A Lover's Conscience

SHE was urging upon him the point that life is but a dream, and that all things should be done with reference to the great hereafter. She was eighteen, and he was twenty-two. They were far out on Lake Champlain, skating. All sounds seemed to have died on the distant shore.

They paused, hand in hand, and looked around them. It was a still, February day, full of beautiful winter sunshine. Here and there, far off on the snowy floor of the wide valley, they saw black specks, which they knew to be teams, crawling like insects over the white waste. On the western side, mountains rose in precipitous grandeur, their dark, spruce-covered summits cutting a jagged line against the pale blue steel of the northern sky. On the eastern shore was Vermont; and they saw in that direction, by the brink of the lake, Burlington, the city of the valley, so diminished by distance that its wharves and houses and leafless trees could scarcely be distinguished. They saw more plainly the smoke of its chimneys staining the sky with a blur of amber. There were the homes from which they had ventured out seven miles upon the ice, regardless of cracks and air-holes. The glide had been rapid and exhilarating. The pause enabled them to realize how still it was so far away from human habitations, and how impressive the prospect.

“ But we do know perfectly well, Malcolm,” said Miss Warrington, resuming their conversation on the everlasting subject, “ that this outward existence is merely a fleeting shadow, and has not the least real substance.”

Mr. Malcolm Bruce was aware of this fact. He had supposed otherwise in his natural state, while he remained a boy at home on a stump farm in Canada; but on coming to college, at Burlington, he had found out how it was. His interest in the matter had not been very great, however, until he made the acquaintance of Anna Warrington. It might not have been engrossing even then if he had not fallen in love with the young lady. But his ardent feeling and her spirituality and acuteness led him on. She saw clearly that life is an incident only, a mere step, a trifle in the endless march of eternity ; and she made Malcolm see it also. Out there on the ice, that February day, their minds were full of these “ inspirations.”

Miss Warrington was not a student in the college (for this was before women were admitted to the University of Vermont), but she ought to have been ; it would have saved her from grievous mistakes. As it was, she merely “ investigated,” and delighted in the philosophical studies as she misunderstood them. She was quite diligent in reading profound works. She was not accurate, because she was without suitable training ; but she was very enthusiastic. It was her notion to carry out in practice some of those valuable abstract conclusions which in education do not seem to form the common mind. She thought it consistent even then (before the subject had been treated by novelists) to stand guard over the conjugal rights of dead people. And as matters turned out with Anna Warrington, there need be no hesitation in saying that she was sincere in her transcendental view that, with philosophical people, marriage ought to be, and is, an institution not so much for time as for eternity. It was the union of souls, the blending of kindred spirits, that she commended.

If Nature ever smiles, as frequently asserted, she probably did so on this occasion, when this highly sensitive young woman pleaded with her companion, and actually shed tears as she pictured the grief of a wife departed looking from the realms above upon her partner’s second venture in the matrimonial market.

To this situation had Miss Anna been brought by shallow learning, unbridled romance, and that kind of crisis in her experience usually called a disappointment.

Malcolm knew nothing about her sentimental misfortune. It was not known to anybody in Burlington except two excellent unmarried women, who were distant relatives of Anna’s, and at whose home she was visiting. She was a stranger in the verdant little city, and her residence (except that she was from the South) was unknown. But her interest in the peculiar philosophy of the college and in poetry and metaphysics was so rank a growth that various people besides Malcolm were aware of it.

It is not the plan of this narrative to leave the pair on the ice any longer. They reached home at four o’clock in the afternoon, with good appetites, no marks on their faces, and Anna’s small white handkerchief showing evidence of having been vigorously used. Malcolm Bruce must have been dimly conscious even then of the morbid phase of the situation, for he was a sensible youth, but he was just out of the Canada woods. It was a prodigious and almost incredible thing to him that a cultivated and elegant young lady could be so fond of Malcolm Bruce. He quaked with reverence and honest fear in the presence of such superior feminine attractions. It is clear that the times also were somewhat to blame. Those were the days when the last hours of weakly female children were celebrated in song throughout the Union. The farewell words and the little green grave were known to millions. It was a luxurious period, when in America everybody’s muscles felt the softening influence of a century of peace. Tears were delicious, and the dusty road of life was sprinkled with them then far more than it is now. Doubtless Bruce felt this general influence strongly. The peculiarities of the place also aided his infatuation. Taking into account the beautiful and peculiar philosophy taught by the college and its accompanying theory of fine art, it may safely be affirmed that the locality was extremely romantic. Solemn mountains stand in great magnificence around this lovely vale, where the sublimest truths were promulgated. The future state was made very near and palpable to the students. There might be some doubt about the absolute reality of the present world, but no Burlington student in his senses ever had any question about the certainty of the world to come.

It was not often that shallow students or sympathizers were misled to the extent apparent in Anna Warrington. The philosophic dream was more likely to be truthful, and to come to strong men. It began to show itself usually in thoughtfulness and a fondness for the poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and resulted in landing the man in Andover Theological Seminary, where he would surpass his fellow-students in deep knowledge and profound thinking. Bruce saw what was to him the majesty of the great world and the dignity of unsurpassed learning in this sequestered valley, where wild-flowers were the chief ornament, and not man, but Nature, reigned supreme. It was in his freshman year that he bowed down and worshiped the bedazzled and bedazzling Anna Warrington. He was then at his weakest in his conflict with the world.

But there was a second step in this matter, which I would endeavor to account for if it were not too preposterous. As it is I shall merely state the facts, and leave the case on its merits. Anna Warrington and Malcolm Bruce, in making their little preparatory arrangements for living and dying and the hereafter, including, of course, the slight circumstance usually known as marriage, bargained both for time and eternity ! The compact contained all the particulars. Anna put them in as if per schedule A and B, and Bruce, in transports of love and enchantment, assented. It was, indeed, and aside from all levity, a very tender scene when these two, so young and sincere, pledged themselves to each other forever, specifically setting aside the decree of the skeleton king, whose will terminates all engagements, and especially marriage contracts, and whose power to part the nearest and dearest is verbally conceded in the wedding ceremony.

There is a natural grotto in the bluff of Red-rocks, which overhangs the lake, a mile south of Burlington. It was in this wild and hidden retreat, amid the soft airs and under hearing of the birds of June, that the lovers prayed, and vowed, and promised. The blue waves saw and clapped their hands ; but there was no voice from the majestic mountains. There was probably an impression on the part of the everlasting hills that these two young persons did not know what they were talking about. But they had no uncertainty.

They were to live for each other, whether married or single. No misunderstanding that could come between them and no absence or desertion was to serve as a pretext or excuse for dissolving this union. It was to be above all the accidents of time, and in its nature absolute. If one died, the other was to wait until they should be united beyond the grave. In the mean time the deceased was to watch over the survivor, and endeavor to make his or her spiritual presence felt by the mourner. That communication under such circumstances might be impossible was conceded, yet an effort in that direction was thought advisable, and was made part of the mutual undertaking. If they were in any way separated in this life, each was to live in singleness, looking forward to a meeting here or in the life to come.

Anna Warrington sang divinely, and one of her chosen hymns, as she rendered it, seemed to all of us to float along the very edge of the spirit world. That weird melody haunted Malcolm and bewitched him. It was always clear to me that this poor girl, with such a haunting voice and dark, hungry, and unearthly eyes, was suffering from a defeat which was eating her heart out, and I have so treated the matter in these pages. But there were those who believed differently. They could find deceit in that sad and lovely face, and deliberate design in the treatment she gave her college lover.

The day after the scene in the grotto, an event occurred without which it would not have been worth while to write this history. That event was nothing less than the sudden and unexplained disappearance of Miss Warrington from Burlington. It was not alarming because she merely “ went somewhere.” But it was a trying thing for Bruce to be treated in this curt way, even upon the most liberal hypothesis in regard to the unimportance of mundane affairs. If she had been coming back some time, or if he could have found out where she had gone, he might, perhaps, have borne it better; but in the absence of the least scintilla of information, the situation, as time went by, grew discouraging.

It might have been stated early in this record, had that vulgar fact been important, that Malcolm took his meals at the very house where Anna, for the time being, was on a visit. That was, indeed, the secret of their acquaintance and intimacy. Those two excellent single women, who had Anna with them and took Malcolm to board, were the best friends the student had in the place, and among the best women in Burlington. Whether they saw fit to board a freshman for a while on Anna’s account is a matter of speculation. Certain it is that they never boarded any one else, and Malcolm was politely “ excused ” within three months after Anna’s disappearance.

The point of the matter was that Malcolm could get no response from these friends, when he hinted, by his inquiries, his desire to know something about Miss Warrington. Not a ray of light could be seen in the mystery. Miss Mary, the elder of the two sisters (for they were sisters), was a large, dashing brunette of forty, fond of art, poetry, and romance. She evidently sympathized with Malcolm, but she said nothing. Her quiet sister, Lucy, was equally silent upon the subject. The young Scotchman took to heart the treatment he received. He was surprised in his room in college, on several occasions, sitting in silent meditation, bathed in tears.

For three years (during the remainder of the course) the student from Canada continued faithfully at his post. His affair with the girl at the corner house and her mysterious disappearance were dimly known. But he was too honest and manly to be laughed at. That he was in some sense widowed was recognized, but the agreement that had snared his honest soul was not suspected at that time. His occasional melancholy and fits of moodiness were accounted for by the disappointment which so earnest a nature must have suffered in losing a sweetheart. But he seemed to recover by degrees. It was, indeed, impossible that he should fail to see, as he reached the dignity of a senior, and read for himself, in the regular course, those subjects which had bedazzled Miss Warrington, how absurd her talk had been. It were vain to deny the resistless charm there is in young womanhood though it may be topped by a silly brain, and it must be conceded that love is mighty in a young man ; but there is reason to believe that Malcolm’s strong Scotch sense conquered these forces. Those fatuous tears over whom it might concern were a little too much even for the stomach of romance. I speak of it as of an ostrich. There was, however, another power which held him. He was, without reserve or mitigation, a Scotchman with a conscience ! No alarm will be created by this announcement, except upon the part of those who have in some emergency encountered such an obstacle. It is the only thing, so far as ascertained, that can finally prevent the course of true love, or deny the right of way to a constructing railroad corporation. Unknown to all but themselves, this girl had bound this man down with the strong cords which his honesty and sincerity furnished. I believe that in secret he writhed on his rock of suffering. Malcolm would not look at other women, for he was a Bruce, and had made his choice in life. It was a pitiable choice, and he came to know it; but it was a transaction, and unless changed he would abide by it. Knowing him well, I have not a doubt that he schooled himself to love the memory and honor the thought of the girl whose vapid sentimentality, emptiness, and unfairness he could not help seeing. Had Malcolm’s engagement been known, he might have been released in some way. Miss Mary might perhaps have managed it. But Bruce was too proud and sensitive to blurt out his private affairs to anybody ; and besides that, his arrangement with Anna was not a mere engagement of marriage. He had really nothing to complain of under its terms and assumptions, for what was life, or indeed death for that matter, in such an agreement ? A few years were of no account, and a separation for a century was not worth mentioning. In his anxiety to do “the right thing,” he undertook to jot down some of these ridiculous postulates, and so much of the promises he had made as he could remember; but there was a queerness about it all that puzzled him, and made him blush to think he could have been so unwise.

Mr. Bruce graduated with honors, and seemed to have overcome his depression. It was a very bright day for the Canada boy, when, as the fruit of his own industry, he found himself among the first of a college class, his education finished and paid for.

Five years after commencement, I was surprised to learn in Albany that Malcolm Bruce, my college friend, had secured a place in the city, as a clerk in one of the state departments. I had not thought him the kind of man to have an influence in politics or settle down to a clerkship. But I was glad to see him. It was by chance that we met, as he was getting off the cars down by the Hudson River. He was new to the city. I walked with him up State Street to the marble building on Capitol Hill where the officers were. He was courteously received, and his desk assigned him. Then I prevailed upon him to go to dinner with me.

Half-way down the hill, crossing State Street at right angles, was Pearl Street, at that date shaded with trees and bordered with handsome dwellings. In Pearl, north of State, a few rods from the corner, was the house of my landlady, Mrs. Tibbies. Here we dined, and here Malcolm finally settled down with me as a fellow-boarder.

There were three other hoarders, or, as Mrs. Tibbles preferred to phrase it, members of the family. There was, first, Mr. Mull, with very short gray hair, a city face, and a bold, mocking laugh; then Mr. Gilman, a newspaper man, with a fresh complexion, rich brown mustache, and a breezy manner that was like the prairies from which he came; and lastly, there was pretty, girlish Miss Newby, who had just come to Albany, and was engaged as teacher in a private school.

No sharp practice is intended by bringing in that item of inflammatory material so quietly in the last sentence. The entire matter is above board. Miss Helen Newby was about to influence the man Malcolm. But what is denied most unqualifiedly and emphatically is that either Helen or Malcolm suspected any such thing, or contrived it, or did anything designedly which led in that direction. It has already appeared that Malcolm was appropriated ; and he had not been released from his engagement. From what I learned subsequently, I know that when he first met Miss Newby he was of the opinion that after all a single life is not the greatest misfortune in the world, and that so long as he knew nothing about Anna Warrington, the right way was to avoid all other feminine blandishments.

As to Miss Newby, she was a newblown rose, from a country pastor’s family, as frank, earnest, and simplehearted as the youngest in her school. It was delightful to see such an one, with her colored ribbons, her blue eyes, rustic health, and charming fearlessness, in a hackneyed, dusty city boardinghouse. The sweet light of home, so lost to the rest of the household, shone on her face. She blessed us by her presence. It was noticeable that all the company at the table, including Mrs. Tibbles, who despised lady-boarders in general, went down in spiritual selfabasement before this genuine bit of lovely womanhood. Mr. Mull, who was a lobbyman half the year and at work mysteriously the other half, ceased to scoff when the Vermont rose was present.

But the one she “ took to ” was Malcolm. It was inevitable. There was a long delay in bringing the fact out, however ; for they were as shy as cat and dog all the first summer. But when winter came, there was a disposition among us to be more civilized. This was encouraged by Mrs. Tibbles, who invited us all into the parlor, evenings, to play chess, or read aloud, or sing, or do anything that was becoming to a wellordered family. Mull scouted the idea, and went out as usual for the evening; but the rest of us soon formed a little reading circle.

There seems to be no reason why a statement of the result should be expanded by introducing those particulars which picture the growth of a romantic attachment. It is better merely to announce that it was a serious case. The parties were probably not aware of it for some time. As their mutual shyness wore off, it was as though they, in their innocence, supposed the dangerous time had gone by. It was the reading which charmed the rest of us, in which they also appeared to be interested. Malcolm was the principal reader. His nature was responsive to the author’s meaning, and he expressed feelings in his voice. While he gave us very much of Scott and Burns, he also read with great success English and American authors. His greatest triumph was on Christmas Eve, when he rendered the famous Carol by Charles Dickens. Good Mrs. Tibbles laughed and cried over the story until she was almost exhausted, and Miss Newby’s face glowed with a wonderful radiance. There was apparently, and I think in reality, no immediate danger, in these readings, of a fire being kindled, if it had not been for what followed. There was an event outside which induced the parties to take an adventurous step.

The war of the Rebellion had been fought since our college days. Indeed, Malcolm went from college almost directly to the field, and he had come to Albany from the disbanding army. And now the country was turning back to the arts of peace. It was then that the news reached our little reading circle in the parlor that the author of the immortal Carol, the greatest reader of the world, was coming to the city of Albany. It caused an excitement which took up the entire evening, and produced an exhilaration which lasted several days. When the time arrived and there was that frantic crowding for tickets, the story of which is so well known, Malcolm triumphed. He secured two excellent places, side by side, for both evenings. In the flush of his victory, he did not hesitate to offer his extra place to Miss Newby. It would have been impossible for him to do her a greater kindness. We all felt that it was a most graceful and gallant act on Malcolm’s part; for to see Charles Dickens was the event of a lifetime. None of us were willing that our little rose from Vermont should miss such an opportunity; and all the household were grateful to Mr. Bruce for inviting her.

Among those who listened to the great author, when he came, with a degree of rapture which took away their ability to judge of him critically were Malcolm and Helen. All might still have been safe if the matter had ended even here. But it did not. Tweddle Hall, at the corner of Pearl and State streets, where Charles Dickens read and concerts and lectures were frequent, was near by and temptingly convenient. It was the main auditorium of the city. Every morning and evening Malcolm passed it and Helen passed it, he going to his office and she to her place in the school. It was not a dozen rods, on the broad sidewalk, from Mrs. Tibbles’s front door. How could these two friends, of rustic habits and education, help passing along the walk together; and now that the ice was broken, how could they avoid sometimes attending the lecture or the concert at the hall in company ? They did not avoid it, and they had not a thought, apparently, that they were noticed. Doubtless the city seemed to them a wilderness of human beings, who did not regard them as they passed by. But their liking for each other was so frank, so manifest, so pretty as an idyllic picture, and evidently so unsuspected by themselves, that it soon provoked comment. Then followed a step on the part of these two friends which settled the question in the minds of the public. They began to walk to church together, and took seats side by side wherever they attended religious service. If they thought of it at all, as they wandered away toward some sacred edifice, they must have fancied they were like the babes in the woods, unobserved and uncared for. But the world understood things differently.

“ Bruce is a lucky fellow,” said Gilman in my room. “ When is the wedding ? ”

Mull was there, but Gilman appealed to me as the college friend of Bruce. I did not reply.

“ I said it was ‘ a go ’ the first time I saw them together,” proclaimed Mull.

“ I have heard a good deal said about it,” remarked Gilman, with hesitation, glancing at Mull.

“ The engagement ought to have been announced before this,” declared Mull, with a trace of severity in his manner. And he added, “ I am not sure but she is too good for him.”

No more was said on the subject at that time, but it was not long before hints came to me from other parties, and Mrs. Tibbles also sought for an interview in regard to the pair. She said that Helen, poor child, “ had no idea.” Finally I spoke to Malcolm, telling him some of the things I had heard. He was at first astonished, then indignant; and then, as I pressed him with the facts and explained the views and requirements of city society, he became alarmed, and was stricken with the fear that he had injured his dearest friend. Really, he had done so, and I could not deny it. The friends of Helen at the school were chief among those who had spoken with anxiety of her remarkable acquaintance with the department clerk.

“ If she is not married soon, we shall not know what to think,” had been the comment of one of them.

Malcolm’s eager inquiries drew out from me the whole story, which reduced him to a condition of grief and consternation. Then I pointed out that bright and happy way by which all could be made right. Assuring him that Helen would accept him (if indeed she had not done so), I urged the importance of announcing the engagement immediately, or fixing the wedding day.

My friend’s countenance fell. We were in his room. He sat down upon a chair, rested his elbows on his knees, braced up his chin with his hands, and gazed long and abstractedly at a figure on the carpet between the toes of his boots.

As the result of this meditation, he confessed to me that an engagement made in our college days was the only thing that prevented him from seeking the hand of Helen in marriage. I knew the affair he referred to, and expressed surprise. We had not supposed at the time that it was more than a passing romance between him and Anna Warrington. But he now assured me, with a perplexed face, that he had made a solemn promise which rested upon his conscience, and which, if he disregarded it, would make him a guilty wretch in this world and a poor lost soul in the world to come. This last despairing conclusion was uttered in a nervous, crying tone, like that of a child in abject fear. Yet I could see that it was genuine. It occurred to me that he must have learned the form and intonation from his mother.

I sat down beside him, and drew out the facts of his acquaintance with Miss Warrington. It was my impression that a contract of the kind he described, made so long ago, and not entered upon in any way, could not be of any binding force in the court of conscience or honor. I urged him to consider how absurd it was to suppose that he could bargain for the next world. He conceded the point, but claimed that the bargain for this life could not be invalidated by any such specious considerations. He thought it was an agreement which held both parties to celibacy, marriage with each other, or widowhood. When I pointed out that he could not trade away the highest uses of life in a manner which thus destroyed them, he said that monks and nuns did it, and he and Anna Warrington had aright to. When I suggested that as a transaction in the eye of the law the entire contract must be taken, and that when so taken it was too ridiculous to stand for a moment, he thought that no excuse.

It was when I appealed to him in behalf of Helen Newby that he first felt my words. Then he shrank as if I had struck him. I pitied the man as I left him, bewailing his sorrows in a fashion I had seen in him once or twice in college, his hands over his face, scarcely concealing his tears. But one concession had been granted by him : he was willing that I should explain his good intentions to others, and the peculiar circumstances of his previous engagement, as his excuse for the course now pursued. It was a poor apology, but there was no other.

Matters progressed rapidly. I tried to say very little, but Mrs. Tibbles had a talk with Malcolm, and in various ways the truth became known. The Vermont temper was quick and active. The rose would not be talked about, quietly. It was a word and a flash, apparently. There was the rumble of getting a trunk through the hall, and then a hack came to the door in the evening, and she had gone home for her vacation, a week before the school term ended. There was no good-by.

Next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Tibbles tried to allude to the departure politely, as if it had not been abrupt; but there was constraint about the talk. The tide turned very strongly against Malcolm.

“ Do you mean to say, Mr. Bruce,” asked Gilman, when we were grouped in my room, “ that it is the right thing to step out of this, because of some nonsense nine years ago with another girl?”

“ But, Mr. Gilman, Mr. Gilman, it was a sacred promise,” protested Malcolm.

“ Do you mean to say,” blazed Gilman, lifting his six feet to an accusing attitude, and shaking his index finger at the Scotchman, “ that you have a right to treat Miss Newby in this way on such a plea as that ? If you do, you are not the man I took you for.”

“ But it was a sacred promise forever,” insisted Malcolm.

“ Gander-headed fool! ” drawled Mull, gazing at Bruce scornfully.

For a moment I thought the Scotchman would seize him, but he did not. He rose, whether cowed or in a rage I could hardly tell, and left the room. I felt somewhat responsible for my college friend, and tried to explain that his romance at the university had been quite serious.

“ His what ? ” questioned Mull.

“ His romance, — romance,” I replied, doubling the word to make it clear.

“Yes, yes, — certainly,” commented Mull dryly and with a dubious air, as if the word were rather new to him. “ I say, Gilman, such a man ought to be punished. I am willing to help, if you say so.” But Gilman counseled moderation, remarking that Malcolm meant well.

“ That is no excuse,” said Mull. “ There is no counting on a man who means well. That is the most dangerous element we have to deal with.

The incident of Miss Newby’s departure drifted on toward forgetfulness, in the rush of city life ; but it remained as a mark against Malcolm. He was no longer popular in the house. A kind and degree of condemnation rested upon him that grieved him greatly. He suffered also, acutely, from the loss of his friend Miss Newby. When others began to forget, I could see that he did not. The fact that she did not return to resume her place in the school, when the new term commenced, brought to Malcolm an anguish of spirit. He had counted on some sort of explanation and reconciliation. The entire matter, so trifling in the lives and thought of others, was of vast moment to him. When months passed, and others had become indifferent to the transaction, Malcolm was still brooding over the wrong he had done, and the hurt to his friend and his own integrity. He confided the idea to me that it might still be possible to get some word of Anna Warrington, and have such communication with her as would honorably release him, so that he could visit Helen and seek her in marriage. That Anna, if discovered, might not consent was among his fears. Yet he thought correspondence with the two relatives in Burlington worth trying. It might be possible, he hoped, to gain information from them in regard to the whereabouts of Anna Warrington. With my approval he opened such a correspondence. His inquiries were carefully worded; no special reason for desiring the information was given.

The answer was cautious in the extreme. No hint of the intelligence desired was conveyed. It was apparent to me that there was a something in the case which they were guarding. I saw that entire frankness on our part would be required, if any light was to be obtained. But there was an excellent reason why such a method should not he resorted to. It would be an acknowledgment of an obligation where in truth none existed. Such a concession in writing, with its risk of entanglement, would not be prudent. If Malcolm could meet Miss Warrington alone, and free his conscience (or even talk with Miss Mary), I saw no objection to it. But it seemed dangerous, in the darkness surrounding the affair, to put anything on paper. I suggested that he might employ a detective, but he did not.

Thus the matter rested until a year had passed away. Malcolm was in the mean time bearing his loneliness and self-accusation as thousands bear similar burdens along the crowded streets. He was becoming thin, and acquiring that alert, worn, and anxious look which characterizes the stereotyped city face.

Early in March, an event occurred which threw a vivid ray across the path of my college friend. In my round of circuits, I was on duty in a curious case in the city of Hudson, thirty miles below Albany. A woman had deceived an entire community. Coming to a little village in Columbia County, she had, though a stranger, obtained money and goods, and lived in a style of unusual magnificence. She was the leader of society, and foremost in all benevolent enterprises. It was merely the confidence game extended so as to include many victims. The woman was without a penny of her own, but borrowed quite large amounts. When after eight months the town awoke, and each loser confessed how he had been manipulated, an uprising of the people took place, and this “ operator ” was, after preliminary formalities, brought to trial.

As the woman was brought from the jail into the court-room, I felt a slight shock of recognition flash through me. It was but a minor event in the midst of more serious matters. Yet it was important, for if I could trust my senses the woman was Anna Warrington. But for a while I suspected that this was merely an instance of similarity in appearance.

The trial began near evening. I had time, after the adjournment, to run up to Albany by a late train, and the next morning I got Malcolm to return with me to Hudson. He was much excited when he learned of my discovery. I placed him in a convenient seat, and we had to wait but a few moments before the defendant came in with the officers. The trial had attracted a crowd. Many stood up to get a view of the woman’s face, and among these was Malcolm. I watched him. Suddenly, as she appeared, he became pale, and sat down. Then the court reproved the people for rising, and all sank abashed into their seats. Malcolm could now see her clearly, and I noticed that a red tide surged over his features. There was no difficulty about the identity. The maiden name of the defendant was ascertained for me by an attorney. It was Anna Warrington. She was tried as Mrs. Anna Patterson, having been married four years, though now a widow.

While I was busy with the trial, Malcolm left the court-room and returned to Albany. But before going he wrote on a scrap of paper the words, “ She is the devil’s own,” and sent it to me by a court officer.

His judgment was, perhaps, hasty. The woman was finally acquitted, on proof given by friends from her home in New Jersey to the effect that she was unbalanced in mind, and actually believed the statements (concerning her own great wealth and other matters) by which she had so strangely won the confidence of others. Medical experts confirmed this singular view. Some of the spectators did not agree with the verdict of acquittal; but events in the life of the defendant, and especially her exploits in New York city (made known upon the trial), tended to confirm the theory of the experts and relatives.

At the close of the proceedings, I noticed Miss Mary among those who came forward and gathered around the woman just acquitted. It was plain enough now why Anna had disappeared so suddenly, and why her Burlington friends had been so reticent. Miss Warrington had been no end of trouble from the time of her first disappointment. With strange inconstancy she would win confidences only to forget them.

“ She will melt your very heart and soul with love, pity, and tenderness,” was the testimony of a poor milliner, who had loaned Anna all her savings.

Possibly the doctors were in error, but their theory was plausible. They claimed that Anna’s brilliancy, pathos, and power of persuasion were the outcome of a slightly disordered intellect and a wounded heart. Having gained the love she craved of one, she would, with the inconstancy of a mind diseased, turn elsewhere and repeat the achievement.

On returning to Albany, I found Malcolm on a high horse. He announced that he had been misled, and repeated that the girl was “ the devil’s own.” He consented to the appropriate modifications, however, when I suggested expressions more in accordance with the verdict. It was a great pleasure to see how he held up his head again. His youth came back remarkably in a few days.

“ What is he going to do about it ? ” asked Mull, with a good deal of interest, in my room.

“ I understand he is going to Vermont,” suggested Gilman. “ Mrs. Tibbles says that Miss Newby is at home, and I saw Bruce ordering some new clothes.”

What does he want of clothes ? ” queried Mull. “ He ought to get down in the dust and black her shoes.”

Malcolm’s joy was of short duration. A sorrow came before he was quite ready to go to Vermont. Its step was quiet, but its power irresistible. There was a tap at the window of the basement dining-room, where Mrs. Tibbles and I were eating breakfast. I never did like that way of taking in letters from the postman, directly off the sidewalk, but it was the custom of the house. The waitress unbolted the sash and slid it down an inch, and in came the white envelope, landing on the floor. The letter was picked up, and the postman, whose legs only were visible to our basement view, passed on. The missive proved to be for Mrs. Tibbles, and she opened it. Out came the neat little engraved cards, tied with white satin ribbon, the wedding-reception invitation and all the requirements; and we knew that our Vermont Helen was disposed of to a stranger.

It was a shock to both of us. I was glad that only Mrs. Tibbles and I were present. The little woman began to tremble as she held the smooth, creamy stationery, and thought of what it all meant, and before I knew it she was softly and silently shedding tears. I had not given her credit for so much feeling.

“ After all,” said Mrs. Tibbles, swallowing her emotion, “ Helen could not wait forever. It is thirteen months since she left Albany.”

“Thirteen?” I questioned, not knowing what to say.

“ Yes ; it will be thirteen months day after to-morrow,” she replied, with the accuracy of a housekeeper who gets her pay. “ But I did not think Helen could ever marry anybody but Malcolm. It will be a terrible blow to him.”

I did not wish to see how Malcolm would receive the intelligence ; I knew the depth of his feeling and his impulsive nature: therefore I left the breakfast-table rather hastily before he came down, feeling that Mrs. Tibbles was the proper person to do what could be done. That she made it known to him in some way in the course of the day I came to understand before the next morning. Those sounds which came from Malcolm’s room were not to be mistaken. His stern, set face, already blue and haggard, startled me when I saw him the second day. He had avoided all of us since the cards came, and he avoided me now. I yearned to speak to him, but I knew his pride, and he plainly eluded my footsteps. Mrs. Tibbles came to my room for an interview, and tearfully besought me to do something for Malcolm. She said he would die, that he was dying, and that he might shoot himself, citing several eases just then reported in the New York dailies. I was not alarmed, but I promised to do what I could.

In the afternoon of the third day Mull came back from New York, and, dropping into my room, asked casually, “How is everything?” He had been gone during the trouble. “ Anything about Bruce ? ” he continued. “ I saw him out here by the corner, and he looked as if he had just got up from a fit of sickness.”

I told Mull the circumstances. His face showed concern, and he made some inquiries. I stepped down-stairs to Mrs. Tibbles, and got the envelope and cards to show to him. He looked at them for a moment; his face began to wrinkle, and he burst into laughter.

I was, naturally, abashed and indignant.

“When did these come?” asked Mull, leering at me.

I told him the day and hour of the arrival.

“Well, they were mailed on the 1st,” he said, “ although it took them until the next morning to get here.”

“ Mailed on the 1st ? ” I questioned, not seeing the point.

“Yes, the 1st of April,” he replied. “ It was fair game. It was All Fools’ Day.”

For a moment I was struck dumb. Could this he true ? Then I clutched eagerly at the chance of reprieve for Malcolm which Mull’s words offered.

“ Do you know anything about this ? ” I demanded.

“ I wrote that,” he replied, turning the envelope over and pointing to the address, which seemed to be in a fine feminine hand.

Mull was “ square business ” according to his code. I knew his word could be taken in such a matter.

“ I had better call Mrs. Tibbles,” I suggested.

“ Yes, if you wish to,” he responded, as if the affair were of no importance.

I stepped down the stairs and called her, and she came to my room. As she entered, I said : “ Mr. Mull knows something about these cards.”

I saw by the quick flush which spread over her face how sensitive she was upon the subject.

“ Mrs. Tibbles,” explained the lobbyman, with an air of nonchalance, “ I sent these cards, or got them sent, on the 1st of April, and it was just a little joke on Malcolm. He deserved it. The boys fixed them for me down at the printing-office, where they print so many. I sent the letter to be mailed in Vermont by a conductor on the railroad. You can see, if you look close, that the postmark is Rutland. It has not been within fifty miles of Helen, so far as I know.”

The landlady turned pale as she stood staring at Mr. Mull. For a moment I thought she would fall, and I put out a hand to save her; but the next moment she burst into a fit of uncontrollable weeping, while she exclaimed, “ Oh, Mr. Mull, Mr. Mull! ” and turned and left the room.

A few minutes later Gilman came in, and we discussed the situation.

“ It is not newspaper, you understand,” explained Mull.

“ Certainly, I will not mention it,” said Gilman; and he added, after a long, expressive, whistling “ Whew ! ” the question, “Won’t there be a time when Malcolm hears of this ! ”

There was no opportunity to answer the question, for just then the front door was slammed, and we knew Malcolm had come in for the evening. His heavy footstep did not come up the stairs. There was a little talking in the hall, and then the voices passed into the parlor. In a few moments we heard him raging, and all of us went down. The parlor door was ajar, and I pushed it open. There stood Malcolm, with the light from a window full upon his face.

“ I wall, I wull go this very day, Mrs. Tibbles! ” he shouted, with the strong Scotch accent which overtook him in his emotional moments. As little Mrs. Tibbles danced around him, wiping her eyes with her apron, and putting her hands on bis arm from time to time, trying to persuade him to wait, he waxed more and more earnest and furious. “ I ha’ been a poltroon, a sneaking villain, Mrs. Tibbles,” he stormed, “ and I canna’ sleep intil I make reeparation ! ”

The strong lashings around his mouth were drawn in furrows, his eyes flashed through tears, his chin trembled, and his whole frame quivered, as he made these charges against himself. Neither he nor the landlady seemed to care anything about the rest of us.

“ That is right, Bruce; you talk up like a man, now,” said Mull; but no one appeared to hear him.

“ Come, come, gentlemen,” said Gilman, “ we have no business here ; ” and thereupon we withdrew considerately, closing the parlor door behind us and going up-stairs to our rooms.

“ Mull, that was pretty rough,” said Gilman.

“Yes, he needed it,” answered the other.

The next morning when we sat down to breakfast, Mr. Mull inquired, “ Has Mr. Bruce gone yet ? ”

The mere mention of the subject melted good Mrs. Tibbles. She ceased pouring the coffee, and began to wipe her eyes.

“ He went last night by the eleven o’clock run,” volunteered Gilman.

“ I never could help liking the young man,” conceded Mr. Mull in a conciliatory manner, glancing at the landlady, 44 although I cannot say I respect his understanding.”

“ He has an excellent mind, Mr. Mull, and a good, true, noble heart,” protested Mrs. Tibbles with almost a sol.

“ Good, true what ? ” asked Mr. Mull, with that obstinate inability to understand which was one of his customary weapons.

“ Heart, — heart ! Did you ever hear of such a thing? ” explained Gilman in an irritated tone.

Here the conversation ended.

As it turned out, Malcolm Bruce did not appear again among us. He found quarters at another place, on the same street but farther north, whither he went when he came back from Vermont. His trunk and books were sent to him. I was glad indeed to learn by an explanation from Mrs. Tibbles that Malcolm’s bull of excommunication did not extend to her or to me.

“ I think it is Mr. Mull,” said the landlady, with a distressed face.

Anxious to see my friend and learn of his journey, I called on him at once, in his new abode. He had chosen well; and as he took me to his room, I could not but congratulate him on his pleasant surroundings and the change he had made. I saw in a moment that his errand had been successful. He was brimming over with good feeling; I had never seen that toss of the head and grip of the lips which characterized him in moments of success so observable as now. He intimated, with an air of triumph, that Mr. Mull had better not bo too free with his jokes.

I learned afterward, from other sources, the entire history of Malcolm’s journey and the full secret of his elation. It appeared that the scenes in Vermont had been as dramatic as those in Albany. He made his first application to the Rev. Mr. Newby, Helen’s father. The old gentleman was overwhelmed, when called into his parlor, at meeting a powerful young man in what was almost a convulsion of feeling, and with a wildness of manner that was startling in the extreme. But Malcolm managed to explain himself, and almost literally went down on his knees in penitence and humiliation, as he told the minister his story. He could not have done a better thing for himself in the way of gaining the approbation of the father of his beloved.

Strange to say, the old gentleman sided with Malcolm’s original scruples, upon hearing the facts, and honored him for his long waiting and conscientious forbearance. As the matter was talked over between them and more fully explored, the Reverend Newby became proud of the young man, and was glad to know that amid the reeking corruption of New York politics there had still been one saving element, one righteous man, in our capital city, — which municipality, by the way, the Reverend Newby had the grace to allude to frequently in his conversation as Gomorrah on the Hudson. I think he got the verbal notion from Bingen on the Rhine, which Helen used to sing to him.

It need hardly be said that Helen very naturally took the same view as her father, and exalted to a place among the stars the hero who had escaped the snares we had so wickedly laid for his conscience, — on her account. The first hint I had of this Newbian view, so to speak, came from Malcolm himself. He said to me : —

“ After all, I am so glad I knew about it before I ventured to act. Perhaps it would have been no wrong against any man or woman if I had gone forward before; but it was all done from the beginning with prayers and promises to the Almighty, mind ye, and would it not have been a lie to him, though it were no wrong to any, think ye ? ”

He asked this with such a look of awe upon his face, and so much feeling, that I thought it better not to discuss the question. But I remember that after being thus reproved, as it were, I soon bade him good-day, and walked away with the thought in my mind that though one should bray Malcolm in a mortar with a pestle, his peculiar notions would not depart from him.

In talking with Mull about him that evening, I mentioned the question Malcolm had raised. The third-house man seemed irritated by what I told him. He said : “ Bruce is a dangerous man. There is no knowing what he may do. It is not safe to have him in the department. I know who got him in as clerk, and I know how to get him out.”

Mull was not a man to talk at random, and I knew his power. But as it turned out there was no reason for apprehension. Within three weeks of the time when the conversation I have given was held, Malcolm hinted to me triumphantly that he had better business in view than being clerk in Albany. It was when I encountered him, one morning, in the green suburbs, out for his early walk.

“ Just think of it,” he exclaimed with startling energy, after he had told of his better chance and that he had secretly determined on going, “ the rascals here tax a man’s salary for election expenses ! ”

“And you will not submit to it ? ” I ventured.

“ Not while my name is Bruce,” he responded.

I felt that he was right this time, and shook him warmly by the hand while I commended his resolution.

“This is not a place for an honest man, sir ; Albany is no place at all,” he continued, soaring above me in a spiritual sense, as if he were giving me guidance and instruction. It may have been a faint tinge of resentment on my part at his air of superiority that led me to think I detected an attempt at statesmanship in his speech. Perhaps it was an unconscious imitation, but I certainly seemed to hear an echo of that dingdong oratory with which I was painfully familiar.

We stood it as well as we could when Malcolm shook off the dust of his feet against the city. He gained a better position in New England than he had in Albany. It must be confessed that a blight, slight but perceptible, came upon the house of Tibbles, when it was known that Malcolm and the Vermont rose would visit us no more.

P. Deming.