Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, April 10, 1897, Page 6

< FOOTSTEPS OF FATE. By LOUIS COUPERUS. TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH. WK EERE IO KEE EE EE OK EH ES ES PART L. IL. His hands in ‘his pockets, and the collar of his fur coat turned up, Frank was making his way one evening through squalls of snow, along the de- serted length of Adelaide Road. As he approached the villa where he lived— White-Rose Cottage. it was called— sunk, buried, wrapped in white snow, like a nest in cotton wool, he was aware of some one coming to meet him from Primrose Hill. He looked steadily in the man’s face, since he evidently intended to addr him. doubting as to what his purpose might be this lonely, snowy night, and he was greatly rprised when he heard said in Dutch: “Pardon the intrusion. Westhove?” replied Frank Westhove. are you? What do you want?” aeren. You may Are you not ! you, Bertie?” cried Frank. “How came you ‘here in London?’ And in his amazement there rose up before him, through the driving snow, a vision of his youth; a pleasing pic- ture of boyish young and warm. “Not altogether by chance.” said the ether, whose voice had taken a some- what more confident tone at the sound of the familiar “Bertie.” “I knew that you lived here, and I have been to your door three times; but you had not <ome in. Your ma said that you were expected at home this evening, so I made so bold as vait here for you.” And again his voice lost its firmnes and a med the imploriag a beggar. your busines: so urgent, then?” asked Frank, in surprise. Yes. I nt—perhaps you could help me. one here—’ iy rived here early this morning, and I have—I have no money.” He was shivering from standing in the cold during this short dialogue and seemed to shrink into himself, almost a cowed dog. in with me,” said Frank astonished, but full of symyjq- nd of the affectionate remfiis. of his boyhood. “Com spend the night with me.” “Oh, gladly!” was the rep) and tremulous as if he feare heaven-inspired words mj fawning, li! “Come fy, eager that the yfew steps fur- a key out of bis hite-Rose Cottage. And he locked “f bolted it behind them. st twelve. ad not yet gone to bed. tleman called here a little " two or three times,” she “fi, with a look of suspicion at = fAnd I have seen him hang- ing abou all the evenin if he was on the fwatch. I was frighteyed, do mbit ow; it is so lonely in these nk shook his head reassuringly. fake the fire up as quickly as pos- eh Annie. Is your husband still he fire, fF Ber ‘thing to eé: “Gladly replied Be efit of the maid, insinuating expre: on to meet the sur- prised, cold blue eyes of the neat, brisk young woman. His voice was persua- sive and low; he tried to take as litttle room as p ble in the small hall; and, to ayoid her gaze, he seemed to shrink, to efface himself in a corner where the shadow fell. Frank led the into a large back room, cold, dark when they entered, on lighted up, and before long ally warmed by the huge fire which blazed up in the grate.. Annie daid the table. “Supper for one, ay for two; I will eat something,” said Frank, thinking that Bertie would feel more at ease. At his friend’s invitation the visitor seated himself in a large armchair by the fire, and there he sat, bolt upright, without speaking, feeling shy before the woman, who came and went. And now, in the light, I k could see the poverty of his appearance; his thin, shabby coat, shining with grease and ®ereft of buttons; his worn, fringed trousers; his dirty comforter, hiding a lack of underlinen; his ripped and slip- shod shoes. In -his confusion and ‘dness he still held his battered This garb accorded ill with the aristocratic elegance of his figure; the in, pale, chiseled features, full of dis- ion in spite of the unkempt light hair and unshaven stubble of beard. Tt was like a masquerade of rank and culture in the rags of misery, beseem- thg it as ill as an ur table part in a play. And the actor sat motionless, staring into the fire, ill at ease in the atmosphere of luxury which surround- ed him in this room, evidently the home of a young man of fortune, who hhad no yearnings for domestic society. The curt. and carpets were of hand- some qual so were the furniture and ornaments, but arranged without any reference to comfort; the chairs and tables against the wall, stff and order- ay, and shining with polish. But it did not make this impression on Bertie, for a sense of the blessedness of warmth and shelter possessed him wholly; of peace and reprieve, as calm as a lake and as delightful as an oasis—a_ smil- ing prospect after the snow and cold of the last few hours. And when he saw that Frank was gazing at him in visible wonder at his motionless atti- tude by the glorious fire, where the dancing flames fiew up like yelllow -dragon’s tongues, at last he smiled, and aid with humble gratitude in the tone ef a beggar: ee you very much—this is good.’ Annie had not much to set before them; the remains from the larder of a young fellow who lives chiefly away from home—a bit of cold beef and salad, some biscuits and jam; but it bore some resemblance to a supper, and Bertie did it full honor, eating and drinking with systematic deliberate- ness, hardly conscious of what; and imbibing hot grog, without confessing the hunger which had nipped his very vitals. At length Frank tried to make him speak, drew him into talk, and into telling him what had reduced him to such misery. Bertie told his tale in a fragmentary fashion, very abjectly, every word sounding like a petition. “Disputes with his father about his mother’s fortune—a trifle of a few thousand gulden quickly spent; vicissi- tudes in America, where he had been by turns a farm servant, a waiter in a hotel, and a super on the stage; his re- turn to Europe on board a liner, work- ing out his passage in every variety of service; his first day in London—with- out a cent.” He remembered West- hove’s address from letters bearing date of some years back, and had at once made his way to White-Rose Cot- tage, only fearing that meanwhile Frank might have moved half a dozen times, and left no traces— Oh! his anxiety, that night, waitin, in the cold wind. while it grew darko; and darker; the gloom, with no peje but the ghostly whiteness of the geath- ly silent snow! And now, the 3armth the shelter, the food! Andyagain he thanked his friend, cowerifs, shriveled in his threadbare clotheg ~’ “Thank you, thank ¥oy— Annie, sulky over 86 much trouble at this hour of the panes te t in from the street, had neverthe¥éss prepared a bedroom. And Frank fed him up stairs, shocked by his exh ‘usted appearance and ashy palenes:” He patted him on the shoul- der, Prymising to help him; but now he MUS#’ Zo to bed—to-morrow they would Se what could be done. ‘When Bertie found himself alone he looked about him, The room was very comfortable; the bed ample, soft and warm. He felt himself squalid and dirty, amid such surroundings of lux- ry; and by a natural instinct of de- ‘y and celanliness, though his teeth were chattering with cold, he first care- fully and elaborately washed himself-- latbering, rubbing, brushing--till his whole body was rosy and glowing, and smelling of soapsuds. He looked in the glass, and only regreetted that he had no razors; he would have shaved. At last, haying slipped on a nightshirt which lay ready for use, he crept in between the blankets. He did not immediately fall asleep, reveling in the comfort of his own purification, in the whiteness of the sheets, the warmth of the quilt; in the gleam of the nightlight even, which showed discreetly through a green shade. A smile came into his eyes and parted his lips. And he was asleep; without a thought of the morrow. Happy in the respite of to-day, and the warmth of the bed, his mind almost vacant, in- deed, but for the single recurring theught that Frank was really a good fellow! IL Next morning there was a hard frost; the sony glittered like crystals. They j kad breakfasted, and Bertie was re- lating his disasters in America. He had been trimmed and shaved by Frank’s ; barber, and he was wearing Frank’s clothes, which were ‘“‘a world too wide” for him, and a pair of slippers in which his feet were lost. He already felt more at home and began to bask, like a cat which has found a warm spot of sunshine. He lounged at his ease in the armchair, smoking comfortably, and was on the old familiar terms with Frank. His voice was soft and mellow, with a ring of full content, like an alloy of gold. Westhove was interested, and let him tell his story in his own way; and he did so very simply, without making any secret of his poverty; but everything had hap- pened inevitably, and could not have turned out otherwise. He was no fa- vorite of fortune, that was all. But he was tough; many another would not have pulled through as he had. Frank looked at himi in astonishment; he was so frail, so pale, so delicate, almost devoid of manly development; he was lost in the grotesque amplitude of Frank’s coat and trousers—a mere stripling as compared with his own stalwart, angular frame! And he had gone through days of hunger, nights without a shelter, a depth of poverty | which to Frank—well-fed and ruddy with vigorous health—seemed unendur able; and he spoke of it so coolly, al- most jesingly; without complaining, only looking with regretful pity at his hands, which were thin and blue with the biting cold, and chapped and raw about the knuckles. At the moment the state of his hands seemed to be the only thing that troubled him: A very happy nature, thought Frank, while he laughed at him for his concern about his hands. But Bertie himself was shocked at his own heedlessness, for he suddenly exclaimed: ‘But what am I to do—what am I to do?” He gazed into vacancy, helpless and desperate, wringing his hands. Frank laughed him out of his despair, poured him out a glass of sherry, and told him that for the present he must stay where he was, to recover. He himself would be heartily glad of Bertie’s company for a few weeks ; he was a little sick of his wealthy bachelor life; he be- longed to a circle of idlers, who went out a great deal, and spent a great deal, and he was tired of it all—din- ners and balls in the world, and sup- pers and orgies in the half-world. It was always the same thing; a life like a Montague Russe, down and then up again, without a moment for thought; an existence made for you, m the post- tion you made for yourself. At the mo- ment he had but one anxiety—Bertie himself. Frank would help him, after a few weeks’ rest, to find an appoint- ment, or some employment; but above all, he was not to worry himself for the present. Westhove was only glad to have his old friend under his rvof. Memories rose up before him like dis- solving views, pale-hued and swift, but appealing to his sympahty—memories of his schooldays, of boyish mis- chief, zig zag, excursions, picnics among the sand hills near the Hague—did Bertie remember? Frank could see him still, the slight, fragile lad, bullied by louts, protected by him- self—Frank—whose fists were always ready to hit out, right and left, in de- fense of his friend. And, later on, their student days in Delft; Bertie'’s sudden disappearance without leaving a trace, even for Frank; then a few letters at rare intervals, and then years of silence. Oh! he was glad in- deed to see his friend at this side once more; he had always had a great love for Bertie, just because Bertie was so wholly unlike himself, with something of the cat about him—loving to be pet- ted and made much of, but now and then irresistibly prompted to flee over roofs and gutters, to get miry and dirty, and return at last to warm and clean himself on the hearth. Frank loved his friend as a twin-brother quite different from himself, imposed upon by Bertie’s supercilious and delicately egotistic fascination. A cat-like creat- ure altogether. is Bertie found it a great luxur}“to stay indoors the whole of that dy, sit- ting by the fire, which he } 9p¢ blazing by feeding it with lor Frank had some capital port, ar lunch, sipping it, d: euming or talking; Bertie telling *jundred tales of bis adventere i.“America, or his farmer master, ¢* his hotel, and the theater where h., had acted; and one anecdote led to another, all garnished with a tou of singular romance. Frank Dyésently wanted a little fresh air, and said he would go to his club; but Bertie remained where he was; he could not go about in rags, but he could not ap- rear anywhere with Frank in the clothes he had on. Frank was to re- turn to dinner at 8 o'clock. And then, suddenly, as if it had come to him like lightning. Bertie said: “Say nothing about me, pray, to any of your friends. They need not be told that you know such a bad lot as I am. Promise me.” Frank promised, laughing; and, hold- ing out his hand, the “bad lot” added: “How can I ever repay you? What a happy thing for me that I should have met you! Yo uare the most gen- erous fellow I ever knew!” Frank escaped from the volley of gratitude, and Bertie remained alone in front of the hearth ,toasting all over in the blaze, or stretching his legs, with his feet on the shining bars. He poured himself out another glass of port, and made himself think of noth- ing, reveling in the enjoyment of idle- ness, while he seriously examined his damaged hands, wondering how best to insure their rapid recov Ill. Bertie had been a month 2t White- Rose cottage, and was now hardly re- cognizable in the young man who sat by Frank’s side in a victoria, in an ir- reproachable fur-lined coat, a fashion- able tall hat; both the men wrapped about the knees in a handsome plaid. He now mixed quite at his ease with Frank’s other acquaintances, carefully- dressed, agreeable and entertaining, and lisping English with an affected accent which he thought elegant. He dined with Frank every day at the club, to which he was introduced; crit- icised game and wines with the most blase air in the world, and smoked Havanas at two shillings apiece as if they were mere straw. Frank had in his inmost soul the greatest belief in him, and watched him with a smile of secret satisfaction, as he calmly went his own way, chatting with men of the world, without even for a moment feel- ing shy: and Frank thought the come- dy altogether so amusing that he intro- duced his friend wherever he went. Winter yielded to a foggy spring; the London season was upon them, and Bertie seemed to find great pleasure in assisting at noon teas, and evenings at home; in sitting at a grand dinner be- tween two pairs of fine shoulders, and fiirting with each in turn, never dax- zled by the glitter of jewels nor be- wildered by the sparkle of champagne; in leaning with languid grace in the stalls or dress-circle, his chiseled feat- ures full of distinction and lordly re- pose, a fragrant white flower gleaming in his button-hole, and his opera-glass dangling between his now white fin- gers, as though not one of the ladies was worthy of his inspection. Frank, for lack of occupation, as a man who takes his pleasure where he finds it, had pushed Bertie forward in the world, not merely to help him, but also for the fun of it—a silly amusement, to make a fool of society! Bertie him- self had many scruples, and kept note in a pocket-book of everything Frank spent upon him—when times were bet- ter he would repay him all—and in a fortnight it had mounted up to a total of some hundred pounds. Even at home Frank found him amusing. Bertie, who had contrived, »y a few kind words, to win the good graces of Annie and her husband, | Westhove’s valet and butler, turned all | the furniture about in whimsical dis- order, bought statuettes, palms and ciable aspect of the room into one of artistic comfort, which invited to indo- lence; a subdued light, wide divans, the atmosphere of an aleove redolent of Lgyptian pastilles and fine cigar- ettes, in which thought floated into dreams ,and the half-closed eyes rested on the nude figures of bronze nymphs, seen through the greenery of plants. Here, in the evening, high festivals were held; orgies with a few chosen friends, and select fair ones; two ladies from a skating-rink, and a figurante from a theater, who smoked cigarettes with their vermillion lips and drank temner of the fair sex, quite insensible to the three charmers; making game of them, teasing them, setting them by the ears till they were almost ready to claw each other, and, to conclude the matter pouring floods of champagne down their decolletes throats. No; Frank had never been so well amused during all his long residence in London, where he had settled as an engineer in order to give—as he said~ they sat after | Oriental stuifs, and changed the unso- | to Bertie’s health. Frank laughed to | his heart’s content to see Bertie, a con- | | Aon. | police. a cosmopolitan character. to his. know- ledge of the world. He was thoroughly good-hearted, and too highly-prosperous to be a deep | thinker. He had tasted of every pleas- ure, and had no high opinion of life, which was, after all, but a farce, last- ing, according to statistics, an average six-and-thirty years. He made small pretense of any philosophical view of existence, beyond a determined avoid- ance of everything that was not amus- ing. Now, Bertie was very amusing, net only in his fun with women, the cruel sport of a panther; but especially in the farcical part he played in Frank’s world, where he figured as a man of fashion—he, a vagabond, who, only a month since, had stood shiver- ing in rags on the pavement. It was a constant secret delight to his friend, who gave Bertie carte blanche which was amply honored, bringing in heavy tailors’ bills—for Bertie dressed with refined vanity, bought ties by the doz- en, adopted every fancy that came in- to fashion, and’scented himself with all the waters of Rimmel. It was as though he was fain to plunge into ev- ery extravagant refinement of an ex- quisite, after having been a squalid scare-crow. And although at first he kept fathful record of the outlay, he soon forgot first one item and then an- other, till at last he férgot all. Thus weeks slipped by, and Frank never theught of troubling himself to inquire ajiong his influential acquaint- ance§ for employment for his compan- Their life as wealthy idlers filled their minds entirely; Frank’s, at any rate, for Bertie had brought a new charm into it. But, suddenly, a strange thing hap- pened. One day Bertie went out in the morning alone, and did not come in to lunch. After luncheon, at the club, no Bertie, nor yet at dinner. He did not come home in the evening; he had left no clew. Frank, extremely uneasy, sat up half the night—no one. Two days went by—still no one. Frank inquired right and left, and at last gave inform- ation to the police. At last one morning, before Frank was up, Bertie appeared at his bed- side with an apologetic smile; Frank must not be angry with him; he surely had not been alarmed? You see, such a monotonously-genteel life had sud- denly been too much for him. Always these elegant ladies, with trains and diamonds; always clubs full of lerds and baronets; and skating-rinks—the pink of finery! Always a chimney-pot hat, and every evening full-dress, with the regulation button-holer. It was in- tolerable-_ He could endure it no long- ger; it had been too much for him. “But where did you hide yourself?” asked Frank, in utter amazement. “Oh, here and there, among old ac- quaintance. I have not been out of Lendon.” “And you did not know a soul here?” “Oh, well, no fashionable folk, like your friends, but a scapegrace or two. You are not vexed with me?” Frank had sat up in bed to talk to him. He saw _ that he looked pale, weary and’ unkempt. His trousers were deeply bordered with mud; his hat crushed; there was a three-cor- nered rent in his greatcoat. And he stood there in evident confusion, like a boy, with his doubting. coaxing smile. “Come, do not be cross with me; take me into favor once more.” This was too much for Frank. Pro- voked beyond measuve, he exclaimed: “But, Bertie, what a cad you lool And where on earth have you been? he asked again. “Oh; here and there.” And he could get no more out of him. Bertie wanted to disappear; and now he has tired—he would go ot bed. He slept | in the afternoon. Frank | till three laughed over it all day, and Bertie went into fits when he heard of the At dinner, at the club, he re- lated, with a melancholy face, that he had been out of town for a few days, attending a funeral. Frank had failed to receive a note through the careless- ness of a servant. “But where in the world have you really been?’ whispered Frank for the third time, infinitely amused and in- quisitive. “Here and thére, I tell you—first in one place ,and then in another,” an- swered Bertie, with the most innocent face in the world; and, dapper as ever, he delicately lifted an oyster, his little finger in the air, and swallowed down his half-dozen without ano‘ word on the subject. Iv. The season passed away, but Bertie remained. Sometimes, indeed, he talked of going to Holland; he had an uncle. a stockbroker, in Amsterdam. Possi- bly that uncle * * * * But West- hove would not hear of it; and, when his friend’s conscience pricked him for sponging on him, he talked him down. What did it matter? If Bertie had been the rich man, and heythe pauper, Ber- tie would have done the same by him. They were friends. A true appreciation of the case began to dawn on him in the now firmly es- tablished habits of their life. Frank's meral sense whispered drowsily in the ease of their luxusious existence. Now and then, indeed, he had something like a vague suspicion that he was not rich enough for two; that he had spent more in the last few months than in any former season. But he was too heed- less to dwell long on sucb unpleasant doubts. He was lulled to sleep by Bertie as if by opium or morphia. Ber- tie had become ‘indispensable to him; he consulted his friend on every point, and allowed himself to be led by him 01 every occasion, completely. subju- gated by the ascendancy held over him by the fragile little man, with his vel- vet paws. as though he had him under ayoke. Every now and then—ere long at frequent intervals of about a fort- night—Bertig disappeared, stayed away four or five days, and came back one fine morning, with is insinuating smile, exhausted, pale and tired out. These were, perhaps, some secret excesses of dissipation—mysterious adventure-hunt- ing in the sordid purlieus of the low- | est neighborhoods—or which Frank never heard nor understood the truth; a depth of depravity into which Frank seemed too precise and dainty to be initiated; sins in which he was to have no part, and which Bertie, in his re- finement of selfishness, kept for him- self as an occasional treat. ‘Then Frank’s hours were passed in disgust of life; he missed the unwhole- some stimulant of his existence; in his solitude he sank into gray melan- choly and sadness, verging on despair. He stayed at home all day, incapable would only say that he had |} of any exertion, sulking in his lonely house, where everything—the draping of the handsome curtains, the bronze nudity of the statutes, the careless dis- array of the cushiors on the divan— had still, as it were, an odor of Bertie, which haunted bim with regret. On such days as these he was conscious of the futility of his existence, the odious insgnificance of his sinewless, empty life; useless, aimless, null! Sadly sweet memories would come over him; reminiscences of his parental home, shining through the magic glass of retrospect, like bright, still poois of tender domestic harmony, in which the figures of his father and mother stood forth grand and noble, gloNfied by childlike affection. He longed for some unspeakable ideal, something pure and chaste, some high aim in life. He would shake off this torpor of the soul; he would send away Bertie—. But Bertie came back, and Bertie held him tightly once more in his silken bonds, an dhe saw more clearly every day that he could not live with- out Bertie. And then, catching sight of himself in a mirror—tall and brawny and strong, the healthy blood tinging his elear compiexlon—he could not for- bear. smiling at the foolish visions of his solitude, which struck him now as diseased imaginings, quit out of keeping with is robust vigor. Life was but a farce, and the better part was to play it out as a farce, in mere sensual en- joyment. Nothing else was worth the pains * * * And yet sometimes at night, when his big body lay tired out after some riotous evening, a gnawing dissatisfaction would come over him, not to be conquered by this light-heart- ed philosophy, and even Bertie hinself would lecture him. Why did not Frank seek some employment—some sphere of action? Why did not he travel for awhile? “Why not go to Norw tie one day, for the s: something. London was beginning to be intoler- able to Bertie; and as the notion of traveling smiled on Frank, both for a change and for economy—since they could live more cheaply abroad than in the whirl of fashionable London—ine thought it over, and came to a de to leave White Rose Cottage for an indefinite period to the care of Annic and her husabnd, and spend a few weeks in Norway. Bertie should go with im. ” asked Ber- of saying PART II. I. After luncheon at the tale d’hote cf the Britannia hotel at Dronthjem, the friends made their way along the broad, quiet streets with their low, wooden houses, and they had left the town, going in the direction of the Gjeitfjeld, when they overtook, in the lage of Ihlen, an elderly gentleman with a young girl, evidently bent on the same excursion. The pair had sat a few places off at the table d’hote, and as this much acquaintance justified a recognition in so lonely a spot, West- hove and his friends lifted their hats. The old gentleman immediately asked, in English, whether they knew the road to the Gjeitfjeld; he and his daughter —who, during the colloquy, never looked up from her “Baedeker”—could not agree on the subject. This diffe-r ence of opinion led to a conversation; the two young men begged to be al- lowed to join them, Frank being of opinion that “Baedeker” was right. “Papa will never believe in ‘Bae- deker,’ said the young lady, with a quiet smile, as she closed the red vol- ume she had been consulting. Nor will he ever trust me when I tell him I will guide him safely.” “Are you always so sure of knowing your way?’ said Frank, laughing. “Always?” she a gay laugh. Bertie inquired how long a walk it was, and was to be seen at the end of it; Frank's everlasting walks were a weariness and a bore. During his resi- dence with his friend he had so spoiled himself, in order to forget his former wretchedness, that he now knew no greater pleasure than that of lying on a bench with a cigar, or a glass of port, and, above all, would avoid every exer- tion. But now, abroad—when a man is traveling—he cannot forever sit dozing in his hotel. Besides, he was quite stiff with riding in a carriole; all this useless rushing about was really monstrous folly. and White-Rose Cot- tage was not such a bad place. Frank, on the contrary, thoroughly enjoyed the clear, invigorating air of this bril- liant summer day, and he drank in the sunshine as though it were fine wine cooled by a fresh mountain breeze; his step was elastic and his voice had a | contented ring. “Are you an Englishman?” asked the gentleman. - Westhove explained that they were Dutch, that they lived in London; and his tone had the frank briskness which a man instinctively adopts to fellow- travelers, as sharing his lot for the inoment, when the weather is fine and the landscape pleasing. Their sympa- thy being thus aroused by their ad- miration of Norwegian scenery, they walked on side by side, the elder mau stepping out bravely, the young lady very erect. with her fine figure molded in a simple, close-fitting blue cloth dress, to which a cape with several folds—something like an elegant type’ of coachman’s cape—lent a dash of smartness. ‘She wore a sort of jockey- cap, with a mannish air, on her thick twists of ruddy-gold hair. Bertie could not understand how all this could be called pleasure; but he made no complaint. He spoke little, not thinking it necessary to make him- self agreeable to people whom he prob- ably might never set eyes on again after the morrow. So he just kept on with them, wondering at Frank, who had at once plunged into eager conyer- sation with the young lady, but per- ceiving on a sudden that his own po- liteness and tact were a mere superti- cial varnish as compared with Frank’s instinctive good breeding. At that moment, for the first time, notwith- standing his better features and natty traveling costume, he felt so far Frank’s inferior that a surge of fury, resembling hate, thrilled through him. He could not bear this sense of inferi- ority: so he approached the oid gen- tleman, and walking by his side, forced himself to a show of respectful amia- bility. As they followed the windings of the upward and diminishing path, they by degrees left behind Frank and his companion, and thus climbed the hill two and two. “So you live in London. What is your name?” asked the young lady, saucily declared, with | Dante’s “Inferno.” “Frank Westhove.” “My name is Eva Rhodes; my fath- er is Sir Archibald Rhodes, of Rhodes Grove. And your friend?” 4 “His name is Robert van Maeren. “I like the sound of your name best, I believe I can say it like English. Tell it me again.” ZA He repeated his name, and she said it after him with her English accent. It was very funny, and they laughed over it—‘Fraank, Fraank Westhoove,” And then they looked back. “Papa, are your tired?’ cried Eva. The old man was toiling up the height with his broad shoulders bent; his face was red under his traveling cap, which he had pushed to the back of his head, and he was blowing like a ‘Triton. Bertie tried to smile pleasantly, though he was inwardly raging in high dudg- eon over this senseless clamber. They had half an hour more of it, however, before the narrow track, which zig- zagged up the hillside like a gray ara- besque, came to an end, and they sat down to rest on a block of stone. Eva was enchanted. Far below lay Dronthjem with its modern houses, en- circled by the steely waters of the Nid and its fjord, a magic mirror on which floated the white mass of the fortress of Munkeuholm. The mountains rising on all sides were blue, nearest to them the bloomy purple hue of the grape; then the deep, sheeny blue of velvet; further off the transparent, crystalline blue cf the sapphire, and in the dis- tance the tender sky-blue of the tur- quoise. The water was blue, like blue silver; the very air was blue as pearls are or mother-of-pearls. The equable sunlight fell on everything, without glare and without shadow, from ex- actly overhead. It is almost like Ita Eva. “And this is Norw I had al- ways pictured Norway to myself as being all like Romsdal, wild and bar- ren, with rocky peaks like the Roms- dalhorn and the Trolitinder, and with raging cascades like the Sletta fos; but this is quite lovely, and so softly blue! T should like to build a house here and live in it, and I would call it Eva’s Bower, and keep a whole flock of white doves; they would look so pretty, fly- ing in the blue air.” “Dear child!” laughed Sir Archibald. “It looks very different in winter, I sus- pect.” “No doubt different, but still lovely. In winter I should like the fury of raging winds, and the roar of the waves of the fjord below my house, and gray mists would hang over the Lills! I can see it all!” “Why, you would be frozen,”’ argued the father. gravely. “Oh, no! and I should sit at my tyr- ret window dreaming over Dante ‘or Spenser. Do you love Dante and Spen- ser?” The question was Fra who had listened, somew* puzzled at Eva’s raptur and now a little startled; for, uu see, though he knew Dante by name, he had never even heard of the poet Spen- ser; only of Herbert Spenser. “What, do you not kno he Fairy Queen, Una and the Red- Knight. and Britomart? How very strange.” exclaimed addressed to t F “Dear child, what a little fanatic you ” said are over those silly allegories! papa. “But they are glorious, papa!” insisted. ‘‘Besides, I love above all things, and admire uo ev kind of poetr, “The style is so affected! drowned in symbolism!” “It is the keynote of the Renais- sance,” Eva protested. “In the time cf Elizabeth all the court talked in that high-flown style. And Edmund Spen- ser’s images are splendid; they sparkle like jewels!” Bertie thought this discourse much too learned, but he kept his opinion to himself and made some remark about They were by this Hie rested and went on again up the il. “My daughter is half an “esthetic,” said the old gentleman, laughing. Avd Eva laughed, too. “Nay. That is not the truth, papa. Do not believle him, Mr.—Mr. W hove. Do you know what makes 1 say so? A few years ago, when I but just left school, I and a few girls I knew were perfectly idiotic for awhile. We towzled our hair into mops, dressed in floppy garments of mops, dressed in floppy garments o damask and brocade with enormous sleeves, and held meetings among our- selves to talk nonsense about art. We sat in attitudes, holding a sunflower or a peacock’s feather, and were perfectly ridiculous. That is why papa still says such things. I am not so silly now. But I am still very fond of reading; and is that so very esthetic?” Frank looked smilingly at he hon- est, clear gray eyes, and her ringing, decided voice had an apologetic tone, as if she were asking pardon for her little display of learning. He under- stood that there was nothing of the blue-stocking in this girl, as might have seemed from her sententious jest before, and he was quite vexed with himself for having been compelled to confess that he knew nothing of the poet Spenser. How stupid she must think hiin! But is was a moment when the beau- ties of the scenery had so bewitched them that they moved, as it were, ina magie eirele of sympathy, in which some unknown law overruled their .atural impulses, something electrical- ly swift and ethereally subtle. As they climbed the meandering mountain track, or made short cuts through the low brushwood, where the leaves glistened in the sun like pol- ished green needles, and as he breathed that pure, intoxicating air, Frank felt as though he had known her quite a long time, as if it were years since he had first seen her at the table @hote at Dronthjem. And Sir Archibald and Bertie, lingering behind, were far off—miles away—mere re- membered images. Eva’s voice joined with his own in harmonious union, as ? though their fragmentary talk of art and poetry were a duet which they both knew how to sing, although Frank candidly confessed that he had read very little, and that what he had read he scarcely remembered. She play- fully scolded him, and her sweet, clear tones now and then startled a bird, which fiew piping out of the shrubs. He felt within him a revival of strength—a new birth; and would fain have spread his arms to embrace—the air! To Be Continued. r You are A Nicer Game. Judge: De Garry—Why is it that when a fel- low is alone with a girl he loves they seldom PI is? Merrritt—Because if they di ia to hold her own hand. 7 14 "me Would have with calm courtesy. A 5 1 |