as we spun onward behind the horses’ hoofs. Now and then, much to her consternation, a brilliant striped snake darted from the foot-path into the bushes.... I had given her to believe, you know, that our destination was the * * * hotel, a monstrous barracks of an establishment, perched on the top of a hill in this neighborhood; and when we clattered past it without stopping, she was altogether mystified. I parried her questions successfully, however; and at the end of another half mile Beacon Rock rose before us.... For a while we did—could do-nothing but race around the outside of the house, and attempt by eloquent attitudes, frantic gestures, ecstatic monosyllables, to express something of the admiration which it inspired. Mr. Flint had shown me photographs of the cottage before I left New York; but he had shown me no photographs of the earth, sea, and sky by which it is surrounded—and that is its superlative merit. It falls in perfectly with the nature round about. It is indigenous—as thoroughly so as the seaweed, the stone walls, the apple trees. It looks as though it might have grown out of the soil: or as if the waters, in a mood of titanic playfulness, had cast it up and left it where it stands upon the shore. Fancy a square tower, built of untrimmed stone, fifty feet in height and twenty in diameter, springing straight up from a bare granite ledge— which, in its turn, sprouts from a grassy lawn, which, in its turn, slopes gradually down to the rocks at the sea’s edge. This solemn, sturdy tower is pierced at its base by divers sinister looking portholes, which suggest cannon and ambushed warriors, but which, in point of fact, perform no more bellicose a function than that of admitting daylight into the cellar. Above these there are deep-set windows, through which the sun pours merrily all day long. I am seated at one of them, writing, now. . . . The tower faces the sea, and defies it. Behind the tower, and sheltered by it, nestles the cottage proper, a most picturesque, gabled, rambling structure of wood, painted terra cotta red... . . I don’t know how long we stood around outside. Finally, Mr. Perkins, a native who, aided by his wife, cooks and ’chores’ for us, suggested the propriety of entering. We entered; and if the exterior had charmed us, the interior simply carried us away. I shall not attempt an itemized description of it, because probably I shouldn’t be able to make the picture vivid enough to be worth your while. But imagine the extreme of aestheticism combined with the extreme of comfort, and you will get a rough notion of our environment. There are broad, open fire places, deep chimney corners, luxurious Turkey rugs, antique chairs and tables, beautiful pictures, interesting books—though we don’t read them—and every thing else a fellow’s heart could desire. There is no piano—the sea air would make short work of one—but I have hired a guitar from a Portsmouth music dealer, and she accompanies her songs on this.... Our mode of existence has been a perpetual dolce far niente, diversified by occasional strolls about the country—to Fort Constitution, a ruin of 1812—to the hotel, where a capital orchestra dispenses music every afternoon—or simply across the meadows, without an objective point. We can sight several light-houses from the tower windows; and a mile out at sea, in everlasting restlessness, floats a deep-voiced, melancholy bell-buoy, which recalls all the weird creeping of the flesh we had in reading the shipwreck in L’homme qui rit.. . . Of course we have written a glowing letter of thanks to Mr. Flint. She, I forgot to tell you, could not at first believe her senses—believe that this little earthly paradise was meant for our occupation. When at last the truth was borne in upon her, you ought to have witnessed her delight.... Oh, Julian, old boy, you can’t form the least conception of the great, radiant joy that fills my heart. I am really half afraid that it’s a dream from which I shall presently wake up. I don’t dare to verify it by pinching myself, lest that misfortune might indeed befall me. My happiness is so much in excess of other men’s, I don’t feel that I deserve it; and sometimes I am tormented by a morbid dread that it may not last. Just think, she is actually my wife! Ah, how my heart leaps, when I say that to myself, and realize all that it means!.... I have tried to put business quite out of my mind; but now and then it recurs to me, despite myself. I feel more and more uncomfortable about that advertisement. I have no doubt the woman richly deserves the worst that can happen to her, and all that, but nevertheless I can’t get rid of a deucedly unpleasant qualm of conscience, when I think of the trap I have helped to set for her. Between ourselves, I derive some consolation from the thought that the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that she will decline to nibble at our bait.... Unless I telegraph to the contrary, expect us to breakfast with you to-morrow week—Saturday, August 9th.”
Hetzel carried his letter across the street, and gave it to Mrs. Hart. She, not to be outdone, read aloud fragments of one which she had received from Ruth by the same mail. Among the paragraphs in the latter which she suppressed was this:
“I have offered twice to tell him the whole story. I very much want to do so—to have it off my mind. It doesn’t seem right that I should keep it secret; and he is so kind and tender, I feel that I could bring myself to tell him every thing. But with characteristic generosity, he declines to listen—bids me keep my secret as a proof of his confidence in me. Perhaps, then, it will be just as well for me to wait till we get back to town. Sooner or later—and the sooner, the better—I shall insist upon his allowing me to speak. A regret grows upon me daily that I did not insist upon that before we were married. Though I know so well that he loves me, my heart stands still when I stop to think, ’How may he feel towards me when he knows it all?’ or, ’Suppose before I have explained it to him, he should hear it from somebody else?’ Oh, it is not possible that he will cease to care for me, is it? I wish I could go to him this instant, and tell him about it, and then for good and all know my fate. Why did I wait till we were married? I could not bear to have him change in his feelings toward me now. Oh, I wish this miserable secret were off my mind—it tortures me with such terrifying doubts. But perhaps I had best not interrupt the happiness of his holiday by introducing a subject which he appears anxious to avoid. Do you agree with me? I say, I wish I could go, and tell it to him; and yet when the time comes for doing so, I am afraid my tongue will cleave to the roof of my mouth. If it should destroy his love for me! make him despise me! If for a single moment, as I was speaking, he should recoil from me!—withdraw his hand from mine! Oh, God, why can not the past be blotted out? I must speak to him before any body else can do so. If some one of his acquaintances should recognize me, and tell him, what might he not do? He thinks he would not care. He says no matter what the past has been, it is totally indifferent to him. But perhaps he would not feel that way if he really knew it. God bless him and keep him from all pain!”
Saturday morning, surely enough, the truants came home, and took up their quarters at Mrs. Hart’s, where for the present they were to remain. They hoped to set up a modest establishment of their own in the spring.
Late Monday forenoon Arthur screwed his courage to the sticking place, and tore himself away from his wife’s side. Reading the newspapers on his way down town, he had the satisfaction of seeing himself in print. The Peixada advertisement occupied a conspicuous position. He went straight to his office, where he found a number of letters waiting for him. These he disposed of as speedily as might be; and then he sallied forth to call upon Mr. Flint. He got back at about halfpast two o’clock. Less than five minutes later, his office-boy stuck his head through the doorway, and announced, “A gentleman to see you.”
“Show him in.”
The gentleman appeared. The gentleman wore the garb of a porter. “I come from Mr. Peixada, sir, with a note,” he explained.
Arthur took the note and broke it open. The gum on the envelope was still damp.
The note bore evidence of having been dashed off in haste. Here it is:
“Office of B. Peixada & Co.,