it seemed 
 favorable, but in spite of that, Lubbock felt a 
 distinct sense of loss. He looked at Harring- 
 ford intently, and began to feel a bewildering 
 kind of doubt, whether this man who now stood 
 before him, would — if spoken to — really answer 
 to the name by which he knew him. 
 
 It was not because the features were sharp- 
 ened by prolonged anxiety and care ; nor that 
 the eyes, gleaming out from their shadowed cir- 
 cles, were lighted up with unwonted fires ; nor 
 was it because of the bright spot which glowed 
 upon either pale cheek, nor because of the rapt 
 and forgetful expression — he had seen that 
 look overspread the face often, before — but 
 there was something more than these: It was 
 the iudescribable air of cheerful hopelessness, a 
 seeming gentle acquiescence, which opposed 
 resistance that he felt nothing could break 
 down, the semblance of a smile which seemed 
 to cheat Nature of her right. It seemed only 
 276 
 
DUSK AND A OEIMSON CLOUD 
 
 the joyless signal of some sorrowful consumma- 
 tion within. The expression suggested a ray- 
 less flame which had power to consume what- 
 ever it might rest upon, but which could give 
 forth no life ; a painted boat, which remained 
 motionless upon the bosom of a stream that 
 flowed both ways at once beneath it. It was an 
 appalling spiritual paradox, which Lubbock 
 contemplated with mingled astonishment and 
 fear. He talked to Harringford for perhaps an 
 hour longer, bringing up questions concerning 
 which he knew Harringford to be opposed to 
 him, but he could stir up no opposition now, 
 could elicit no expressions of discontent ; and 
 he finally left him and went to his room, feeling 
 utterly miserable and wretched, because he had 
 not been able to move Harringford to any show 
 of anger ; not even to bring a frown to his face, 
 nor a word of complaint from his lips. But 
 Harringford had given vent to two expressions 
 that impressed themselves strangely upon his 
 mind. Harringford had turned to the calendar, 
 and after finding what day of the month it was, 
 had said, " This day, seven years ago, I first 
 saw and loved Evelyn." And after some further 
 conversation he had asked, very irrelevantly, 
 Lubbock thought : 
 
 " Can the perpetuation of wretchedness, the 
 torture of a continual anguish, and the blight of 
 a despair that is immortal, be rightfully called 
 377 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 the legitimate fruits of a curse, only ? " And 
 Lubbock having given an affirmative answer, 
 Harringford had added, " Then, to love, is the su- 
 preme curse of the human soul." 
 
 The words sent a shudder to Lubbock's heart, 
 and he looked inquiringly into Harringford's 
 face, hoping to see there something that would in 
 some way contradict them, but had found only 
 the same look of disheartening cheerfulness — 
 a kind of refined and ambiguous placidity, which 
 disarmed by its gentleness, and threatened by 
 its ambushed subtlety. 
 
 He puzzled over it until he almost succeeded 
 in convincing himself that it must be all a mis- 
 take ; that he had, in some way, imagined it all, 
 and that he would surely find Harringford, in 
 the morning, the same delightfully melancholy 
 railer against the existing state of things. It is 
 a strange thing, but true, that we always think 
 we would like to change our friends, and if we 
 could, we would, perhaps, be greatly disap- 
 pointed. We try to think their good qualities, 
 and not their faults, have endeared them to us ; 
 but we are mistaken. It is a kind of uncon- 
 scious self -flattery. Could they change suddenly, 
 as did Harringford, we would find that we had 
 loved them, mostly, because of their fatilts, not, 
 as we like to think, in spite of their faults. It 
 was with Lubbock as though he had lost part of 
 his spiritual estate, had been bereaved of part of 
 878 
 
DUSK AND A CRIMSON CLOUD 
 
 his life, and he looted forward to the morning — 
 the dear, cloud-dispelling morning — with pecul- 
 iar impatience. 
 
 But the morning was not yet. 
 
 No wonder Lubbock was puzzled. The great- 
 est metaphysician would have been equally so ; 
 and Lubbock counted himself but a sorry meta- 
 physician. 
 
 The mysterious circle of experience in Har- 
 ringford's life had rounded and touched. The 
 psychic revolution was at last complete. He was, 
 indeed, a changed man. Sorrow had been busy. 
 She had done her work, at last, and who shall 
 say she had not done it well ? For fate has so 
 linked the soul of man with Sorrow, that we can- 
 not hate her if we would. Joy is well enough, 
 but she is fickle. The beauty which Sorrow be- 
 stows is of a paler caste, but it is more attractive, 
 and it stays, stays to the end ; so that even death 
 cannot, at once, erase the impress of divinity. 
 
 It is because all ties must part, 
 That farewell words are spoken ; 
 
 It is the love that fills the heart, 
 By which the heart is broken. 
 
 279 
 
PAET SIX 
 
 NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 ' ' a' thought of far-off, unknown lands 
 Which soon the soul shall view ; 
 A listless folding of the hands 
 That have no more to do. 
 
 "A sigh for half -remembered dreams, 
 The breath of faded skies; 
 The image of some face that gleams 
 Before the closing eyes. " 
 
 The weeks came and went, and all things 
 moved on much in the usual way, as is the man- 
 ner of them. 
 
 Few, perhaps, noted the change which had 
 come over Harringford, or if they did, thought 
 it for the better. 
 
 Evelyn was anxious, at times, but was easily 
 reassured by Harringford's protestations. It 
 was not that she ever suspected the genuine- 
 ness of his seeming cheerfulness, but he was 
 growing thinner, and she was quick to see that ; 
 but the weather was very warm, and he was 
 always busy with his work now, and he easily 
 explained everything whenever she spoke her 
 280 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 fears. The good Aunt Evelyn was ailing very 
 mucli and claimed a good deal of Evelyn's atten- 
 tion at this time, for her aunt was almost as a 
 mother to Evelyn, and she loved her dearly, and 
 was now much taken up with the care of her. 
 She was to be away with her aunt for a few 
 weeks now, at " The Springs." 
 
 Lubbock, alone, was undeceived. He watched 
 Harringf ord closely ; but even he had to confess 
 himself baffled. 
 
 Harringford did not attempt to repel him, 
 never antagonized him. On the contrary, his 
 spirit was yielding, and seemed to invite his ad- 
 vances ; but it was like the yielding quality of a 
 mist which does not oppose a solid barrier to 
 our steps, but blinds our vision, so that we are 
 driven back by our own doubts. There was 
 nothing against which to strike, nothing could 
 be grasped, the elements with which he sought 
 contact seemed to have vanished, utterly. 
 
 On one of the low book-cases in the library 
 there was a plaster bust of Harringfotd ; a life- 
 size head, which an admiring friend had made 
 and presented to Evelyn. The leading intent 
 had been, evidently, to give to the features what 
 is called a "pleasant" expression; a kind of 
 friendly robbery of the soul, not at all uncom- 
 mon in such works of art, and which bears its 
 own comment. 
 
 Harringford's face now looked like that ; un- 
 381 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 ruffled, emotionless, colorless ; like the unimpas- 
 sioned clay. A refined and decorous kind of 
 beauty, that had in it a deadly fascination. The 
 efifect was as of a white shadow. The fierce and 
 varying rays, which betoken a living sun, had 
 vanished. There was only a steady reflection, 
 like the light from a dead world. 
 
 To one who had known Harringford, as Lub- 
 bock knew him, nothing could have seemed more 
 sad than that changeless " pleasant " expression. 
 
 The sweet, long days of June passed away, 
 and July's fierce fires had flamed in unrelenting 
 fury over field and city ; and now the clouds 
 seemed to hang, motionless, aU day long, in the 
 dazzling skies of August. 
 
 All nature had grown weary and worn. The 
 city was unbearable. The trees along the pave- 
 ment seemed broken-hearted because of their 
 sad lot, and stood drooping in patient wretched- 
 ness. The deserted houses, with their blister- 
 ing roofs and tightly closed shutters, were 
 cheerless monuments of depressed desolation, 
 guarding the dreary shadows within them, and 
 dumbly protesting against the heat and the im- 
 palpable, irritating clouds of dust without. 
 
 Away out of the reach of this artificial life the 
 sacred fields and forests were full of solemn 
 sadness. The wandering winds sighed fitfully, 
 whispering softly, over and over again, the same 
 slow refrain : " The summer wanes, the summer 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAE AT DAWN 
 
 wanes apace." The panting flocks, tormented 
 with, the dancing myriad insects, stood cluster- 
 ing in the shadows of the patient trees. The 
 birds grew silent within the groves, and with- 
 ered yellow leaves fluttered down and rested 
 in the dusty beds of the streams. The brook 
 was become but a voiceless remembrance. The 
 highways were hedged with powdered weeds, 
 and the dim hills, like remnants of some shadow- 
 land, stood faint and fading amid the shimmer- 
 ing haze. The soul of summer was turned to 
 dreaming and forgetfulness. 
 
 Evelyn had gone with her aunt to the Springs, 
 and had already been away some weeks. 
 
 Harringford was busy — busy as he had never 
 been before. His outward serenity remained 
 still unchanged, but the fever within burned 
 with increasing intensity, and the hidden flame 
 was steadily consuming him. 
 
 There was nothing in his movements nor in 
 his speech that indicated the truth. His step 
 was languid rather than quick, and his speech 
 had lost altogether the rapidity and impatience 
 that had characterized it. He even drawled a 
 little, and was listless. It was only when he 
 was alone with his work that the restless energy 
 found vent. He wrote persistently, almost in- 
 cessantly. 
 
 Lubbock had protested, but Harringford's 
 only answer was that it must be done. " There 
 283 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 are times," he said, "when the advice of Solo- 
 mon contains all the wisdom that can be applied 
 to life : ' Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do 
 it with thy might.' " 
 
 Lubbock felt himself growing more and more 
 helpless. He was being left more and more to 
 himself. 
 
 He was obliged to think, to think seriously 
 and deeply, and it was an occupation against 
 which he naturally rebelled. 
 
 The more he thought the more he became 
 convinced that there was more upon Harring- 
 ford's mind than had yet been revealed to him. 
 
 Was it possible that Harringford was pos- 
 sessed by a sudden and overmastering ambition ? 
 He battled against the conclusions toward which 
 he felt himself being driven, and one evening, 
 when he had been sitting with a book open be- 
 fore him, staring at the page, upon which he 
 saw not a word, he suddenly sprang to his feet, 
 and throwing it from him, strode out into the 
 darkness, as though to escape from himself. 
 
 The next day he was called away for a week, 
 and Harringford was left alone. For three days 
 he scarcely left, his room at all, writing con- 
 stantly. At last one day he threw down the 
 pen and leaned back in his chair with a long, 
 deep-drawn sigh. It might have been a sigh 
 either of satisfaction or disappointment, or only 
 of weariness. Perhaps the creative interest in 
 284 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 his work had ceased, and there was only now 
 the drudgery of elaboration to go on with. 
 He sat for a little, clasping and unclasping his 
 thin hands, then rising quickly, he went into 
 Evelyn's room and looked about him, bewil- 
 dered — lost. He had forgotten for the moment 
 where she was. Then began for him one of 
 those untranslatable experiences which some- 
 times overtake the human soul. The strength 
 in which he had armed himself fell from him in 
 a moment, and all the pent-up and baffled emo- 
 tions, aU the fears and sorrows and untold long- 
 ings which had been held at bay rushed at once 
 upon him. A crushing sense of his loneliness 
 overcame him. Before him was the couch upon 
 which Evelyn had rested. He threw himself 
 beside it, spreading his arms out over the white 
 coverlet and caressing it with his hands. On 
 the snowy pillow he fancied he could see the 
 imprint where her loved head had pressed. All 
 that was best and tenderest in his nature revived 
 within him, and his soul filled with yearnings 
 that are indescribable. He buried his face in 
 the piUow, kissing the spot made sacred by its 
 associations, his body shaken by the tumult of 
 his feelings, as the firmament is shaken by the 
 thunder ; the bitter anguish of his heart melting 
 into tears, as the storm-cloud dissolves and falls 
 in rain. 
 
 If then Evelyn had found him he would have 
 285 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 told her his whole heart, and all might haTe 
 been well. 
 
 At last Haningford arose, and going into his 
 own room began, with feverish haste, gathering 
 a few needed articles into his portmanteau. He 
 would go to her at once. He would tell her 
 everything. He came back into the room where 
 he had been writing ; the manuscript ! he would 
 take that, too. With a glow of pride and expec- 
 tation he hastily folded it up, and put it in along 
 with the other things. Already the burden upon 
 his heart seemed growing lighter. He looked 
 at his watch again, and not waiting for a servant 
 took up his things and went down into the 
 library. For a moment he glanced about him ; 
 then, going over to a table, he took up the old 
 Bible in which he had placed the flower. He 
 would take that along. As he turned, with the 
 book in his hand, he saw himself in the long 
 mirror. Something in his appearance startled 
 him, and he was conscious of a sudden sense of 
 depression as he knelt down to unstrap the 
 portmanteau. When the book was disposed 
 of he arose, and feeling a strange dizziness, 
 reached out his hand to steady himself against 
 one of the heavy chairs — his heart misgave 
 him. 
 
 The long mirror was in a narrow space be- 
 tween two windows. Going up to it, Harring- 
 ford pulled the curtains aside, letting in a strong 
 386 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 flood of light, then, standing near, he looked at 
 himself closely. 
 
 For an instant his senses reeled under the 
 shock, but he recovered himself quickly, and 
 bravely faced the truth. 
 
 As he stood looking, the new hope which had 
 sprung up in his heart began to droop, then it 
 withered, shrivelled up and fell down into life- 
 less ashes. He could not go to her looking like 
 that — she would not know him. As he turned 
 away, his heart began to question. " Is it my 
 destiny? Well, let it come; I am resigned." 
 Unconsciously he began to repeat, in the slow 
 voiceless measures of bitter thought, " If it be 
 now 'tis not to come ; if it be not to come, it 
 will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come ; 
 the readiness is all ; since no man hath aught of 
 what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes ? " 
 
 He drew the curtains again and sank down in 
 one of the large, deep-cushioned chairs. It was 
 the one Evelyn had sat in that happy evening — 
 how long was it ago ? One — ten — fifty — a hun- 
 dred years it must be now. We will not follow 
 farther. Whatever may have been the deadly 
 struggle which went on in that soul, battling 
 there in the gloom with its own fierce emotions, 
 the picturing of it must be left to the reader's 
 own heart, which may best inform him, accord- 
 ing to his own powers to comprehend what it 
 must have been. 
 
 287 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 There is in one human breast capacity for 
 enough suffering to purchase happiness — not for 
 one only, but for a race — if the reward of joy 
 were commensurate with the anguish endured. 
 But while joys may be enhanced by the gloom 
 of sorrow, like the beauty of the stars which 
 appear through the rifts of the clouded sky of 
 night, yet they cannot be purchased by pain. 
 They are a free gift. An age of. suffering will 
 not necessarily insure an hour of joy even, here 
 or hereafter ; yet, when in the goodness of God 
 joy shall at last come to all His creatures — as it 
 must if there be really any goodness of God, or 
 any immortality at all — ^then even suffering may 
 be seen to have its uses, in perfecting and 
 rounding out, to its full strength, every faculty 
 of which the soul of man, or beast, may be pos- 
 sessed; otherwise, it is a blind and fiendish 
 thing, brutal and aimless, with absolutely no 
 right to exist. 
 
 At the end of an hour Harringf ord arose and 
 walked from the room. That was the darkest 
 hour of his life, and it was past. 
 
 All was set aside — hope, fear, natural long- 
 ings, everything ; and he went steadily forward, 
 clothed with that strength which no power, not 
 the power even of Death himself, can take away 
 from the resolute soul — ^a strength of resigna- 
 tion. 
 
 He went again to his own room, wrote a cheer- 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 f ul letter to Evelyn and a note for Lnbbook. . In 
 his letter to Evelyn lie told her that he was going 
 out to the country house for a Httle while, to 
 finish up some work — they would go over it, 
 together, when she should have returned. 
 
 He called in Joshua, an old man-servant, 
 whose business in life was to keep up a pretence 
 of helping about the garden, which he did so 
 well that nothing further was expected of him. 
 His joy was complete when he found he was 
 wanted to go to Spring Forest and to " cyar 
 Marse Euy in de li'l wagon." The li'l wagon, to 
 which he referred, was a light-running drag. 
 Together they hitched it up, and together they 
 drove away with the few things that were needed 
 for their stay. The old man's soul needed no 
 further satisfaction, his cup of bliss was fuU, 
 to be "jes a cyarn Marse Euy in de li'l 
 wagon." 
 
 Spring Forest was a quiet place among the 
 trees, six or eight miles from the city. The old- 
 fashioned stone house — which was now partly 
 occupied by the tenants who cared for the place 
 — was not large, but picturesque and pleasing, 
 and took its name from the spring which made 
 music in the forest near by, all summer long, as 
 it flowed in a clear and never-failing stream ; 
 slipping out from the rocks over sparkling 
 mosses and falling down into the clear pool of 
 liquid crystal, with a sound so sweet that even 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 the birds would listen, enchanted by it, forget- 
 ting to sing. 
 
 Harringford loved the place dearly, and one 
 day, when he had been praising its beauties, 
 Evelyn had said, playfully, " Whenever you shall 
 write me a romance of Spring Forest that shall 
 please me. Spring Forest shall be yours." 
 
 With what fond imaginings Harringford's 
 remembrance now turned to that wonderful 
 spring. 
 
 To listen to its flowing, to lave his face in its 
 cooling waters, to look down into its transparent 
 depths, and see the imaged tree-tops and the 
 distant sky, and the far-off, floating clouds. Oh, 
 for one deep draught, to slake the burning fever 
 of his soul — just to be near it — to lie down in 
 the long sprinkled grasses, where each arching 
 blade was gemmed with sparkles from the wafted 
 spray. 
 
 To turn and leave the dust and heat, 
 
 The dreary highway of mankind. 
 Where all the weary plodding feet 
 
 Tread down the dust of death. To find, — 
 But once, some dewy, cool retreat, 
 
 In which the fevered heart and mind 
 Might put their burdens down, and meet 
 
 Some dream returned — some hope resigned — 
 Some joy — at once complete. 
 
 Had it been some fabled spring, of which one 
 might drink and find happiness, or some fountain 
 290 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 of magie healing, he could hardly have sought it 
 •with more eagerness. 
 
 Four or five days after this, John Lubbock 
 returned, having been detained longer than he 
 had expected. He found the note which Har- 
 ringford had left for him, and was rather glad to 
 know where he had gone, believing it would do 
 him good. The tone of the note was hopeful, 
 and he little expected that Harringford wished 
 to hide from him lest his very appearance should 
 seem a reproach. 
 
 Lubbock put the note in his pocket, thinking 
 he would go out to Spring Forest in a day or two. 
 
 Two or three days passed and yet he had not 
 found exactly the opportunity he wished. He 
 would wait a little and then he could stay longer, 
 he thought. 
 
 One morning when he was dressing he heard 
 old Joshua's voice below. He was talking to 
 some of the other servants. Lubbock heard 
 him call Harringford's name, and listened as 
 they went on talking, but the voices dropped 
 low, and he could make out nothing But there 
 was something, just in the subdued sounds, 
 which caused in him a tremor of apprehension, 
 with which was mingled the sting of self-re- 
 proach. 
 
 He made haste and went down. 
 
 Old Joshua was just starting away, across the 
 lawn. 
 
 291 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 Lubbock spoke to him, but the old man shuf- 
 fled on, as though he had not heard. 
 
 There was something in his manner that made 
 Lubbock think he was anxious to avoid meet- 
 ing him. He called out to him, sharply, to 
 stop. 
 
 Old Joshua turned about, quickly. He had 
 on his left arm a basket filled with dainties — 
 respecting which his good wife, the cook, had 
 been instructing him at some length^ — and in 
 •his right hand he held the mail-poueh and a 
 whip. Changing these quickly to the other 
 hand, he made a polite bow, lifting his hat, and 
 as he did so, a letter, which he had placed in 
 it, slipped from the top of his venerable head, 
 and dropped upon the grass. 
 
 '■ Howdy, Mist' Jawn — wal — life de lamb — ef 
 dar ain' dat let'r dat Marse Kuy say not ter fur- 
 git ; hit's curyus 'bout dat ; I put hit in dar so 
 ter fur ter git hit jammed clost ter my membry ; 
 'kase, Marse Kuy, he say dat I sure ter furgit 
 hit — en so I did, plumb en clar. Marse Kuy ? 
 — yas, sah — he say, he lookin' putty well ; yas, 
 sah ; he say, dat he comin' on well ez he kin ; 
 yas, sah, well ez he kin." 
 
 Lubbock was confident now that the old negro 
 was trying to deceive him. He took a quick 
 step forward, quivering with excitement. The 
 old man had turned to go. Lubbock seized 
 him roughly by the shoulder and whirled him 
 393 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 about. " See here," he said, " how is your mas- 
 ter ? What is he doing ? Tell me the truth — 
 the exact truth, or I will shake every bone out 
 of your old body." 
 
 " Name o' God, Mist' Jawn," said old Joshua, 
 shrilly, "name o' God, doan — doan git riled 
 agin a ole nigger, doan, doan ; I be glad to tole 
 yo' — glad ter tole yo' — ef, ef, Marse Euy ain' 
 done chawge, yas, sah, chawge me fur not ter 
 say nottin' 'bout im ter nobody; yas, sah, he 
 done chawge me " 
 
 Tears came into the poor old man's eyes. 
 
 Lubbock's wrath was gone in a moment. 
 
 " Well, there, there, never mind," he said, soft- 
 ly ; "I didn't mean to be rough with you ; but 
 tell me, is your master ill ? I am going out with 
 you ; we must take care of him, Joshua." 
 
 " Yas, sah ; yas, sah, Marse Euy ain' jes right 
 fusrate, nohow, en dats de Gord's truf. Mist' 
 Jawn, 'deed he ain'. I been try'n' fur ter take 
 cyar o' him, but dey ain' nobody eyarn'fc do not- 
 tin' fur him, looks lak. He doan res'. Mist' 
 Jawn, ee doan res', none ; hit looks lak dat ee 
 doan never sleep, en, en nobody cyarn't live lak 
 that, yo' know — nobody cyaint." 
 
 " What does he do ? " said Lubbock. 
 
 " Do ? yo' know whar de big spring is ? well, 
 
 ee jes' stay right dar all de time, all de time, 
 
 every day. To know de big seat dar twixt de 
 
 trees? Um, he jes' lie dar; leaned up on de 
 
 293 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 piller, en hev ee's table brang out dar, en — en I 
 jes' stay dar by 'im, en sometimes ee sits up a 
 little an' watch de water runnin'; and some- 
 time ee git ter writin' lak all possest ; or else 
 ee jes' read a li'l in de ole good-book, wat ee 
 got dar on de table, but mos'ly ee jes' lie dar, 
 en ee hev ee's eyes shet, jes' easy lak, 'kase ee 
 ain' sleep'um — but ee keep a lis'nen to de water, 
 whar hit's runnin' en runnin', twell hit soun jes' 
 plumb lak a easy hymn-chune ; slow, en lone- 
 some lak ; en dat's all ee do — jes' lis'nen. En 
 Mist' Jawn," sinking his voice to a whisper, 
 " ee's got trouble on ee's mine, seem ter me ; en 
 ee ain' fur fum de kingdum — yas, sah, I bleeves 
 hit — dat ee ain' fur, ee ain' fur, nohow." 
 
 He ceased and stood fumbling the letter which 
 he had replaced in his hat. 
 
 Lubbock did not make answer ; his thoughts 
 had been active during this speech. Should he 
 despatch at once for Evelyn ? And how could 
 he word a message so as not to alarm her? 
 perhaps he ought to see Harringford first. 
 " What are you in ? " he said, turning to Joshua; 
 "can you drive fast? " 
 
 " Yes, sah, I kin, Ise in de li'l wagon, enlse 
 got Marse Kuy's black Samsum hitched in hit ; 
 yas sir, ee kin git long lak a ingine. Ee's ez 
 ambishus es — es a elephunt — en " 
 
 " What is that letter ? " Lubbock interrupted. 
 
 " Well, Ise been jes' try'n' ter git my membry 
 294 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 'bout dat let'r— wat Marse Euy say 'bout hit ; 
 en hit looks lak dat I cyaint jes' ketch de 
 ■wo'ds 'zackly." 
 
 Lubbock took the letter and read the direction. 
 It was addressed to a well-known lawyer, and 
 was marked " immediately." It woiild be hard to 
 tell the thoughts which went spinning through 
 Lubbock's brain. Could it be that Harringford 
 was intending to make known the — no, that 
 was impossible. Was it his will ? The letter 
 began to tremble in his hands. He would not 
 allow it to be delivered ; at least, not yet. And 
 Evelyn ? — He would despatch at once. He had 
 some message-blanks in his pocket, and drop- 
 ping upon one knee he began filling out one of 
 these, writing with his pencil, and in his anxiety 
 not to make it alarming, he made it, perhaps, 
 as much so as he well could, It read : " Come 
 home — everybody well — don't be alarmed — 
 will meet you." He signed his own name to it, 
 and calling a boy, who was making a feint at 
 manual labor in the garden, sent him flying with 
 it to the office. 
 
 " Now, Joshua, get me out to Spring Forest. 
 Everything is depending upon you now." 
 
 "Yas, sah; come. Mist' Jawn, jes' git in — 
 git in de li'l wagon ; I git yo' dar, nev' f eah — I 
 git yo' dar." And never did the "li'l" wagon 
 make such another journey. The black Sam- 
 son swept along the dusty road like a flying 
 395 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 cloud, for he was white with foam, which flew 
 back in great flakes. His iron-armed hoofs 
 spumed the ground with swift strokes, and bore 
 him onward like a meteor, his heavy mane toss- 
 ing back from the arched neck in gleaming 
 waves. Noting the magnificent action, Lubbock 
 recalled the words of Job, " His neck is clothed 
 with thunder." He leaned far forward, as if to 
 impart to the noble brute whatever aid he might 
 from his own anxious spirit, whose swift flight 
 had borne it to the journey's end and back 
 again a thousand times since the start. At 
 length they swerved aside through the wide en- 
 trance at the Forest, and the clash and clatter 
 of their progress jarred against the close leafy 
 roofs and rolled in broken echoes through the 
 still and solemn air which filled those peaceful 
 aisles. A moment more and they drew up in 
 front of the long porch, about which the thick 
 vines clustered. Lubbock alighted quickly, and 
 old Joshua began to unhitch the horse at once. 
 
 Lubbock glanced at the broad chest, reeking 
 with foam, and the proudly uplifted head, as the 
 great beast blew the breath loudly from his 
 distended nostrils. 
 
 "How is he, Joshua?" 
 
 " Oh, ee's jes' spilin' fur ter go, Mist' Jawn ; 
 
 ee jes' run plumb 'roun de yuth, ef yo' jes' giv 
 
 yum de op'chunity. Look at dat chess. Looks 
 
 lak de eend of a ingine biler — ee's jes' 'ginnia' 
 
 2&6 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 fur ter git steam up in dar — ees a Samsum, sure 
 enough, I tells yo'." Joshua was talking to 
 himself now, for Lubbock was already at the 
 woodland gate, on his way to the great Spring. 
 
 What stillness and quiet, after the rush and 
 roar of his swift journey. His own steps upon 
 the grassy path seemed muffling their sounds, 
 lest they should break the tragic silence which 
 hung on the air about him. Bars of sunlight 
 shot through the airy canopies of over-arching 
 green, flecking the soft shadowed ground with 
 shining gules. Across one of these a gray squir- 
 rel leaped, like a living flash of light ; continu- 
 ing its noiseless way, with coquettish starts, amid 
 the tall pale grasses. The great columns of the 
 trees stood, towering aloft, like rooted pillars of 
 eternity. Involuntarily, Lubbock uncovered his 
 head. Never had he felt so impressed. 
 
 He was face to face with the awful and majes- 
 tic spirit of the forest. 
 
 Soon he heard the sound of falling water. He 
 followed the sudden turning of the path, and — 
 there was the spring : the thin stream flashing 
 among the leaves like an ever-descending sword, 
 and there was the huge rustic seat, between the 
 two trees, and the table stood beside it, and 
 there was Harringford. 
 
 He was sitting on the seat, leaning forward, 
 his arms spread out flat upon the table, and his 
 face hidden between them. 
 297 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 The dancing reflections from the pool played 
 in linked rings of light upon the shifting leaves 
 beyond him. Lubbock stood still and looked 
 for a moment, feeling his heart turn faint and 
 sick. Never had the unregarding silence of 
 nature seemed so dreadful. 
 
 " Buy," he called, in a breaking voice. 
 
 Harringf ord slowly lifted his head and turned 
 his face toward him. "Ah, John, I am glad you 
 have come," he exclaimed, in a clear, steady 
 voice, extending his hand. 
 
 With a cry of joy Lubbock sprang to his side. 
 His two greatest fears had vanished. I will save 
 him yet, he thought, as he sat down beside Har- 
 ringf ord and looked into the white, placid face, 
 with its great gleaming eyes, which gave forth 
 still a clear and steady light from the unconquered 
 spirit within. 
 
 Harringford leaned back upon the pillow, 
 which was placed against the tree at the end of 
 the seat. 
 
 "What is it?" said .Lubbock. 
 
 " I do not know," Harringford answered, bit- 
 terly; " something my soul has passed through, 
 back of which I can never return ; something I 
 am approaching ; but what — ^I cannot tell. 
 
 " Every step is into an untried and unrevealed 
 future ; perhaps it is the end. 
 
 "But why, why did you come here? Why 
 did you not let me know? " 
 398 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAE AT DAWN 
 
 " I hardly know that, either. Something — we 
 must meet alone — I have retreated, step by 
 step, in a losing battle, and now my soul is in 
 the last trench ; and here I will make a stand. 
 I defy fate, further. I wiU bring to the trial the 
 shifting devices by which the soul is juggled out 
 of its birthright; the right which it may de- 
 mand, in the name of God's simple justice. I 
 have tried, in every way, to overcome the trouble 
 which has followed me, and I have failed. If it 
 be because of weakness in me, it is a weakness 
 for which I am not responsible. I can only be 
 what I am ; no one can do better than his best." 
 
 " But, Buy, what is it that is upon you ? I 
 can see much to cause you grief ; I have tried to 
 weigh it aU. carefully, and, do what I may, I can- 
 not find it adequate to this. Why will you not 
 tell Evelyn? Why will you persist in cuttiag 
 yourself off from help in this way ? " 
 
 " Why do I not teU Evelyn ? " An expression 
 of trembling anguish played about his white lips 
 as he spoke. " Why do I not supplant myself 
 with a dead man's memory ? " 
 
 " Great God, is it possible you have treasured 
 up those words of mine? Oh, fool, dolt, blind 
 idiot that I have been, not to have guessed it. 
 Why did you not speak? What — why can you 
 not see, Euy, they were nothing — a phrase, 
 merely, spoken in argument, when I was in the 
 midst of fears, anxious, by any means, to win 
 299 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 you over to act with me in a matter where delay 
 would have been fatal. Supplant yourself? 
 Why you couldn't supplant yourself in Evelyn's 
 heart by anything you could do. Why, if that 
 is it, if that is all there is, Ruy, there is no rea- 
 son at all for you to keep this burden on your 
 mind any longer. It is this brooding upon it, 
 alone, that has magnified it beyond your en- 
 durance." 
 
 Both were silent for a little. 
 
 " And that letter, Euy, to the lawyer ?" Lub- 
 bock said, questioning. 
 
 " My will. I thought it best, perhaps, to 
 make my will. I do not sleep at all now ; I 
 feel myself growing weaker," Harringford said, 
 looking at his hands. 
 
 Lubbock rose to his feet and sat down again, 
 in a kind of desperation. 
 
 " Euy," he cried, " this is all the sheerest 
 folly ! Why, one-half of it is but the fiction of 
 an over-sensitive mind. See Evelyn, teU her 
 everythiag, trust her ; she cannot do other than 
 love you better. Why, you have everything to 
 hope — everything. We will both help you. You 
 must take courage and call up your old strength. 
 It is not possible ; why, man, there cannot be 
 enough in this to overcome a strong man like 
 you." 
 
 "Strong!" said Harringford, almost fiercely; 
 " do you expect me to throttle death, and hold 
 300 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAE AT DAWN" 
 
 him off at will, now after I have been weakened 
 by years of such battling against merciless 
 fatalities as you have never even dreamed of ? 
 Strong? Why, I have been fettered with a 
 chain weighty enough to drag a score of men 
 down to death. You do not know all. The 
 right, because it is right, reward, or no reward — 
 that I have tried to follow. I did not expect a 
 reward, and I will not complain now that I have 
 not found it. It has brought me to what you 
 see, and I will be glad, glad at last to be at 
 rest." 
 
 "Euy," said Lubbock, struggling vainly to 
 make his utterance steady, " whatever there may 
 be on the earth of love and trust, let these alone 
 now find place between our souls. Do you see 
 these temples, that are fast whitening ? Long 
 before one gray hair could be found there I 
 loved you. Ask your own heart if I have ever 
 failed you. Will you now let a veil come be- 
 tween us? Tou must not allow anything to 
 hinder the help that I know I could bring you. 
 Tou must believe me when I tell you that you 
 are now looking at everything in a distorted 
 vision, and if this feeling about having secretly 
 buried Ainswortli is all " 
 
 "But that is not aU," Harringford inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " Well, but even with the keeping of the se- 
 cret — your regret because you could not make it 
 301 
 
UlSTTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 known to Evelyn, and your fears about telling 
 her — even with all, I do not see " 
 
 " But that is not all," Harringford broke in 
 again, with something of his old impatient man- 
 ner. 
 
 " Not all ?" said Lubbock, mechanically re- 
 peating the words ; " why, there can be nothing 
 more." 
 
 " Yes, there is more — more, that even you do 
 not know." 
 
 "Do not know — I — about what — ^that I do 
 not know ?" 
 
 "About Ainsworth. Something of which I 
 have never spoken — which is known to no one 
 else on earth but only to me." 
 
 "But to you?" 
 
 "Yes, John, you have never known all my 
 trouble; you could not guess it — how should 
 you?" 
 
 For an instant there arose before Lubbock's 
 eyes an image more frightful than death. It 
 seemed to him that he had suddenly been bereft 
 of his own identity. He glanced quickly at 
 Harringford's face, then he looked away, out 
 through the leafy distance between the trees. 
 Could it be possible that was real sunshine? 
 Was he in this world at all ? Slowly his eyes 
 traced a path along the ground until they came 
 back to himself. He looked over his own figure 
 as if gathering proof to convince his mind of his 
 
JSriGHT— AND A STAE AT DAWN 
 
 own existence. At last, grasping the back of 
 the seat, he forced himself to turn, and, once 
 more he looked at Harringford. 
 
 Harringford was fumbling in his bosom in 
 search of something, and was not looking at 
 him. 
 
 Lubbock made as though he would speak, but 
 the words seemed to turn back again from his 
 lips, which had become dumb, like the lips of an 
 animal. 
 
 At length Harringford found what he was 
 looking for. It was a locket, which he opened 
 and handed to Lubbock, saying, " Who is that? " 
 
 The sound of his voice brought Lubbock back 
 to himself again. He took the locket and looked 
 at the picture. " Ainsworth," he said. 
 
 " No," said Harringford, " that is a picture of 
 my father, when he was a young man." 
 
 Lubbock lowered his hand and fixed his eyes 
 on Harringford. "And Ainsworth?" 
 
 "Was not Ainsworth," said Harringford. 
 " That was not his rightful name." 
 
 "Then he was — " Lubbock stopped. Har- 
 ringford had turned his head to one side, lean- 
 ing heavily upon the pillow, and a more livid 
 hue seemed to spread upon the paleness of his 
 face as he answered, speaking slowly, almost in 
 a whisper : 
 
 " He was — he was my brother." 
 
 The locket dropped from Lubbock's hand, and 
 303 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 as the full realization of all that his friend had 
 suffered rushed upon him, with bitter remem- 
 brance of his own thoughts, a moment before, 
 he was unable, longer, to keep back the flood 
 which was bursting his heart. He essayed to 
 speak, but a loud sob only broke from his lips, 
 and covering his face with his hands he leaned 
 forward on Harringford's breast, overborne by 
 the storm of his emotions, thankfulness, sympa- 
 thy, remorseful self-reproach. 
 
 It was only for a moment. He recovered 
 himself immediately, and sat, listening calmly 
 and attentively while Harringford told him fur- 
 ther of Ainsworth. 
 
 " You can guess it all, John," he said. " My 
 father died when I was a boy of ten. Whatever 
 may have been his faults, he loved me tenderly. 
 He left a letter, which was given to me by my 
 uncle, when I was old enough to understand it 
 and to act for myself. 
 
 " There I read the story which I need not tell 
 you. As all men will continue to do, forever, 
 my father had sinned and suffered. He had 
 done a wrong, and had put off his intended 
 righting of it, until death, suddenly and without 
 warning, put it all beyond his power. You will 
 see in that locket engraved the name, ' Henri- 
 etta Ainsworth ; ' the locket was sealed up with 
 the letter. That lady was the mother of Harry 
 Ainsworth. 
 
 S04 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 " In the letter, my father begged me, for his 
 sake, to do all that might lie within my power 
 to atone the wrong he had dohe ; imploring me 
 to seek out the child, and to befriend him and 
 shield him, and, above all, to keep the truth 
 from him always. 
 
 " Well, I need not tell you all that took place. 
 I ran away from my uncle that I might seek the 
 boy ; for I felt that he was of my own flesh and 
 blood, and nearer of kin to me than any other 
 on earth. I loved him even before I saw him. 
 My heart went out to him, because of his mis- 
 fortune, and when at last I found him, and saw 
 him looking at me with my own father's eyes, 
 my soul was knitted with his, and I loved him 
 with far more than a brother's love." 
 
 Harringford had remained calm until this 
 moment, but now he put his hand up to his 
 eyes, and the tears trickled forth between his 
 wasted fingers. 
 
 " How often I longed to tell him that he was 
 my brother, but I could not, for he knew noth- 
 ing. His mother's brother had cared for him 
 while he had lived, and from him he only knew 
 that his parents died in his infancy. 
 
 " My heart has been baffled always. Harry 
 died, never guessing with what tenderness I 
 loved him ; never knowing how near was the tie 
 that held me to him. To think of it now is 
 madness. If I had not left him so long to him- 
 30S 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 self, perhaps it migM not have happened. Poor 
 soul, to come and go in the shadow, to live, 
 nameless, with but one friend on earth who 
 knew him, and that one unable to tell him the 
 truth, and to die such a death ; to be blotted 
 out, and to lie, as he does, with no stone raised 
 to his memory, no mark, even, to show that ever 
 he lived at all. What a fate, and what a fatal- 
 ity, that I should thus be called to hide my 
 brother's body in the ground, and to leave him, 
 in silence, not daring to make known his resting- 
 place, nor to inscribe a line in remembrance of 
 his dust. 
 
 "So all has ended here — and who knows 
 whether aught will be made right hereafter? 
 Whatever is to know, I shall soon know it. At 
 least I shall sleep. At least I shall find rest." 
 
 Lubbock sat with his head bent forward, his 
 brows knitted, and his eyes fixed upon the 
 ground before him. 
 
 Suddenly his face brightened. 
 
 All at once a hght broke in upon his mind, as 
 the sun bursts upon a dripping landscape, after 
 the passing of a stormy April cloud. 
 
 He arose quickly to his feet, and grasped 
 Harringford's hand in both his own. 
 
 " Kuy," he cried, with all the glow and fervor 
 
 of the new inspiration which was come upon 
 
 him, " Ruy, my dear boy, the morning has just 
 
 begun to break for you. You shall not die — I 
 
 306 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAK AT DAWN 
 
 say you shall not. Death begins with the will 
 first ; the slaying of the will is his first triumph. 
 Set your will against hiig. I will bring you life 
 and light before the sufi goes down; and if I 
 do not, may Heaven accept me in your place ; 
 and that is but fair, for I can fill a wider grave 
 than you. Your time is not yet; I know it, 
 and until then, you are immortal. I am going 
 for a physician." 
 
 " A physician," said Harringford, feebly, with 
 a little smile of scorn. 
 
 Lubbock was already on his way, but he 
 turned to say, " A physician — yes — but he is an 
 old practitioner, and his drugs are not com- 
 pounded of earthly simples." 
 
 Once more the black Samson went thunder- 
 ing along the road into the city. 
 
 " Wait here a minute," said Lubbock to old 
 Joshua as they drew up by the stone block 
 under the sycamores in front of the house ; " we 
 are late, I think." As he was hastening into 
 the house, Evelyn herself appeared at the door, 
 smiling, but looking past Lubbock, toward the 
 vehicle he had just quitted. She had already 
 been home long enough to dress, and had 
 arrayed herself in white. 
 
 Lubbock paused a moment, not speaking. 
 Never, he thought, had he seen any creature so 
 altogether lovely. He saw at once that she had 
 307 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 not received the despatch. He went forward 
 quickly, holding out his hand. 
 
 " I just came home, you see," Evelyn said, 
 blushing. " I — I just wanted to see Ruy, see- 
 ing he wouldn't come to me — and here I find 
 you all out at Spring Forest. I think he might 
 have been here, at least." The tears began to 
 show, just a little, in her speaking eyes. " What 
 is it — what is the matter ? " she exclaimed, for 
 she read something in Lubbock's face. " Oh, 
 tell me, tell me " and she grasped Lub- 
 bock's arm with both her hands. 
 
 " No, no — nothing, dear. Euy went on here 
 with his work, and — and— while I was away he 
 went out to Spring Forest. I have just seen 
 him — he wiU be glad you have come — but first 
 I — come, let me tell you." 
 
 He went into the house, Evelyn following, 
 and there she sat trembling and silent, while 
 Lubbock told her all the truth ; all that Har- 
 ringford had feared to tell. He watched her 
 face closely, not being altogether free from fear 
 himself. It is my only course, he thought, and 
 come the worst, I can only find the worst. 
 When he had finished, it was as he had thought, 
 as he had hoped. 
 
 " Take me to him — quick ! " she said ; " quick ! 
 quick ! " That was all she said. But there was 
 no need for words ; one look at her face told 
 him how well he had guessed her true heart. 
 308 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 " Joshua," said Lubbock, when he had helped 
 Evelyn into the drag, " do you think Samson is 
 equal to another flying trip ? " 
 
 " Dat's Marse Euy's hoss, yo' knows. Mist' 
 Jawn. Ef hit's for Miss Evelyn he's gwine, den 
 he's gwine ter git dar, ef he draps dead on de 
 road." 
 
 "Well, it is," said Lubbock; "it's for her 
 sake and for your master, Euy's, too — but don't 
 you think we will better put in one of the 
 others ? " 
 
 " No, sar, no sar, dey ain't none er dem kin 
 go on wid Samsum — Samsum ee be des drag- 
 gin' em — git in dar. Mist' Jawn, git in. Sam- 
 sum jes' 'bout het up right fur ter run, now. 
 Look at dem years, how dey's p'inted. Ee's 
 got a spee't plumb lak a hornet. Is yo' all 
 ready back dar ? — 'kase now, we's gAvine." 
 
 In five minutes they were outside the city, and 
 then Samson plunged forward fiercely through 
 the heat at full speed, hammering the earth with 
 his hoofs until it seemed to tremble under them, 
 and leaving in his wake a long cloud of dust, 
 which was like the smoke of battle. That was 
 a journey which Evelyn never forgot. With a 
 wild storm in her heart, which raged high over 
 all the tumult and breathless rushing, amid 
 which she sat like some immortal and fearless 
 creature in her wing-speeded chariot ; such as 
 the bards of old pictured, whirling along the 
 309 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 dangerous slope of heayen, to the rescue of 
 some famed and favored mortal, against whose 
 life the Fates had led the battle. 
 
 Well, it is no fable, after all. Fortune is 
 cruel — the Fates are fickle still, and yet, betimes, 
 thank God, some spirit comes to turn the sharp 
 blade from the swooning heart, and change the 
 black world with the light of love. 
 
 The great, silent shadow of evening lay upon 
 the eastern slope of the hill, as they ascended 
 toward Spring Forest, with but slightly slack- 
 ened pace ; though now, deep groans burst from 
 the breast of the faithful and heroic animal, as 
 he bore bravely up, laboring for breath with 
 fearful gaspings, his sight gone, his flanks heav- 
 ing piteously. Still he went on ; waking the 
 echoes, and striking the sparks out from the 
 stones, with his ringing hoofs, until, once more, 
 he stood, with drooping head and trembling 
 limbs, in front of the old porch, at the end of 
 his last journey, 
 
 " He's gone, poor fellow ! " Lubbock said, as 
 he helped Evelyn out. She said nothing, only 
 as she passed by him she laid her hand on 
 the hot throbbing neck, saying, in a broken 
 voice, "God bless you, Samson, God bless 
 
 you." 
 
 The slant rays of the sinking sun shot like 
 gleaming bars of gold through the dusking for- 
 est ; glowing upon the great living columns, and 
 310 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 transforming the glistening leaves with touches 
 of fire. 
 
 The continuous music of tiie water lifted and 
 swayed upon the moving air. 
 
 Now and then the note of some wild bird 
 cams ringing through the solemn stillness. 
 
 On the little table some papers were lying, 
 held down by a faded, leather-boimd book which 
 rested, lying open, upon them. From time to 
 time the passing air caught the edges of the 
 leaves, causing them to rustle slightly. 
 
 Harringford lay, resting upon his pillow, his 
 thin hands clasped above his head. His pale 
 face was in the shadow, but a shaft of sunlight 
 lay, like a burnished cimeter, across his breast. 
 
 At last, he had fallen asleep. 
 
 He was asleep, and as he slept, he thought a 
 dark cloud rolled slowly toward him along the 
 ground. Nearer and nearer it came, blotting 
 out all else. Nearer and nearer. He could see 
 the grass bending beneath it, so heavy was it 
 upon the ground ; a moment more, and it would 
 roll over him ; suddenly it burst asunder and 
 dissolved away, and there, in the midst, there 
 stood Evelyn — his Evelyn — with tears in her 
 eyes, reaching out to him her fair white arms. 
 
 With a cry of joy he awoke and sat up quick- 
 ly — and it was true. 
 
 There was Evelyn, coming swiftly along the 
 woodland path, clad in white, her golden hair 
 311 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 dishevelled, her arms outstretched, and her eyes 
 beaming through the tears that could not drown 
 the love which looked forth from them. 
 
 A flaming sunbeam struck full upon her as 
 she came, wrapping her, from head to foot, in a 
 transfiguring blaze of heavenly glory. 
 
 Harringford sprang to his feet, his senses be- 
 wildered, his heart fluttering wildly under the 
 stress put unexpectedly upon it. 
 
 "Evelyn!" he cried. That was all. Al- 
 ready she was in his arms. She smothered his 
 utterance with kisses. And they were kisses — 
 kisses that would have brought the soul back 
 into the clay, making it glad, glad, to return 
 again to earth, even though it had passed the 
 gates of Paradise, which open but once, and no 
 more, to anyone. 
 
 And there were tears to mingle with tears; 
 blessed tears that rose from the overflowing 
 fountain of love in a pure heart. 
 
 There was no reserve, no holding back, no 
 questioning. 
 
 She clung to him in silence. Circling his 
 bended neck with her white arms, and holding 
 him close, close, with the comforting strength 
 which deep tenderness inspires. 
 
 There was life for him in her every touch. 
 He inhaled it with the fragrance of her gar- 
 ments. His soul drank in hope and joy from 
 the brimming fountains of her eyes. 
 312 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 One shining tress had fallen down across his 
 wrist, like a twisting stream of molten gold. He 
 caught it up and pressed it to his lips, and held 
 it to his cheek. He could feel the blood mount 
 from his heart to meet the touch ; it made his 
 flesh tingle. 
 
 "Dearest — dea/rest 1 " she said, " why did you 
 not tell me — long ago ? " 
 
 " Do you know all now ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " all — all." 
 
 " And you love me still ? " 
 
 " Better ! better than ever ! A thousand times 
 better ; better than my own soul ; better than 
 earth or heaven ! " 
 
 The power, the beauty, the divinity of love ! 
 
 Seven long dreary years it had taken the 
 canker of despairing sorrow to change Harring- 
 ford to what he had become — so wonderful are 
 the forces of the soul, so strong is hope within 
 the heart— and now when the fire was burned 
 low, and only ashes seemed left for the hand of 
 death to gather, then comes love, and in a mo- 
 ment builds up again all that sorrow and disap- 
 pointment had taken years to overthrow. 
 
 In a moment a new life ran with the blood 
 along his veins. In a moment a counter-revolu- 
 tion took place within his soul and he was made 
 a man again. 
 
 Is it any wonder that love should make men 
 mad ? Any wonder that poets should rave of it, 
 313 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 and should sing their worthiest songs in praise 
 of this one divinest passion? or that the heart 
 should refuse to wish for a heaven where love is 
 not, or should refuse to fear a hell which love 
 may enter ? 
 
 And by and by they sat upon the seat together, 
 and her broad white breast was his pillow now, 
 and the burden was lifted from his soul forever. 
 And the level beams of the sun spread their 
 reddening fires through the branches which 
 stretched above them ; and the leaves stirred 
 softly at times, as if with the balmy breathing 
 of the earth. 
 
 And the wild bird sent forth its note from 
 some shadowed covert, but the sound awoke no 
 pang in those who heard it. 
 
 And the glittering stream fell ; and the music 
 of it stole out through the trees like a wandering 
 soul, and the crystal basin dimpled and sparkled 
 in the reflected light like a liquid mirror. 
 
 And the naiads came forth and circled about 
 the pool. And the dryads left their prisons in 
 the trees and went forth on the unbending 
 grasses, ranging the dim silence of the forest to 
 meet their lovers as of old. 
 
 And the years that were passed away were as 
 nothing. 
 
 And the sorrow and the tears. 
 
 And it was little that they said, for happiness, 
 like grief, hath little use for words. 
 314 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 Only her soft breast was his pillow, and her 
 clasping arms comforted him. 
 
 And her cheek rested against his own. 
 
 And once she said, whispering, " Are we not 
 now our own?" And he answered, "We are 
 
 our own 
 
 And once they took the book from the table, 
 and they turned to where a dead flower was 
 pressed upon the page. And Evelyn lifted it 
 and read the words which were stained with its 
 color : " Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a 
 seal upon thine arm ; for love is strong as death. 
 Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the 
 floods drown it." 
 
 If John Lubbock walked, softly and slowly, 
 out along the woodland path, merely to reas- 
 sure himself as to the wisdom of his course, I 
 hope he may be excused. 
 
 And if old Joshua followed, with certain awk- 
 ward shufflings and side-peerings and mysteri- 
 ous and deferential duckings of his venerable 
 uncovered head, I hope that he, also, may be 
 excused. 
 
 When Lubbock saw enough of the meeting to 
 know that all was well, he turned about hastily 
 with his big heart choking him, and his eyes 
 full of tears. 
 
 Old Joshua, but a little way behind him, thus 
 unexpectedly caught in the act of following, 
 made a profound and elaborate bow. 
 315 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 John smiled a little, and stooped to pluck up 
 a spray of grass. 
 
 Feeling thus encouraged, Joshua came for- 
 ward, with a kind of eager reluctance, under 
 cover — so to speak — of their presumed mutual- 
 ity of concern and sympathy respecting a cer- 
 tain couple, who were needing it but little, now 
 — to speak truth — and having approached near 
 enough to give vent to the sentiment which 
 burdened him in such low tones as he deemed 
 fitting to the occasion, old Joshua said — with a 
 glance to one side, that was inimitable, " Hit 
 looks lak. Mist' Jawn — hit looks lak dat Marse 
 Euy hev plum forgit ee's — miz'ry." 
 
 And Lubbock walking away with him, smiling 
 to himself, could think of nothing just at that 
 moment, with which to assail the absolutely im- 
 perturbable front of that simple assertion. 
 
 Love lifts us, gifts us, makes us gods again. 
 Leads us to Paradise. 
 
 One evening late in September, perhaps a 
 month after this, they were all sitting upon the 
 porch at Spring Forest. The view looked down 
 across the inward curving of the eastern slope 
 toward the road, which lay along the valley like 
 a ribbon. Beyond that, the fields stretched 
 away and broke into a billowy, distant sea of 
 soft empurpled hills. 
 
 Already the autumn was painting the landscape 
 316 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 with inimitable dyes. The slopes were green 
 as in May, with thfe late-springing grasses, but 
 the gum-trees glowed in crimson and scarlet, 
 and the maples were ablaze with flame and gold ; 
 and the pale yellow leaves of the walnut and elm 
 trees lay thickly strewn upon the emerald carpet 
 beneath them. 
 
 If ever Nature can lull the spirit to dreamful 
 ease, it should be when the sweet last days of 
 September begin to dip the oak-leaves in their 
 drowsy wine and hold them up to meUow in the 
 sun. 
 
 Evelyn and Harringford were sitting together 
 on one of the wide-cushioned seats. Lubbock 
 was seated upon the step, leaning against one of 
 the old wooden pillars of the porch. 
 
 "Anything stirring in town, John," asked 
 Harringford, 
 
 " No, no," Lubbock answered, slowly, glancing 
 down over the slope, with a little sigh of satisfac- 
 tion, and brushing the ashes from his cigar. 
 "No — there is the same brick and mortar 
 monotony, the same soot and dust and blackened 
 plants, with cast-iron fences to enclose them, 
 with cast-iron mastiffs andNewfoundlands among 
 the shrubberies, and terra-cotta pugs, of glazed 
 and irreproachable dignity, beside the deserted 
 doorsteps; that is all. Tou may rest content 
 the world has nothing to give, more than you 
 have here, nothing at least worth the having. 
 317 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BKEAK 
 
 Have you finished tliat story of Spring Forest, 
 yet?" 
 
 " Yes," said Evelyn, " he has added the 
 chapter I wished, and now. Spring Forest is his 
 own." 
 
 "Ah — and so it ends happily, then, after all," 
 Lubbock said. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Harringford. " Evelyn would 
 have it so, and I — well, you see, there was a good 
 deal of real estate, with all the real real-estate 
 and appurtenances pertaining thereunto, as here- 
 inbefore set forth, depending upon it, and so I 
 just let them have their happiness. Just plain, 
 good, comfortable, to wit, commonplace hap- 
 piness, such as wears best." 
 
 " Nothing," said Lubbock, " is commonplace, 
 nothing, except to vulgar and commonplace peo- 
 ple. Wherever there is a soul it will glorify all 
 things about it by the light which shines out 
 from within." 
 
 " Why, hear him, Evelyn, with what oracular 
 tongue he phrases it. The country is good for 
 you, John — who can tell — a while longer and, 
 you may be translating the language of the 
 trees, or the whisperings of the midnight pool, 
 sad-smitten of the moon ; but, joking aside, you 
 are right ; there is wisdom in what you say." 
 
 " Oh, and it is that surprises you ? Well, wis- 
 dom is rare, even with me — nevertheless, they 
 spoiled a good philosopher when they made of 
 318 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 me a publisher, content to print the inferior 
 works of other men." 
 
 " But they did not rob you of your vanity, 
 did they now? Confess, dear John Anderson, 
 my Jo John." 
 
 " No," answered Lubbock, " the abundant 
 dower of each individual has fortunately fore- 
 stalled all temptation to theft in the matter of 
 vanity, else I might not so safely display the 
 glittering lustre of my own wealth on this pres- 
 ent occasion." 
 
 " Then you agree with Solomon, th,at all is 
 vanity?" 
 
 " Oh, me," said Evelyn, with a little groan, 
 " not vanity only, but vexation of spirit ; if there 
 is anything that shadows the earth with gloom, 
 and completely weighs down the soul with 
 wretchedness, it is the alleged funniness of men 
 who are never funny excepting when they are un- 
 conscious of how funny they are." 
 
 " John, do you hear ? " exclaimed Harring- 
 ford. " We are cast out, eschewed, obliterated ! 
 Now you see what it is to be — happy. 
 
 " There is nothing for it now, but to retire 
 and hold a meeting, after the manner of our 
 good friends over on Bitter Creek, and to re- 
 solve that — ^Whereas, It hev seemed tew please 
 a almity profidewce, fer tew go tew work, a drap- 
 pin' of a fire-bran, in the shapes of a human 
 specie, amongst of us, why, then. Therefore, Be 
 319 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEBAK 
 
 it known by these hyui* presints, thet we bed 
 druther, a long sight " 
 
 "Oh, there," Evelyn exclaimed, "there is 
 Samson now — I want you to see the mantle I 
 have 'broidered for him." 
 
 There was silence among them as Joshua led 
 Samson up in front of the porch for inspection. 
 Slowly and painfully, the noble beast came for- 
 ward, halting upon his stiffened limbs, and 
 turning toward them his sightless eyes. A beau- 
 tiful blanket, of scarlet color, wonderfully 'broid- 
 ered in gold, covered his huge body, almost 
 touching the ground at either side, and upon it, 
 worked in graceful letters, were the words, " The 
 Faithful Samson." 
 
 "Oh, why, Evelyn, darling, did these little 
 hands do all that? " And Harringford pressed 
 the white fingers to his lips. " Why, he looks 
 like some Oriental vision." 
 
 " It beats the Jews," said Lubbock ; " they 
 had no 'broidered blankets for their deliverer; 
 they left him to grind in the prison." 
 
 "Yes," said Harringford, coming forward, 
 " but our Samson's case is similar, in the put- 
 ting out of his eyes at least; the Philistines 
 did it." 
 
 " Yos, the Philistines did it," said Lubbock, 
 " and I suppose now that Joshua is come to 
 lead him between the pillars of the temple." 
 
 But Harringford was not regarding. He went 
 320 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DA:WN 
 
 out and looked at the work on the blanket, 
 closely, and with quite a critical air. Lubbock 
 walked around the horse two or three times, 
 and finally seated himself on a bench, under a 
 tree near by, saying nothing. 
 
 " It is like everything you do," Harringford 
 said, at last, coming back to Evelyn, who stood 
 upon the steps, " it is like yourself — per- 
 fect." 
 
 " Lift it off, Joshua, and let me see how he 
 looks." 
 
 The old negro lifted the blanket, daintily, and 
 threw it over on one side. The ample sanguine 
 folds trailed upon the emerald grass ; the beast 
 lifted, his head, proudly arching his glistening 
 neck, and stood, moveless as a statue. 
 
 " Oh," Harringford exclaimed, "what a divine 
 picture — what a glorious semblance of departed 
 strength — what beautiful mockery — what a sad 
 and magnificent ruin." 
 
 He seated himself upon the steps, drawing 
 Evelyn down close beside him. " Is his sight 
 entirely gone, Joshua ? " 
 
 " Yas, Marse Kuy, hit's plumb gone ; ee's 
 eyes is lef ', jes' ez dey wuz, en dey looks lak 
 dey could see, but dey cyain't see nuttin'. Hit 
 looks lak, when ee wuz ra'rin up de hill hyar, 
 dat ee jes' pull de sight back outen dem eyes — 
 jes' right dar, fur good en aU." 
 
 " Poor feUow," said Evelyn. Samson turned 
 321 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 his head toward her, pointing his ears forward, 
 and snifSng the air, knowingly, 
 
 " He seems to know your voice," said Lub- 
 bock. 
 
 "Yes, sah, 'cose ee know Miss Evelyn's 
 voice," said Joshua, too full now for further 
 self -suppression ; " 'cose he does ; dey ain' 
 nuttin' dat ee doan know. I kin heah um a 
 nick'rn fore I git half way to de stable." 
 
 " Do you think he has a soul, Joshua? " asked 
 Lubbock. 
 
 " Yes, sah, Mist' Jawn, I done beleeves hit, 
 'kase ef ee's out in de big fiel', en jes' nut think- 
 ing 'bout nuttin', en Miss Evelyn jes' step in 
 dar, past de gate, why Samsum, he jes' lif ee's 
 head en — en look at her lak he kin see, and 
 p'int his years, en nicker, jes' fur ter say, 
 ' Howdy, Miss Evelyn. ' How ee gwine told who 
 hit wuz, ef ee ain done-got no soul ? 'Cose ee's 
 got a soul. I jes' talkin' 'bout dat yist'dy, en 
 dat rat-eyed nigger Sam — ^fore Gord — one dese 
 days Ise gwine take a ole back strop, en — en wah 
 de hide offen dat fool nigger ef ee jes' keep on 
 'sputin' agin me, dat's wat I is — ee's been gwine 
 down dar ter dat new school-house, takin' an iddi- 
 cation, twell hit hev plumb tooked all de natchul 
 sense outen dat goose-egg head of hisn — en ee 
 ups en lows dat Samsum aim got no soul, en 
 dat ee ain' nuttin' 'cep'en jes' meat en bones. 
 Ise gwine ketch dat nigger en wah um out yit ! " 
 S2g 
 
NIGHT— AND A STAR AT DAWN 
 
 And Joslraa began tenderly adjusting the blanket 
 upon his charge again, with suppressed mutter- 
 ings which boded no good for the unfortunate 
 " rat-eyed Sam." 
 
 " Do you think Samson will go to heaven, 
 Joshua ?" Evelyn asked. 
 
 "Yes, I does. Miss Evelyn," he answered, 
 turning to bow to his fair mistress. " Yas'um, 
 en I ain' asking no bet'm jes' ter git a-straddle 
 o' Samsum's back on de mawnin' of de gineral 
 rizin'. Ef hit so come dat ee kin git dem j'ints 
 of his'n supple up, lak, dey ain' go'n be no 
 trouble 'bout him gittin' inter de kingdom ; kase 
 ef GabrU jes' lean out en — en toot a li'l chune 
 on de trumpit, twell Samsum kin ketch hit, and 
 git his years p'inted ter whar hit's comin' fum, 
 den' I jes' needs ter grab 'im by de mane, en 
 jes' hole on, 'kase ee be bleeg'dfur ter git in dar, 
 ef ee hev ter trpmp some de angels on de groun', 
 'fore dey kin clar de way." 
 
 When old Joshua had led the horse slowly 
 away, the three sat for some time in silence. 
 
 The waning light had faded from the hill-tops. 
 The glowing clouds, which hung high above 
 them in the shining vault, were tinged with a 
 deeper crimson, and the cool, dusky shadows 
 began to creep along the vale below. 
 
 Evelyn leaned her fair head against Harring- 
 ford's shoulder. He put his arm about her and 
 drew her closer, pressing his lips to the white 
 333 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 cheek which was softly shadowed by fragrant 
 silken tresses. 
 
 "And so we are all happy at last." It was 
 Lubbock, speaking out from the shadow, where 
 he sat, under his favorite tree. 
 
 " We are," said Harringf ord, " we are happy 
 at last. Thank God." 
 
 Lubbock continued speaking, " The right be- 
 cause it is right, reward or no reward. I was 
 right, Euy, was I not ? " 
 
 The clouds are heaviest when they turn to tears ; 
 
 Night hath no terrors Day may not destroy ; 
 The blossom withers ere the fruit appears ; 
 
 Sad must the heart be ere it find true joy. 
 
 " Yes," said Harringford, " let us hope that 
 all sad hearts on earth may find happlaess at 
 last. That all souls walking in the shadows, 
 weighed down with sorrows, may find strength 
 to bear up with their burthens, imtil help can 
 come to them. ' Until the day break, and the 
 shadows Jlee away.' " 
 
 " YeSj yes, dearest," Evelyn whispered, softly. 
 " Until the day break." 
 
 Sweet is the voice of fame ; bright is the crest 
 Of proud Ambition's height ; strong is the tide 
 
 That lifts the longing soul, but, oh, not best. 
 Though life be boundless, as the world is wide ; 
 
 All, all, is compassed in one faithful breast — 
 A woman's love outweighs all else beside, 
 324 
 
L'ENVOI 
 
 The cadence dies away at last, in sadness, 
 And silence wraps the instrument, — but where, 
 
 Oh, where — shall wake, again, the notes of gladness 
 Which, here, are hushed by brooding, dumb despair 1 
 
 What power shall win that heart to noble madness. 
 Whose dust is wandering on the idle air ! 
 
 "And thus I thought well to leave them," 
 Arthur Winchell said, with a little sigh, as he 
 rearranged the somewhat dishevelled leaves of 
 his manuscript, and laid it upon the table. 
 " Though it makes me half sad to do it, for I 
 have learned to love them, and now they go from 
 me forever." 
 
 Mrs. Winchell bent forward, leaning upon the 
 table, and looking at her son for a moment in 
 silence. " And how did they come to you, Ar- 
 thur, at the first ; how was it, exactly ? " 
 
 " Well, you see," said Arthur, " I have a world 
 which hangs about me, ajid, like this real world, 
 it has a horizon and a sky, its dark nights and 
 its storms, and its pleasant summer days ; and 
 it so happens, that when this real world may 
 be bright with sunlight, or transformed by 
 the soft enchantment of the spring, that other 
 325 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK 
 
 world may be wrapped in gloom, and filled 
 with the portentous shapes and distressful vis- 
 ions, which I must see, whether I wish to or 
 no ; and then, sometimes it chances, that when 
 this world is chilled and gray, made dismal and 
 miserable, by the low-hanging skies and murky 
 mists of some winter day, that my other world 
 is cheered by a sudden summer, and my spirit 
 revels in scenes full of unearthly beauty and 
 glory ; so that all the sadness, all the barren- 
 ness of the real world about me, is as nothing ; 
 even misfortune cannot seem to reach me then. 
 Oh, there is divinity in us all, if — " he ceased 
 abruptly, and looked at his mother, blankly, as 
 if recalled, suddenly, to himself. 
 
 " But these, Arthur, these people about whom 
 you have been writing — how did they come to 
 you ? I am anxious to know that." 
 
 "I hardly know," Arthur answered; "my 
 spirit world is full of people. Sometimes I fol- 
 low them around for years, and never write any- 
 thing about them. That is more pleasure, for 
 then they stay, and return to me again and 
 again ; and when they come they seem to just 
 break through the sky, and I know them at once ; 
 and some I love at once, and others I follow 
 about, and they become endeared to me, and 
 they seem to know me, for they often return, 
 after being away a long time, and always seem 
 to greet me as old friends, with a smile of recog- 
 326 
 
L'ENVOI 
 
 nition. And so it has been always. Some I 
 have known and loved for many years, but these 
 — well, I have written about them ; they will be 
 gone now, and I see that they will never return. 
 Even when I send my soul after them they seem 
 to turn away with reproachful eyes. Perhaps 
 there is some sort of injustice done, some indig- 
 nity in it I do not know." 
 
 " And your story — how do you feel about it, 
 now that it is done ? " 
 
 " Hopeless," he answered, quickly. " It is a 
 wretched feeling. There is a kind of sadness 
 about it which no mere worldly success, for the 
 story itself, could take away, even if that could 
 be hoped for. It is just as I say — these came 
 to me, broke through my world's sky ; I knew 
 them and loved them, felt impelled to write 
 about them what I have written, but it seems a 
 poor thing now that it is done ; all falls so 
 utterly below what it ought to be that it seems 
 an offence against spiritual friendship by which 
 one hopes to profit, in the gross fashion of this 
 world, and, though there is little likelihood, in 
 this case, of that, yet the offence seems to be the 
 same. They turn away now, and leave me to 
 my poor satisfaction ; and it is poor indeed. I 
 see well enough that even the best of our art 
 cannot suffice to detain those fleeting spirits. 
 The art which could do that perfectly would be 
 too fine, perhaps, for our work-day world ; it 
 327 
 
UNTIL THE DAY BEEAK 
 
 would never believe in it. We are forced to 
 please, however, and so aU art must be only 
 failure to those who see beyond, whatever it may 
 seem to be to those who do not see." 
 
 "Well, it is strange," said Mrs. WincheU; 
 " strange beyond all I ever dreamed. Do you 
 know, Arthur, that the strangest part of your 
 story is yet to be told ? " 
 
 Por answer Arthur only looked at her, won- 
 dering what she could mean. She went on : 
 " Incomprehensible as it is, you have written 
 the very story I had intended, some time, to tell 
 you — about the flower there." And she glanced 
 at the volumes already described, which had the 
 flower stamped upon their covers. " You have 
 changed the names and given it all a modem 
 setting, but in all the main incidents it is sim- 
 ply a history connected with our own family ; 
 it is literally true." 
 
 " Our own family ? " said Arthur, looking be- 
 wildered; "true?" 
 
 " True, yes ; this man you have written of as 
 Harringford was reaUy your own grandfather, 
 your father's father, Henry WincheU, and Evelyn 
 Weir was Margaret Peyton, your own grand- 
 mother. 
 
 " All this that you have told, really took place, 
 
 and that flower, there, on your father's books, is 
 
 the memory-flower ; and now, I will show you 
 
 the very one you have described, the history of 
 
 328 
 
L'ENVOI 
 
 which I feared to tell you and which you have 
 already told." 
 
 Arthur said nothing at all. He was stupefied 
 by the revelation. 
 
 Mrs. Winchell crossed the room, and opened 
 the secretary which had been her husband's. 
 Unlocking a small drawer, she took out of it a 
 leathem-bound volume, and brought it to the 
 light. 
 
 Arthur looked on intently as she turned the 
 faded leaves. 
 
 " There," she said, " that is the memory- 
 flower ; your father never allowed it to be dis- 
 turbed. It was from his mother, your Evelyn 
 Weir, that he heard the story of it." 
 
 The flattened, colorless petals were pressed 
 into the page until they seemed to be a part of 
 it. 
 
 Arthur looked at it, long and steadily. " Yes," 
 he said, " that is it." That was all he said. 
 
 His emotions were such as must be imagined. 
 Once, he drew his breath quickly, as if about to 
 speak, but said nothing. He had glanced at the 
 top of the page, and saw that the book was 
 opened at the Song of Solomon. 
 
 He watched his mother as she carefully put 
 the book away, and. then sat down in silence, his 
 mind overwhelmed with a flood of conjectures. 
 
 " Come, Arthur, dear," he heard his mother 
 saying, and he felt her hand laid, caressingly, on 
 339 
 
UNTII^ THE DAY BREAK 
 
 his head. "Come — do you know it is nearly 
 morning ? — we have sat the night out." 
 
 " He was right, mother," Arthur said, rising, 
 " father was right, then, perhaps, after all." He 
 picked out one of the volumes and opened it, 
 resting it upon the table, and bending over it 
 eagerly, turning the well-known leaves until he 
 came to the page he sought. 
 
 His finger moved along the margin, and 
 stopped, pointing out the closing sentence of an 
 essay upon " Thought and Consciousness." 
 
 " See, mother, don't you remember this ? " 
 And he read the sentence, " Perhaps, then, much 
 of our thought is but a legacy from the past ; a 
 transmitted memory; an inherited experience. 
 The soul's to-day is but the meeting ground of 
 Memory and Hope — the ever-shifting moment 
 which divides the yesterday of the soul from 
 the soul's to-morrow." 
 
 330