University of Virginia Library

25. XXV.
MARTIN — ALICE.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 389. In-line Illustration. Image of a man holding some papers in his hand, and a young woman sitting near him.]

AFTER the departure of Louise
and John in Colonel Merrivale's
sleigh, Martin walked
with Junius to the village, —
a pleasant, old-fashioned little
place, — and purchased a hat,
to replace the one he had lost.
He then went to return the
article borrowed of Mr. Jared
Doane; spent an hour or more
in conversation with the excellent
Martha and her brother; and finally took leave of them with
as much interest and sympathy as if he had known them for
years, and learned all their gentle qualities by heart.

He was still accompanied by Junius. They arrived at the parsonage
just at tea-time; and Mr. Murray — a happy old gentleman,
in wig and spectacles — joined his daughter Margaret in
inviting Martin to remain and give them his company at supper.
The young man could not refuse; and the time sped so pleasantly
— there was such a charm in the atmosphere of the parsonage —
that he was easily prevailed upon to pass the night with his new
friends. It was a memorable night for Martin. The simple

piety of the parson; the high spiritual philosophy of his son;
the aroma of purity and grace that surrounded Margaret, like the
fragrance of a flower; sweet influences these, that filled him with
a holy rapture. His purest feelings were drawn out; all that
was good within him seemed stimulated and aroused; his whole
being was sanctified, — his soul baptized in floods of sacred fire.
On the following morning, as he returned by the cars to Boston, he
could not but look back upon that night as a turning-point in his
existence. All things were changed to his eyes. A great fountain
of love seemed swelling up in his heart, and flowing out,
flowing out, to God, to all his creatures, even to inanimate things.
When in this frame of mind, an unjust man, still in the darkness
of passion, seized him, blustering and angry, and charged him
with stealing his seat. Two days before, the fiery Martin would
have shook him off and flung back his insults into his very teeth;
but now he had forgiveness enough for twenty such poor, unfortunate
slaves of ignorance and selfishness, and his eyes filled with
tears of compassion as he looked on him.

“I don't know whose seat this is,” said he, mildly; “I supposed
I had a right to it; but I would rather walk to Boston
than see any man angry, such a glorious winter's day as this is.”

In Boston, change still met Martin's eye, — change objective,
no less than subjective, — without of himself, as well as within
himself.

The storm had altered the aspect of the town. Street-signs
were changed; fires had devastated familiar spots; and, arrived
at his boarding-house, he found that quite a revolution had
occurred. The news of Alice's departure came upon him with a
shock; he scarcely gave heed to the whisper that Grandfather
Wormlett was dying, but hastened to the house in Pleasant-street.

There he found Mr. Leviston, who told him the story of Caleb
Thorne's disappearance with his child. He had spent all that
morning trying to discover traces of them, but without success;
and Martin knew not what more could be done. He felt sick at
heart. A deep shadow of trouble rested upon his spirit, so lately
light with joy, and he walked back to Portland-street with Mr.
Leviston in silence.

Mrs. Wormlett saw them on the stairs, and asked them to go
in and see the corpse. The old man had breathed his last. They
entered the chamber, not without repugnance, and saw a sight too
hideous to be described. The face of the dead still wore the loathsome
mark which avarice stamps indelibly upon the faces of its
victims, old and young; and the coins upon the eyes appeared
like a frightful satire. Mr. Wormlett stood by the bed, holding
the hand of young Simeon, who writhed, and glanced, with a
mingled expression of fear and perplexity, from the face of the
dead grandfather to that of the living father.

“Simeon, my son,” said Mr. Wormlett, solemnly, “let this
'ere be a lesson to ye; let this 'ere be a lesson, my son, to be
remembered the longest day you live.”

He appeared unable to say more. He coughed, and made an
effort, but could only repeat the same words over again, — “Simeon,
my son, let this 'ere be a lesson.” His philosophy of life did
not somehow reach that extreme case. Not one of his great
moral maxims would apply there.

“What lesson?” asked Sim, twisting himself about, and looking
dreadfully uneasy.

What lesson, indeed! Is the boy to take example from his
grandfather, and so live that his end may be like his? Is he to
understand that in a little while his father will lie there the same?

that he himself, after a similar brief career of money-getting,
must come to this ghastliness of feature and complexion? that
it is thus the awful boon of existence should be used, and the
great design of an immortal soul's probation on earth be
fulfilled?

Mr. Wormlett answereth not.

Let us pass over the space of several days. Martin has fled
from Portland-street. With Mr. Leviston, he has taken lodgings
in a genteel sort of house at the West End. Mrs. Befflin is an industrious
widow-woman, making a spasmodic struggle for a livelihood
by keeping boarders. The meagreness of her table is
redeemed by a certain air of smartness which distinguishes the
establishment. The furniture of the parlors is ambitious, but
faded; and there is a sickly attempt at fashionable display in all
the rooms. The society there is mixed and various. Two lawyers,
a quack doctor, a teacher of French and German, several
dry-goods clerks, an editor, a piano-tuner, and a couple of young
gentlemen-of-leisure, suspected of gambling propensities, compose
the male portion of the household. Among the females, there are
three sewing-girls, a school-teacher and a teacher of music, two
California widows, and a wild creature of thirty-five, unmarried,
who is supposed to have had her wits shattered by an early disappointment.
But the bright particular star, as yet unnamed, is
Miss Befflin. “A young lady of rare accomplishments!” as
Turnlip, the quack-doctor, whispers to Martin. “A distinguished
singer and player; would shine in the opera; is remarked for her
powerful touch and brilliant execution on the piano.” Martin,
however, does not appreciate the screaming and thundering of her
musical performances. He is blind to her fascinations. “O
Cicely! where are thy charms, that others have seen in thy

face?” is the query of Martin's mind. Her highly genteel manners
affect him not. While, from necessity, her hard-working
mother is fretting and glowing over her puddings and roasts, putting
her own hands to the drudgery of the establishment, Miss
Befflin plays the lady. No labor soils her delicate fingers. She
is entirely devoted to her gentility. At breakfast she has never
been seen within the memory of man. Rarely before noon does
she leave the sacred precincts of her chamber. But at dinner she
descends with a great rustling of silks; pallid and languishing, in
a luxuriance of curls and cosmetics. At Martin she levels all
the artillery of her smiles. Her weak prattle of authors and
books is intended expressly for his ear. The other boarders
smile; for, while they admire the fair Cicely, they know her
foibles; they are well aware that for four years she, with her
mother's aid and counsel, has exercised all her powers of fascination
in efforts to secure a husband; and they curiously observe her
progress with the new boarder. What a pity that his affections
are already engaged!

Martin can scarce be reconciled to his change of life. Not that
he has become very strongly attached to the Wormlett family.
Not that he misses the society of Miss Tomes very much, or that
the genial Toplink is indispensable to his happiness. But Alice,
— she is lost to him; uncertainty shrouds her fate; and the
memory of her pure love haunts him night and day. At his daily
tasks, when he remembers how patiently the sweet child used to
sit by his side, making no noise, while he wrote, he experiences a
choking sensation from a swelling of the heart, which often compels
him to throw down his pen, and turn, sickened, from his work.

To whom now shall he go for that sympathy he drew from her
spiritual nature? George Leviston is a true friend, — a blunt,

plain-speaking friend, who affords him refreshment in rude
shocks of honest manhood, when the blandishments and conformities
of an insipid society have left him weak. But only on a
certain plane can he meet him with satisfaction. He is conscious
of a world of feeling within, uninhabited by human sympathies.
The existence thereof is unknown to all his town acquaintance —
even to Leviston.

Even to Sophronia! What poor little blind Alice discerned in
him and loved, the gay young lady cannot see. Alas for Martin,
that at this late hour he should feel the want! Only Sophronia's
exterior has charmed him. The soul he looked for he finds not.
She cannot accompany his spirit in its range. The waters of a
pure, deep, universal love, which swell and palpitate within him,
which he must, of a necessity, pour out on some one, are wasted
on her. Not a drop from that sacred fountain will she drink.
Only the bubbles and the spray delight her.

Sophronia cannot but perceive his frequent coldness and
abstraction. So she pouts and frets most charmingly, and shakes
her lovely curls with all the innocent artfulness that first brought
Martin to her feet. Sometimes he forgets the ache he feels, —
or tries to, at least,—and seeks momentary consolation in endearments.
But the truth will not be glossed over so; it will not be
silenced and put aside. The still, small voice of prophecy speaks
within him, and says, “Between her and thee there can be no
union.”

Sophronia does not know what to make of it. She is certain
that Martin loves another. She throws out bitter taunts about
blind Alice, then about his cousin Louise, and lastly about Margaret
Murray, of whose rare womanly qualities he has often
spoken. But suddenly she makes a discovery, which confirms her

worst fears, but which acquits alike Margaret, Louise and Alice,
of rivalship. One evening Martin finds her in a desperate state.
She flings his daguerreotype at him half across the room. She tells
him to go away from her, the false, cruel, heartless man, and falls
upon the sofa, covering her face in a passionate fit of weeping.
Martin, alarmed and distressed, draws forth the secret of her
woe.

“You can have her, of course, if you prefer her to me!” she
exclaims, bitterly. “You need n't think I shall object.”

“You give her to me very much as if she were a torpedo to
blow me up,” says Martin, smiling. “But, pray, who is this fabulous
fair one — this unknown quantity you have arrived at in
working out your problem of jealousy?”

“O, you don't know, of course!”

“Certainly, I cannot guess.”

“I suppose,” retorts Sophronia, with venom, from under her
curls, “you never heard of Miss Tomes.”

“Miss Tomes!” repeats Martin, with the drollest look. “Who
has been telling you about Miss Tomes?”

“O, then you have heard of her?”

“To be sure — I have boarded with her! But what do you
mean?”

“You need n't try to appear so ignorant. I know all about it
Mr. Merrivale! There! you laugh — I would n't have believed
you could be such a hypocrite!”

“I laugh, because it is extremely funny, my poor girl. This
Miss Tomes is an old maid — as good a creature as ever lived,
but the very last person in this world you should be jealous of.”

“You would like me to believe, then,” cries Sophronia, “that
you don't love her?”

Martin laughs again, until laughter becomes painful. The idea
is too absurd. But presently the affair assumes a serious aspect,
and so does he. Sophronia has a quiver full of little facts, gathered
he cannot guess where, which she shoots at him in rapid succession,
with telling effect. Absurd idea, is it? Then wherefore
does he writhe? Whence this irritation? Why this red flaming
up of eye and cheek?

Ah, Martin! thou hast been betrayed. That good Miss Tomes
— she is a weak creature, with all her goodness. Thy kind attentions
to her have been misconstrued. Thy merest words of friendship
have fallen on her inflammable fancy like fiery droppings
from the torch of love. And all — she has imparted all, in
strictest confidence, to her cousin Matilda, the dressmaker;
and her cousin Matilda, the dressmaker, who works for Mrs.
Dabney, has detailed the entire story, in strictest confidence, to
Sophronia.

Martin is chafed beyond expression. No wonder. He finds
that circumstances most commonplace and trivial have been
repeated to that cousin of hers, by the confidential Miss Tomes.
How he one evening entered the boarding-house parlor, and, bending
over her chair, whispered in her ear; how he knocked his hat
off, kissing her, the day he went into the country, and blushed as
he picked it up; and how he said and did twenty other equally
foolish things, on various occasions, — with this precious nonsense
Sophronia overflows. But the worst of all is, Miss Tomes
has no doubt but he would like to marry her, but thinks him too
bashful to propose!

It is as if a swarm of insects were stinging Martin. It is as if,
after a bath of brine, he had been rubbed dry with nettles.

“And you, Sophronia, believe this detestable stuff!” he cries.

“Very well! I scorn to make explanations. I will leave you
till you come to your senses.”

He does not leave her, though, just at the moment; how can
he, with her arms about his neck, and her fair head, with all its
wealth of beautiful curls, upon his shoulder?

“I did believe it! — but, forgive me; I was crazy! I know
now it could n't be true, you are so noble and good! Only say
you don't love any one else, and then I shall be sure that what
I have heard is all a horrid, horrid lie!”

A word, and she is pacified and happy. Not so Martin. He
contemplates revenge. He studies how he shall overwhelm that
vain Miss Tomes with the avalanche of his indignation. But a
little reflection teaches him that noise about such an affair should
be avoided. Anger is beneath the dignity of a man. To boisterous
passion he will not stoop. Yet punishment there shall be —
silent, swift and certain. Wormwood shall be administered!
juice of bitter wormwood, corked up tight in the vial of his pride,
to be slightly shaken before taken, he will pour out drop by drop,
and make his victim drink it to the dregs! But — no; a better
thought reveals itself, — a purer ray of light. Revenge, resentment
— he banishes them from his breast. He sees the bright
side of Miss Tomes; all her genuine disinterested kindness to the
blind orphan comes up fresh in his memory. She has been a little
weak, perhaps, although in no wise malicious: (God grant that
others may have no greater faults to overlook in him!) a little
weak; but shall we extend no charity to those less strong than
we? If we have strength, whence come it? Let us be humbly
thankful for the gift, and despise not those to whom it is denied.
Beware, proud soul! of atheism, which is the root of pride.

And, after a little while, Martin walks forth, his thoughts purified

of evil. The serene stars inspire him; his soul expands; he
aspires to that majesty of manhood which, in the pain of injuries
inflicted, smiles, forgives and loves. And henceforth he feels only
the warmest wishes for Miss Tomes' happiness. He calls to see
her, with gifts. No word he breathes of all that he has heard;
no look informs her that her weakness has been betrayed. Very
careful he is, truly, what nonsense he utters; and he taketh pains,
indirectly, to convince her that he has nothing but friendship for
her; that is all.

Martin has labored faithfully and fondly, all this time, to
develop in Sophronia the soul his soul yearns for; to turn her
pretty tinsel of affection into gold; to enkindle under all a generous
fire, to burn away the dross. This labor of love — he pursues
it still. To wean her from the idols of a false and frivolous
life, he introduces her into sweet fields of poesy; takes her hand
to lead her up the glorious hills of song; gives her to drink of
immortal streams of thought. To awaken in her a love of the
good, the beautiful, the true, he lavishes his wealth of feeling
upon her, freely as he would pour out water to thirsty kine. But
she turns from all with weary yawns. “Let us leave this dull
business, and enjoy ourselves.” In the midst of his noble enthusiasm,
she proposes backgammon!

Again and again the still small voice within him repeats —
“Between her and thee there can be no union. Thou art pouring
thyself into a leaky vessel.” He begins to understand those feelings
of blind Alice which he accounted unto her for jealousy. He
can conceive now how he used to carry home to her an influence
so uncongenial to her pure spirit. He thinks he comprehends why
it was he never wrote so truthfully and sweetly when daily and
nightly all his sympathies were drawn down to so low a level. It

was as Alice said: from the mountain he was climbing he looked off
upon a valley, and saw a beautiful mist curling up from below.
Charmed by its shining waves, he descended to meet it; when
gradually all its beauties disappeared; the mist, after all, was but a
cold, wet mist, that chilled him, and absorbed the vitality of his
spirit. He sees it all now, and his only wish is — to retrace his
steps. But he is not heartless, nor devoid of conscience. He would
spare Sophronia the anguish of a separation. He is even willing to
sacrifice his happiness for hers. But the voice says, “Thou canst
not make her happy. To attempt it, by persisting in this false
union, is to sin against God's law. Whatever you may have done
amiss yesterday, DO RIGHT TO-DAY.”

Martin's sufferings in this struggle cannot be told. How bitterly
he repents the ignorance, the blind impulse, which led him
into this fatal maze of error! Sophronia, who, when the crisis
arrives, declares herself heart-broken, and threatens to drown herself,
knows not a tenth part of his soul's agony. But a sense of
duty impels him, and the deed is done. Sophronia is his Sophronia
no longer.

The blunt Leviston adds to his torment, by declaring that he
has acted basely.

“What is more selfish and cruel than to win a girl's young
love, to throw it away when won?” he demands.

“Nothing!” murmurs the crushed Martin.

“It is not with her as it is with you,” that stern censor goes on,
as if he felt a savage joy in torturing the man who could be
guilty of the treachery he hates. “In a week you will be making
a similar mistake, as you call it, with another unsuspecting,
affectionate girl — winning her heart, to discover, afterwards, that
it was not worth winning. But she has nothing to do but to
brood over her disappointment!”

“I know it — I know it! But, good Heaven!” groans Martin,
“what can I do?”

“What can you do? I don't know. But I know what I
should do, if it was my case. I don't believe in such mistakes.
If I had won a girl's affections, as you have hers, I should consider
marriage a solemn and sacred obligation. A man has no
business to be dissatisfied with a woman's heart, after getting it
into his power.”

Faithful friend as he is, there is nothing tender about George
Leviston. He means well; but his words sound coarse to
Martin; they grate upon his sensitive nature. And this is the
consolation of friendship! It is as if a man that had tasted garlic
should think to sweeten his mouth by drinking gall.

Then follow days and nights of solitary trouble. Sometimes
Martin seeks what honeyed solace he can from the thought that
he might have been far less manly; that he might have continued
to dissemble and deceive, drawing his neck from under the
yoke sneakingly by degrees; that he might have subjected
Sophronia's love to the slow death of a year's neglect and doubt,
as cowardice and indecision would have counselled him to do.
Was it not well to be true — to turn speedily about, the moment
he felt well assured that he was travelling the road of error?
Something says, “It was!” but still conscience clings to him, and
rides upon his shoulders with a scourge!

A crisis arrives at last. Taking up a morning paper, at his
boarding-house, he reads that a female, young and well-dressed,
lately committed suicide by throwing herself off South Boston
bridge. Just the thing Sophronia called Heaven to witness that
she would do! And he has felt a misgiving that she would do it,
all along. For three weeks he has not been able to glance at the

chapter of casualties in the newspapers, without thinking of her
threat; and the word “suicide” has caused him many a start.
He reads that the body has been recovered, but not recognized,
and, in a trepidation of alarm, rushes out of the house. He meets
Mr. Tiplilly rushing in.

“It is true, then!” he mutters, in sick despair.

“Yes,” lisps Tiplilly, catching his breath.

“Sophronia!” repeats the ghastly Martin.

“She has thrown herself —” gasps Tiplilly, with something
like a hysteric laugh. “But I can't talk. Let us go up to your
room, and I will tell you about it.”

Martin is almost too weak to ascend the stairs; but he somehow
accomplishes the feat, and sinks, faint, and pallid, and trembling,
upon a chair.

“Thophrony has thrown herself away at last,” chuckles Tiplilly.

“Eh? thrown herself away?”

“Really, I look upon it so — I am so unworthy! She has
finally acthepted me.”

“Accepted you!” echoes Martin. It is as if a great stone
were suddenly rolled away from a sepulchre, letting in floods of
light and songs of singing birds. “Do you mean —”

Tiplilly does mean every word he says. Having been sent for,
he visited Sophronia last night, and all their differences were
made up. Even the day for their marriage is set! No wonder
that he is beside himself with joy! No wonder that Martin
expresses his congratulations in such gleeful mood that Tiplilly
thinks him the most disinterested and enthusiastic friend in the
world.

Martin cannot rest until he has imparted the news to Leviston.

This he does with a fidelity to circumstances which makes that
misanthropic gentleman laugh — really and truly laugh — for the
first time in some years.

“Perhaps you still think it was my duty to marry her?” the
young man suggests, in his dryest manner.

“I only wonder how you could be such a fool as ever to fall in
love with her,” is Leviston's retort. “A girl who is so easily
consoled! who can throw herself away on such a silly fop as
Tiplilly! I thought you had more discernment.”

“I shall have more in future,” says Martin, red with shame.

More discernment he certainly has. But whence this growth
of wisdom? What has tempered his youthful blood to such
discretion? Let that night at the parsonage be remembered!

All this time the young man ceases not to mourn for Alice. In
vain he has endeavored to trace out her destiny; and the conclusion
has forced itself upon his mind, at last, that she has left the
city with her father. He mourns for her, yet tries to console
himself with the belief that she is happy. “In the country,” he
says, “poor Caleb is far from temptation; and she can breathe
the summer air in all its sweetness, far from these hot city walls.”

Alas for Alice! Martin is no prophet. No fresh breezes from
the hills inspire her delicate frame with vernal life. Spring
comes, the warm summer follows, and still she lives imprisoned in
brick walls.

“In a little while, in a very little while, my child,” says Caleb,
“we will go out into the woods and fields you love so well. Ever
since I learned that the man who cured your mother's eyes is
dead, and that no one here can help you, my only wish has been
to take you away from this hateful city. Mr. Peliqué will give
me some money in a few days — then we will go.”

“But not without letting my brother Martin know!” pleads
Alice, in a voice of anguish.

“My child,” her father answers, falsely, “you don't know how
many times I have been to find him; but he is not often in town,
I think; and when he is, he has not time to come and see you. He
is writing great books, I hear, and is very proud and ambitious.”

So Alice weeps, thinking her dearest friend has forgotten her.
Her thoughts are of him continually. Sitting by her father as he
works, she hears nothing of his talk with the entertaining one-eyed
artist, Mr. Synders. When at the window of her own poor little
room, where the winds of June, blowing over the city roofs, kiss
her warm brow and agitate her curls, her inner sight is opened,
and she sees fair visions of Martin far away. And in the silence
of the night, when ghostly noises haunt the rooms of that old
house, causing her to shudder with a vague, superstitious fear, she
loves to cheat herself with the fancy that he is near, and will protect
her from harm. That he has quite, quite forgotten her, O,
she cannot, she cannot believe!

Her father is very tender and attentive to her, all this time; he
is industrious and sober, for her sake; and often in the dusk of
evening he takes her out to walk, and talks to her lovingly of the
sweet home they will have in the country, when M. Peliqué has
paid him a certain sum.

“Dear father, why do you take me by these close streets?”
she inquires. “The air is so fresh, and I smell the trees and
grass, up by the Common — why don't we walk that way, sometimes?
Perhaps my brother Martin walks there now, and he may
see us.”

Caleb makes no satisfactory reply. Poor child! her father is
somewhat strange yet; he has not quite rid himself of certain

queer notions his heated brain conceived when the frenzy of
strong drink was on him. A strange fear haunts him yet of evil
that pursues his child, and waits but for his watchful eye to be
withdrawn to attack her in some shape of treachery. Of her
friends he entertains a worse dread than of all the world beside;
and Martin he dreads more than all.

So the young girl abides in M. Peliqué's house all through the
spring months and the month of June. Everybody loves her even
there. Mr. Bob Synders makes a companion of her, and tells her
the longest stories — which she seldom hears. The woman who
takes care of the rooms, and brings up her dinners from M. Peliqué's
table, always has a kind word for poor blind Alice. All
the lodgers in the house — and there are several — like her, and
would make a great deal of her, if their attentions were pleasing
to her father. Even M. Peliqué pets her, and talks to her in a
mixed dialect of French and English, which she never pretends to
understand. But all this is suddenly swept away by the ruthless
hand of change. This frightful night, which follows so closely the
last fair nights of June, appears ominous of what is to come.
Alice sits at her chamber window, wondering at the unusual stir
and noise in the city.

“What does it all mean?” she asks of her father. “Is
everybody crazy? What has happened?”

“Nothing, my child. But something is going to happen. To-morrow
is the Fourth of July.”

“O, Independence day! I used to think that was pleasant,—
did n't you? When mother dressed me all so nicely, and I
walked with the other little girls in the Sunday-school celebration
— that was very pretty. But this frightful noise!”

That frightful noise keeps her awake all night long. Bunches

of fire-crackers tear the air with their explosions directly under
her window. And there are other sounds, as of pistols fired, —
shouting, screaming, and drumming on tin-pans. No sleep till
morn — nor even then. Poor Alice is quite worn out with wakefulness
and irritation from the audible horrors of that night, and
prays her father to take her from the city with the dawn.

“So I will, my darling!” answers Caleb. “Peliqué shall
give me some money, and we will go out to some quiet place and
spend the day.”

Alice is so grateful! But M. Peliqué does not think favorably
of the proposition.

“Eh, my frien'?” he says, fixing his sharp eyes on Caleb.
“Money is it you want? Morbleu!” shrugging his shoulders,
“you not remember our bargane, hein?”

“I do,” answers Caleb, looking down, and speaking in a low
tone. “I was afraid to trust myself with money; so I said, give
me and my child our living only, and pay me what more I earn
when we start for the country.”

M. Peliqué is a great friend to Caleb, all at once. He is discreet,
too, for his sake. With odd grimaces and violent gestures,
he explains, in his peculiar dialect, the dangers attendant on fete-days
to such excitable temperaments as Caleb's. He dares not
trust him with money; besides, he must use all the money he has
to pay for some pictures; and more than that, “il n'a pas le sou,”
— he has not a cent in the world, — which last assertion he
demonstrates by turning an empty pocket-book inside out, striking
it with his fingers, thrusting it open into Caleb's face, and shaking
it over the floor, to show that there is nothing whatever to drop
out. The excited Frenchman winds up by deploring his poverty,
with an unintelligible story about a large family of starving children
left behind him in “le Belge.”

Alas for the disappointment; for Alice must remain in town,
in the midst of all the heat and dust and noise; and Caleb is
strangely restless. He cannot work. Since Peliqué told him of
the dangers of the day, he has been troubled about something
which makes his eyes glisten and his hands shake. And now,
when the weary Alice lies in a deep sleep on her bed, he steals
forth, and leaves the house with his genteel, one-eyed friend.

Mr. Synders is a free and liberal gentleman, who drinks his
daily glasses, and loves to treat his friends. But he is pledged
never to tempt poor Caleb Thorne; he keeps his private bottle
locked up in the closet, and politely avoids drinking in his
presence. But this is a great and glorious day, — an exception
to all that go before it and all that come after it in the
year.

“No pledges are binding on the Fourth of July,” says Mr.
Robert Synders. “It 's the duty of every true son of 'Mer'ca to
be jolly and in'pen'nt on this glorious an'vers'y.” Jolly and
independent he himself is, beyond his wont; and he encourages
Caleb to follow his example.

“Stop, stop!” mutters Caleb. “If you tempt me so — I —
I can't resist. And I have sworn before my child, and before
Heaven —”

“Nonsense!” cries the gracious Bob. “I hold the money,
and I promis 't you shan't get drunk.”

“You promise!” Caleb grasps him eagerly by the arm, and
questions him with his burning eye. “Then I will drink one
glass with you — only one.”

“Say two, old boy! say two.”

“Let it be two, then — or three — or four. But,” says Caleb,
palpitating, all on fire with the demoniac passion stirred within,

“when you see me bite the glass, as you fear God, snatch it from
me! I am safe till I bite the glass. Then every dram is a
legion of fiends poured down my throat.”

Mr. Synders makes a ready promise; and so the two go out at
sundown, to celebrate the glorious Fourth; as too many celebrate
it, alas! And, like too many others, they return home, late
at night, bereft of reason, brutalized by drink. At the door they
pause, and Mr. Robert Synders seats himself heavily on the
threshold, declaring that he is mightily, merrily, musically,
mystically, inimitably and altogether drunk. It requires a great
deal of exertion to deliver himself of this sentiment, word by word,
thickly pronounced; and, the task being at length accomplished,
he compliments Caleb on his strong head. In truth, their money
is all spent, and Caleb has not yet arrived at the perilous point of
biting the glass. So Bob proposes that, himself being incapacitated
for ascending stairs, his friend should take a key he produces
after much fumbling in his pocket, go up to the work-room,
unlock the closet, find a certain bottle on a certain shelf, and
bring it down.

Readily acceding to the proposition, Caleb ascends the stairs,
groping in the dark, with great difficulty. But all too easily he
finds the fatal closet, and succeeds in opening the door. He has
lighted a lamp, and now, by its ghastly rays, he discovers several
bottles on the shelves. Having forgotten Mr. Synders'
description of the true bottle, he commences an examination of
their contents, and, in his eagerness, overturns with his shaking
hand one from which he has removed the cork. Instantly the
unmistakable odor of camphene fills the room. He smells it, feels
the danger, and sees, as by a lightning ray of reason, the horrors
of an explosion, — thinks of Alice sleeping in the room above, —

all in an instant of time. Yet, in his mind's bewildered state, he
thinks only of advancing the lamp, to see by the light thereof
what mischief has been done! Fatal error! There is a flash, a
report, a burst of flame; and Caleb, thrown backward, lies
stunned and scorched upon the blazing floor.