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BY THE GATE OF THE SEA.
A NOVEL. By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY. Phil accepted the poet’s hand with a sense of worship. He had never seen a live poet before; he was very young, and he had laughed aloud and wept inwardly over the comedy, so that to meet the au thor of it was like coming into a holy place. He said something in a hot shyness about the beauty of the work, and the poet was pleased to have touched youth so keenly, and took a great fancy to the in genuous eyes and handsome face of the boy. The proper thing—if one wanted to look like a man of the world who knew London —seemed to the tutor to go to “ Evans’s” after the play and sup. Ho proposed this; and the poet, who had known the house in his youth, after a little hesitation, con sented to make one of the party. Calhem, mighty proud of his distinguished guest, led the way; and having secured a place, ordered oysters, and would, but for the protecting influence of the poet, have coupled champagne with them. Phil, under the genial influences of the theatre, the society of the poet, and supper at a place so novel to hie experiences, began to lose tho chief part of his shyness and to talk. He was full of Miss Church ill, aud rather more than half in love with her, and the poet was pleased by his rap tures. “ I have not been in London long,” said the boy, “and I never saw a theater until I came here, so that I can’t pretend to be a judge; but I should think she is the finest actress in the world. ” “ She stands admittedly at the head of her own school,” said Calhem. “At least,” deferring to the poet, “ I believe so.” “Why,” cried Phil, flushing with shy ness and enthusiasm, ‘ ‘ when she spoke that line— •To me regret and memory are the same,’ It wasn’t like acting. It was like seeing a slow heart-break. And how beautiful she Is!” “A fine woman,” said Calhem, “and a fine actress, beyond a doubt! Mr. Mau rice,” he added, with that manner of al lowance which more than anything else in the world makes a man aboininablo in a boy’s eyes, “ is at the age of enthusi asm.” “And so am I,” said Marsh, covering Phil from the fire of patronage, “happily for myself. Not to admire is an art for a yokel.” “ Yet there was a great poet, sir,” said the tutor, “ who confessed it all the art ho knew. ” “To make men happy,” returned Marsh. “ And that is a creed for a cynic. Of all melancholy spectacles in the world, Mr. Maurice, a gray heart in a green body is the most lamentable. We are all egotists, and wo like to coddlo ourselves with warm and pleasant fancies; and so, when we have lost our youth, we say it was a giddy, irresponsible, foolish time; as if a gate post should deride a tree, or the dried rose leaves in a Dresden saucer rustle them selves with laughter at a rose." Phil, already charmed with the poet’s drama, was delighted at this. “That,” said he to himself, “ is how a poet ought to talk! What would life be worth if one were never to be young?" “ Your similo carries you a little too far, sir," said Calhem, who was somewhat net tled. A schoolmaster is generally more used to reproving than to reproof. “ The perfect adjunct would be—a dead man thinking poorly of a live one. Though, to my mind, the responsible gravity of ma ture life is a good exchange for the irre sponsible enthusiasm of youth.” “And what does Mr. Maurice say to this?” asked Marsh. “Why, sir,” said Phil, “ Nobody thinks worse of the oldest apple-tree because it has blossoms now and then.” Marsh laughed, but Calhem looked puzzled and offended. “Shall wo go?” said the poet. “ Do you walk home, Mr. Calhem? My road lies past your house.” They walked to Golden Square together, and, to the tutor’s chagrin, the eminent person addressed himself chiefly to Phil, and at parting, it was the youngster and not his tutor to whom he presented his card. “ Come and see me when you have time,” he said; “I am always at home until two o’clock. Come up to-morrow.” Phil promised, delightedly, and scarcely knew whether the poet or his works were j the most charming. Calhem, who was anything but a bad fellow at bottom, got out of his chagrin in an hour or two, and ! by the time when he had smoked his nightly pipe, and was ready for bod, he began to ' think it natural that Marsh should rather take a bright youngster with a prospect, like Phil, than to a middle-aged tutor, with next to no prospect, like himself. >-* v v*s. one a umiuig II lUUg time ago,” said he, not without a little melancholy in his thoughts; “now I must be contented to stand ill my own corner and see boys go past me. It’s the way of the world.” Phil went off gaily next morning, and found Mr. Marsh at home, and had a bright talk with him. If Phil were pleased w-ith his host—and there was little doubt of that —Marsh was tho more pleased of the two. The lad’s bright face and hopeful converse did him good. He felt rather wicked, how ever, when he began to draw his guest out ! about Tregarthen, and as if he were doing an underhand thing in listening to him. Phil described the island and the house, j told him quaint things about the score of Islanders, who were all oddities in their i way, as they were likely to be (though the historian had never thought them so until ! they grew curious by contrast with the people of tho widor world in which he now 1 moved,) and oven repeated one or two won derful old ballads, which sparkled for the ; philologist, but were, for anybody else, Simply and merely droll. “ And what manner of man is Mr. Tre garthen ?” asked Marsh, at length. “Oh, Arthur ?” said PhiL The best man In the world, I think. He is a great deal absorbed in scientific pursuits, chemistry, 1 and all that, and the islanders have made ! np their minds that he holds correspondence ! with the devil. Now, I shouldn’t be ! surprised at finding him engaged In converse with spiritual agoncies of another sort, for he’s a man with out a fault. He’s a gentleman,” cried s Phil, enthusiastically; “from his soul to his skin i” This was hardly what tho poet had ex pected to hear, though it was natural that Tregarthen’s ward should think well of his preserver. “ He saved your life, I think?” “ He did,” said Phil, his cheeks flushing. " I’ve heard old Reuben Pollarth tell the Story many a time. One of the men on board—we were on the Isle of Elba, from Bombay to Liverpool—tied me to a spar and threw me_ overboard just before the 6mash came. I can remember crying and begging him not to do it, and fighting be fore I was tied, but I can’t recall anything after that. It was such a night, old Pol larth says, as no living man can remember. I’ve known the west wind blowing there, anil the waves coming in at the Sea-gate, but the old man says that what I’ve looked at is no more than a boy could make by stirring a puddle with a stick in compari son to what it was that night I drifted up somehow, with the spar, and Arthur saw me, ana went in after me headlong. The next wave threw us up together, and the spar struck him on the head and stunned him; but old Pollarth had time to grip at the spar, and his son took hold of him, and Bill Pollarth took hold of Ben, and llie rest all held on, and the wave went back without us. Arthur was a month in bod after it, and was crazy half the time or more.” Marsh felt something of the glow Phil’s heart experienced as this tale was told. The two not merely parted well pleased with each other, but held each other in mind and met frequently, and in a little while became intimates and friends. It was natural that Phil should turn often, in his speech with Marsh, to Tregarthen Island and itsowuer. And there gradually grew up in the poet’s mind the clearest image of the man—a mournful and tender hearted cynic, with a craze. “ His wife ran away from him," said Phil speaking of him ono day. “ The peo ple on the island and the people at Gorbay always declare thst he ill-used her, or was guilty of some dreadful villainy, but I know better. Nobody ever knew Arthur do a mean thing—nobody ever knew him to do a mean thing or a cowardly thing." When he was alone again Phil's mind was so occupied with his protector that he must needs sit down and write to him in stanter. Tregarthan had written, a week or two before: “Your letters are the only murmurs of the world that reach me, and are aB I care to reach me." Books, plays, and pictures filled the youngter’s head chiefly, and it was rnainlv of them that he wrote. “ I have made a most fortunate acquaint ance,” wrote Phil, “in the person of Mr. Ronald Marsh, one of the most distinguised of our modern poets. He is the author of a comedy called ‘ Gossamer,’ now being performed at the Mirror, with which I was enchanted. The chief part is taken by Miss Churchill, who is simply divine. I have seen all the principal actors and ac tresses now, and there is nobody who comes near Miss Churchill.” Then followed criti sisin: “ There is about this admirable ar tist a grace and refinement which other actresses lack. You are sure at first sight that she is a gentlewoman. Perhaps her rarest charm is her voice, which is marvelously sweet, and has an underlying note of melancholy even in its most joyous passages. Not that it in vests her comedy with a tinge of the maud lin, or that she plays a gay scene in any but the brightest manner; but her voice softens the asperities of raillery, and seems to assure you of a tender heart.” There was a good deal more of this, and Tregarthen read it with strange feelings. The heart has wounds sometimes which will not close until death applies his infalli ble heal-all. Tregarthen’s heart was thus wounded. Scorn is a poor plaster for such a sore as he carried, but he knew of no other, or cared to apply no others. For getfulness was out of his reach. When he read this letter of Phil’s his first impulse was to sit down and warn the lad of women at large; but a little reflec tion told him what a hopeless task that was—how little likely to be prosperous in any case—how very unlikely to be prosper ous in the case of a vivid and impetuous lad like Phil, who was born to fall in love, as the sparks fly upward. He went back to his books and his crucibles and his mad experiments, and left the youngster un answered altogether for the time. When in a weok or two another letter came, he expected to find something more of Miss Churchill, and he did not know whether relief or disappointment were the greater when he found no mention of her. Phil’s homeward letters touched Miss Churchill no more, and there were reasons for this which would have disturbed Tregarthen had he known them. When Ronald Marsh and his young friend talked of Tregarthen, the poet had occasionally to listen to second-hand dia tribes against women, of whom his young friend knew, perhaps, as little as could well be known. These, being inspired by Tre garthen, naturally reflected on Tregarthen's wife; but for a time Marsh was perforce contented to dispute them on general grounds, and to instruct Phil that no man was ever truly good who could so libel one half of humanity. He told Phil that a chivalrous attitude toward women was es sential to any male human creature who desired to be a man, and much more to the same effect. Now, the young man was beginning to discover that he was by no means a mis ogynist, but he would answer, “Truth be fore sentiment. I know one truly good man—the best man in the world—so far— the kindest-hearted, the purest-minded, and most honorable—and he thinks ex viiiuij iu ui n tfuicu, i ci iiujia uu gcu* eralizes too much from one particular case” (the young fellow had wonderfully philosophical airs at this time, and talked with the gravity of a grandfather); “but, if he does, the one case was probably bad '■ enough to justify him.” “ Perhaps so,” said the poet. “By-the- I way, Phil, did you ever meet Miss Church ill?” “ No,” said Phil. “ Should you like to meet her?” “Like to meet her?” said Phil. “I’d go from hero to the Mirror on my hands and knees to meet her.” “That is not at all necessary," said Marsh, smiling; “we can take a cab. Be here at twelve o’clock to-morrow, and we will drive down to the theater together. ” Phil went away uplifted at the prospect, and sat far into the night slaving at the sonnet beginning— “To what dim glade with airy voices filled Of Joy and Borrow hast thou charmed my BOUl!” This production was addressed to Miss Churchill, as Bertha, in “Gossamer," and the young versifier knelt at the shrine of Miss Churchill’s perfections in such ardor as only a young versifier knows. The quality of the verse produced has little to do with the warmth of sentiment experi enced. Young men and young women write woful nonsense some times over which they thrill and weep and beam as though they were so many Appollos and Sapphos; and the fact that Phil really was a poet made him no warmer than he would have felt if he had been altogether hollow headed. The difference is, that the poet gets his thrills and tears upon the paper, while, with the other sort, all stops at the finger-tips and will dribble not a hair’s breadth further. Of course he had had a thousand temp tations to expose his verses, or some of them, to a real and approved poet, when he found himself admitted to intimacy with one; but he had always blushed at them, as tho pretty Jane blushes when she hears in her day-dream the words of courtship which are not yet spoken. But now he so loved and innocently worshiped his own fancies, as set forth in this particular sonnet, that the temptation assailed him with irrestible force; and when he called upon Marsh as arranged, he produced the manuscript, with much confusion, and asked him to read it. “Would you mind reading this. Mr. Marsh?” he said, blushingly. “There are only fourteen lines, and it can’t bore you long. It may be dreadful rubbish—” “Let me see,” returned the poet. He read tho verses with a grave face. “Shall 1 print this for you?” he asked. "We pay a guinea a page for verse, and a sonnet can stand by itself.” These are commercial days when even poets go into business, and Marsh, as Phil knew, was proprietor of a magazine. Tho author of the sonnet was overwhelmed. “ If you think it worth printing,” he said, with becoming difiidence. “ Yes,” said Marsh, “ I think it very well worth printing—very well worth it indeed. And now,” locking the sonnet in his desk, “ if you are ready, we will start. Smith reads his new play to-day, and I have promised to be there. He was my Collubo rateur for two or three year*, and is one of the finest fellows living, you must know him, Phil.” Altogether, heaven seemed opening on Master Phil this morning. William John Smith, author of the slain and buried “ Demogorgon,” was in the green room, with his roll of manuscript, when the poet and his companion reached the theater, and Miss Churchill arrived a little later. Lor rimer was there also—a trifle obese by this time, and more rubicund than ever. The Mirror had a star company, and Phil saw near at hand several celebrities whom ho had hitherto only beheld upon the stage. To be near these celebrated people when they wore the garments of every-day life, and to hear them talk without book, was a treat to the novice. The play was read and applauded. Then the players drew for the most part in a knot around William John Smith, and asked about his ideas for this stroke of business and that stroke of business, for the said Smith had (frown mighty, and it was profitable—or might be —to be interested in his work, and to give him a favorable impression about one’s art enthusiasms. It was noticeable to Phil that the poet, for some reason as yet unknown, was grad ually becoming less and less at his ease while the reading of the play went on, and this somewhnt dashed his own interest in the business. Now for a time Marsh de serted Phil altogether, and left him stand ing in a corner companionless, while he crossed tfie room and addressed Miss Churchill. “Will you give me a word?” asked the poet. “ Certainly.” “ I have done a clumsy thing, and I have only just begun to see it A young wor shipper of yours, a poet, and as fine-hearted a lad as I have met anywhere, wants to know you, and I have brought him here.” “ I noticed him,” she answered. “ He has an honest face. Why should you apol ogize? I am always pleased to know your friends. You have the secret of knowing none but good people.” “ Your own goodness,” he said, in re turn, “brightens everything you shine on. Forgive me, but I am so old a courtier that I can dare to speak the truth now and then. But I am afraid I may pain you, and yet I feared you might blame me if you knew, and if I did not bring him. I cannot tell whether I am acting well or ill, wisely or in my common way.” “This preamble Aas a meaning?” she said. “A serious one,” said the poet, uneasily. “ The young gentleman is a Mr. Maurice— Mr. Philip Maurice, of—Tregarthen.” “ The child,” she whispered, looking with a white face, at the poet, “who was saved from the wreck?” “ The same,” Marsh answered. “ If I have done wrong— “ You have not done wrong. Excuse me for a moment. Let him stay till I return.” She moved with a somewhat stately car riage from the greenroom, though her knees shook beneath her, and her heart beat wildly. When she reached the luxuriously furnished little chamber private to herself her trembling knees relaxed altogether, and she almost fell into the armchair beside the fireplace. 1 ‘ Does ho know who I am ?” she asked herself, thinking of Phil. “Does he know what Arthur thinks of me ?” A thousand tumultuous questions were in her mind, a thousand tumultuous feelings ran riot in her heart. How great a sinner she had been, sinning every day against his ex pressed wishes, and earning a hateful fame and adulation by it! She had wrecked the noblest of lives, broken or darkened the manliest heart. For the millionth time she wondered why she had not stayed to brave the storm, to make her confession and be forgiven, and to serve him like a slave with a life-long devotion. And even in her self accusing soul some faint voice of necessary egotism sounded. Would she have been so “•*** muu uuacil her back and forgiven her? Would she not have loved him so, with such an unfailing worship and such a willing surrender of her soul, that he must have loved her back again? She suffered greatly while she sat thus, and even wept a little; but, calming herself by-and-by, and removing all traces of her tears, she returned to the greenroom with seeming tranquility. There were not more than half a dozen people left there, but among them were Phil and the poet. She moved toward them, and Marsh performed the office of introduction. “ I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Mau rice," she said in the beautiful tones which had so moved him when he heard them from the stage. He bowed in an swer, but was tongue-tied for the momont, as if he had been in the presence of some gentle divinity, "lam alone at home this afternoon, Mr. Marsh,” she added, “ and I shall be glad if you and Mr. Maurice will take a cup of tea with me. Lina, is there, of course,” she added, with a faint smile; “ but sisters are not always the best of com pany to each other.” “ You libel Lina and yourself," said the poet, with a pretense of gayety. “In half an hour," she said, turning toward the door. “ May I expect you?” Her carriage waited at the stage entrance to the theater, and she drove away, with another faint smile and a nod of the head to Phil. He and the poet followed her on foot, and, reaching the house, were shown into a little jewel of a room, where every thing was wonderfully neat and rich and dainty. By-and-by the actress reappeared, in in-door costume; tea was brought, and the three settled down to talk. The host ess, with her face turned from the light, nestled into a luxurious chair, and spoke from a twilight in which her features were scarcely to bo discerned. “You know Tregarthen Island, Mr. Maurioe ?•’ “ Oh, yes,” said Phil, a good deal sur prised at the question. “ I have ‘spent more than half my life there.” “ I am a Cornish woman,” she said. “I was born at Gorbay. But I have not seen it for a long timp. Is it much changed? Tell me about the Island. Are tho Pol larths living)” "Jan is dead,” said Phil. Did youjknow Jan—the patriarch of the tribe)” "Poor Jay!" she said, with a tremor In bor voice. Marsh sat ill at ease, fearing she would break down. “But the rest are all living) Reuben and his children, and—" “All of them," Phil answered. “Jan’s is the only death that has taken place on the Island for more than twelve years.” “ And tho Castle,” she asked—“are the repairs finished)" “ No,” returned Phil. “ They were aban doned years ago. Mr. Tregarthen novel had the heart to finish them.” “ How was that!” The cup and saucei she held in her hands clattered against each other, and the poet writhed upon his chaii and turned pale. Why should she torture herself in this way! he asked, internally. Phil noticed nothing. What was more natural than that a lady, great in the world's eyes, should shut out her greatness for a little while and talk of tho places she had known in childhood! “ It’s a sad story,” said Phil, Ignorantly. “Did you know Mr. Tregarthen!” She answered only by a movement of the head. “ He met with a great misfortune—a mis fortune which seems nearly to have broken his heart. He married a worthless woman, who—” “ Great heaven! ” groaned the poet, wring ing his moist hands together. Phil turned and stared at him. “'A worthless woman,” said Mrs. Tregar then from her shadowed corner; m a voice so unlike her own that both her hearers started. “Yes. Goon.” “You are ill, madam,” cried tho young ster, rising to his feet. “Oh!” besought Marsh, rising also, and turning an imploring look upon her, “pur sue this interview no further.” “ Be seated,” she said, in a voice less painfully disguised by emotion, but still strangely harsh. “ I will not keep Mr. Maurice in the dark any longer. I beg your pardon,” she continued, to the amazed visitor, “ if I have seemed to try to entrap you. But you will tell me everything about him—you, who know him so well? I have had nobody to tell me a word of him for years; and—I—am Mrs. Trogar than !** CHAPTER XU The situation was sufficiently embarrass ing. At the moment Mrs. Tregarthen, Marsh, and Phil each felt it to be nothing less than terrible. Phil was an especially sensitive lad, unusually swift to like peo ple, and splendidly certain of the accuracy of his own secret intuitions. He had met nobody who had so impressed him as Mrs. Tregarthen. He was sure that she was as good, as pure, and as womanly as she looked—as pure as the sweet, persecuted Bertha in the poet’s comedy. The faint smile he had twice seen upon her face had lingered in his mind as that of a saint in pain. He had identified her with the part he had seen her play—a thing always easy for ardent youth, and common enough in the experience of actresses who are not models of all the virtues, or embodiments of wit and sweet temper. That for once the natural fancies of a raw lad wero jus tified was nothing to him. He could have been quite as certain of their truth if he had pitched on a new Jezebel. And he had called this suffering incarnation of good ness—to her face—a worthless woman! The poet, for his part, had the misery of knowing that he was responsible for the encounter and the shocking result which had sprung from it. A better artist would have told this story better, and would have wasted less time on non-essentials, but it is not too late to say here what should have been set forth earlier. An intellectual fop had grown into a man and had put away childish things; tho man had fallen in lovo, in no better or worse fashion than common, and his passion had ripened and sobered into a most tender friendship and a most profound respect. Ho saw genius in Mrs. Tro garthen’s work upon the stage, sorrow uncomplainingly endured and undeserved in her daily life; anil to his mind after many years of intimacy, her soul was an entire and perfect chrysolite. He loved her still, as a poet and a gentleman can love a woman who is out of the reach of desire, and tho phrase the hapless Phil had used went through him like a knife. Mrs. Tregarthen was truo to her in stincts, and was persuaded that here, as always, tho guilt was hers. She had en trapped the young man into this terrible position. “Forgive me," she said brokenly. “I wanted to hear of him. I have not heard of him for so long.” “Forgive me,” said the poet almost in the same breath with her. “ I would have died rather than expose you to tills indig nity; and yet I did it.” Phil stood silent, but his face and atti - --O—-- -- '***'-• ogy. He had to believe in Arthur in spite of everything, his savior and benefactor and friend, but ho believed none the less in Miss Churchill’s goodness. The unknown Mrs. Tregarthen might have been guilty of anything in the world, but this unhappy lady was maligned. The mere fact that thousands of men have boon just as certain as himself, and have proved themselves mistaken, was, of course, nothing to him. The other fact, that he was right, made his infatuation none the wiser. But now and then, even in this poor world, the soul has happy hopes that are justified, and beliefs in goodness which are not thrown away. “ Dear friend,” said the actress, speaking through her tears, “ let me tell you the whole truth. I was to blame. I have known it, bitterly, always. But I have never deserved to bo thought a worthless woman.” Both hearers would have gone to the stake in support of that postulate without a second’s hesitation. “ When my father died, Lina and I were left in pov erty, and I came to London as a governess. There were private theatricals in the house where I was engaged, and I was asked to play in them. I was praised so highly that I thought I might succeed upon the real stage, and that would have enabled me to do so much for Una. We had looked at the Era to see where to hire our dresses for the private theatricals, and I saw adver tisements there for actors and actresses. I looked again, and answered one or two of them, and at last I got an engagement ” She went on with her story, telling it plainly and without ornament, and grow ing more and more self-possessed as she told it. She told of her first encounter with Lorrimer, her professional engagement with him, and her receipt of the letter from Messrs. Lane & Carter, which in formed her of the disposition of her uncle’s property. “ I had been known all this time as Miss Churchill,” she then said, “ but when I re turned to Gorbay I took back my own name, and tried to forget the stage alto gether. It was at this time”—and here again she began to falter—“ that I met Mr. Tregarthen; but it was not until we were engaged that I found what an antipathy he had to the stage. Ho thought that no good woman could be au actress without losing refinement and nurity of mind. I was frightened. I was afraid of losing his af fection. I hid the trnth from him, but it was discovered by accident after our mar riage. Some one who had known me on the stage spoke to me on the island—he was one of a picnic party, or he came with the archaeologists, and he insisted that I was Miss Churchill. I tried to dis miss him, but ho was impertinent and would not go. I told him at last that I had been Miss Churchill, but that I wished to meet no one who had known me by that name. My husband overheard me. I knew that ho would never forgive me my deceit, and I left the island and came to London. Ho never forgave me—he never tried to find me.” There she broke down altogether, and for n while cried unrestrainedly. It was hard measure for the poet. To have been a popinjay and a jackanapes once upon a time is common to the experience of many honest men, but it does not often carry with it so severe a punishment as was dealt out to Ronald Marsh. Here ho had been magnanimously pitying this lady’s sorrows for a dozen years, and now it turned out that he was the cause of them. “Mrs. Tregarthen,” he said, trying to face the truth, and to take all the punish ment he deserved, “ I was that miserable impertinent. If I could have guessed what my insolence would have cost you—” Well, w hat was to be said in extenuation! He could say nothing, could undo nothing that had been done. But surely, the man who could throw away such a pearl of womanhood for such a trivial cause must have been a fool past redemption. “ Noth ing can be mended by mere words,” ho said, in a voice so tremulous that he was ashamed of it. She must hate the sight of him, and it was best to go. Phil caught his ashamed and miserable glance, and they were moving away to gether, when Mrs. Tregarthen arose. “ Do not let me lose my friend,” she said, almost piteously. “Will you come to morrow, Mr. Maurice! I want to hear—I shall be better able to listen to you then. Will you come!” “Yes,” said Phil, simply; “ I will come, if you wish it.” She shook hands with him and with the poet, and they went away. “ I am on fire with shame,” said the wretched poet, when they were out-of doors. “ 1 am grieved to the heart. All this misery was of my own making. I have known her for twelve years, and there does not breathe a better woman. She is as pure as a flower, as charitable as the day.” “She spoke the truth,” said Phil, who was greatly moved. “ I am sure of it. I know it. But there was nothing in what she told us to make Arthur part with her. there was something else to poison his mind about her. He could never have driven her away for that alone.” Phil had to believe both in Tregarthen and his wife, but the poet found a simple solution to the mystery. It was plain to him that Tregarthen was a fanatic and a fool. But even that view would not recon cile itself with the old stories of Tregar then—a man so foul-mouthed, that his brother officers could not endure him. “ Do you know the history of Mr. Tregar then’s expulsion from the army!” he asked, not purposing to tell it, but seeking any new light that might bo had. Phil did know the story, and told it as he had it from Tregarthen’s lips. Possibly, thought the poet, the man was a fanatic, and certainly he was a fooL The two friends parted, and each went his own way. On the following after noon Phil called on Mrs. Tregarthen, was admitted, and answered all her questions for an hour or two. There was no comfort for the wife, who had all these years been widowed, in anything he had to tell her; but when he had taken his leave he turned a new idea over in his mind, and, after looking at it in many aspects, made ar rangements to put it into execution. He astonished Mr. (Jalhem that evening by the announcement of his intention to go down to Tregarthen without delay. In answer to the tutor’s inquiries, ho could only say that he had lately possessed himself of in formation of the utmost value to his pro tector, and that it could not be conveyed by letter, but must, by the very nature oi it, be delivered by word of mouth. Phil was not the sort of young man who in vents mendacious yarns on purpose to get opportunity for clandestine amusement; but his tutor was yet a little scared by this arrangement, and not easy in his mind even when he had accompanied his pupil to the station, and had seen him safely in the railway carriage, bookod through to Gor bay. The youngster knew well enough that he was going to wound the best friend he bad ever had in his life, but he believed ;and he nerved himself in that belief with Q ........ age beyond his years) that he might bring peace back aguin to a mind which had not known peace for many a day. It was a Quixotic enterprise, perhaps, and there are even people in the world who would think it meddlesome; but he was moved to it by gratitude and affection, and by tho beauti ful ideals which have value for tho young. Prom London to Cornwall is a longish railway journey, and he had plenty of time in which to look at his purpose. There were many moments when for Ar thur’s sake he felt afraid of it, but he nover really faltered in it. He had writ ten, before starting, to announce his ar rival, and at Gorbay station he found one of the Pollarths awaiting him “ Grown a man now, Mister Phillip,” said the messenger, admiring him; "I didn’t hardly knaw ye.” He carried tho traveller’s portmanteau to the water-side, set it in the boat, took the sculls leislurely in his big, brown hands and pulled across the bay, with Phil at the rudder. Tho old house-keeper stood on the sands at the Sea-gate, and Phil, who had kissed her when he went away, kissed her on arrival. “ How is Mr. Trogarthen r he asked. “Ailing," she said—“ailing a bit b adly I'm afraid, Mr. Philip. He’s had a dread ful cold all winter, and he looks wild-like as if he was worried. And go to bed ho won’t for nights together. Sits stewed up in that libertry, and sometimes won’t touch his very meals.” When they reached the house Phil marched straight to the laboratory door and would have knocked there; but the housekeeper stopped him. “You must wait till he comes out sir ” she said, whisperingly. “ He wont let him self be disturbed for anything.” “ Nonsense,” said Phil, who began to feel his home-coming a little dreary. “ Ho will see me, I know.” He knocked, and the house-keeper rustled away. Receiving .no anwer, he knocked again more loudly, and after a pause he tried the handle of the door. Tregarthen sat in dressing-gown and slippers in an old leathern arm-chair, and at first Phil thought him asleep. His right hand hung idly at the side of his chair, his left lay in his lap, and his head was bent in an attitude of sweet repose. “Arthur,'* said Phil, softly, prepared to back without noise from the room. Tre earthen looked up at him. I rising be stretched his languid right hand W across his body and shook hands in so me- ■ chanical a way that Phil dropped his limp § fingers in distress. Tregarthon’s released | right hand went back to its former place, I and his head was bent as before. His left I hand still lay in bis lap, knuckles down ward, and Phil now saw that Tregarthen’s gaze was fixed with a sort of dreamy in tentness on a piece of greenish crystal about the size of a pigeon’s egg—to all ap pearance precisely such a trifle as might be picked from the waste heaps of any glass factory. ' “Arthur,” said Phil, “I have strange news for you.” I Tregarthen glanced up, with a strange smile, and then looked back at his bit of j crystal. Phil noticed great changes in him. His hair was long, and he looked neglected, and he had grown a full beard and mus tache. He had become so thin that bis cheek-bones took great prominence. His forehead was deeply lined, and his eyes were old. “ You think your news strange, Phil f * he said, dreamily staring at the object in his palm. “ Very strange,” said Phil, upon whom the first feeling of dismay was growing ] fast. » There is nothing strange under the sun, or new,” said Tregarthen, in an inward way. “Things go their round—seed, stalk, bud, flower, fruit, decay. There is nothing new, nothing unexpected. All things are inevitable and in order. The smallest is the type of the greatest. You know the Malestrom, if you have studied an eddy in a gutter." “ I have news, though,” said Phil, trying . to dispel the comfortless feeling this singu lar welcome gave him, “ which will inter- | est you deeply, Arthur.” • 1 “ I have news, if X cared to tell it,” re turned Tregarthen, “which would trans- i form the world.” He laughed, and arose from his seat. “ How oddly,” he said, “ the inaccuracies of speech cling to us! I ) have been telling you in effect that there is no transformation possible for the world, and a moment later I profess to be able to transform it. I could resolve human i nature into its simnle elements of creed I and hate, no doubt—such greed, Phil, that if I told my news men would gnaw Mont Blanc with their teeth, from its highest peak to its lowest foundations to get at me * —such hate that even nypocracy should vanish in its fire. So that my news , would scarcely be good nows to the world, j Phil, and may as well be kept a secret." He spoke lightly, and yet with every s appearance of sincerity, and, wild as his words were, his manner was calm and usual. “ X don’t know what to think of this," said Phil to himself. As a matter of fact ho knew well enongh what to think of it, but he did not dare to father his own fears. “ I won’t be so discourteous, Phil,” said Tregarthen, “as to refuse to hear your news. You shall amaze me if you can. I will lock up this valueless bit of devilry,” he continued, with the greenish crystal be tween his finger and thumb, “lest any fool should find it and do himself a mischief.” He crossed the room, unlocked a safe which stood in one corner, and tossed the object carelessly into a small box. “ I was al ways inclined to be harmless,Phil,but never so much inclined that way as now. Which shows, I fancy,” he said, as he slammed the door of the safe, “ a certain sweetness of disposition, for which I deserve some credit. I owe the world nothing but hatred, and I could pay the debt a million times over.” * He crossed the room again, and, laying both hands on Phil’s shoulders, looked into his eyes with a profound and mourn ful earnestness. “ Power and responsi bility are inseparable," he said. “The world suffers already. Men are bitten by their own desires, and gratified desire is despair. And I am one of the dirty crowd myself, Phil, though I scarcely care to think it, and I have not the heart to give them what they cry for.” Phil could only look back at his bene factor and friend with grief and wonder. [ To he continued next week.] . r; - - ■■ - ' ..- ! The Century Programme for 1883-84. The programme for the fourteenth year ol' this magazine, and the third under the new name, is if anything more interesting and pop ular than ever. With every season, The Ckk TURY shows a decided gain in circulation, The new volume begins witli November, and, when possible, subscriptions should begin with that issue. The following are some of the features of the coming year: A New Novel byGeorgeW. Cable, author of “Old Creole Days,” etc., entitled “Dr. Sevier ” a story of New Orleans life, the time being the eve of tho late Civil War. • “Lifo in tho Thirteen Colonies,” by Edward Eggleston, separate illustrated papers on sub jects connected with the early history of this country. Three stories by Henry .lames, of varying lengths, to appear through the year. The New Astronomy, untechnieal articles, by Prof. S, P. Langley, describing the most in teresting of recent discoveries in the sun and stars. A novelette by H. H. Hoyesen. author of xjw.inui, ciu. jvuuumm sjmrKiintf story. The New Era in American Architecture, a series of papers descriptive of the best work of American architects in Public Buildings City and Country Houses, etc. To be profusely il lustrated. A Novelette by llobert Grant, author of “Confessions of a Frivolous Girl,” etc., entitled "An Average Man,”—a story of New York. The Bread-winners, one of the most remark able novels of the day, to be completed in Jan uary. “Christianity and Wraith,” with other essays by the author of “The Christian League of Connecticut," etc., on the application of life t a"Inorats to tllepresent phase of modern "Coasting Abrfut the Gulf of St. Lawrence" a series of entertaining articles, profusely il lustrated. Scenes from the Novelists, Hawthorne George Eliot, and Cablo, with authentic draw ings. “Garfield in England,” extracts from his fjrivate Journu1 kept during a trip to Europe "The Silverado Squatters,” by llobert Louis Stevenson, author of the "New Arabian Nights." There will be papers on outdoor England by John Burroughs and others, a beautifully il lustrated series on Dante, a number of papers by the eminent French novelist Alphonse Daudet, articles on art and archteology by Charles Dudley Warner and others, illustrated papers on sport and adventure, short stories by the lending writers, essays on timely sub jects, etc., etc. Subscription price, 4.00 a year; single num bers sold evorywhero, at 35 cents each. All dealers receive subscriptions, or remittance may be made direct to tno publishers by postal or express order, registered lottor, bank check, or draft. SPECIAL OFFEllS. 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