Price 3/=. 
 
 the 
 
 
 BY 
 
 IRVING BACHELLER. 
 
 CA5SELL iS^ COMPANY, LIMITED: 
 
 London, Paris & Melbourne. 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 S . Ji . Burnham 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1054.B12S8 1894 
 
 ■The still house of O'Darrow / 
 
 3 1924 021 974 096 
 
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/cu31924021974096 
 
THE STILL HOUSE 
 OF O'DARROW. 
 
THE STILL HOUSE 
 
 OF O'DARROW 
 
 BY 
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 
 
 CASSELL AND COMPANY, Limited 
 
 LONDON, PARIS 6- MELBOURNE 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
THE STILL HaUSE 
 OF O'DARROW. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " The Silver Bottle " was a curious little re- 
 staurant, well remembered by old New Yorkers, 
 that stood at the end of an alley on Fourteenth 
 Street snugged in between two high buildings. 
 Its .funnel-like roof and chimney, its rounded 
 front and glittering sheath of tin, gave it an out- 
 ward semblance well suited to its name. When 
 the coals were aglow in its open range of a 
 winter's night, and mine host stood, cheery faced, 
 in his big white apron, turning the hissing chops 
 or pouring water from its simmering kettle, there 
 was no cosier retreat in Gotham. And, oh, my 
 friend Bob Champney was a goodly host, whose 
 salt once taken preserved his memory for ever, 
 and kept one sacred in his sight. He was an 
 Englishman, with a big round belly and a kindly 
 soul, a ready wit, sharpened by much travel, and 
 
6 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 that all-embracing certainty of knowledge with 
 which the people of his race have been so highly- 
 blessed of Heaven. Indeed, there was nothing 
 in the wide world regarding which he could not 
 give prompt and accurate information. Had one 
 a pain in the stomach, a headache, or even a 
 heartache, he knew the one thing that would 
 give immediate relief. He carried in his pocket 
 a little case of surgical instruments, which had 
 had their baptism of human blood, and which 
 now served only to adorn his tales. Indeed, he 
 was a man who loved the gleam of steel, and 
 who could put it to nobler uses than the slashing 
 of beef. In the broiling of steaks and the 
 cooking of rarebits he was an artist of infallible 
 skill. Now and then some party of gentlemen 
 coming there for meat and drink after the 
 theatre would induce him to trust his gridiron 
 in other hands, and join them at the big round 
 table. Once his tongue was loosed, the Bottle 
 roared with laughter the livelong night. His 
 shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his ruddy 
 fat face sitting on his shoulders like a big 
 stewpot warmed by the fires of imagination, 
 Bob Champney could hold his auditors so long 
 as he could hold a glass. 
 
 One evening in November, 1872, the " Silver 
 Bottle" was quite deserted. It was raining. 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 7 
 
 and such nights there was but little call upon 
 its hospitality. Only two guests sat at the 
 tables. One of them was a fair-haired, stalwart 
 young fellow, with a boyish, beardless face. 
 The other sat opposite him at the same table. 
 His large features showed the wear of more 
 than threescore years. His head was quite 
 bald upon the top, and its fringe of dark 
 hair, ending in mutton-chop whiskers on 
 either side of the face, was liberally streaked 
 with grey. His dress was almost shabby, but 
 in spite of that one would have set him down a 
 gentleman. When the chops were served, Mine 
 Host Champney came over and sat down beside 
 the young man. 
 
 " Mr. Fanning," said he, " I 'ope yer not 
 dead to the world. Y' don't look well. 'Ave a 
 mug o' ale or a sip o' Scotch whiskey served 
 'ot." 
 
 " No, thanks. Do you think that sorrow 
 is like a rat in a hole, to be drowned out 
 with drinking?" said Burton Fanning — that 
 was the young man's name. " Just sit here and 
 talk to me a while— give me a little of the wine 
 of recollection, and I'll be content." 
 
 " You've a great power o' gab," said Bob 
 Champney. " Y' orter 'ave been a dominey, 
 or somethin' o' that sort. 'Ere's a1nan can talk 
 
8 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 y' to a standstill. Mr. Fanning, I've the honour 
 to make y' acquainted wi' Mr. Gravingham, a 
 hartist who can draw yer likeness quicker'n I 
 can draw a mug o' ale." 
 
 The old gentleman bowed soberly, and, with 
 a dignified remark^ shook the hand that Burton 
 Fanning gave him. 
 
 " You will find me dull company this even- 
 ing," said the latter. " I'm in low spirits. This 
 afternoon I had the misfortune to provoke a 
 woman to anger. She applied to me what she 
 thought was the vilest epithet in her vocabulary 
 — called me a 'miserable beggar.' Now, I'm 
 not a beggar, but there's something in a woman's 
 wrath that would make a saint miserable.'' 
 
 " She was probably some purse-proud ignor- 
 amus," Mr. Gravingham remarked. " But to 
 be a beggar in this country is almost a proud 
 distinction, sir. Rich men are so common here, 
 and so often vulgar and sordid. The most 
 infamous thing in the world is a rich man whose 
 selfishness increases with his wealth. He is 
 a beggar-making machine." 
 
 " 'E's wrong in 'is head," mine host re- 
 marked, smiling at Burton. " 'E gives away 
 'arf 'e earns to some poor beggar 'at 'e 'ires 
 for a clerk. I 'ad a chap 'ere by the name 
 o' Reeker as took to drink 'n' lost his place. 
 
The Still House of 0' Darrow. 9 
 
 First I knew Gravingham 'ad 'im for a clerk. 
 But 'pon me word 'e was crookin' 'is elbow 'arf 
 the time." 
 
 The dull, deep-set blue eyes of the old 
 gentleman brightened with indignation. 
 
 " R's not pleasant for a gentleman to as- 
 sociate with a vulgar sot," said he, "but if 
 the sot is utterly cast out, what hope is there for 
 him ? However low he may be, the mere fact 
 that he is living in my sight should enlist 
 my sympathy. Now, if I feel it my duty to 
 help him, what am I to do .' Shall I throw 
 alms to him out of my window and bid him 
 quit my sight, as if he were a leper .'' No ; 
 for in giving my alms I would rob him of 
 his self-respect. I prefer to give him employ- 
 ment, and such pay as my limited means will 
 allow." 
 
 " 'E's alius tinkerin' wi' broken 'arts an' 
 tryin' to mend 'em," said mine host, winking 
 knowingly at the young man. " 'E was born 
 rich, 'nd w'en 'e lost 'is fortune 'e didn't lose 
 none o' 'is rich feelin's. If a man could get rid 
 o' w'at's born 'n 'is 'art as soon as 'e loses w'at's 
 born 'n 'is pocket 'e'd be better off." 
 
 Before Bob Champney had finished this 
 wise remark, the door of the Bottle was opened 
 quickly, and a tall man in a long black cape- 
 
lo The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 coat, the collar turned up around his ears, 
 entered the room. He walked with a quick, 
 stealthy stride to one of the tables, and, seating 
 himself, pulled down his slouch hat close upon 
 his eyes. Mine host rose directly, and sent 
 a waiter to the new guest. 
 
 " A chop and some ale," said the man, in 
 a savage guttural tone, as the waiter ap- 
 proached him. " Be quick, be quick ! " he added 
 impatiently, without looking up. 
 
 He sat leaning forward, his elbows resting 
 upon the table while he waited. When his 
 supper was served, he ate quickly, as if with 
 ravening hunger. On the moment of finishing 
 his meal he tossed a coin to the waiter and 
 hurried out of the room. 
 
 " 'E's a beastly customer," said Bob Champ- 
 ney, resuming his seat. " 'E alius comes of 
 a rainy night when the Bottle is hempty, an' 
 me boys are all afeard of 'im." 
 
 "That was O'Darrow," said Mr. Graving- 
 ham, "a strange man who has gone to the 
 devil, they say. I knew him slightly years ago; 
 His father was a baronet of Irish descent, who 
 married an English lady, and had a large estate 
 in Warwickshire. The title and the property 
 were left to this fellow. He was the only 
 son, and a sorry prodigal \ took to gambling 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. ii 
 
 and drink at an early age, but he knew how 
 to gamble, and is still a rich man. Did you 
 see his face ? " 
 
 " I could only see that his hair and his 
 eyebrows were almost white," said Burton 
 Fanning. " He kept his face well covered." 
 
 " Come with me," said the old gentleman as 
 he rose from the table ; " come to my room, 
 and I will show you how it used to. look. It's 
 a remarkable face." 
 
 The young man followed Mr. Gravingham 
 to the street. After a short walk, the old 
 artist stopped in front of a dingy brick dwelling 
 on Bleecker Street, and stood fumbling in his 
 pockets. 
 
 " I'm growing old," he muttered, leaning 
 over to examine a number of keys. Presently 
 he mounted the steps, and tried two or three of 
 them in the lock before he could open it. 
 Burton Fanning followed him in the darkness 
 up three creaking flights of stairs. On the 
 top landing Mr. Gravingham struck a match, 
 and, advancing to an open doorway, invited 
 his guest to enter. 
 
 " This is my den," said he, lighting a couple 
 of candles. 
 
 The room was just under the roof in the 
 rear of the building. The backward half of 
 
12 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 the bare roofing slanted quite acutely to the 
 eaves, so that one could not stand erect under 
 it. There were two small windows to admit 
 the light of day. On a sofa that stood against 
 the wall a man lay sleeping. His clothes were 
 almost ragged, and the half of his face that 
 showed in the dim light was red and swollen. 
 There were also in the room a narrow bed, 
 three or four rickety chairs, and a plain table 
 covered with periodicals and the rubbish of 
 an artist's workshop. Great heaps of books 
 and magazines lay in confusion upon the floor. 
 
 " My head is like a hen's nest," said Mr. 
 Gravingham, as he emptied some coal upon the 
 fire in his little stove; "it must be kept warm, 
 or it won't produce anything." 
 
 "You seem very much preoccupied, Mr. 
 Fanning," he continued, sitting down beside his 
 guest. " Are you ill ? " 
 
 " If I look badly, it is because I am a little 
 worried," said the young man. 
 
 " Ah, I thought so. Your eyes look dull 
 and worry-worn — they're good Scotch eyes, too, 
 and sorrow ill becomes them. Have you friends 
 in New York .? " 
 
 " No, sir ; I live by myself in a small room 
 on Clinton Place." 
 
 " Better stay with me, then, a while, if you 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 13 
 
 can be content in such humble quarters. I've 
 known many a man to jump into the East 
 River who' looked more cheerful than you do. 
 Have a drink .' No ? Will you pardon me, 
 then, if I drink alone .' " 
 
 The old gentleman poured a half-tumbler of 
 liquor from a bottle that stood upon the window- 
 sill, and drank it eagerly. 
 
 " Forgive me if I show too much interest 
 in your private affairs. I, too, have had trouble, 
 and I like to talk with a man who knows 
 the taste of it. Champney calls me a tinker 
 of hearts— an occupation fit for a fool, I sup- 
 pose, since there's no money in it. Do you 
 see that poor devil lying on my sofa } He used 
 to scrub and do chores over at the Bottle. Got 
 to drinking and carousing, and presently lost 
 his job. It was the old story of from bad 
 to worse. The other day I met him in the 
 street, and he asked me to help him. ' Well,' 
 said I, 'the best I can do is to offer you a 
 dollar a day to come and arrange my papers.' 
 The fellow is intolerably lazy, and does nothing 
 but eat, sleep, and consume my liquor. I 
 cannot arouse any self-respect in him, and he's 
 a poor clerk for anyone but the devil himself" 
 
 The old gentleman took another draught 
 from the bottle, and began smoking a pipe. 
 
14 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 He had drunk heavily before reaching his 
 room, and was now rather unsteady in his 
 movements. 
 
 "Now let me show you my portrait of 
 O'Darrow," he continued, removing a great heap 
 of papers from the table. "That rascal ought 
 to have had these pictures properly arranged by 
 this time." After a moment's searching he 
 drew from the pile a large sheet of Bristol 
 board, and held it off so that the light of the 
 candles shone fairly upon the portrait it con- 
 tained. The old artist and his young friend looked 
 with silent admiration upon the handsome face 
 in the picture. Its big black eyes were set 
 under a brow that was admirably arched ; the 
 nose and mouth seemed to have been nicely 
 chiselled after the model of a god ; the face 
 was oval, and would have been perfect in 
 contour but for a deep scar across the left 
 temple, and a chin not quite prominent enough 
 to complete the forceful outline that nature had 
 designed for it. The hair, dark and almost 
 silken in its appearance, was cut short and 
 brushed carefully. There were deep lines across 
 the broad forehead and about the eyes sug- 
 gesting sternness. It was the face of a man not 
 above forty years of age, but some of those 
 years must have worn terribly upon his strength. 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 15 
 
 " I soy, Tinker, I know de gent. I 'as gone 
 home wid him when he was dead full." 
 
 The voice came from the sofa, whose oc- 
 cupant had awoke from his slumbers, and now 
 sat blinking and looking at the portrait which 
 the old gentleman held in his hand. 
 
 " I would thank you not to address me with 
 such familiarity,'' said the latter, in a resentful 
 and dignified tone. 
 
 " 'Scuse me," said the man addressed. " I 
 didn't know ye had pertickler company. I 
 don't want er hurt nobody's feelin's. I was 
 goin' to tell ye how I come near bein' scairt 
 to death one night las' winter. 'At bloke you's 
 showin' up 's dead game, gents. Now you 
 hear me." 
 
 " A bloke ! " the old gentleman exclaimed 
 indignantly. " You should not apply your 
 odious Bowery slang to a gentleman. By the 
 way, Mr. Fanning, this is Silas Reeker, with 
 whose unfortunate history you are somewhat 
 familiar." 
 
 Reeker rose and bowed stiffly. 
 
 "Beg yer pardon. Tinker," said he, " I know 
 me languidge ain't jest right fer Fift' Avenye, 
 but I don' mean no disrespec' — see .■• 'Twar 
 this way : I was workin' late one night over 
 to de Bottle, an' de gent come in 'bout twelve 
 
1 6 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 o'clock, an' says he to de boss — ye know some- 
 times he's got a voice dat 'd make a bull run — 
 says he, ' Dey's been a cove follerin' me all day, 
 an' I want one o' your boys to go over an' 
 stay wid me, f r I'm all alone 'n de house.' So I 
 goes upstairs an' shifts me duds, an' purty soon 
 we sloped 'cross town 'up d' avenye. 'Twar 
 a very dark night, an' all the way he kep' a 
 mumblin' an' a-whisperin' to hisself. He 
 walked like a streak, but I tagged him right 
 sharp, and bymbye we got than 'Twar a gran' 
 place, gents, and no mistake. 'Twar jus' lined 
 wid gold an' silver an' dymon's and red welvet 
 an' the like o' that. Wall, I went upstairs 
 wid him an' sot down in his room. Purty soon 
 he shoved a bottle o' whiskey under me nose an' 
 a tumbler. An' then he flew mad an' pulled 
 two pistols out o' a drawer an' sneaked up 
 to me, an' says he : — ' I've got about t'rough wi' 
 dis business. I want you to take de pistol and 
 use it when I gives ye de word — see ? ' Says I 
 ' Yis ' ; but I war that scairt me teet' chattered. 
 Says he, whisperin', 'zif he war afraid some- 
 body'd hear him, ' Dey's a man hangin' 'roun' de 
 house as wants t' kill me, an' if he hear me 
 holler for help 'n th' night I want ye t' git 
 in here mighty quick 'n plunk a ball 'n 'im. 
 Now, take a drink 'n go t' bed 'n de odder 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 17 
 
 room.' I t'rew a little o' de licker down me 
 neck 'n sneaked behin' a big red cyrt'n dat 
 hung ober de door 'twixt my room an' his'n." 
 
 Mr. Reeker paused to light his pipe. The 
 old gentleman had laid down the portrait, and 
 both he and Burton sat listening intently, their 
 elbows resting upon the table. Reeker puffed 
 thoughtfully at his pipe for a moment as if 
 enjoying the suspenseful silence of his auditors. 
 Then he slowly proceeded with his story : — 
 
 " 'Twar darker'n a ship's hold when he 
 doused de glim, 'n' I slid into bed 's quick 's 
 ever I could. I don't believe 'n no ghos' er 
 nothin' o' that sort, but I kep' a hearin' quare 
 noises, an' once I t'ought I heard somethin' 
 rustlin' roun' de room, an' when I opened me 
 peeps thar war a white thing standin' near me 
 bed. Den I flops de clos over me face 'n harks 
 a minit. Seemed 'sif dey war some bloke 
 sneakin' roun' de room an' t'rowin' a sigh out of 
 him 'bout every step he took. It kep' a goin' 
 ' A-a-h, a-a-a-h,' till I war nigh scairt to death. 
 Wall, 'n a few minutes 'twar all still. I couldn't 
 hear not'in' but the clock tickin' away 'n de 
 odder room, an' bymby I shut me peeps 'n got 
 down to me knittin'. All t' wunce I t'ought dey 
 war somethin' poundin' nie ears, an' woke up wid 
 a jump. I heerd somebody talkin' wid de gent 
 B 
 
1 8 The Still House of a D arrow. 
 
 'n d'odder room. I riz up, but I couldn't see 
 no light burnin'. 'Twar all dark. Of a suddint 
 I heered him jump out o' bed. Ton me word, 
 some cove 'd bust inter de house an' was tryin' 
 f kill de gent. 
 
 " ' Keep away f'm me,' says de gent 'n a voice 
 dat made de house trimel, and den he let a lot 
 o' cuss words out o' him ^at made me hair stan'. 
 An' purty soon I could hear 'em tusslin' on de 
 carpet. An' of all de poundin' ! Say, 'twar like a 
 ton o' rocks ! First one war on top an' den de 
 odder, 'n de chairs 'n tables flew 'roun' like fur 
 'n a cat fight. 'N purty soon dey quit fightin', 
 'n I could hear de gent breadin' like 'zif he war 
 winded. ' De bloke has done him up an' sneaked 
 sure,' says I to meself." 
 
 " Why didn't you go and help him .? " Mr. 
 Gravingham demanded, interrupting the speaker. 
 
 " Say, I wouldn't 'a got muxed up 'n dat 
 squabble fer all de gold 'at 'd slide down-hill in 
 January. No, no, Tinker ; I wa'n't takin' no 
 chances. I didn't want no fightin' in de dark, 
 so I lay quiet 'n took me comfort. Soon 's day- 
 light come I sneaked out o' bed wid de popgun 
 'n me han' an' peeked behin' de cyrt'n. Holy 
 Mudder ! what a sight ! Chairs 'n tables 'n 
 bricky-brack scattered 'roun,' 'n de ole man 
 layin' 'n de middle o' de floor all covered wid 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 19 
 
 blood. I t'ought he'd croaked sure, 'n I slipped 
 on me duds 'n made tracks fer de street. I'd 
 had enough o' wisitin' wi' de bon ton, 'n I went 
 down t' de Bowery and trew all de whiskey 
 down me neck dat Jake Humper 'd sell me. 
 Wall, I never knew not'in' till I woke up 'n de 
 cooler, 'n den I t'ought I'd been 'rested fer 
 murder — hope t'die if I didn't. Ye see, de 
 odder bloke 'd sneaked 'n : I didn't know but 
 dey'd put de necktie on me fer dat job. 'Pon 
 me word, gents, I war never s' happy 'n me life 
 as w'en I heerd 'twar only fer bein' full dey'd 
 took me in, 'n soon 's I war let out I shook de 
 town. Now jes' hoi' yer breath 'till I tell ye — 
 de gent wa'n't dead at all. I'll take me oat' de 
 firs' day I got back t' town I seen him on de 
 street, er mebbe 'twar a ghos'. Dat's de whole 
 story, gents, 'n I feel better for tellin' it. Now 
 I'll hoi' me tongue." 
 
 " It was probably a burglar," said Mr. 
 Gravingham, holding the portrait up to the 
 light again. " But it is strange that the assault 
 has been kept secret so long. Probably the 
 police have their reasons. Your part in the 
 affair was not highly creditable, Reeker. If 
 O'Darrow had died they could have hung you 
 for his murder." 
 
 "Dat's wot I t'ought, Tinker, an' so I jes' 
 B 2 
 
20 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 shook de town," said Mr. Reeker, with a smart 
 twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 "You are an ass, Reeker, and the less you 
 talk about this the better for you," said the old 
 gentleman. " O'Darrow is a strange man," he 
 continued, addressing Burton, who had taken no 
 part in the conversation. " They say he is gruff 
 and a good deal of a cynic. He was a wild 
 youth — quarrelled with his father and became a 
 sort of social outcast among his friends in Eng- 
 land. You look as if you needed sleep, sir ; 
 won't you lie down and rest awhile \ " 
 
 '' No, thank you," said Burton, rising. " I 
 must go to my own room." 
 
 " Very well ; let me walk home with you, 
 then," said the old gentleman. " Oh, I don't 
 mind late hours, I am used to them." 
 
 Reeker had fallen fast asleep again before 
 they started out, and as they walked on in 
 silence the grey light of early dawn began to 
 break in over the housetops. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Burton Fanning had come to New York 
 fresh from college and a rural home. He had 
 brought with him many wise plans, but plans 
 must yield to conditions, and there's no telling 
 what will happen to a young man. The re- 
 sistless forces that begin to play with him at the 
 very outset of his career will haze him cruelly if 
 he shows too much conceit. " Look here, my 
 young Master of Arts," they will say when they 
 get him in a tight corner, " let us see if you are 
 a master of situations." Ten to one they'll give 
 him a thorough drubbing, after which he will 
 feel worse than the poor freshman who has 
 received a coat of treacle and goose-down. 
 He'll be lucky if they don't make an incurable 
 fool of him. Young Mr. Fanning had been 
 roughly handled this first year of his life in 
 New York, but he kept a stout heart and a 
 cheerful face. He could not have foreseen that 
 in his work as a newspaper reporter he was 
 to meet Colonel Fairweather Crouch and fall in 
 
22 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 love with the colonel's daughter. Falling in 
 love was a thing he had never reckoned upon. 
 He had come to the city with a fine contempt 
 for riches. His mind was bent upon a noble 
 conquest, in which all sordid considerations 
 were counted among his foes. But now, within 
 twelve months after his graduation, he had 
 determined to give up journalism for more 
 profitable employment. This love affair had 
 shaken the foundations of his character like a 
 moral earthquake. His poverty had tripped 
 him when he was well on the way to success, 
 and now in the mart of his imagination money 
 was at a higher premium than it had ever been 
 before. 
 
 " Crouch is a notoriously rich man," the city 
 editor had said to young Mr. Fanning one day 
 while the campaign of '72 was at its height. 
 " He has political ambition, and wants to talk 
 on the new issues. You are to meet him at his 
 house this evening. He'll probably talk an arm 
 off you, but boil it down to a column." 
 
 Burton Fanning was not yet cured of a 
 certain youthful confidence in men, and Colonel 
 Crouch's cordiality flattered him. He worked 
 hard upon the interview. The colonel's nebulous 
 ideas on reconstruction and the tariff were 
 put in logical order, and set forth with such 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 23 
 
 piquancy and felicitous phrasing that they were 
 taken up by the National Committee and 
 scattered broadcast in pamphlet form. The 
 colonel was so well pleased that he shortly 
 invited the young man to dine with -him at 
 his house. 
 
 " I'm a man of business," said Colonel 
 Crouch, when Mr. Fanning was shown into the 
 library, where he was sitting alone. Without 
 further remark he handed the young man a 
 fifty-dollar bill. 
 
 "What is this for.?" young Mr. Fanning in- 
 quired, while he held the bill in his hand. 
 
 " It -is a slight acknowledgment of your 
 service to me." 
 
 " I thank you, sir, but I really cannot accept 
 it. I have been paid for the article." 
 
 Colonel Crouch took back the bill, and 
 looked at him in dumb amazement. 
 
 " Have I b'd too low ? " he asked presently. 
 " I'll make it a hundred with pleasure." 
 
 " You owe me nothing, and your hundred 
 dollars would be the price of my self-respect, 
 which I value more than any amount of money," 
 said the young man. 
 
 " If one can afford it, that's a very proper 
 feeling," said the colonel, with whom everything 
 had its price. " Forgive me if I have given 
 
24 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 offence by trying to help you along a bit." 
 Colonel Crouch laid both his hands upon 
 Burton's shoulders, and shook him good-na- 
 turedly. Then he excused himself for a moment, 
 and presently returned with his daughter, to 
 whom Burton was introduced. 
 
 " Helen and I are quite by ourselves," said 
 the colonel. " Mrs. Crouch is at Lennox, and 
 will not return for a month." 
 
 As a debutante of the previous season Helen 
 Crouch had not achieved the brilliant success in 
 society that her mamma had planned for her. 
 She was good-looking enough to provoke ad- 
 miration in any company, but the stubborn 
 little miss would not submit to maternal 
 management. 
 
 Colonel Crouch had grown rich quite sud- 
 denly. Both he and his wife had sprung from 
 poor but respectable Yankee stock, and the 
 young lady had inherited some ideas that were 
 more fashionable among her ancestors than 
 among her associates. She held, for instance, 
 that in the matter of marriage the one to be 
 suited was herself She had received offisrs 
 from a number of gentlemen, any one of whom 
 would have been acceptable to her parents. But 
 in spite of their devotion and the solicitous 
 urging of her mamma, Helen Crouch was not 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 25 
 
 yet even engaged. There was young Mr. 
 Pendleton Scaggs, who suited her mamma per- 
 fectly, and whose father was many times a 
 millionaire. He was a representative suitor. 
 Sweet-voiced, slim-legged and generally fragile, 
 no amount of money could bridge the gap 
 between this young man and Helen Crouch's 
 ideal. She was a full-blooded, well-grown 
 young miss, and her big dark eyes had the 
 gleam of indignant scorn when her mamma 
 recommended Mr. Scaggs. The big Baron de 
 Bonsilene, who had also offered himself, was a 
 man more to her liking, although well on toward 
 fifty years of age. 
 
 When Helen Crouch came in upon her 
 father's arm, young Mr. Fanning thought he 
 had never seen so beautiful a womart. It was 
 no doll face he looked upon. Although its 
 features were nicely cut, the expression of her 
 face was a bit too serious at times to become a 
 lady of fashion ; but what it lost on this account 
 it gained in dignity and sincerity. She hated 
 sham and dissimulation, and found all too much 
 of it in fashionable life. She enjoyed above all 
 things taking charge of the housekeeping when 
 her mother was away, and the colonel depended 
 largely upon her clever management. Helen 
 liked young Mr. Fanning at first sight, and 
 
26 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 made him feel quite at home. He came very 
 near her stalwart idea of manhood, and, indeed, 
 a handsomer young man had never sat at the 
 colonel's table. His tall, erect form and Her- 
 culean shoulders were quite in keeping with his 
 deep voice and unaffected manner of speech. 
 When he was about to leave the house, Helen 
 Crouch gave him her hand, and remarked laugh- 
 ingly that she hoped he would have occasion to 
 interview her father again. 
 
 " I may wish to get your ideas," he said. 
 
 " I will talk quite freely, if you will agree not 
 to publish it," she replied. 
 
 Burton was sent to see the colonel again, but 
 found him busy. 
 
 " My daughter will entertain you for a few 
 moments," said Colonel Crouch. " I will be 
 with you presently." 
 
 When, after an hour, the colonel came into 
 the drawing-room, he found the young couple 
 chatting together, and not at all impatient of 
 delay. 
 
 " Ah, ha ! " he thought ; " I don't know but 
 the young rascals are getting a little too well 
 acquainted." 
 
 He could see- no danger of serious conse- 
 quences, however, and no occasion to shut the 
 young fellow out of his .home. 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 27 
 
 Outside of business Colonel Crouch had very 
 little shrewdness, and needed watching. He 
 was, indeed, a bit too honest in suiting his 
 actions to his impulses. He often remarked 
 that the shams and deceptions of fashionable 
 life reminded him of forgery and worthless 
 cheques and breaches of trust. Polite society 
 was a bore to him, and his wife, who had 
 got to be a social favourite, only kept him 
 in line by scourging him with threats and 
 invectives. When she was away he enjoyed 
 the glorious privilege of doing as he pleased. 
 He had learned to respect Burton Fanning, 
 and welcomed him at his home with sincere 
 delight. And why should he not .'' The young 
 man was a gentleman — one, too, who had 
 learned the secret of mixing talk and silence 
 in just the proportions to make agreeable 
 companionship. Burton dined frequently with 
 his new-made friends, and when Colonel Crouch 
 went into a neighbouring state to address the 
 voters he was invited to accompany him and 
 report the trip. Helen and her maid went 
 with them, and while Colonel Crouch was en- 
 gaged with politics, the protection of his 
 daughter fell naturally to the young man. 
 
 On Mrs. Crouch's return there was a great 
 tempest in the family, to which the portly 
 
28 The Still House of O'Darkow. 
 
 form of her husband was uncomfortably ex- 
 posed. 
 
 " I am astonished," said the indignant lady, 
 " that you invited a low, beggarly Bohemian 
 to come here and meet our daughter ! It's 
 a mercy you didn't turn the house into a 
 bar-room ! " 
 
 " I am a man of business, madam," the 
 colonel remarked, somewhat warmly. " I had 
 to repay his kindness, and being assured he was 
 a gentleman, we could see no harm in having 
 him dine with us." 
 
 " You could see no harm in it ! " Mrs. 
 Crouch exclaimed, stamping her foot sharply. 
 " Just look at your daughter ! She does nothing 
 but mope in the house and talk about that 
 reporter — a poor penny-a-linerj if you please, 
 whom she is indebted to her father for meet- 
 ing. The love-sick ninny ! She has had the 
 impudence to tell me that he is just her ideal ! " 
 
 Mrs. Crouch pronounced these wc/rds with 
 a provoking sneer, accompanied by appropriate 
 grimaces. 
 
 " Then stay at home, madam, and manage 
 the house yourself," said Colonel Crouch, 
 as he left the room and hurried away to his 
 club. 
 
 Immediately after this second visit to the 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 29 
 
 colonel's house Burton Fanning made an im- 
 portant discovery in his own heart. His mind 
 took wings and went soaring into a new em- 
 pyrean, and left the meaner part of him to 
 struggle vainly with the tasks of life. The next 
 time he called at the home of the Crouches he 
 was bent upon quite a new sort of business. 
 The butler took his card upstairs, and shortly 
 returned to say in a frigid tone that " the young 
 lady was not at 'ome, sir, and would not be 'ome 
 for some time, sir." Here was a new discovery. 
 It indicated that he was no longer welcome at 
 the colonel's house. Smarting with this sus- 
 picion, he went at once to his room and wrote 
 the following letter : — 
 
 Dear Miss Crouch, — I wonder if you really wished 
 me to call again when you invited me to do so, or was it 
 a mere form of politeness ? Please let me know if I. 
 may come to see you and be welcome in your father's 
 house ? It will be a great kindness to me if you speak 
 frankly, whatever your answer may be. Permit me to 
 say that it will give me great pleasure to come — that is 
 the least I can say of it, and the most that it would be 
 proper for me to say at present. Your father will know 
 of whom to inquire regarding my character. I think he 
 will find that the only bad thing about me is the fact 
 that I am a poor man. I shall await your reply with 
 much anxiety, and am very sincerely yours, 
 
 Burton Fanning. 
 
30 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 Next day Burton received the following reply 
 to his note : — 
 
 Dear Mr. Fanning, — I hardly know how to answer 
 your welcome letter. I am not dealing in light words 
 when I say that it would give me great pleasure to know 
 you better. You had best ask my father at once if you 
 may come and visit us. I fear that you may not find 
 his answer favourable, but we must abide by it, unless 
 something happens to change his mind. With kind 
 wishes, believe me your friend, 
 
 Helen Crouch. 
 
 The young man had not expected a reply so 
 prompt and favourable. He wrote immediately 
 to Colonel Crouch that he would be glad of an 
 early opportunity to speak with him on a 
 personal matter. The colonel's reply was 
 decidedly brief and formal. It said simply : — 
 " Mr. Fairweather Crouch will be pleased to see 
 Mr. Fanning at the house of the former on 
 Tuesday evening of next week, at eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 The young man was frightened by the 
 curtness of this note. Its tone suggested oppo- 
 sition. When the hour of his appointment came, 
 however, he did not shrink from the performance 
 of his part. Mr. and Mrs. Crouch met him in 
 the library. The chilliness of his reception 
 quite unhorsed him. 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 31 
 
 " You have just returned from Lennox, I 
 believe," he said, addressing Mrs. Crouch. 
 
 She nodded coolly. 
 
 " It is another matter regarding which you 
 wish to see us — is it not, Mr. Fanning ? " the 
 lady inquired. 
 
 " It is, madam," he rejoined in a dignified 
 tone. " The subject relates to your daughter 
 and to myself." 
 
 Burton hesitated. 
 
 " Indeed 1 " exclaimed the lady, as she looked 
 reproachfully at her husband, who sat twirling 
 his watch-chain with an air of fear and dejection. 
 " Pray tell us what it is." 
 
 " I entertain a very serious regard for her," 
 said he, " and I have come to ask you if I may 
 meet her here in your home on terms of equality 
 — nothing more." 
 
 " Then I can spare you any further words," 
 said Mrs. Crouch sharply. "A marriage, sir, 
 between my daughter and you would be impos- 
 sible." 
 
 "May I ask you to tell me why?" said 
 Burton, in a voice that trembled with emotion. 
 
 " She cannot marry a beggar." 
 
 Mrs. Crouch arose as she spoke, and con- 
 fronted him with indignant eyes. 
 
 " Agnes," said the colonel, calmly, " please 
 
32 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 be seated. There is no occasion for hard words. 
 Pardon her, Mr. Fanning ; she spoke hastily. 
 We both entertain the highest regard for you, 
 but my daughter would make a bad wife for a 
 poor man. I hope you will dismiss the subject 
 from your mind at once. We simply cannot 
 grant your request." 
 
 " As Mr. Fanning is a friend of yours, I will 
 leave you to discuss this matter with him," said 
 the lady, addressing her husband with provoking 
 irony as she left the room. 
 
 Burton rose from his chair. 
 
 " I have nothing further to say,'' said he, 
 nervously brushing his hat. " I did not hope for 
 a favourable reply. But I do not expect to be 
 poor always, Colonel Crouch, and I thought you 
 might oiTer me some slight encouragement.'' 
 
 '' I am sorry your visits here have resulted so 
 seriously," said the colonel, extending his hand. 
 " But you will soon forget all about it, my boy. 
 Good-night." 
 
 And Burton passed out upon the street,, 
 feeling sadly alone in the world. " You will 
 soon forget all about it." He repeated the idle 
 words to himself in a half-choked whisper, and 
 laughed grimly, while his very soul was smarting, 
 and the tears stood in his eyes. The insulting 
 assumption of superiority with which his over- 
 
The Still House op O'Darrow. 33 
 
 tures had been received hurt him past all remedy. 
 He was thoroughly angry, and in this there was 
 the relish of salvation for him. If one's grief is 
 only mixed with indignation, it will never do 
 him any harm. When he sat down to eat in 
 the Silver Bottle he felt hopelessly bankrupt, 
 and would have traded half his life for a Fortu- 
 natus' purse. But after he left Mr. Gravingham's 
 garret he felt better. He knew that men had 
 grown suddenly famous in his profession by 
 some fortunate discovery in the maze of cir- 
 cumstance surrounding the events of daily life. 
 Might he not hope that good luck would soon 
 favour him .■* Reeker's story had appealed 
 strongly to his imagination. The man O'Darrow 
 was to him a strangely interesting character. 
 The face thai; Mr. Gravingham had drawn, and 
 the tall figure clad in black which he had seen at 
 the Silver Bottle, haunted his dreams. He deter- 
 mined if possible to fathom the mystery of 
 O'Darrow's friendless, hermit life. There could 
 be no impertinence, he thought, in seeking out 
 all facts of public concern regarding the attempt 
 upon his life described by Reeker. Within a 
 week he called one evening at Mr. Gravingham's. 
 " I came to talk with you a little more about 
 Mr. O'Darrow," said Burton. " Do you know 
 the gentleman ? " 
 
34 The Still House of O Dak bow. 
 
 " I knew him slightly when we were boys. 
 Our fathers had adjoining estates in Warwick- 
 shire, England. But I would not think of speak- 
 ing to him now. He has prospered, and I — 
 well, I'm not a millionaire. O'Darrow is a hard 
 man, sir, and as likely to curse you as not for 
 asking him a civil question. The portrait I 
 showed you was made from a photograph for 
 a weekly paper nearly ten years ago." 
 
 " I wonder if he would tell the story of that 
 midnight assault } " 
 
 " Possibly ; although I think the man abhors 
 any sort of publicity. Let me see. Perhaps I 
 could get you a letter to him." 
 
 " I would be greatly obliged for the favour," 
 said Burton. 
 
 " I'm glad of the chance to serve you. Look 
 in upon me to-morrow about it." 
 
 When Burton called next afternoon, he found 
 the letter waiting for him which Mr. Gravingham 
 had promised. 
 
 " This letter is written by a lawyer who has 
 done some business for O'Darrow," said the old 
 gentleman, as he handed the missive to Burton. 
 " He hesitated about writing it ; said he did not 
 know him well, and was afraid he might treat 
 you unkindly ; but I assured him that we would 
 take our risk of that. O'Darrow comes to the 
 
The Still House of GD arrow. 35 
 
 Silver Bottle of an evening now and then ; 
 perhaps you had better watch your opportunity 
 of meeting him there." 
 
 At his lodgings that evening the young man 
 found another letter of even greater interest to 
 him. 
 
 Dear Mr. Fanning [it said], — I feel very guilty 
 indeed while writing these lines, because both my father 
 and mother have forbidden any sort of communication 
 with you. But I must write and tell you how much I 
 regret the unhappy result of your appeal to them. I 
 fear they have treated you very rudely, and if their 
 minds should change I hope you may not find it im- 
 possible to forgive them. But, alas ! old folks are 
 obstinate, and they say a young man's fancy is lightly 
 turned. 
 
 I am, and ever shall be, 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 Helen Crouch. 
 
 C 2 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Burton ate his dinner every evening at the 
 Silver Bottle after that, and often spent half 
 the night listening to the chatter of mine host 
 while waiting for O'Darrow. It was well on 
 toward eleven o'clock one rainy evening, more 
 than a week after he got the note of intro- 
 duction, when his patience was at last rewarded. 
 Burton sat over his coffee, looking out of the 
 front window of the little inn. The theatres 
 were not yet closed, and only two or three 
 belated shopmen had come in Since nine o'clock. 
 Suddenly he saw the tall, erect figure of O'Darrow 
 come hurrying down the alley. It stopped a 
 moment in the broad beam of light that shot 
 out of the windows, and stood on tiptoe trying 
 to catch a glimpse of the scene within. Then 
 the strange hermit came in and sat down at 
 one of the tables. He carried no umbrella, 
 and his slouch hat and black cape-coat were 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 37 
 
 dripping. He seized a piece of bread and ate 
 it eagerly, while he gave his order in tlie same 
 querulous tone that Burton Iiad noted before. 
 It suggested the growl of a dog interrupted 
 in its eating. Annoyed by the water that kept 
 dripping from his hat, he suddenly threw it upon 
 the floor beside him. O'Darrow's face still re- 
 sembled closely the portrait that Mr. Gravingham 
 had shown, but it was thinner and more deeply 
 furrowed. The scar showed clearly across his 
 temple, from the cavity of the left eye back to 
 his crest of snow-white hair. Now that the man 
 was close at hand. Burton hesitated to approach 
 him ; but he desired more than ever to learn the 
 story of O'Darrow's life. His work as a reporter 
 had brought him into contact with many strange 
 characters, and it had been his duty to chronicle 
 much of romance and mystery in the affairs of 
 men. Of all things, the study of men was to 
 him most interesting. He entertained small 
 hope of getting anything for publication from 
 the man who sat at the next table, but after 
 waiting so long for him he was determined 
 to make the effort. Without further delay he 
 drew the letter from his pocket and stepped to 
 O'Darrow's side. 
 
 " Confound it, sir ! " said the latter, turning 
 suddenly and shrinking back before Burton had 
 
38 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 spoken to him ; " confound it, sir, what do you 
 want ? " He spoke like one in anger. 
 
 " Pardon me if I startled you," said Burton. 
 " May I ask if this is Sir George O'Darrow .' " 
 
 " It is, sir," was the sharp response, and 
 before Burton could answer he added, " Tell me 
 what you want." 
 
 " I have a note of introduction." 
 
 O'Darrow took the letter, and tore it open 
 with trembling hands. 
 
 He muttered some angry words under his 
 breath, and crushed the sheet of paper as soon 
 as he glanced at it. "Well, tell me what you 
 want. Don't keep me waiting." 
 
 He spoke hurriedly, and with great irritation. 
 
 " I am a reporter, and I come to you because 
 it is said that you were assaulted by a burglar 
 some time ago, and were seriously injured." 
 
 " A newspaper man. Let me alone ; that's 
 all I have to say." , 
 
 " I would not have spoken- to you but that 
 there is a man whom I suspect of being the 
 guilty party," said Burton. 
 
 O'Darrow turned about and looked squarely 
 into Burton's face for the first time. His brows 
 were contracted, and his black eyes looked 
 fierce and threatening. 
 
 " Poor fool ! I can't talk with you here 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 39 
 
 about it," he muttered, after a moment's hesita- 
 tion. "If you will bother me, come to my 
 house." 
 
 " I don't wish to bother you," said Burton, 
 < but " 
 
 " Come to my house. I'll see you, I say ; 
 that's enough." 
 
 " At what hour ? " 
 
 "At any hour. Go back with me, if you 
 like, only stop talking to me." 
 
 Burton returned to his table, and waited 
 until O'Darrow had eaten his chop and 
 swallowed his mug of ale. He had not long 
 to wait, for the strange man ate and drank 
 hurriedly, and rose from the table as soon as 
 he had finished. At eleven o'clock they left the 
 Silver Bottle, Burton following closely behind 
 O'Darrow. They walked along at a sharp pace 
 without exchanging a word, and presently 
 turned in upon the great mansion of white 
 marble which Burton had seen many times 
 before, a huge pile standing detached from the 
 neighbouring houses just off Fifth Avenue. 
 Long shades of gold and brown were always 
 drawn behind the great panes, and there was 
 never a light nor a face at its windows to 
 welcome the comer. O'Darrow hurried across 
 the terrace and down the carriage drive, quite 
 
40 The Still House of (J D arrow. 
 
 thickly overgrown with weeds, to a side door. 
 He thrust a key into the lock, which grated 
 harshly as he turned it, and then the massive 
 door swung open. 
 
 " Come inside," said he sternly, stepping for- 
 ward and striking a match, with which he 
 lighted one of the gas jets in a chandelier. 
 
 " Sit here and wait a moment," he continued, 
 as his companion entered the room. Burton 
 did as he was directed, and O'Darrow left him 
 alone without further remark. He sat waiting 
 until he heard a man's shout echoing through 
 the silent house. He went to the door through 
 which O'Darrow had'gone and listened. 
 
 " Come up. Do you hear me? Come up, I 
 say." The words came ringing down the great 
 dark hall, into which he was looking, from 
 the top of the house. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, and felt his way through 
 the darkness to the staircasing, up which he 
 proceeded as rapidly as possible. 
 
 O'Darrow met him at the top of the third 
 flight, and showed him into a large room in the 
 rear of the house. It was sumptuously fur- 
 nished, but its handsome fittings were tumbled 
 about in wild disorder. There was an alcove at 
 one side of the room, over which hung great 
 portieres of old tapestry. 
 
The Still House of CDarrow. 41 
 
 "You see," said O'Darrow, in a threatening 
 tone, drawing a dagger and pointing at a brace 
 of pistols that lay on a dressing-case, " I am 
 armed, and you had better try no tricks 
 here." 
 
 " I trust you do not doubt the honesty of 
 my motives," said Burton, feeling a little resent- 
 ment at the rudeness of his host. 
 
 " That's right ; show a little spirit. Curse 
 me if you like, but don't give me any of your 
 fool talk." O'Darrow spoke in a milder tone 
 than before, as if he had discovered the ring 
 of true manhood in Burton's words, and was 
 inclined to respect it. 
 
 " I can stand anything but a reflection upon 
 my honour," was the reply. 
 
 " Egad ! I like you better. We shall get 
 along very well, I think," exclaimed O'Darrow, 
 as if pleased by Burton's remark. " You spoke," 
 he continued, lowering his voice until it broke 
 into a hoarse whisper, " of a man who tried 
 to take my life. Tell me what you know about 
 him." 
 
 " It is not much. A short time ago I saw a 
 man of the name of Reeker " 
 
 " Wait ! " O'Darrow demanded, with an im- 
 patient gesture, as he stepped nervously to the 
 dressing-case, and, taking up an opium pipe, 
 
42 The Still Hquse of O'D arrow. 
 
 began to prepare a pill for smoking. Having 
 cooked it for a moment over a spirit-lamp, he 
 deftly thrust it into his pipe and lay down upon 
 the bed, holding the sputtering mass of opium 
 close upon the flame of the lamp that rested on 
 a table beside him. 
 
 " Proceed, proceed ! " he said impatiently, as 
 he inhaled the smoke. 
 
 Burton related the story that Reeker had told 
 in Mr. Gravingham's garret. O'Darrow listened 
 intently to every word of it. The pipe fell from 
 his hand upon the floor as soon as the opium 
 was consumed ; the stern expression on his face 
 gradually softened into one of eager interest ; 
 his eyes grew larger, and shone with an un- 
 natural lustre in the brilliant light. 
 
 " Is that all ? " he whispered, turning his 
 eyes slowly toward Burton after the last word 
 of the strange recital had been spoken. 
 
 " First, let me ask you if Reeker's story is 
 true .? " 
 
 " True .' Yes, it is true," O'Darrow whispered, 
 staring into the face of his visitor. 
 
 " Have you told the police } " 
 
 " The police ! Who would trust them ? They 
 are a lot of knaves." 
 
 " Have you ever suspected that it was Reeker 
 himself who assaulted you ? ' 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 43 
 
 " Do you see that long cut ? " O'Darrow 
 whispered, leaning forward and pointing to the 
 scar upon his temple. 
 
 '■ Yes." 
 
 " That was the beginning of it. I was coming 
 back from England ten years ago when it 
 happened. I was aboard a steamer in mid- 
 ocean. I could not sleep nights. The moment 
 I went to bed I would lie thinking, thinking. 
 The wind was blowing hard the night I got that 
 scar. It always made me more restless to hear 
 the wind howl. Listen ; can you hear it 
 whistling now ? " 
 
 There was a moment of silence, during which 
 the wind could be heard in a low, plaintive cry 
 as it swept over the roof 
 
 "That sound again !" he continued, scowling 
 angrily. " It always sets me sighing. That 
 night I lay listening to the wind in the cordage 
 until I could stand it no longer. I rose and 
 dressed myself, as I had done before every 
 night since the beginning of the voyage. I went 
 up to the hurricane deck and sat down alone 
 and looked out upon the sea. The moon was 
 shining, and I could discern the glimmer of its 
 light far off on the rolling horizon of water. 
 The stars seemed to stare down upon me as if 
 they were the eyes of God. I had sat for a 
 
44 The Still House of CD arrow. 
 
 long time nursing my misery when suddenly a 
 strange hand touched my shoulder. I looked 
 up, startled. There was a man standing beside 
 me. The moon went under a cloud, so that I 
 could not see his face. He leaned over me and 
 peered into my eyes without speaking. His 
 manner was not unfriendly, and I did not recog- 
 nise him or suspect his purpose. Suddenly 
 he straightened up and pointed out upon 
 the water. I rose to my feet, trembling with 
 a childish and unaccountable fear of the man 
 beside me. 
 
 " ' Jump ! ' he whispered, turning quickly 
 toward me. 
 
 " I saw the meaning of his horrible sugges- 
 tion, and clung nervously to the ship's rail, sick 
 with terror. 
 
 " ' Jump ! ' he shouted impatiently. ' Your 
 life has cursed me and all your friends. Jump ! 
 I tell you. The agony will be over in a 
 moment.' " 
 
 O'Darrow sank back upon his pillow and 
 closed his eyes, as if the thought of that dread 
 command had quite unnerved him. Presently 
 he took a sip of brandy from a bottle standing 
 upon his dressing case, and then proceeded with 
 his narrative. 
 
 " The man spoke in loud and angry tones 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 45 
 
 I knew he meant to do me harm, but I dared 
 not turn to run away from him. He said no 
 more, but laid firm hold upon me, and dragged 
 me toward the stern of the ship. I struggled 
 vainly to free myself I called loudly for help 
 as I wrestled with him, but my voice broke 
 feebly upon the wind. He lifted me in his arms 
 with the strength of a giant, and swung me over 
 the ship's side. I clung to him, and caught the 
 railing with my heel, and fought him back upon 
 the deck. Again and again he forced me against 
 the rail, and every time I beat him back, 
 struggling with the fierceness of a tiger. Sud- 
 denly my pistol dropped from my pocket upon 
 the deck. I had not thought of that. I 
 endeavoured to reach the weapon, but my 
 assailant was quicker than I. Stepping back- 
 ward with the pistol in his hand, he took aim and 
 fired. I felt the sting of the bullet, and fell un- 
 conscious. When I opened my eyes again I was 
 lying in a New York hospital. No one knew 
 who had assaulted me, but I have seen him 
 three times since then. He comes like a ghost. 
 I cannot keep him out," said O'Darrovv in a deep 
 whisper, staring wildly about the room. " See," 
 he continued, rising and pointing to some marks 
 upon the wall, " those are bullet holes. There 
 are one, two, three, four of them, and two more 
 
46 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 over here, making six times that I have shot at 
 him in this room, but I have not yet been able 
 to wound him mortally. He is quick and clever, 
 and somehow he takes me unawares. The last 
 time he would have killed me had I not fled 
 from the house, whence he only followed me to 
 the door." 
 
 " Have you made no effort to apprehend 
 him ? " Burton asked. 
 
 "Yes; that night I ran to the station house 
 and reported the occurrence to the police. They 
 came and searched the premises^ but found 
 no trace of him. Every day and night for 
 six months I had an ofificer concealed here. But 
 what was the use ? We did not see my enemy, 
 and for all I know he may be dead. The 
 police did nothing but rob and annoy me. They 
 are a lot of fools and blackguards. God save 
 me from their hands.'' 
 
 " Can you describe the man who has followed 
 you .'' How does he look 1 " Burton ventured to 
 inquire. 
 
 " Yes ; he is tall, and his face is terrible to 
 look at. His eyes are dark, and they shine like 
 balls of fire in the night." O'Darrow stopped 
 suddenly, and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 " And you do not know the man ? " Burton 
 asked, after a moment of silence. 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 47 
 
 " Know him ! This is idle talk," O'Darrow 
 continued. " It can do you no good, young 
 man, and for me the subject is not a pleasant 
 one." 
 
 " Is there no respect in which I can be of 
 service to you — that is the point I wish to 
 get at," Burton answered, his kindly heart now 
 full of pity for the man before him. 
 
 " Ah, can you be of service .' That has 
 the right sound," said O'Darrow, rubbing his 
 head as if lost in meditation. "' By heaven, sir 1 
 I believe you are an honest man." He rose 
 as he spoke and seated himself in a chair close 
 to Burton. " If you will believe it, sir, I haven't 
 a friend in the world ; but God knows it would 
 take me long to count my enemies. Through 
 all these troubles no man has ever come and 
 offered help. Well, it is no wonder. In all my 
 life I have known but one man I was willing 
 to trust, and he has robbed me. I have re- 
 latives and property in England, but, sir, I 
 wouldn't cross the ocean again to save my soul. 
 I know that man would follow me, and some 
 moment when I least expected it he would 
 throw me into the sea. No, I shall never take 
 the chance of meeting him again on the water. 
 But if I could get some man to go for me — 
 some honest man — he could save me at least 
 
48 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 a hundred thousand pounds. Tell me, young 
 mari, if it be possible for you to undertake such 
 a mission ? " 
 
 O'Darrow turned toward his guest with an 
 impatient gesture. 
 
 " You can find others who will serve you 
 better on a business errand," said Burton. 
 
 " Others .' " he replied with manifest irrita- 
 tion. " Why, I could get a thousand men who 
 would be glad to go. But I'll have none of 
 the knaves. I think I would like you, if there's 
 no deception in your looks. I am a rich man, 
 and my money is as good as any. Why will 
 you not hear my proposition .' " 
 
 " What is the nature of the business ? " 
 Burton asked. 
 
 " Oh ! it is honest enough ; have no fear 
 of that, my boy. Much money is due to me 
 there in England. The rascals will not pay 
 it. I believe my lawyer has been in league 
 with them. I want someone to go and collect 
 the money. I will pay you well to serve me ; 
 and mind, if you do it faithfully until I die, you 
 shall never need a dollar. Tell me, sir, will 
 you go .'' " 
 
 " I will let you know to-morrow." 
 " To-morrow ! to-morrow ! " said the un- 
 happy man, with a sigh of disappointment. " It 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 49 
 
 is a miserable word. All my life I have been 
 waiting on the morrow. I shall feel better 
 to-morrow. I shall have this thing or that 
 thing settled and off my mind to-morrow. It is 
 a liar — I do not trust it." 
 
 Burton rose to go. 
 
 " I can call and give you my answer at any 
 hour," said he. 
 
 " Make it one o'clock ; we can go somewhere 
 and lunch together." 
 
 O'Darrow took the lamp, and proceeded to 
 the stairway in advance of his guest. 
 
 " I wonder that you choose to live alone in 
 this great house," said Burton, as they descended 
 the stairs. 
 
 "A curse upon it!" exclaimed O'Darrow, his 
 deep voice echoing mournfully through the 
 great hall. And in the moment of silence that 
 followed, every deserted chamber round about 
 them seemed to repeat the words. And every 
 statue that the light revealed stood in an atti- 
 tude of solemn approval. 
 
 " It cost me a million dollars," O'Darrow 
 continued, as he led the way. " It has been 
 a curse to me. I would be happier in a hovel. 
 Built it to please my wife, and, egad ! it is a 
 fine house, sir. Come in and look about it 
 a little." 
 D 
 
50 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 As the parlour doors swung open, the light 
 from a score of jets burst suddenly upon the 
 gloom, and a scene of splendour sprang up like 
 magic out of the vanished darkness. Medallions 
 of gold and silver shone upon the walls ; white" 
 statues of Parian marble mantled in cobwebs 
 stood solemnly to right and left like monu- 
 ments, and their cold lips seemed to say, " Here 
 is a dead home." There were soft velvet hang- 
 ings that scattered showers of dust when the 
 hand touched them, and garish treasures of 
 art whose brilliancy was dimmed by moth and 
 mould and the spider's industry. It is strange 
 how, when a house is darkened, and all human 
 spinning has ceased in it, the spider sets up 
 his looms and begins to drape it solemnly after 
 his own caprice. As they strode across the 
 room, their feet fell noiselessly upon the soft 
 carpeting. " I thought we should be happy 
 here," O'Darrow said, as he seated himself 
 upon a sofa. " But my wife was high-spirited, 
 and we quarrelled about all the household 
 arrangements. It was easy to disagree, 
 with such a multitude of things to look after. 
 When she died my servants began to prey 
 upon me; my guests even, not content with 
 my food and wine, stole the bric-a-brac out 
 of my parlours. So one day I discharged the 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 51 
 
 servants, and locked my house against all 
 comers." 
 
 " It is late, and I must go," said Burton, 
 looking at his watch. The atmosphere of the 
 room was close and unwholesome. It was 
 with a feeling of great relief that he stepped 
 out upon the pavement and breathed the sweet 
 air of early morning. He could hear the clatter 
 of bolts after O'Darrow had closed the door. 
 He stood for a moment looking up at the dark 
 and silent mansion, then walked hurriedly down 
 the street, thinking of the mysterious solitary 
 man who dwelt there. 
 
 O'Darrow was not a man to Burton's liking. 
 His manner and conversation betrayed fierce 
 passi'ons that had long gone uncontrolled. He 
 was a hard, sordid man. Here he dwelt in the 
 midst of abundance, with the lust of possession 
 still strong upon him. Regarding his mysterious 
 enemy, Burton was convinced that O'Darrow 
 had not told the whole truth. 
 
 The man who pursued him must have been 
 deeply wronged. He had talked freely about 
 his struggles with the strange visitor, but regard- 
 ing the man himself he had been significantly 
 silent. He had not even confessed whether or 
 not he had ever seen him before the first assault. 
 Back of all these tragic events there must be 
 D 2 
 
§2 The Still Houhe of OD arrow. 
 
 some terrible record of evil - doing, and this 
 suspicion caused Burton to hesitate regarding 
 the offer that O'Darrow had made him. But his 
 income would be largely increased, and he was 
 now in sore need of money. Money, he felt 
 sure, would have enabled him to win the woman 
 he loved — one dearer to him and fairer than 
 all others. And might he not hope to earn 
 the price of her in time if he were to accept 
 O'Darrow's offer ? This consideration appealed 
 to him with decisive force. Having secured 
 a day's leave from the city editor, at the ap- 
 pointed time he called to see his new acquaint- 
 ance. O'Darrow was in better humour than he 
 had been the night before, but his greeting was 
 curt, and his invitation to enter sounded like 
 a sharp command. His voice had lost some 
 of its harsh and brutal quality, however, and 
 the expression of his face was less severe. 
 
 " You're a prompt youngster," said he, look- 
 ing at his watch. " What have you con- 
 cluded ? " 
 
 " To accept your offer," Burton replied. 
 
 " Good ; let us go to our lunch." 
 
 They proceeded at once to a neighbouring 
 restaurant, O'Darrow leading the way with a 
 quick, nervous tread, in silence, his eyes bent 
 upon the ground. 
 
The Still House of O'Dakroiv. 53 
 
 '' How soon will you be ready to start ? " he 
 asked, when they were seated. 
 
 " Within a week, if necessary." 
 
 "The sooner the better. In the meantime 
 I wish you would stay at my house. There 
 are letters to write and memoranda to pre- 
 pare." 
 
 " I can come as soon as I am released — 
 perhaps to-morrow," said Burton. 
 
 " You see, there are rents long overdue, and 
 investments I made years back that are going 
 to the devil for want of attention. You must 
 take a list of them, with instructions in detail as 
 to each. The rascals will try to put you off, 
 but you must make thena pay. Take no non- 
 sense from them — I've waited long enough." 
 
 O'Darrow's eyes blazed with anger as he 
 spoke of his tardy debtors. Then he sat in 
 silence until their meal was served, conning the 
 entries in a memorandum-book. 
 
 " It will not take long to tell what you are 
 good for, but I shall keep you for a year at 
 least," said O'Darrow, while eating his chop. 
 
 " I do not wish to hold the position if I am 
 not able to earn the money," said Burton. 
 
 " Stuff I " exclaimed O'Darrow, hotly. " Let 
 us have no sentimental nonsense. There must 
 be a contract for a year, I say. We will have it 
 
54 The Still House of GD arrow. 
 
 drawn this afternoon. Waiter, send for a car- 
 riage. It must be ready in ten minutes." 
 
 As soon as they had finished eating, they rode 
 down to Nassau Street, where O'Darrow halted 
 the carriage at the door of a large building. Bid- 
 ding Burton follow, he proceeded to the office of 
 a lawyer, with whom lie was evidently unac- 
 quainted, where a contract and a power of 
 attorney were drawn in accordance with his 
 directions. They had returned to the street 
 with these documents duly signed, and were 
 waiting for the carriage to draw up to the kerb, 
 when suddenly O'Darrow's face assumed an 
 expression of great alarm. He uttered a fierce 
 oath as he motioned impatiently to the driver, 
 and then stood on tiptoe looking over the heads 
 of the throng. He seized the door-handle as 
 the carriage came in reach, and, wrenching it 
 open, leaped inside. Burton quickly followed 
 him. O'Darrow was pale, and his eyes glared 
 fiercely. 
 
 " Drive on, you fool, drive on ! " he shouted. 
 Then turning to Burton he said, in a hoarse 
 whisper, " I have just seen him in the crowd. 
 For Heaven's sake, sir, ask that man to drive 
 faster.'' 
 
 As he ceased speaking, O'Darrow turned and 
 peered eagerly through the rear window. Then 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 55 
 
 he sat muttering to himself as if unconscious 
 that Burton sat beside him. Anon some half- 
 finished imprecation could be distinguished out 
 of the unintelligible jargon that rose to his lips. 
 To Burton it suggested the roaring of deep 
 volcanic fires. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " I SHALL wish you to remain with me over 
 night," said O'Darrow, as soon as they were re- 
 turned to the house. " You will be comfortable 
 in the room that is next to mine, and I shall rest 
 better knowing you are there." 
 
 " But I would rest better a thousand miles 
 away from you," Burton thought, as he acquiesced 
 in the somewhat selfish plans of his host. The 
 early twilight of a December day was already 
 thickening between the tall rows of brick and 
 stone up and down the city. 
 
 " Do you wish to eat ? " O'Darrow asked, 
 when their coats were laid aside. " If so, I will 
 wait here until you come back." 
 
 " I am not hungry." 
 
 " Nor I. Confound the bother of it ! I'd 
 never eat if I could have my way. Come, let 
 us sit awhile in the library." 
 
 They walked across the big, dark hall and 
 up one flight of stairs. O'Darrow opened a door 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 57 
 
 near the landing, and after lighting a match 
 entered a large room, and lifted the shades at 
 two of the windows. The last dim light of day 
 fell in upon long cases of books reaching half- 
 way up the walls, and upon the sculptured bust 
 of many a poet and romancer, surmounting 
 them in a solemn row. They sat near one of 
 the windows looking out upon a neglected 
 garden in the rear of the house. 
 
 " Talk to me. Say something, for Heaven's 
 sake— anything, I don't care what," O'Darrow 
 demanded sharply, after a moment of silence. 
 There was the same savage scowl upon his face 
 that Burton had noted when he first met him at 
 the Silver Bottle. 
 
 "Well, then, supposing I say that it looks 
 like snow," said the latter. 
 
 " Don't talk about the snow ; dear Heaven 1 
 that is too white. Have you ever seen a man 
 hanged .' " 
 
 " Yes ; at the Tombs." 
 
 " Did he struggle much — did he seem to 
 suffer?" O'Darrow whispered, leaning forward, 
 his eyes fixed intently on Burton's face. 
 
 " Yes ; it was early morning — the light was as 
 dim as it is here, and while I could not see other 
 faces distinctly, his face was so pale that I could 
 even see his lips moving when he spoke the 
 
S8 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 prayer. After the rope was cut he breathed 
 heavily, and one could tell that he was suffering 
 the stern agony of death." 
 
 O'Darrow sank back in his chair, his mouth 
 open, and his eyes staring wildly as if the 
 horror of the scene had taken strange hold upon 
 him. 
 
 " Tell me about yourself," he whispered, after 
 a short silence. " What have you been doing 
 all your life .' " 
 
 Burton told him of his life at home and at 
 college, and of his work in the city. 
 
 " Enough ! " O'Darrow exclaimed presently. 
 "It is an oft-told tale. I was a merry-hearted 
 youth myself, and the beginning of sorrow came 
 not until I was older than you are. Then I fell 
 in love with the daughter of a poor man, but the 
 cursed pride of my father prevented her from 
 becoming my wife. While I was at college he 
 filled her ears with lies about me, and I came 
 home to find her married. I went to her in 
 anger because she had forsaken me, and she 
 told me then what my father had done. That 
 day the sky turned black above me, and the 
 earth was changed into a den of horrors. 
 Believe me, young man," said he, rising and 
 pacing up and down the room, his face glowing 
 with passion, " there is a kind of love that out- 
 
The Still House of O'Darhow. 59 
 
 lives a man's strength, and honour, and reason, 
 and life. Have you never felt it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; only in my case," said Burton, " the 
 poverty was on my side, and the parents have 
 stood in the way of our happiness ; but I have 
 not — I have not yet abandoned hope." 
 
 " I wish you luck ; but ten to one they will 
 marry her to some scapegrace whom she won't 
 care a fig for, in spite of you. In these days 
 they make merchandise of the most sacred 
 things. But there ! I'm turning preacher. 
 Would it be wise, think you," he asked sud- 
 denly, " for me to marry again ? " 
 
 " Your life would be happier, I have no 
 doubt, with a wife to share this great house with 
 you," said Burton. 
 
 " I do not believe it. I had a fiend for a 
 wife before ; I might have no better luck again. 
 I could marry, and within a fortnight, too, if 
 I would, wreck that I am. Egad ! there are a 
 thousand men in this city ready to sell their 
 daughters to the highest bidder. But I don't 
 take to women of late. It has been years since 
 I looked into a woman's eyes. Ah, well, what 
 hope is there for me, with the devil at my heels .? 
 There is no peace for a man who night and day 
 is racked with fear and horror." 
 
 O'Darrow listened for a moment after he had 
 
6o The Still House op O'D arrow. 
 
 spoken, scarcely breathing. The room was now 
 quite dark, and all was silent in the great house. 
 He rose presently, lit the gas, and filled a pipe 
 with opium, which he smoked with eager relish, 
 reclining on a sofa. 
 
 " My doors are all well barred," he continued, 
 thoughtfully, having finished his pipe, " and the 
 windows are securely fastened ; but if a man is 
 determined to enter one's house he will find a 
 way." 
 
 O'Darrow rose and lit a candle. Then they 
 proceeded in silence down the long stairway to 
 the first floor, and began to inspect the doors 
 and windows on all sides of the house. O'Darrow 
 stopped at each one and tried it with anxious 
 care. The fastenings seemed to be secure, and 
 they shortly returned to the library. "Late in 
 the evening Burton was shown to his bed in a 
 room adjoining that in which he had had his 
 first interview with O'Darrow. He retired at 
 once, and, in spite of his nervousness, shortly fell 
 asleep. In the dead of night he was suddenly 
 awakened by a loud shout that echoed strangely 
 through the great house. He sat up in bed and 
 listened. He could hear voices, and the tramp 
 of feet below stairs. The master of the house 
 was evidently receiving some visitor, for there, 
 were two men talking. He could hear the gruff 
 
The Still House of O^D arrow. 6i 
 
 bass voice of O'Darrow and the milder tones of 
 the other, but he could not distinguish their 
 words. It was probably some acquaintance who 
 knew his habit of keeping late hours. But it 
 might be the dreaded enemy of whom O'Darrow 
 had spoken. 
 
 Burton rose out of bed and walked stealthily 
 through the dark hall to the top of the stair- 
 way. Two flights below him he could see light 
 streaming out of the library door upon the 
 staircasing. They were evidently sitting in that 
 room, and he was now within easy hearing of 
 their talk. 
 
 " Don't touch me," O'Darrow shouted sud- 
 denly. " Stare at me and grin in my face if it 
 pleases you, but don't lay those cursed hands 
 upon me." 
 
 " Hush ! " said his visitor. " There's no occa- 
 sion for loud talk. We'll disturb the guest if 
 you are not careful." 
 
 " Oh, he's asleep," O'Darrow answered, his 
 deep voice contrasting sharply with the tense 
 treble of the other. " Come, I'll settle the matter 
 by some sort of gamble. Let us throw the dice 
 to see whether I owe you all or nothing." 
 , O'Darrow's visitor answered in a whisper, 
 and then there was a moment of silence, broken 
 only by the rattling of the dice. 
 
62 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 "Hard luck! hard luck!" said O'Darrow 
 after his iirst throw. 
 
 Burton could hear him muttering curses and 
 grinding his teeth as if the rage of ill luck were 
 on him while he scattered the dice a second and 
 third time upon the table. 
 
 " That's not so bad ! " said he, " not so bad, 
 after all. Let's see you beat it." 
 
 Then his visitor took the box and shook it 
 furiously for quite half a minute. The rattling 
 of the ivory cubes seemed to fill the house with 
 an ominous clamour. Suddenly they fell upon 
 the table. 
 
 " What ! " O'Darrow exclaimed. " Would you 
 ruin me, body and soul .-' Hold in your luck 
 a little." 
 
 His visitor made no answer, but shook the 
 dice again, and shortly brought them down with 
 a bang. 
 
 " Lost ! My God, why don't you strike mc 
 dead and done with it?" O'Darrow shouted 
 fiercely. Then he uttered curses charged with 
 terrible passion, and seemed to be smiting the 
 table with his fists. 
 
 " You must wait upon me," said he presently 
 in a calmer tone. " I promise that I will pay 
 you some time, but not now, not now. I'll give 
 you any sort of bond, but you must give me time." 
 
The Still House of O'Dareow. 63 
 
 " Your word is sufficient, O'Darrow," said the 
 other. . " I have never known you to break your 
 word, though you've broken hearts beyond 
 counting, and mine with all the rest. It's odd 
 that you have saved this one remnant of honour, 
 isn't it .? " 
 
 " Nonsense," said O'Darrow. " I'll give you 
 a note of hand due in one year." 
 
 There was a short interval of silence, after 
 which the two men crossed the floor of the 
 library and went whispering down the stairway. 
 Burton returned to his room, and throwing open 
 a window, looked out upon the darkness. The 
 sky was overcast, and at first his eye could not 
 fathom the inky depths of air below him. After 
 peering down for a moment he could distinguish 
 a dark figure leaning against the parapet at the 
 foot of the terrace. Presently, as footsteps were 
 heard approaching in the street, it lay down 
 upon the ground so as not to be seen by the 
 passer. For a long time Burton stood watching 
 this figure, unable to make out what manner of 
 human being it was, and at length retired to his 
 bed again, but with no better opinion of the 
 strange man with whom fate had brought him 
 into such intimate association. Next morning 
 he was awakened by a loud rap at his door, and 
 the voice of O'Darrow calling him. 
 
64 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 '■ I shall look for you at four o'clock," said 
 his host, who was waiting for him below stairs. 
 " I may feel then like talking business." 
 
 The early twilight of December was thicken- 
 ing over the city when Burton returned from 
 his work down town to O'Darrow's house and 
 rang at the side door. 
 
 " Egad, young man, you're like a breath of 
 fresh air. The sight of you puts new life in me," 
 O'Darrow said, as he welcomed his guest. " I am 
 hungry for the first time in years. Let us dress 
 and go out to dinner at Delmonico's. After that 
 I may feel like spending an hour in some 
 theatre. You and I are about of a size, and 
 one of my dress-suits would fit you, probably, if 
 you have none." 
 
 Burton was not a little surprised by the 
 plans of his host, but entered into them with 
 all the cheerfulness he could command. 
 
 While they sat at table O'Darrow's face lost 
 much of its severity, and he gave a few brief 
 directions regarding his business in England 
 without betraying any sign of the mental sore- 
 ness that had always seemed to embitter his 
 speech. His heart was evidently warming into 
 new life. His mind was for the nonce forgetful 
 of its sufferings and restored to calmness. 
 
 Their dinner over, they went down to the 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 65 
 
 Bowery and sat for a while in one of the cheap 
 theatres, which were then, as now, much fre- 
 quented by gentlemen who enjoy an occasional 
 night of low comedy. O'Darrow sat puffing a 
 cigar, as if unconscious of all that was passing on 
 the stage. 
 
 " I've had enough of this — let us go home," 
 said he presently. They left the theatre at once, 
 and walked hurriedly up town. 
 
 When they turned in at O'Darrow's mansion, 
 the moon, just risen above the opposite build- 
 ings, shone full upon its front. As its master 
 was about to open the door by which he was 
 wont to enter, his key fell jingling upon the 
 massive stone sill in front of him. He stooped 
 to pick it up, but before his hand had reached it 
 he knelt down with a low, muttered oath, and 
 peered closely at the surface of the white stone. 
 In a moment he struck a match, and held it so 
 that its light fell upon the door-sill. 
 
 The flickering gleam revealed some writing 
 in large rudely - shaped characters, enclosed 
 within a broad black band. Burton was not 
 close enough to make out more of it than 
 " O'Darrow " and " Thieves and Murderers," 
 for he was standing behind his host. But 
 O'Darrow read it, and evidently comprehended 
 its meaning. 
 E 
 
66 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 Speechless with surprise, he held the match 
 in his trembling fingers until it burnt out. 
 Then he began rubbing the inscription fiercely 
 with both hands, as if his life depended on 
 its quick removal, meanwhile launching hot 
 curses from between his clenched teeth. He 
 continued rubbing the stone until not a letter 
 was discernible, and the white marble was 
 stained with the blood of his hands. Presently 
 he stopped and held up his sore and bleeding 
 fingers to look at them. Then he rose to his 
 feet in silence and turned to Burton. 
 
 " Open the door and bring me some water," 
 said he, his deep voice trembling with emotion. 
 " By Heaven ! that was a soul-scrubbing I'll not 
 soon forget." 
 
 Burton unlocked the door and brought out a 
 basin of water, which he poured upon the hands 
 of the unhappy man. Then O'Darrow wet his 
 handkerchief, and carefully wiped the red and 
 black stains from his door-sill. 
 
 " I'm only a crazy puppet,'' said he, after they 
 had entered the house. Burton had found some 
 soft linen, and was binding up the hands of his 
 host. 
 
 "I've been so haunted and set upon, it 
 maddens me to think of it, but this counter- 
 irritation has eased my mind a little." 
 
The SriLL House of O'Darrow. 6y 
 
 Presently they went upstairs. 
 
 " It has done me good, this going about," 
 O'Darrow said, after they were seated in his 
 Hbrary. " I've been living too much by myself 
 of late years, and that's devilish bad company." 
 
 His voice had grown brutally harsh again, 
 and there was the same fierce wild look in his 
 eyes that always came back to them at night, as 
 if it were borrowed from the glare of the lights. 
 
 " Go to bed, Fanning," said he, throwing 
 himself at full length upon a lounge. " You 
 must be ready by this time. I shall lie here and 
 rest ^ while." 
 
 Burton went at once to his room, and had 
 scarcely fallen asleep when he was startled to his 
 feet by a loud peal of laughter that came echo- 
 ing up through the dark halls. As it died away 
 into silence, he could hear the sound of voices 
 again. Then he threw his door open and 
 listened. The same strange treble voice he 
 had heard the night before greeted his ears. 
 O'Darrow's visitor had come again. 
 
 " You lie, sir — you lie ! " the stranger shouted. 
 " Do you hope to deceive me .' Ha, ha, ba ! " 
 
 Again that wild laughter rang through the 
 silent house. 
 
 " The boy has no business in this house. 
 What can come of it but evil to him .? It 
 E 2 
 
68 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 is only temporising with fate. This new plan 
 is but a fool's subterfuge. Oh, by all that's 
 sacred, have you not suffered enough ? Why 
 continue heaping guilt upon shame and guilt 
 upon shame .'' Everyone that ever knew you 
 has been cursed beyond all reckoning, and still 
 you are not satisfied. Have you forgotten how 
 your first wife loved you, and how your fits 
 of drunken rage drove her out of your home 
 in Paris ? " 
 
 " She never came back," said O'Darrow 
 mournfully, after a moment of silence. 
 
 " You know why," the stranger retorted in a 
 low, cautious tone. " She knew you would kill 
 her as you had killed others. I tell you the 
 boy is not safe here." 
 
 "Must I then remain alone and friendless 
 to the end .'' " O'Darrow asked. " Friendless 
 and helpless ! My riches make my poverty 
 more complete ; there is no charity, no pity for 
 it. Just Heaven, what am I to do ? '' 
 
 " Do .' I have told you often what to do," 
 the other retorted in a shrill and angry voice. 
 " Pay me what you owe me. Don't try to 
 put me off with foolish parleying. Come and 
 fight me hand to hand. You've pledged your- 
 self to offer no resistance, but I'll swear I'd 
 rather kill you fighting." 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 69 
 
 " Not yet, my friend. Put away the weapons. 
 I am not ready yet." 
 
 " Afraid ! " exclaimed the other. " By 
 Heaven ! O'Darrow, you have no more man- 
 hood than a schoolgirl." 
 
 Burton listened for some moments at the 
 top of the stairway, but heard no answer to this 
 taunting remark. He stood there until O'Darrow 
 and his guest came out of the library and went 
 downstairs in the darkness, whispering together 
 as they had done before. Then, locking his 
 door, he went to the window and peered out 
 again. The moon had fallen below the opposite 
 roofs, and a dark shadow now covered the 
 terrace. After a moment he could discern what 
 seemed to be the figure of a man outside the 
 postern gate, by which O'Darrow was in the 
 habit of entering. Presently it moved away 
 down the sidewalk, its head just showing above 
 the wall. Then Burton went to bed again, 
 where he lay awake for hours in expectation 
 of trouble. He began now to fear this mys- 
 terious man to whom he had hired himself. 
 It had become a disagreeable piece of business, 
 and he decided to seek release from it im- 
 mediately. He had learned enough about 
 O'Darrow to give a sickening sense of satis- 
 faction to his curiosity. The shadow of im- 
 
JO The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 pending tragedy was upon that house, and his 
 impulse was to flee from it. Next morning he 
 found O'DaiTOw waiting for him in the hbrary. 
 
 " We shall try to finish our work to-day, 
 so that you can go at once," said the latter in a 
 kindly tone. " I like your company better than 
 you like mine, probably. Egad ! this can 
 hardly be a cheerful place of confinement for 
 a lad like you.'' 
 
 " I have no fault to find with it or with you,'' 
 said Burton. He tried to think of some excuse 
 for the request he had determined to make. 
 Now that he was face to face with O'Darrow, he 
 lacked the courage to speak out, and so after 
 breakfast they went to work again upon the 
 foreign accounts. 
 
 " I am invited to a ball to-morrow night," 
 said O'Darrow, after they had finished their 
 business. " The invitation comes from an old- 
 time friend, and I've half a mind to accept it, if 
 these hands of mine are not too sore." 
 
 He drew from his pocket a letter, and read 
 it aloud as follows : — 
 
 " I was glad to see you at Delmonico's last evening. 
 Does it mean that you are getting over your habit 
 of hermitising ? If so, I hope you will come to Mrs. 
 Van Schuyler's ball to-morrow night, for which cards 
 are enclosed. I can introduce you to some beautiful 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 71 
 
 women, who, I will wager, have never met a handsomer 
 man than you. Do try to come.'' 
 
 " I thought I had got through with all that 
 kind of nonsense," said O'Darrow. " But I shall 
 try it again. I've had too much of my own 
 company, and I'll go, whatever may come of it." 
 
 There was a note of sad self-compassion in 
 O'Darrow's deep voice as he spoke these words. 
 For a long time he sat smoking in silence, 
 and looking thoughtfully out of the window 
 while the closing day gloomed into night. 
 
 '' Please summon a cab for me while you are 
 out at dinner," said he as Burton rose to go. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Burton went to the Silver Bottle from O'Dar- 
 row's house. Gravingham was there, and a few 
 newspaper writers, one of them a Hterary critic 
 who had achieved celebrity as a prophet of 
 the new school of realism. Burton sat down 
 with them beside his friend the artist. 
 
 " There's not much emotion in our modern 
 life," said the critic who was discussing a recent 
 novel with one of the company. " You know, 
 it's the age of reason." 
 
 " There's as much emotion as ever, but you 
 don't observe it," said Gravingham. "You see 
 no emotion in your club or your apartments, or 
 your office, or the parlours of your friends, and 
 so you decide there's none in the world. You 
 have built a stone wall around your life, and 
 you never look over it. Go stand for a day at 
 the gate of Greenwood Cemetery ; go sit an hour 
 in St. Mary's of a Sunday morning; give up the 
 theatre and go among the morgues and hospitals 
 
Thf. Still House of 0'Darro]\: 73 
 
 and asylums and tenements where the real 
 tragedy of contemporary life is progressing, and 
 then you'll think there's nothing but emotion in 
 the world." 
 
 "That's the blood and thunder of cheap 
 fiction," said the critic. " I refer to the better 
 side of life." 
 
 " It's the blood of broken hearts all the 
 same," said Gravingham, his eye kindling. 
 " Shall we say there's no heat in the world 
 because we live in the frigid zone .'' Your 
 fashionable world is distinctly one of man's 
 creation — it's as artificial as the painted scenery 
 and masquerade of the theatre ; it's the north 
 pole of life. I wish it were possible to open a 
 misery fair in this city, but I suppose it would 
 take the whole canopy of heaven to cover the 
 exhibits — your fashionable young women who 
 have been married to brutes, the biases who have 
 had enough of living, the host who suffer 
 poverty, and all who have been crushed under 
 the heel of hard luck. Such a spectacle would 
 correct your notions of life." 
 
 " If it did not drive me to madness," said the 
 critic, smiling at the earnestness of the old 
 artist. 
 
 " The rich ought to see more of what is 
 passing among the poor," Gravingham continued. 
 
74 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 " They are hopelessly apart, and out of sympathy 
 It's the fault of the rich, who segregate them- 
 selves in palaces, and sell their sons and 
 daughters at the altar of Mammon. Even the 
 Church has been used as an auction mart for 
 this unholy traffic. I believe, sir, that inter- 
 marriage on rational principles between the rich 
 and the poor would hasten the coming of better 
 conditions, and a nobler race of men." 
 
 " Impossible ! " exclaimed the critic. 
 
 " Then the gospel of Christ is vain folly, and 
 the teaching of the saints is mockery," said the 
 old gentleman. " If it is impossible, then 
 marriage will become more and more a matter 
 of buying and selling. If I had a daughter 
 nothing should be good enough to buy her 
 except considerations of character and mutual 
 fitness." 
 
 " Such sentiments do greater credit to your 
 heart than to your judgment, Gravingham," said 
 the critic. " They are absurdly visionary. Now 
 here is our friend Fanning, who earns probably 
 twenty dollars a week. Assume that he marries 
 the daughter of a millionaire who has never 
 cost her father less than one hundred dollars 
 a week since the day of her birth. Don't you 
 see that Mr. Fanning would have married 
 himself to a lot of trouble, and that a speedy 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 75 
 
 divorce would be the happiest result one could 
 look for ? " 
 
 " That depends," Gravingham replied quickly. 
 " Has the young lady thought upon the problems 
 of life at all ? Has she any well-considered 
 aim ? If she has not, I am sure Fanning would 
 never ask her to marry him. If her mind is 
 not incapable of serious thought, she will see 
 that to marry a man who has character and a 
 heart strong enough to win her, even though he 
 has nothing else, is good fortune. She can 
 practise self-denial to a very high purpose, 
 which is vastly better than going into a convent 
 as many do ; she can turn to and help him in 
 the struggle of his future life. Such love and 
 happiness and noble womanhood will come to 
 her that it will repay her a thousand times for 
 what she has given up." 
 
 " It's all very beautiful, but it won't work," 
 the critic rejoined. "Your poor young man 
 has rarely the chance of meeting your rich 
 young lady, and he'd never have the courage if 
 he had the opportunity to woo her." 
 
 " That's his fault," said Gravingham, rising 
 from the table. " The most insuperable barrier 
 is sure to he in the fact that the young lady 
 has been schooled to vicious thinking. If she 
 is favourable to him, and he cannot find the 
 
"jS The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 opportunity to woo her, he has no invention ; 
 and if, having found it, he fails, then he's 
 either a coward or a poor lover, or both." 
 
 Burton rose with the old gentleman, and 
 bidding the others good-night they left the 
 Bottle and proceeded to the little studio on 
 Bleecker Street. The young man saw in the 
 words of his aged friend a sharp condemnation 
 of himself, and as they walked along in silence 
 he felt that it was just — that he had been a 
 coward and a poor lover. When they were 
 seated before the stove. Burton told Gravingham 
 the story of his meeting with Helen Crouch, and 
 somewhat of his life since then, and of his 
 hopeless passion. 
 
 " Has your blood turned to water? " said 
 Gravingham sharply ; " to be such a laggard 
 shows you have no spirit. If you are going 
 away you must see her first. Sit down here and 
 write her a letter, and I will make sure that she 
 gets it." 
 
 Burton turned to the table at once, and wrote 
 
 as follows : — 
 
 " I am going to England by the British Queen this 
 week, on a mission which promises well. I wish, if it 
 is possible, and if you can think it right, to see you 
 again before I go. To be quite frank, I love you, and I 
 have had more consideration for your family than for 
 myself or I would have confessed it before now. It 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. "jj 
 
 seems probable that my income will soon be sufficient 
 to warrant me in trying to win yonr love, if I am not 
 too late. 
 
 " I do not know when or where this will reach you, 
 but the man who brings it may be implicitly trusted." 
 
 " So she is the daughter of Col. Crouch, of 
 Wall Street fame .'" said Gravingham thought- 
 fully. " I know many of his intimate friends. 
 Let me have the letter, and I shall see that she 
 gets it immediately." 
 
 " I thank you with all my heart for your 
 interest in me," said Burton. 
 
 " I would not see a man friendless in such a 
 cause," Gravingham replied. " I am living here 
 now in a miserable garret because I married a 
 poor man's daughter and my father cast me 
 out. Yes, sir, he actually cut me off with a 
 shilling for no other reason. I was the son of 
 an English gentleman of considerable wealth, 
 . and was thrown upon the world but little pre- 
 pared for its hard discipline. We had poor 
 prospects at home, and so we came here to take 
 our chances with the crowd. I could draw pretty 
 well — my schooling had taught me that. But it 
 was hard to turn my \york into money. We 
 lived in humble quarters, and our dinners — ah, 
 well ! they were not always equal to our appe- 
 tites — but my dear wife never complained. We 
 were always happy and cheerful ; we made it a 
 
78 The Still House of OD arrow. 
 
 point to laugh at misfortune. I remember one 
 night we sat down to our supper hungry and 
 with very little to eat. We both began laughing 
 before we had finished — I don't know why, unless 
 it was because we had caught each other acting 
 a part — and we laughed until our tears flowed 
 like wine, and we were looking at each other and 
 sobbing and smiling. If I had been born poor 
 instead of she, if I had known some craft or 
 trade, I think we should not then have found it 
 so hard to make our way among strangers. 
 
 " We were getting along well, but when she 
 died my ambition died ; my hand forgot its 
 cunning, and the ruins of a great hope fell upon 
 me and crushed me. Since then I have suffered 
 much, and have maintained but an indifferent 
 show of respectability. 
 
 " I have learned to endure and be silent, but 
 I cannot endure that sophistry born of brutal 
 ignorance which says that emotion is dying out 
 of the world." 
 
 " I hardly think that O'Darrow would agree 
 with our friend the critic," said Burton ; " his life 
 was nearly ruined by his father's pride." 
 
 " Yes, I know the story ; if he had been per- 
 mitted to marry the woman he loved it would 
 have been a brighter story, and the curtain would 
 not have fallen upon a tragedy as it will. 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. jg 
 
 " After what you have told me, I am sure 
 some man he has wronged is working vengeance 
 upon him ; some fierce and cunning foe, who 
 will probably do him to death in time." 
 
 Mr. Gravingham was interrupted at this 
 point by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and 
 presently a slim, sad-looking man came saunter- 
 ing in with a pail of beer. His clothing was 
 worn and torn, and largely too big for him. He 
 grasped his trousers by the waistband on enter- 
 ing the room, as a policeman might lay hold of 
 a treacherous prisoner. 
 
 " This is Hosier, my new clerk," said the old 
 gentleman. " I had to discharge Reeker for 
 general incompetency." 
 
 Hosier bowed stiffly, and sat down upon the 
 sofa as if seeking a safer and less conspicuous 
 attitude. He had nothing to say, but as he sat 
 there he was a highly interesting study. His 
 feet, which were encased in enormous shoes, 
 shrank back under the sofa to avoid observa- 
 tion, while Mr. Hosier gazed pensively upon the 
 carpet. His crown was entirely bald, and his 
 face was small and thin. 
 
 " I dare say you found it rather cold outside," 
 remarked Mr. Gravingham to the newcomer. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, and then he relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
8o The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 Presently there was the sound of other foot- 
 steps on the stairs, and the irrepressible Mr. 
 Reeker walked boldly into the room. 
 
 " Top o' de evenin' to ye, gents," said he 
 cordially. " I t'o't I'd jes slide in a minit 'n git 
 some o' de tings I lef here." 
 
 " If you left anything here you're quite 
 welcome to it," said the old gentleman, rising, 
 " but I must request you to get it and leave my 
 room at once." 
 
 "Oh, I ain't agoin' t' stay no longer 'n's 
 needful. Tinker," said the unwelcome guest. 
 Then, turning, he spied Mr. Hosier, who was 
 still gazing serenely at the carpet. For a 
 moment Reeker stood looking at the new clerk 
 with undisguised contempt. 
 
 '"S a fine bird you've got dis time. Tinker," 
 said he. " Look here, me fren', you'll wear 
 a hole 'n de carpet if ye don' lif yer eyes 
 off'n it." 
 
 " Reeker," said Mr. Gravingham, " I shall 
 make no words with you. Please get your 
 things and go." 
 
 Reeker was still contemplating the unhappy 
 Mr. Hosier, and, no doubt, thinking of his 
 recent fall from the Elysian fields. Suddenly 
 his eyes wandered down to the big shoes that 
 were partially hidden under the sofa, then. 
 
The Still House of O D arrow. 8i 
 
 stepping forward, he grasped one of Hosier's 
 feet, and held it up for closer inspection. 
 
 " Off wi' dem shoes ! " he exclaimed, releasing 
 the foot and pointing at it indignantly. 
 
 " Off wi' dem shoes ! " he shouted again in 
 a voice that would evidently brook no delay. 
 
 Mr. Gravingharn stepped forward nervously. 
 
 " If I may be permitted to ask," said he 
 emphatically, " I would like to know why you 
 request the gentleman to remove his shoes .' " 
 
 " Why, sir .' " asked Reeker indignantly. 
 " Fur de reason why, sir, dat dem shoes is 
 mine." 
 
 Further argument was unnecessary, as Mr. 
 Hosier was already removing the shoes from his 
 feet with as much haste as possible. 
 
 " Ah, ha ! " said Reeker, lifting the lappel of 
 Hosier's coat as soon as he had secured the 
 shoes. "Off wi' dat jacket." 
 
 Hosier immediately removed the jacket in 
 question. 
 
 "An' now, gents," said Reeker, bowing 
 politely, " havin' got all me belongin's, I wish ye 
 good-night," and he immediately descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 Mr. Gravingham was much disturbed by 
 Reeker's visit, and was no doubt sorely tempted 
 to the use of hard words. But he only 
 F 
 
82 Thr Still House of O'Darroiv. 
 
 administered a mild reproof to Hosier for the 
 liberty he had taken in appropriating to his own 
 use the property of " another gentleman." 
 
 When Burton was about to leave, the old 
 artist went with him to the top of the stairs. 
 
 " You must have an eye to your own safety 
 while you stay in that house, my boy," said he. 
 
 Burton proceeded at once to his own lodgings 
 and to bed, where he lay for hours thinking over 
 what the old gentleman had said, sleepless with 
 impatient longing to know what the near future 
 had in store for him. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DECADE had passed since George Ernest 
 O'Darrow forswore all connection with the 
 polite world. It was shortly after the death of 
 his wife, with whom he had led a quarrelsome 
 existence, that he locked his doors and turned 
 his back upon society. There was much gossip 
 about his mysterious conduct at the time. It 
 was known that there were houses in New 
 York where he had never been made welcome, 
 on account of rumours affecting his good name. 
 But this was hardly enough to explain the sudden 
 and radical change in his social attitude ; for, 
 despite his moral infirmities, there were many 
 ladies of high position in New York who were, 
 indeed, too glad to receive him. With all asso- 
 ciates his manner had been reserved and haughty. 
 In short, he was a man without friends ; and so, 
 after his name was dropped from the rolls of 
 fashionable life, the handsome Britisher was 
 soon forgotten. 
 F 2 
 
84 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 When he reappeared at Mrs. Van Schuyler''s 
 ball, there were not half a dozen people in the 
 house who had seen him before. The few who 
 remembered him were not slow to recognise his 
 erect figure, his air of distinction, and the classic 
 mould of his face, which time had now crowned 
 becomingly with white hair. O'Darrow was 
 very graciously received by the hostess. Rumours 
 of his great wealth and noble breeding spread 
 among the guests, who pressed about him eager 
 for introductions. 
 
 " Your daughter is magnificent," said 
 O'Darrow to Mrs. Fairweather Crouch, as they 
 sat together looking at the dance. " You are 
 the most fortunate mother in the world." 
 
 " You are very good to say so," said the lady. 
 " She is really a very dear and sensible girl. 
 Such young ladies are so easily spoiled, you 
 know. The flattering attentions they receive 
 are quite enough to turn their heads." 
 
 "It has done me good to look at her. I 
 could almost wish to be young again." 
 
 " Do you really feel so very old. Sir George .'' 
 I thought you were still a young man." 
 
 "Thank you. My sins and not my years 
 have turned my hair. Indeed, I am not so old 
 as many a younger man." 
 
 O'Darrow was a master of the gentle art of 
 
The Still House of GD arrow. 85 
 
 politeness. He knew how to win the favour of 
 women, and Mrs. Crouch was by no means a 
 difficult subject for him. She was, indeed, 
 greatly flattered that he had shown her such 
 distinguished courtesy, while there were so many 
 others in the ball-room who would have been 
 glad of even a word with him. Helen and 
 young Mr. Pendleton Scaggs, with whom she 
 had been dancing, came along presently. 
 
 " Oh, Sir George ! " exclaimed the young 
 lady, " I've been hearing dreadful things about 
 you — that you have cut all your old acquaint- 
 ances, and that for years you have lived all alone 
 in your great house. I am really almost afraid 
 of you." 
 
 O'Darrow's face turned suddenly pale, and he 
 shot down at her a nervous, startled glance. If a 
 man had said as much he would have kicked him 
 for his impertinence. 
 
 " It is true," said he, quickly regaining 
 composure. " I have lived alone for many 
 years, on account of ill-health, but I am better 
 now." 
 
 " A rich man, good-looking, and in ill-health ! 
 By Jove, sir, you are a tempting mark for the 
 single ladies. Look out for them," said the 
 colonel. 
 
 "As if such an anchorite were in danger 
 
86 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 of marriage ! They say his temper has been 
 spoiled by too much soHtude," Helen remarked, 
 as she walked away with Mr. Scaggs. This 
 interesting young gentleman had given up his 
 hopeless pursuit of her, and had, indeed, suc- 
 ceeded in pledging his affections to another. 
 
 " Yes, I'm very much in love," said he, at the 
 first reference to his engagement. They were 
 seated in a deserted corner of the drawing- 
 room. " It's a wonder you never fall in love," 
 he continued. " I've always half suspected that 
 you lost your heart when you met that young 
 giant who came to see your father. Here is a 
 letter. It was given me by a friend, who said it 
 was to be put in your hands. If you don't care 
 to hear from that young man, you'd better let 
 me take it back unopened, for it's ten to one the 
 letter comes from him." 
 
 Helen gravely folded the letter and tucked 
 it away in her glove. 
 
 " Do you know who it is from .' " she in- 
 quired. 
 
 " I can only guess," he replied. " It was 
 known that I should see you to-night, and so — 
 but, whatever it is, I am innocent of all know- 
 ledge about it." 
 
 Helen excused herself immediately, and re- 
 turned to her mother, who was still talking with 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 87 
 
 O'Darrow. One who knew him could tell at a 
 glance that he had tired of the game, as the 
 gamblers say. He had been forced to answer 
 many troublesome questions, and, after all he 
 had suffered, politeness came hard if he were 
 under the slightest irritation. He had been 
 heard to say years agone : " I hate all kinds of 
 men and elderly women." So Mrs. Crouch 
 had not succeeded very well in her effort to 
 entertain him, though she had done her best 
 to deserve success. 
 
 " We hope to see you soon at our house," she 
 said, extending her hand. 
 
 " I shall be happy to call," O'Darrow an- 
 swered, and bade them good -night. Then, pre- 
 senting his excuses to Mrs. Van Schuyler, he 
 hurriedly left the house, not stopping even to 
 summon his carriage. He shortly quickened his 
 pace to a run, muttering oaths as he proceeded 
 down the deserted avenue. 
 
 Burton had been working with O'Darrow 
 that afternoon, and, being tired, had gone to his 
 room early in the evening. Now that he was 
 alone in the great house a nameless fear took 
 possession of him. He tried to read as Pie 
 lay in bed, but was unable to enjoy his book, 
 for he fancied that he could hear the stealthy 
 tread of feet up and down the stairways, and 
 
88 The Still House of OD arrow. 
 
 a sound as of someone whispering outside 
 his door. This ghostly disturbance, and the 
 recollection of the mysterious voices that had 
 roused him from his midnight slumbers, set him 
 thinking to account for them. It was clear 
 to Burton that O'Darrow must be secretly 
 harbouring some person who might possibly be 
 the enemy he so dreaded. As the conviction 
 grew upon him, he rose out of bed and, 
 opening his door, shouted, " Who's there .'' " at 
 the top of his voice. The echo of his call rang 
 through the vacant rooms until it died away 
 below stairs. He listened for a moment, peering 
 out into the darkened hall, but could only hear 
 the wind rushing over the roof Then he locked 
 his door again, put out the light, and tried 
 to sleep. At first the great house seemed full 
 of a tumult of strange sounds, which finally 
 fell into the hush of that dim borderland be- 
 tween sleeping and waking. Suddenly a shrill 
 cry of " Help ! " broke in upon his sleep. He 
 rose up in bed and listened. 
 
 " Help ! Fanning ! Fanning ! " It was 
 O'Darrow's voice that rang through the house. 
 It trembled with terror. He was running up the 
 stairs as if fleeing from some pursuer. Instantly 
 he threw himself against the door of Burton's 
 room, and beat upon it fiercely with his hands. 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 89 
 
 " Quick, Fanning ! quick ! " he shouted, 
 pounding savagely upon it with feet and fists. 
 
 Burton sprang out of bed in the darkness, 
 and as he drew the bolt of his door the terror- 
 stricken man burst in and sank upon the floor 
 as if exhausted, repeating in a hoarse whisper 
 his piteous appeal for help. Burton stood close 
 against the wall for a moment, not knowing 
 what to do. Then he felt for a match, and 
 lit the gas. O'Darrow lay panting and trem- 
 bling upon the floor, his face covered with his 
 hands. 
 
 " Are you hurt ? " Burton asked. 
 
 O'Darrow made no reply, but lay motionless 
 where he had fallen. Presently he looked up 
 out of horror-stricken eyes, and asked, in a 
 hoarse whisper, " Do you see blood upon nie .' " 
 
 " I can see no blood,'' said Burton. 
 
 '' Here, is there no blood here ? " he asked 
 again, feeling his forehead. 
 
 " No, sir ; I can see no blood upon you." 
 
 " Heavens ! Is that so .■" I thought he had 
 cut me there." O'Darrow rose to his feet as 
 he spoke, and stood looking into a mirror. He 
 had not yet removed his gloves or his cape-coat. 
 
 " Where is he ? Let us try to find him," 
 said Burton. 
 
 " Find him ! " said O'Darrow, with stern em- 
 
go The Still House of OD arrow. 
 
 phasis, as he faced suddenly toward the young 
 man. " Thank you, I shall find him, but I shall 
 do my own hunting.'' He spoke sharply, and 
 added, " Tm sorry to have disturbed you," and 
 then, still trembling with the excitement of 
 his encounter, he went to his room. 
 
 Next morning O'Darrow seemed to have 
 forgotten his fright. While they were at break- 
 fast he directed Burton to make immediate 
 arrangements for his passage to England, and 
 drew a cheque to cover the estimated expenses. 
 
 " I shall not be with you to-night," said 
 Burton. " Before sailing, I must go to my home 
 for a day or two." 
 
 " My house isn't a pleasant stopping place 
 these days," said O'Darrow, " but you will 
 always be welcome there." 
 
 "You are very kind. If you will let me 
 speak frankly, I must confess that I, too, have 
 begun to fear the enemy whom you seem 
 powerless to avoid. I have thought sometimes 
 that you suffered him to remain in your house 
 as a secret guest for some reason — possibly 
 because you cannot or dare not dislodge him." 
 
 O'Darrow turned pale, and leaned forward 
 frowning. 
 
 " Speak not so loudly," he whispered, 
 glancing over his shoulder at the other tables. 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 91 
 
 Perceiving that there was no one to overhear 
 them, he continued in a low tone — 
 
 " I have trusted you, Fanning, as I have 
 never trusted a man before. I beg of you 
 not to speak to anyone of what you may have 
 seen or heard in my house. It is my business, 
 and I do not wish it to be noised abroad to 
 make gossip for fools. Not that there is any 
 secret about it which, if divulged, might hang 
 me. Confound the business ! I swear to you 
 the thought of it is so gruesome and disagree- 
 able I prefer to keep silent. Did you think you 
 saw some stranger in the house before I came 
 home ? " 
 
 " No ; I only thought I heard footsteps after 
 I had gone to bed, but my nerves were excited, 
 and I might easily have been deceived." 
 
 " They were real footsteps. My enemy has 
 taken up his abode in my house, and will not go 
 away. I shall not try to conceal that from you. 
 He comes out of his hiding-place at night, and I 
 often see him, but until last night he has not 
 tried to do me harm since you have been here. 
 Poor devil that I am ! He will not be gone. 
 Now that you are going, I shall quit the house 
 and take rooms at some hotel for a while. There 
 I shall hope to enjoy the rest I need." 
 
 The two arose from the table, having finished 
 
92 The Still House of GD arrow. 
 
 their meal, and O'Darrow walked with Burton 
 to his old lodgings. 
 
 " You will not see me again until you return," 
 said the former as they reached the gate. 
 
 Burton saw tears in O'Darrow's eyes when 
 he looked up at him, but before he could answer, 
 the mysterious man was walking hurriedly away. 
 
 The young man had come to have some 
 fondness for his new friend, but he was glad 
 to be rid of him. He had had enough of living 
 in the shadow of that horrible mystery. Who 
 was the strange man whose voice he had heard 
 so often, whose form he had seen in the darkness 
 of the night hovering about the gate of 
 O'Darrow's mansion, whose feet he had heard 
 walking through its deserted chambers, and the 
 mark of whose chastisement was on the brow of 
 its master ? Who was he ? 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Burton found a note from Helen Crouch at his 
 lodgings. It said simply, " I shall try to meet 
 you for a moment at the steamer." Brief as it 
 was, this note gave him large assurance and 
 renewed hope. Evidently she was yet free, and 
 not wholly indifferent to him. The British 
 Queen was to leave her dock at eleven next 
 morning. He was there an hour before sailing 
 time, and stood at the gang-plank waiting for 
 Helen until the last call to go aboard. She failed 
 to come, however, and at the last moment he 
 was half minded to give up the trip and wait 
 there awhile, for he felt sure she was coming. A 
 second thought convinced him that this would 
 be a foolish thing to do, and he rushed aboard 
 just before the gangway was lifted. While the 
 great hawsers were being loosed he stood on the 
 deck of the steamer, looking out upon the 
 landing. Suddenly he espied Helen standing 
 with young Mr. Scaggs in the big doorway. 
 
94 The Still House op OD arrow. 
 
 She was looking at him and waving her hand- 
 kerchief. It was over in a moment, but he 
 caught a tremor of emotion in her face, the 
 memory of which was to remain with him as 
 long as he lived. Sweet and tender as her 
 face had always been to him, it was now un- 
 speakably ennobled by this look. And that 
 brief glimpse of it was enough for him. He 
 felt thankful indeed that he had not met her as 
 he had expected to do, when probably the mask 
 of conventional politeness would have covered 
 their faces, and he would have missed the 
 revelation that had come to him. He felt sure 
 that she loved him now, and that was enough. 
 The ship moved slowly out into the river, and 
 Burton Fanning stood trying in vain to conceal 
 his tears. It seemed to him that the fetters 
 which bound him to poverty and a life which 
 had been hard and distasteful were loosed, and 
 that he was started in a new path. 
 
 That day O'Darrow took bachelor's apart- 
 ments on Fifth Avenue. He did not return to 
 his house, nor even send for his wardrobe, but 
 went to a shop for such clothing as he required. 
 A great change had come over him since he met 
 Burton Fanning. That youthful integrity of 
 mind in the young man which at first had 
 nettled him so sorely had finally acted like a 
 
The Still House of CDarrow. 95 
 
 spiritual tonic. The past ten years had been to 
 him like one long twelfth hour of night. Now 
 he could see welcome signs of the coming of a 
 new day. In spite of himself O'Darrow had 
 begun to feel a sort of paternal fondness for the 
 boy. The feeling was strange to him. He had 
 never known what it was to be fond of anything 
 since the disappointment of long ago that had 
 so embittered his life. After he had bidden 
 Burton good-bye he went directly and hired his 
 rooms, then, locking the door, he threw himself 
 upon a lounge and wept as he had not wept 
 before since childhood. All his life passed 
 before him in those few moments of grief and 
 loneliness. For hours he lay thinking over the 
 vanity and the sadness of it. Suddenly he 
 thought he heard a gentle rap. It had grown 
 dusk, and when he opened the door he could 
 not clearly discern the figure that stood in the 
 hallway, but O'Darrow knew well who had come. 
 His visitor only nodded familiarly and walked 
 to a chair without speaking, like a friend who 
 takes his welcome for granted. 
 
 O^Darrow sat down, frowning savagely. 
 
 " I have come to have an understanding with 
 you," the man remarked in a low tone. 
 
 O'Darrow rose from his chair and paced 
 thoughtfully up and down the room for a 
 
g6 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 moment. As he passed a long mirror he turned 
 to look at its dim reflection of his figure. 
 
 " Tears ? " said his visitor. " Let me see 
 them. I had thought there were no more tears. 
 It's a hopeful sign." 
 
 " Why do you pester me ? " asked O'Darrow, 
 turning suddenly and frowning upon him. 
 "You're always at my elbow. I'd like to be 
 rid of you for a while." 
 
 " No doubt," the other replied, in a tone of 
 mild expostulation. " But first it will be neces- 
 sary to get over your dislike of me. I'll be your 
 friend if you will let me. It's a pity you never 
 had a son, a daughter, a friend, or anyone that 
 you might have loved. By all that you have 
 suffered don't you see that a man cannot live 
 without love 1 If it is no holier feeling than the 
 love of riches, or pleasure, or even of wickedness, 
 it will suffice for a time. You have tried these 
 things and you have hungered for a better 
 passion. Dear God'! We know right well how 
 that hunger consumes the heart, and how the 
 lye of the heart's ashes stings the soul. Long 
 ago I counselled you to make an end of it all ; 
 which I would gladly have helped you to do but 
 for your fear of what's to come." 
 
 " All you say is true," said O'Darrow, in a 
 deep tone that trembled with emotion. " My 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 97 
 
 life has been a dreary waste ; but now it is 
 something besides cowardice that makes me 
 cling to it. I could not be fonder of the boy if 
 he were my own son. I want to live to help 
 him ; but not alone for that. Last night I met 
 a sweet young girl whom I love as I had never 
 thought it possible for me to love again. For 
 Heaven's sake don't discourage me now. No 
 man ever felt a purer passion." 
 
 " Your heart, then, is not too old and tough 
 for that kind of sentiment. Good ! But I warn 
 you not to deceive yourself and me in this 
 matter. If you do," said O'Darrow's visitor, 
 speaking slowly and in a threatening tone as he 
 rose from his chair, "you know what will come 
 of it." 
 
 As this threat was spoken, O'Darrow took a 
 blanket from the bed, and, wrapping it about 
 him, lay down upon a lounge, yawning wearily. 
 His strange guest walked stealthily to the door, 
 as if afraid of disturbing him, then, stopping to 
 look back for a moment, he stepped out into the 
 hall and closed the door gently. 
 
 That night brought sounder sleep to 
 O'Darrow than he had enjoyed for years. Next 
 day he was quite another man. He felt the 
 relief of a commander who, in the midst of war 
 makes a temporary truce with the enemy. He 
 G 
 
98 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 hired a valet, and in the evening went to call 
 at Colonel Crouch's. Helen and her mother 
 received him cordially. O'Darrow had a de- 
 finite object, in seeking which he entertained 
 no misgivings. He was the kind of man that 
 people are proud to introduce in their drawing- 
 rooms as "My friend Sir So-and-So.'' His 
 handsome face, his stately figure, his elegant 
 manners, and his title, needed not to be supple- 
 mented with a certificate of character among 
 such people as the Crouches, and they were very 
 good people at that. Mrs. Crouch had pro- 
 nounced him "very grand indeed," and said 
 many other extravagant things about him since 
 their meeting in Mrs. Van Schuyler's ballroom. 
 This evening O'Darrow did his best to make 
 himself agreeable. 
 
 " I feel the need of friends,'' said he to Helen 
 before going. " I am almost a stranger in New 
 York now, and I hope I may claim the friend- 
 ship of yourself and your good mother and 
 father." 
 
 " You are very kind. Sir George," said she. 
 " Such a friendless, forlorn creature as you 
 excites my pity. But you have not known us 
 very long yet. Better be careful how you 
 commit yourself." 
 
 There was something in her manner as she 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 99 
 
 spoke that increased O'Darrow's confidence. 
 Indeed, to her inexperienced eyes he seemed 
 to be a model of gentlemanhood, and his 
 attentions flattered her. His manners derived 
 their charm from a certain forceful simplicity. 
 Somehow his every word and action suggested 
 the sinews of Achilles. Whatever his life might 
 have been, she felt that he outclassed the drawl- 
 ing ninnies who were so abundant in fashion- 
 able society. After he had gone, Helen told her 
 mother that there was something about Sir 
 George that reminded her of Burton Fanning. 
 
 " The impertinent young beggar ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Crouch, who, by the way, had learned by 
 early experience what a hateful thing poverty 
 is, her father having been a soapmaker until 
 fortunate speculation brought him wealth : " I 
 thought you had forgotten him." 
 
 " I shall never forget him," said the young 
 lady in a provokingly sentimental tone. " Indeed, 
 mamma, I almost think I was in love with that 
 young man. Upon my word I cannot under- 
 stand your dislike of him. You must admit but 
 for his poverty he would have been very nice." 
 
 " For my own part, I must say that I always 
 thought him very, very stupid," Mrs. Crouch 
 declared, as she bustled out of the room. 
 
 More invitations came to O'Darrow during 
 G 2 
 
loo The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 the next few weeks than he found it possible or 
 agreeable to accept. 
 
 He was at dinner with the Crouches one 
 evening, after which he went to the theatre with 
 Helen and her mother. He had met his enemy 
 but once since the night he moved into bachelor's 
 quarters. Then the man had overtaken him in 
 the street and walked for a little way beside 
 him in silence as if to show that he was not 
 entirely unmindful of what was passing. But he 
 was no longer quarrelsome or intrusive, so that 
 O'Darrow could eat and sleep and go his way 
 without fear. One afternoon he went driving in 
 the Park with Helen and her father. They 
 were in an open carriage, the rear seat of which 
 was occupied by the young lady and Sir George. 
 They had just turned toward home when he saw 
 his ancient enemy standing beside the road a 
 short distance ahead of them. The strange man 
 stood as motionles.'j as a statue while they drove 
 by, staring hard at them, but betraying no sign of 
 recognition. Helen saw the pallor on O'Darrow's 
 fac.e as he turned to look back, and spoke of it. 
 
 "Did you notice that man standing beside 
 the road ? " he inquired. 
 
 She looked up at him, half-amused by his 
 earnestness, and asked, "Are you afraid of 
 highwaymen. Sir George?" 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow, ioi 
 
 It was getting late in the afternoon, and that 
 part of the drive was quite deserted. O'Darrow 
 turned and eagerly scanned the roadway for a 
 moment, while a puzzled expression stole over 
 his face. Then he sat looking thoughtfully 
 about in a spell of abstraction, and only spoke 
 now and then for the sake of politeness until 
 they had returned home. 
 
 " Do you believe in ghosts .? " he asked Helen 
 after they had sat down together in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " Devoutly," she answered, laughing. " Not 
 that I have ever seen one. Have you. Sir 
 George ? You do not really think it was a 
 ghost you saw in the Park to-day ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. But in some respects that man is 
 like a ghost. Don't you know there are people 
 who keep turning up most unexpectedly, as if 
 fate were continually driving them across your 
 path .' Some time I will tell you about him." 
 
 " What time? " she asked. 
 
 "When you have promised to become my 
 wife, if you must know." 
 
 His handsome face was very serious when 
 Helen looked up at him. 
 
 " Oh, Sir George, this is unfair," she ex- 
 claimed. " You ought not to take advantage 
 of a woman's curiosity." 
 
I02 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 " You know what is said of love and war," 
 he continued. " I love you, Helen, very dearly, 
 and am, I fear, bad enough to do anything to 
 win you." 
 
 " I have resolved to be an old maid," said 
 she. " I am greatly honoured by the love of 
 such a man as you, but I cannot promise now to 
 be your wiffe." 
 
 O'Darrow was surprised at her answer. He 
 had been confident of success in this matter, and 
 even now he thought she was only playing with 
 him, after the fashion of women he had known. 
 
 "In spite of that I shall try to win you," said 
 he. "You will think better of me some time, 
 I hope." 
 
 " I fear I shall never change my mind," she 
 answered, quite decidedly, and Sir George did 
 not return to the subject that day. 
 
 O'Darrow dined with the Crouches in the 
 evening. Helen and her mother went out after 
 dinner to join a theatre party. O'Darrow and 
 the colonel retired to the library with their 
 cigars. 
 
 " I have fallen in love with your daughter, 
 sir," said the former, as soon as they were seated. 
 " It is not necessary for me to ask you the ques- 
 tion that you know is on my mind. Please speak 
 to me quite frankly." 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 103 
 
 The colonel sat thoughtfully looking at his 
 cigar for a moment without speaking. 
 
 " I am very much complimented, Sir George," 
 said he ; " be assured of that. I like you im- 
 mensely, but I know next to nothing about 
 your affairs." 
 
 " Fve got more money than I know what to 
 do with, if that is what you mean," said 
 O'Darrow. 
 
 " Rumour has credited you with great wealth ; 
 but a father ought to know how his daughter is 
 to be provided for. If the girl is willing, and 
 we can agree upon a settlement for her, you'll 
 not need to wait long for my consent." 
 
 " Tell me what you think would be satisfac- 
 tory," said O'Darrow, after a moment's pause. 
 
 The colonel rose from his chair and walked 
 up and down the room, his brows knit thought- 
 fully. He was very fond of his daughter ; but 
 all his life he had been driving bargains, and, 
 as long as she must marry, why shouldn't he do 
 the best he could for her.' Of course, her 
 husband must be a gentleman, but aside from 
 that he recognised no sort of sentiment in the 
 matter. Love was a thing for fools to prate 
 about. 
 
 " Well," said he presently, " I think you 
 should give her some definite sum in her own 
 
104 The Still House of O'Daerow. 
 
 name — say, five hundred thousand dollars — 
 which, with what I can do for her, would be 
 quite sufficient." 
 
 " It's a bargain — I beg your pardon — I mean 
 that I am willing to meet the conditions you 
 have named," said O'Darrow, who then described 
 to the colonel the character of his various in- 
 vestments and his plans regarding them. 
 
 It was near midnight when O'Darrow left the 
 house. The sky was clear and the air bracing. 
 He hurried down the avenue in the direction of 
 his apartments, but before he had gone half the 
 distance he suddenly discovered that his enemy 
 was walking beside him. They whispered to- 
 gether for a moment. Then the strange man 
 spoke out sharply as they walked along— 
 
 " It's a shame to sell an innocent girl like a 
 chattel. It's a shame — isn't it now ? " 
 
 " Ah, well," said O'Darrow, " if he chooses_to 
 sell her it's his business." 
 
 " Pardon me, it's God's business — this dealing 
 in human souls." 
 
 " Perhaps," O'Darrow answered, half doubt- 
 fully ; " but in this case it makes no difference, 
 since I love her, and shall be so tender of her." 
 
 " It's a comfort to think it makes no difference, 
 but in your soul, O'Darrow, you know better. I 
 perceive you are trying to be honest about it. 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 105 
 
 but I warn you that no good can come of 
 such unholy barter. Consider — she does not 
 know the man she is to marry. Has she such 
 love, think you, that, forsaking all others, she 
 will cling to you and bear all things for your 
 sake ? You know what she might have to 
 bear." 
 
 O'Darrow groaned bitterly as he hurried 
 along, but made no reply. His enemy walked 
 beside him in silence to the next corner, where 
 he bowed politely and left him. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Next morning Sir George Ernest O'Darrow 
 took unusual pains with his toilet, and when he 
 started up the avenue on the way to breakfast 
 with Helen and her mother the glow of high 
 respectability was upon him. In recent years he 
 had been extremely careless of his dress, but 
 now the revolution that had been going on in 
 him had re-established the old dynasty of self, 
 and the new king was displaying his banners. 
 After a long talk with the two ladies, Sir George 
 took them out for a drive. Mrs. Crouch desired 
 to stop for half an hour at a charity hospital in 
 Harlem, where she had church business to attend 
 to, and when she alighted from the carriage the 
 good lady gave them permission to drive north- 
 ward a little way along the shore of the Hudson 
 instead of waiting at the gate. It was a clear, 
 bright day. The sting of winter's cold was tem- 
 pered to the heart's delight by a genial sun. 
 They were riding slowly along the river-side, 
 admiring the scene, when suddenly O'Darrow 
 
The SriLL House of O'D arrow. 107 
 
 became silent and quite deaf to Helenas chatter. 
 They had come to an open space, where the 
 road ran close to a cliff of rocks that slanted 
 toward the river and then plunged sheer to 
 the water's edge, a hundred feet below. 
 
 " It is no wonder that you do not feel like 
 talking here," said she. " How grand the river 
 looks ! " 
 
 He made no answer. His eyes were directed 
 upon some object at the edge of the cliff, and 
 there was a strange, wild look of fright in them. 
 
 " Why, Sir George, where are you driving 
 to ? " Helen asked. 
 
 The horses had left the road, and, their ears 
 erect, were measuring their steps timidly as they 
 approached the edge of the rocks. O'Darrow 
 sat like one in a trance, staring straight ahead. 
 The horses reared backward at the brink. 
 Helen uttered a wild cry of terror, and her 
 companion, now feeling his peril, threw all his 
 strength upon the reins. The horses plunged 
 sideways, upsetting the waggon and throwing 
 both its occupants upon the ground with terrific 
 force. As O'Darrow rose to his feet, he saw 
 the team go tearing down the road, throwing 
 the shattered vehicle right and left at every 
 leap. Helen lay near him, pale and still as if 
 dead. He raised her head and spoke to her, 
 
io8 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 but she made no answer. Then he Hfted the 
 girl in his armSj and walked hurriedly back 
 to the drive and toward the city. In a moment 
 a mounted policeman came galloping up the 
 road, and brought his horse to a standstill 
 at O'Darrow's side. 
 
 " Is she badly hurt, sir "i " the officer asked. 
 " Wait here, and I will bring an ambulance.'' 
 
 " I must go, I must go ! I really cannot 
 wait ! " said O'Darrow, staring wildly at him 
 and hurrying along all the faster. 
 
 " You can never get her to the hospital. 
 Why don't you wait ? " 
 
 " Away with you ! I am in a great hurry ! " 
 O'Darrow said, not even stopping to look up. 
 
 Seeing that he was half crazed, the police- 
 man rode off with all speed for help. O'Darrow 
 kept his way, bearing the lifeless girl, her head 
 hanging limp across his arm, and her loosened 
 hair streaming almost to the ground. Presently 
 the officer came back with an ambulance. 
 
 " She is my love," said O'Darrow, when the)'^ 
 
 stopped him. "I must go! I must go!" He 
 
 . endeavoured to walk by them, but was finally 
 
 persuaded to get into the ambulance with his 
 
 charge. 
 
 " Who is this young lady .■" " the surgeon 
 asked him. 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 109 
 
 " This is Colonel Crouch's daughter," said he. 
 " I bought her from him. The poor girl belongs 
 to me now." 
 
 He would answer no more questions, but sat 
 stroking her hair and muttering to himself 
 strangely. When they arrived at the hospital, 
 half a dozen men were required to get him 
 out of the waggon and into his room. Helen 
 was still unconscious, and her father was im- 
 mediately sent for. 
 
 "Your daughter has been seriously injured," 
 said the house surgeon, when Colonel Crouch 
 was shown into his office. "There is a fracture 
 of the skull upon which an immediate operation 
 will be necessary. I think she will survive it, 
 but I must not conceal from you the fact that 
 there is danger." 
 
 " Good God ! " he exclaimed, sinking into 
 a chair. " Is it as bad as that .' " 
 
 For a moment the colonel sat quite dazed, 
 wiping the tears from his eyes. It was the first 
 hard stroke of misfortune that had ever fallen 
 upon him, and it hurt him sorely. 
 
 " Can I see her .? " he asked in a broken 
 voice. 
 
 " Better not see her now." 
 
 " I am a "man of business," said the colonel, 
 after a moment. " I want the most skilful 
 
no The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 attendance that can be secured. If she recovers, 
 I will give 10,000 dollars to every man who 
 helps to save her life." 
 
 " That is unnecessary," the doctor calmly 
 replied. " If you were a poor man she would 
 be just as carefully treated." 
 
 The colonel looked at him in amazement. 
 It seemed unjust, somehow, that in this crisis 
 his riches could avail him nothing. 
 
 " Am I to understand that we have your 
 consent to the operation ? " the doctor asked. 
 
 " Do whatever is necessary," said Colonel 
 Crouch. " Only I must be present." 
 
 " We shall begin shortly," said the doctor, 
 as he rose to leave the room. " Wait here, and 
 I will send for you in good time." 
 
 While the colonel was waiting, O'Darrow, 
 who had stealthily made his way down stairs^ 
 came into the room. 
 
 " Is she dead .-' " he whispered, as he sat 
 down beside the colonel, his eyes staring wildly. 
 
 " Not yet, sir," Colonel Crouch replied sharply, 
 turning toward him. " Was my wife with you ? " 
 
 " Your wife ? No, she was not with us ; she 
 is safe." 
 
 " Tell me how it happened," said the colonel. 
 
 " I tried to kill her, that is the truth of it ; 
 but I love her. You sold her to a brute for 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. hi 
 
 five hundred thousand dollars. You did not 
 know me. I am a crack-brained grovelling brute 
 and a slave of the devil. There was no agree- 
 ment as to how the girl was to be treated. 
 Your concern was not about my character, 
 Colonel Crouch." 
 
 " Sir George, what are you saying? " the 
 colonel indignantly replied. " You must be 
 insane." 
 
 " There is no doubt of it. This very day 
 I have sliffered enough to drive a man to in- 
 sanity. I cannot stand this persecution any 
 longer ; I shall not try. Even if she lives I can 
 never marry your daughter. But I love her, 
 and would give every dollar I have and my 
 worthless life to see her well again." 
 
 " What can I do ? What can I do .? " the 
 colonel repeated, wringing his hands and pacing 
 up and down the room. 
 
 " Have you any influence with God 1 " 
 O'Darrow asked solemnly. " You are a business 
 man. Why not drive some sort of bargain with 
 Him ? " 
 
 O'Darrow was interrupted by a number of 
 attendants, who came in and took him back to 
 his room. 
 
 " The excitement has carried him quite out 
 of his mind," said the doctor who came with 
 
112 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 them. " He will have to go to an asylum for a 
 few days." 
 
 In a moment Colonel Crouch was shown to 
 the operating room where his daughter lay, 
 covered with clean white linen, upon a table, 
 pitifully helpless — "a subject," indeed, submitting 
 silently to the trial of its great issue, and con- 
 scious of neither pain nor fear. The grave- 
 faced surgeons stood about her, looking at the 
 wound upon her head and discussing in low 
 tones how they had best proceed. The colonel 
 walked calmly to a chair, and sat down where 
 he could see the form that lay so still upon the 
 table. O'Darrow's strange rebuke rang in his 
 ears. Had he really sold his daughter to a 
 brute 'i The idea seemed appalling. As he 
 thought of it now, that arrangement was dread- 
 fully like a bargain. The surgeons proceeded 
 with their ghastly hazard of skill, and while his 
 daughter's life was wavering in the balance 
 Colonel Crouch sat with bowed head in silence, 
 humbly beseeching the forgiveness of his sins. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 On reaching England, Burton found that the 
 affairs of his employer were sadly confused. 
 O'Darrow's former agents had failed, and a con- 
 siderable amount of his money had gone down 
 with them into the pit of bankruptcy. His 
 landed property was badly run down, and many 
 of his tenants were hopelessly in arrears for 
 rent. 
 
 " So you have come to collect Sir George's 
 rents .'' " said a lawyer whom Burton found it 
 necessary to consult. " I wish you luck. It is 
 strange that he neglected his interests so long. 
 But he was always a sorry prodigal, whose ways 
 were past all comprehension. Are you not 
 familiar with the baronet's history ? Indeed ? 
 Let me say, then, for your own information, that 
 it is not highly creditable. He was a gambler 
 of great skill and phenomenal luck. He made 
 large winnings at Monte Carlo repeatedly, and 
 no man in London ever got the better of him 
 II 
 
I [4 The Still House of OD arrow. 
 
 at cards. He fought a duel in Paris and killed 
 his man, I believe. His wife was a woman of 
 bad repute, whom he never dared introduce to 
 respectable people. In short, his life was quite 
 given over to debauchery, gambling, and shame- 
 less intrigue. Nearly all his old friends turned 
 against him, as might have been expected, and 
 he left the country in disgust. And now Sir 
 George is living in New York-? Well, I hope 
 he is doing better." 
 
 " His life has been very quiet of late years," 
 said Burton. " In fact, I think he has outlived 
 all delight in dissipation." 
 
 " It's a wonder he is living at all. There are 
 few men who could have stood the wear and tear 
 of such a life. What with all the provocation 
 he has scattered, it's a wonder, indeed, someone 
 has not killed him." 
 
 " I am surprised to hear it," said Burton. 
 " Has he enemies who might be inclined to do 
 him harm ? " 
 
 " Enemies ! " exclaimed the barrister, smiling, 
 " why not ? A man whose only aim is to profit 
 by the loss of his fellows, and who goes about 
 breaking up homes, cannot help making ene- 
 mies. He becomes the natural enemy of all 
 good men. I do not believe Sir George would 
 dare to return to England or France. I have 
 
The Still House oe O'D arrow. 115 
 
 no doubt he would have to fight for his Hfe if 
 he did so." 
 
 This talk with the lawyer confirmed the 
 suspicions that Burton had long entertained 
 regarding O'Darrow's enemy. That he had 
 sown the seed of persecution there was no longer 
 any doubt. Some one of the men he had 
 wronged was dogging him with devilish per- 
 sistency. The fact that he had not yet taken 
 O'Darrow's life showed clearly that he desired 
 to reserve him for further misery, and wreak out 
 his wrath upon him by slow degrees. Burton 
 found purchasers for a considerable part of the 
 property, and placed the rest of it in the hands 
 of a reliable agent. It was a disagreeable 
 piece of business, and he was glad to be done 
 with it. 
 
 He wrote to his employer a week before he 
 sailed, informing him by what steamer he would 
 reach New York. On his arrival, however, he 
 looked in vain for O'Darrow at the dock. 
 Burton went at once to the great white mansion 
 and rang, in the hope of finding its master. It 
 had the same inhospitable aspect as before. 
 The shades were all drawn close, and no one 
 came to admit him. He remembered that 
 O'Darrow had expressed his intention of going 
 into bachelor's apartments, but where had he 
 H 2 
 
ii6 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 gone ? At the Silver Bottle Burton found Mr. 
 Gravingham eating lunch. The old artist greeted 
 him warmly, and invited him to share his chops 
 and ale. 
 
 " Of course you have heard of what befell 
 O'Darrow recently," said Mr. Gravingham. 
 
 " No, I have but just landed." 
 
 " I only know what I have read in the 
 papers," said the old gentleman. " It seems 
 that Sir George had given up hermitising and 
 got back into society. He was driving with a 
 young lady whom he was soon to marry, and 
 whose name has not been made public. The 
 horses took fright and came near dragging them 
 into the Hudson. They were both thrown from 
 the carriage, and the young lady's skull was 
 fractured by striking the sharp edge of a rock. 
 O'Darrow was crazed by the shock, and was 
 taken to an asylum, where, in my opinion, he 
 ought to have gone long ago. The young lady 
 is still in the hospital, but is said to be getting 
 better." 
 
 " Do you know where I can find him ? " the 
 young man inquired. 
 
 " Yes, he is at Bloomingdale." 
 
 " I must go there at once,'' said Burton, rising 
 from the table. 
 
 When he announced his name and the object 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 117 
 
 of his visit at the asylum, he was shown at once 
 to the office of the superintendent. 
 
 " I am glad you have come," said the latter. 
 " Sir George is quite well again, and has been 
 asking for you. Shall you be with him much 
 after he leaves here ? " 
 
 " I shall probably see him every day for a 
 while," said Burton. 
 
 " If you should notice any recurrence of this 
 trouble please let me know about it," the doctor 
 added, as he conducted him to the patient's room. 
 
 O'Darrow was sadly changed since Burton 
 saw him last. His face had grown thin and 
 pale ; the old look of weariness had returned to 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Thank God you're back again," said he in 
 a hoarse whisper, shaking Burton's hand. " I 
 thought you would never come." 
 
 " I am glad to report that my mission has 
 been quite successful," said Burton. 
 
 " Let business be hanged ! " exclaimed 
 O'Darrow. " I care not a fig for what you have 
 done. Let us get out of this place. I've had 
 enough of it." His eyes kindled with anger as 
 he spoke. He took his coat and hat from the 
 servant who had brought them, handed him a 
 roll of bills, and then walked hurriedly out upon 
 the street, followed by Burton. 
 
ii8 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 " I've suffered incredible horrors since you 
 left, my boy,'' O'Darrow continued as they pro- 
 ceeded down the avenue toward the city. 
 " Before I can tell you about it I must pull 
 myself together a bit" They walked on in 
 silence at a smart pace, and presently turned in 
 at a florist's shop. O'Darrow bought a large 
 basket of flowers, and scribbled directions as to 
 its destination on a card. 
 
 " Be good enough to go with the messenger, 
 and present my compliments to the young lady's 
 mother," said he to Burton. " Inquire how the 
 poor child is getting along. Tell her I am quite 
 well again and will call at once. Pray be careful 
 to remember just what she says to you. I will 
 be at my house at five o'clock." 
 
 Burton proceeded with the messenger to the 
 hospital where Helen lay, not knowing whom he 
 was to meet. When Mrs. Crouch came in to 
 receive the message, he rose and looked at her 
 for a moment, unable to speak. 
 
 " Mrs. Crouch ! " he exclaimed, presently, 
 turning pale. " I — I did not expect to see you. 
 What has happened ? " 
 
 She made an effort to reply, then they both 
 sat down, the lady covering her face and 
 weeping silently. The truth flashed upon 
 Burton's mind with confusing and painful 
 
The Still House of CD arrow. 119 
 
 suddenness. The love he had kept warm in his 
 heart now seemed more hopeless than ever. 
 But he resolved to save Helen if possible from 
 the fate of marriage with O'Darrow. 
 
 " She has spoken of you often since she 
 began to improve," said Mrs. Crouch, having 
 recovered her composure. 
 
 " She is getting better, then .' " 
 
 " Yes, she is out of danger now." 
 
 "Thank God for that," said Burton. " These 
 flowers are for her. I brought them from Sir 
 George O'Darrow, who requested me to say that 
 he would call at once." 
 
 " Poor man ! "' she exclaimed, " I suppose he 
 is quite out of his mind." 
 
 " I hope you have discovered," said Burton, 
 " that Sir George is not a fit companion for your 
 daughter } Mrs. Crouch, the time has come 
 for plain talk. How could you think of marry- 
 ing her to a man who is utterly depraved } 
 Believe me, I have no selfish motive in saying 
 this." 
 
 " Mr. Fanning, we have wronged you," said 
 Mrs. Crouch, rising and extending her hand. 
 " Try to forget it and forgive us." 
 
 " I forgave you long ago," said he ; " but 
 there are things that cannot be forgotten — such, 
 for instance, as having an arm or a leg torn off. 
 
I20 The Still House of OD arrow. 
 
 to forget which would mean the absolute loss pf 
 one's senses." 
 
 Burton left the hospital at once, his heart 
 full of pity for O'Darrow. After all, was it not 
 a mean thing he had done in speaking so harshly 
 of him ? He carefully recalled the words he 
 had spoken as he walked along, and he knew he 
 had done right. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was not quite five o'clock when Burton rang 
 at the side door of the great white mansion. 
 O'Darrow, yawning and rubbing his eyes as if 
 he had been asleep, admitted him promptly. 
 
 " I feared you'd fail me," he whispered, as he 
 preceded Burton up the gloomy stairway to 
 the library. " I can't bear to be alone now." 
 
 He let the shades up to the top of the 
 windows, and they sat down together in the 
 dim twilight. 
 
 " What did they say to you ? " O'Darrow 
 asked. 
 
 " Mrs. Crouch would not receive the flowers." 
 
 " She's a sensible woman ! Did she inquire 
 about me, or say anything regarding my con- 
 duct ? " 
 
 " Not a word," said Burton. " She only said 
 that she supposed you were insane. I am bound 
 to tell you frankly. Sir George, that I warned 
 her not to permit the marriage." 
 
122 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 O'Darrow sprang from his chair, his eyes 
 ablaze with anger. 
 
 "Confound your impertinence!" he shouted; 
 " you are a meddler. What do you mean .■" " 
 
 " I mean that I loved the girl long before you 
 saw her/' said Burton, rising to his feet and 
 facing him indignantly ; " and, if I did not love 
 her, it would be my duty to save her from the 
 fate of marriage with a man like you, if I 
 could." 
 
 O'Darrow dropped back into his chair as if a 
 heavy blow had felled him, and, laying his head 
 upon his arm, sobbed loudly, like a woman sorely 
 grieved. The door stood open, and the sound of 
 his weeping echoed through the dark and silent 
 house. A score of voices rose out of the gloom to 
 mock his sorrow. Burton sat down beside him, 
 not venturing to speak for a moment. Such 
 grief was past all consolation. O'Darrow grew 
 quite calm presently. 
 
 " I'm a sad villain. Fanning," said he, " but I 
 really meant well in this love affair. The cards 
 are running badly now — that is all. When my 
 heart changed for the better my luck ran to the 
 bad. If you love her, why do you not seek to 
 marry her ? " 
 
 " Because they will not permit her to marry 
 a poor man." 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 123 
 
 " Fools ! They'd rather sell her ! " exclaimed 
 O'Darrow. " But you are no longer a. poor man. 
 I have willed to you half my fortune." 
 
 " I thank you with all my heart," said Burton, 
 who was taken quite by surprise. " But, believe 
 me, I do not desire it — indeed, I cannot accept 
 it. Dear as this girl is to me, I have determined 
 never to buy my wife with money." 
 
 " Then I wish you to bestow it for me. Do 
 not oppose me in this, I pray you. Egad ! 
 Fanning, I am in fear of perdition. I have not 
 long to live, and you must help me. My money 
 has done me no good. The getting of it was a 
 curse to me. Now, please God, if well applied, 
 it may help to atone for my sins." 
 
 O'Darrow leaned forward, pleading in eager 
 tones, as if he felt the peril of some great and 
 irreparable loss. Burton sat thinking for a 
 moment, while the pathos of the situation 
 took strange hold upon him. Surely, he 
 thought, money gained for its own sake is 
 a cursed thing, and it is no wonder he desires 
 to be rid of it. 
 
 " I must have your answer now," said 
 O'Darrow, his voice trembling with emotion. 
 " r cannot wait. If you will not help me I 
 must go to-night — now — and find someone, if I 
 can, who will take the money." 
 
124 J^HE Still House of OP arrow. 
 
 " I wish to help you, if possible," said Burton, 
 " but how can I do it ? " 
 
 " Let the money go to save others from a 
 fate like mine, and may God prosper it.'' 
 
 "Your life was sadly embittered years ago 
 by that unfortunate love affair," said Burton. 
 " You and I know that the rich man's pride is a 
 merciless, heart-crushing power. What though 
 lives are wrecked, this thing must be satisfied. It 
 takes no note of what God has put into the 
 human heart. It exalts what is mean and 
 sordid in the soul of man, and crushes out all 
 that is noble and worthy to live. By your leave 
 I would urge you to make war upon this heart- 
 less despotism. Why not establish a home for 
 yourself in this city, and suffer all honest people, 
 though they be poor, to come into it as if they 
 were your own kindred ? Every day I would 
 have both the rich and the poor at my table, so 
 that they might know each other better. I 
 would have the rich man learn how money can 
 profit him when used as a means of destroying 
 his own selfishness." 
 
 " You must do it for me, and may your good 
 work deliver my soul ! " said O'Darrow. 
 
 " I trust you may live to do it yourself," said 
 Burton. 
 
 " No. I am a poor wreck that will go to 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 125 
 
 pieces presently. There is no human kindness 
 in me — no patience, no sympathy. Here I am, 
 a worn-out, sorry villain, trying to make a 
 bargain with Providence to escape perdition. 
 It's enough to make one laugh, isn't it, for all it's 
 such a serious business.'" 
 
 " You are not well," said Burton. " After a 
 night's rest here at home you will feel better. 
 Please regard me as a friend who will do any- 
 thing in his power for you." 
 
 " I thank you for that assurance," said 
 O'Darrow. " I can trust you to carry out my 
 wishes. I could not trust myself" 
 
 " You seem to have lost your interest in life,'' 
 said Burton. 
 
 " My interest in life ! " O'Darrow shouted in 
 a hoarse and angry tone, rising and feeling his 
 way through the darkness to Burton's chair. 
 " Heaven knows, Pve a greater interest in 
 death. What a mercy if I could only perish 
 utterly and drown all fear or thought of self 
 in dreamless and unending sleep ! But I fear 
 there's something in me will live to suffer 
 tortures after death. If so, there'd be less 
 horror in this familiar place." 
 
 O'Darrow paused as if he hoped to hear 
 some reassuring word from Burton. After a 
 moment of thoughtful silence he continued : — 
 
126 The Still House of OD arrow. 
 
 " To think my soul will live in spite of me — 
 a thing no mortal ingenuity can kill — a bit of 
 property I hold in trust until the seizure of 
 death, after which its fate is all unknown, fills 
 me with dread and horror. By heaven ! I'm 
 half persuaded the only real things are those we 
 cannot see or feel, and which God alone con- 
 trols. For days after that accident my life was 
 a strange sort of dream. I went back again to 
 the home of my boyhood. I had no memory of 
 sorrow or wrong-doing or of evil days. Indeed, 
 it seemed those days had never come. I felt 
 again the sweetness of my mother's love and 
 the joy that mere existence brings a child. My 
 environment was as real as that my eyes see 
 now. After this happy time had passed the 
 first sorrow of my life came, and then the 
 shameless debauchery of my mind — the wasting 
 of all good in me. After a week, it seems, 
 the scene shifted, and the first sound that 
 reached my wakened ears was that of my 
 own voice shrieking curses. How are we to 
 know where reality begins and ends, having 
 caught our senses lying? If it were all a 
 dream and nothing were real but the dreamer, 
 why, then there'd be some hope for men 
 like me." 
 
 O'Darrow spoke readily and with evident 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 127 
 
 feeling, as if he had pondered much upon the 
 subject of their talk. 
 
 " You had better go to bed," said he pre- 
 sently. " A man needs rest after so long a 
 journey. If you can find the way to your room 
 I shall sit here by myself awhile. Somehow I 
 can think more comfortably in the dark." 
 
 The twilight had deepened into darkness, 
 and now it was impossible to distinguish any 
 object in the room. Burton rose directly and 
 felt his way to the door and up the stairs. He 
 had not reached the top of the first flight when 
 he heard the familiar voice of O'Darrow's enemy 
 speaking in a low tone. 
 
 "We must lose no time," he said. "Shall 
 we need a light?" « 
 
 The voice proceeded from the library. Bur- 
 ton stood still and listened in surprise that the 
 man could have entered the room so quickly 
 after he left it. 
 
 " No ; I like the darkness better for this 
 business," O'Darrow gruffly answered. 
 
 " It's all the same," said the other, in a loud, 
 impatient tone. 
 
 " Hush-sh," hissed O'Darrow. " Let me 
 close the door. He may hear us.'' 
 
 Burton heard the door close gently, and the 
 sliding of the bolt. There was no bitterness in 
 
128 The Still House of O'Darrow. 
 
 their voices such as he had noted at other times, 
 but they spoke with a quiet determination that, 
 somehow, set his heart thumping. He regretted 
 that he had not gone back at once before 
 the door was closed. Now, should O'Darrow 
 stand in need of help, it would be impossible to 
 reach him. Without further hesitation he 
 hurried back to the library door and stood with 
 his ear close against it. 
 
 " The knife is very sharp," said the stranger. 
 " It will not hurt badly." 
 
 " Out of my way," O'Darrow answered. 
 " Why do you keep crowding' against me ? 
 Don't be in such haste to get through." 
 
 " Die, you brute ! " yelled his enemy. " Take 
 that, you fawning cur 1 I'm tired of your 
 whining." The words were spoken in furious 
 anger. 
 
 For a moment Burton heard the tramping of 
 their feet upon the carpet, and the sound of 
 a struggle, hand to hand, between the two men. 
 Then he rapped loudly upon the door, and 
 called upon them to open it, but they gave 
 no heed to his calling. He listened again. He 
 could hear them fighting furiously up and down 
 the room, crashing into chairs and tables. Then 
 there came the jar of a heavy fall, and the 
 struggle ceased. Running up the stairway to 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 129 
 
 his own room, he threw the window open, and, 
 leaning far out of it, shouted loudly for help. 
 His voice rang out upon the silence of the 
 night with awful distinctness. The neighbours 
 rose from their beds in terror, and threw open 
 their windows, peering out to see what show 
 of foul play the cry betokened. In a moment 
 two officers came running up the deserted 
 street. They stopped in front of O'Darrow's 
 house. 
 
 " Hello 1 " one of them shouted. " Who 
 called ? " 
 
 " In here," said Burton. " Be quick ! I will 
 open the door." 
 
 Then, lighting a candle, he hurried down- 
 stairs to admit them. They found the door 
 of the library still securely fastened. They 
 pounded upon it, and listened for a moment, 
 but only silence answered. To Burton it seemed 
 to cry out most urgently, " Make haste ! A 
 man has been murdered here, and the murderer 
 is skulking from window to window, planning 
 his escape ! " They tried all the other doors 
 upon that floor, but could not open them. 
 
 "We must force it, sir," said one of the 
 officers, stooping and peering into the keyhole 
 of the library door. 
 
 " I do not think the murderer has come out," 
 I 
 
130 The Still House of C Barrow. 
 
 Burton whispered, " unless he has escaped from 
 the windows." 
 
 One of the officers stood with revolver and 
 club in hand, while the other threw all his 
 weight upon the door. In a moment the 
 fastenings gave way^ and, bursting open, it 
 swung aside. The officer to " whom it had 
 yielded stepped cautiously forward, holding the 
 candle above his head and peering about him. 
 He advanced slowly in a zigzag line to avoid 
 certain dark streaks and splashes upon the 
 matting, and lit one of the jets in a chandelier. 
 Then he looked under the tables and behind the 
 bookcases. After a moment he returned to the 
 centre of the room, and stooped to examine 
 something that lay upon the floor. 
 
 " Come in," said he presently, turning toward 
 the two who stood waiting. " There's no one 
 here but a dead man." 
 
 O'Darrow lay prone upon his back. His 
 shirt-bosom had been torn open, and there were 
 many wounds upon his throat and breast, out of 
 which the blood was still flowing. Though 
 dead, he held a keen-bladed knife in his right 
 hand. Chairs and tables were overturned, and 
 books and papers were strewn upon the floon 
 All about him was the horrible stain of the 
 butchery, so that they had to step carefully 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 131 
 
 to avoid it. They looked in every place of 
 possible concealment about the room, but could 
 discover no trace of O'Darrow's enemy. The 
 windows were all fastened ; he could not have 
 escaped from either of them. There was but 
 one door opening upon this apartment, and 
 they had found that bolted on the inside. The 
 officers looked knowingly into each other's faces. 
 
 " This man had an enemy," said Burton, 
 " and I know he was shut up with him in 
 this room. I heard them talking together." 
 
 "Maybe he was one o' them fellers as was 
 his own worst enemy," observed the officer who 
 .had first entered the room. 
 
 " He was a strange man," Burton replied. 
 
 There was no longer any mystery in O'Dar- 
 row's life. That which lay so pale and still 
 under the dim light told the story of his fate 
 with awful frankness. He was gone, and his 
 inseparable and dreaded enemy had followed 
 him to carry out the righteous plan of God. 
 Burton stood looking into the face of his dead 
 friend for a moment, then turned to the officers. 
 
 " Go and summon help," said he. " I will 
 wait here with the body." 
 
 Burton threw open one of the windows and 
 sat down beside it while -the two officers hurried 
 away. He could not bear to look upon the 
 I 2 
 
132 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 hideous object that lay so near his feet. The 
 fresh air brought a sense of reHef to him, and he 
 sat resting his chin upon his hands and staring 
 out into the darkness. The rustling of the 
 window-shade filled the silence with imagined 
 tumult. When at length he turned to look 
 about the room, he started from his chair, and 
 raised it quickly as if in self-defence. A woman, 
 clad in squalid garments, knelt close by the 
 body of O'Darrow. Her face showed the loath- 
 some bloat of dissipation and the withering 
 effect of age. There was that in it which 
 indicated that everything good, even reason and 
 the sense of shame, had abandoned her soul to 
 its fate. A fierce energy of passion lit up her 
 sunken eyes. 
 
 " For God's sake let me look at him ! " she 
 cried, as Burton stepped toward her. " Let me 
 look at this man who has wronged me so. He's 
 killed himself, ain't he .-• I knew he would. It's 
 God's justice, I tell you, boy. You don't know 
 what he's done, but I do. Maybe he thinks he's 
 mended all the harm by cutting himself so, but 
 he hasn't. I'll follow him this very night, and I 
 hope I'll see the vengeance of the Lord. I've 
 watched this house for years, and if I could only 
 have got in I'd have haunted him like a ghost — 
 maybe I'd have seen him die. Ha ! ha ! 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 133 
 
 O'Darrow, I can speak to you now — you cannot 
 harm me any more." 
 
 She spoke in a shrill voice, and her words 
 were broken with weeping. Leaning forward, 
 she smote the dead man in the face, and rose to 
 her feet, glowering down upon him fiercely. 
 
 Burton laid hold of the, woman's arm to 
 prevent her from scourging the helpless body. 
 As he did so a squad of policemen came hurry- 
 ing up the stairway and entered the open door. 
 
 " Here's Crazy Nell," said one of them. " Lead 
 her out, one o' you fellers. I saw her at the gate 
 when we first came. She must 'a sneaked in 
 somehow while the front door was open." 
 
 " 1 stood inside the gate all the time you were 
 gone," said another, " but she might 'a got by 
 while me back was turned. She's alius hangin' 
 round this corner." 
 
 The woman was hustled down stairs and out 
 into the street. She had come voicing the out- 
 raged spirit of the world toward such as he — 
 even that of his own heart — and adding to the 
 whirlwind of wrath and curses that had risen for 
 a witness against him. Now she had gone 
 perhaps to try that stern and dubious remedy 
 which had brought at least the semblance of 
 peace to O'Darrow. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Aware that under the circumstances he could 
 hardly hope to avoid arrest for the murder of 
 O'Darrow, Burton surrendered himself that 
 night to the police. Next day the coroner held 
 an inquest over the body of the unfortunate man. 
 A physician from the asylum in which O'Darrow 
 had been confined just before his death was the 
 only witness whose testimony it will be necessary 
 to reproduce here. 
 
 " The deceased was placed under my charge 
 about two weeks ago," said he. " He had met 
 with an accident which developed evidences of 
 insanity. I am of the opinion that for years he 
 must have suffered from a well-defined species of 
 mania. Any undue excitement would be apt to 
 throw him, off his guard, and render his unsound- 
 ness more apparent. I watched him closely for a 
 week or more after he came to the asylum. . He 
 had a habit of talking to himself when he was 
 alone and, as he thought, unobserved. He 
 
The Still House of O'Darrow. 135 
 
 employed two distinct tones of voice, as if he 
 imagined himself talking to another person. I 
 am convinced that there were two distinct 
 impulses in his mind which inspired these con- 
 versations. One of them was that thing called 
 conscience — the moral intuition which was born 
 in him, if you please ; the other was an opposing 
 impulse proceeding from mental characteristics 
 developed by his habits of life. I know nothing 
 of his history, but I infer that he had become 
 thoroughly disgusted with himself. This habit 
 of self-accusation that was probably contracted 
 years ago — this long-continued warfare between 
 the good and evil tendencies within him — led to 
 a species of mania that is by no means un- 
 common. I haye no doubt he thought himself 
 at times in the company of another person who 
 seemed real and tangible to him as I do to you. 
 This imaginary being may have personated 
 either the good or the evil part of his mind. It 
 probably tortured him with remorse, and 
 eventually drove him to self-destruction, which 
 may have been attempted more than once on 
 different occasions. I have repeatedly observed 
 similar forms of mania. It is not improbable 
 that most men who commit suicide labour under 
 like delusions. Suicide, as a rule, is the last 
 battle of a long war between opposing forces in 
 
136 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 the mind. It signalises the surrenderor one side 
 or the other. It is impossible to tell when this 
 mania is approaching its crisis. Yesterday 
 morning the deceased was apparently sane, and 
 we could see no reason for detaining him." 
 
 After the two officers were examined, a 
 verdict was rendered " according .to the law 
 and the facts," and Burton was immediately dis- 
 charged. He went at once to his former lodg- 
 ings, where a letter was awaiting him. The 
 direction upon the envelope was in O'Darrow's 
 handwriting. As he unfolded it, the bold signa- 
 ture of George Ernest O'Darrow caught his 
 eye. This letter contained the following abrupt 
 sentences : — 
 
 My Dear Boy, — I have a presentiment that my end 
 is near. It will be swift and terrible when it comes— 
 doubly terrible to me since I know the truth. I have 
 told you more than once of the man who seeks my life. 
 I solemnly assure you that the coming and going of this 
 man, his strange utterances and his power over me, are 
 beyond my understanding. Twice he has appeared to 
 me when I was in the company of another person, and 
 yet the other person could not see him. What manner 
 of being is this whom, apparently, no eye but mine pan 
 see ? Is it my conscience, my outraged soul, that has 
 taken to itself a visible form and the power of speech ? 
 And, if so, is every man who wrongs himself irreparably 
 haunted by a phantom of his own creation, forever 
 chattering of his misdeeds and conspiring with him and 
 
The Still House of O'Dakrou: 137 
 
 against him ? These questions I shall not try to answer. 
 I have lost all confidence in my own senses. I seem to 
 be writing to you now. Perhaps I am altogether mad, 
 and this I seem to do may be as unreal as any dream. 
 If not, these questions may reach you, and suggest con- 
 siderations of moment, not alone to yourself. I saw my 
 enemy to-day, and it was planned how we would end 
 this life of mine to-night. Perhaps this meeting was 
 but the delusion of a morbid mind, and to-morrow you 
 may find me living as before. If so, you will know me 
 better, and possibly you can suggest some remedy for 
 these strange ills I suffer. But I pray to God that I am 
 not deceived — that this long and fierce rebellion may 
 have its end at once. I have tried all things that 
 promised peace, but there is no peace for me. Which- 
 ever way I turn, naught but contention and defeat and 
 incurable despair await me. Oh, God ! I know it does 
 offend my soul to dwell in this body, sore with rankling 
 memories, and in spite of fear it bids me welcome 
 death. 
 
 My will is in the hands of my attorney, whom you 
 know. He will surrender it to you on demand. May 
 God give you wisdom in the use of that money. And 
 now, my good friend, without whom I would be friend- 
 less, although I have always seemed to be a hard man, 
 I hope you may never think of me as lacking that sense 
 of gratitude and tender regard which I assuredly owe 
 
 you. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 George Ernest O'Darrow. 
 
 Burton re-read this letter many times in the 
 solitude of his room, deeply moved by its awful 
 
138 The Still House of O'D arrow. 
 
 earnestness. It brought home to him a solemn 
 truth, that this thing we call the soul is like an 
 unbidden guest, breaking bread with us in the 
 house of life and insisting upon a scrupulous 
 hospitality. That afternoon he took it with him 
 to Mr. Gravingham's garret and read it to the 
 old artist. Then Burton told him of O'Darrow's 
 will. 
 
 " I told him about you one day," said the 
 young man, " and he has directed me to pay you 
 500 dollars a month in his name, for as long a 
 time as God spares your life." 
 
 Mr. Gravingham sat for a moment nervously 
 wiping his eye-glasses, without speaking. Then 
 he walked to the window and looked out into 
 the sky. 
 
 " It's a sad world," said he presently, turning, 
 towards Burton. " I must go and try to find 
 that miserable Reeker. He was half-naked the 
 last time I saw him. Thank God, I can now 
 keep my clerks looking decently." 
 
 "And you can have a poverty fair every 
 week," said Burton. " O'Darrow's house will be 
 thrown open to all good people whom we may 
 wish to bring together." 
 
 " Good ! " the old gentleman exclaimed ; 
 " but you will find there are many we must reach 
 who have fallen so low that you would scarcely 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 139 
 
 wish to welcome them in your home. I suggest 
 that for these we have a special dinner at the 
 Silver Bottle — say, once a week — if Bob 
 Champney will co-operate with us. If your 
 time is not occupied to-morrow, I will take you 
 among the people whom we desire to help. 
 Many of them are my friends. I have done 
 what I could for them in my humble way 
 as a gentleman of limited means. When you 
 see them you can choose your guests." 
 
 Next morning, after religious services in the 
 library where the tragedy h?i.d occurred, Burton 
 accompanied O'Darrow's body to its resting- 
 place. In the afternoon he went with Mr. 
 Gravingham through some of the great tene- 
 ments in the lower part of the city. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 One evening, about a month after the melan- 
 choly death of Sir George O'Darrow, the big 
 white mansion was all aglow with light. Long 
 tables were spread in its spacious dining-hall, 
 and at the head of one of them sat the new 
 master of the house. A large company of ladies 
 and gentlemen — some of them hard-handed and 
 plainly clad — shared his hospitality. Helen 
 Crouch presided at another table, around which 
 were quite half a hundred children, whose 
 laughter echoed through the great house. 
 When the dinner was over Burton rose and 
 said : — 
 
 " The man does not live who knows no want. 
 The rich may feel the sting of a poverty no less 
 terrible than that of the poor. I have seen with 
 my own eyes the rich man's poverty. It is a 
 shameful thing and hard to bear, and still harder 
 to relieve. Both the rich and the poor are in 
 need of God's mercy and of what help they can 
 
The Still House of O'D arrow. 141 
 
 give each other. They can help each other if 
 they will. The rich man should sow the seed 
 of charity that it may bring forth fruit fit to 
 satisfy his soul's hunger. He should remember 
 that his giving must be unmingled with pride or 
 vanity or scorn, lest it produce only bitterness. 
 He must not close his doors against the poor as 
 if there were pollution in their touch. Every 
 day his eyes should behold their poverty; his 
 ears should hear the voice of their complaint. 
 Whatsoever he does for them he should do with 
 sympathy and his best judgment — not as one 
 who is giving simply, but as one who is receiving 
 more than he can possibly give. It is my 
 purpose to make this house a place where all 
 who suffer want of whatever kind may meet 
 here and be not ashamed of their poverty, and 
 do such things as their wisdom may direct to 
 help one another." 
 
 Until near midnight O'Darrow's splendid 
 mansion rang with the sound of music and the 
 voices of its happy guests. When they had 
 gone and its lights were at last extinguished, 
 Burton rode home with Colonel Crouch and his 
 family. 
 
 " I believe thoroughly in the sentiments you 
 expressed this evening," Helen said to Burton, 
 as they sat down after removing their wraps. 
 
142 Thr Stjll House of G Darrow. 
 
 The Colonel and Mrs. Crouch had discreetly- 
 left them together. 
 
 " I hope you like me as well as you like 
 my sentiments. I love you, Helen, and I need 
 your help. Will you be my wife .■' " 
 
 She sat beside him, removing her gloves and 
 looking down as if she were unconscious that he 
 had spoken. 
 
 " Let me help you," said he, taking her hand 
 and deftly pulling the kid off her tiny fingers. 
 " We had better handle this subject without 
 gloves." 
 
 " And without veils on our faces," she added, 
 smiling, as she uncovered her face, which up to 
 this time had worn a very serious expression. 
 
 He drew her to him and kissed her fondly. 
 
 " You presumptuous man ! " said she, boxing 
 his ears mildly. " I did not mean that you 
 could kiss me." 
 
 " I have loved you ever since we first met,^' 
 said he, " and I wish the question of my rights 
 and privileges to be settled now and for all time. 
 Will you be my wife ? " 
 
 " I had made up my mind to marry a poor 
 but honest young man," she answered^ " to 
 whom my fortune would be of some service. I 
 understand you are a rich man now, Mr. 
 Fanning.-''' 
 
The Still House of OD arrow. 143 
 
 " It is my misfortune to have become sud- 
 denly rich," said he, " but I would be poor 
 indeed without you." 
 
 " I suppose one ought to pity the poverty of 
 the rich man," she answered, smiling. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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