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Higginbotham’s Catastrophe — By Nathaniel Havthorne
A YOUNG follow, a tobacco-peddler by trade,
wu on his way from Morristown, where
he had dealt !argely with the deacon of
k >e Shaker settlement, to tho village of Parker’s
Palis, on Salmon River. He had a neat little
cart painted green, with a box of cigars de
leted on each side-panel, and an Indian chief
holding a pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk on
the rear. The peddler drove a smart little mare
• nd was a young mart of excellent character,
keen at a bargain, but none the worse liked by
the Yankees, who, as I have heard them say,
would rather be shaved with a sharp razor than
a dull one.
Especially was he beloved by the pretty girls
along the Connecticut, whose favor he used to
court by presents of the best smoking-tobacco
In his stock, knowing well that the country-
lasses of New England are generally great per
formers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in
the course of my story, the peddler was inquisi
tive and something of a tattler, always itching
to hear the news and anxious to tell it again.
After an early breakfast at Morristown the
tobacco-peddler—whose name was Dominicus
Pike—had travelled seven miles through a soli
tary piece of woods without speaking a word
to anybody but himself and his little gray mare.
It being nearly seven o’clock, he was as eager
to hold a morning gossip as a city shopkeeper
to read the morning paper. An opportunity
seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar
with a sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a
man coming over the brow of the hill at the
foot of which the peddler had stopped his green
cart. Dominicus watched him as he descended,
and noticed that he carried a bundle over his
shoulder on the end of a stick and travelled
with a weary yet determined pace. He did not
look as If he had started In the freshness of
the morning, but had footed It all night, and
meant to do the same all day.
“Good morning, mister,” said Dominicus, when
within speaking distance. “You go a pretty
good Jog. What’s the latest news at Parker’s
Falls?”
The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat
over his eyes and answered, rather sullenly,
that he did not come from Pa^kor's Falls, which,
as being the limit of his own day’s Journey, the
peddler had naturally mentioned In his inquiry.
“Well, then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s
have the latest news where you did come from.
I'm not particular about Parker's Falla Any
place will answer.”
Being thus importuned, the traveller—who
was as ill-looking a fellow as one would desire
to meet in a solitary piece of woods—appeared
to hesitate a little, as if he was either search
ing his memory for news or weighing the ex
pediency of telling It. At last, mounting on the
step of the cart, ho whispered In the ear of
Dominicus, though he might have shwuted aloud
and no other mortal would have heard him.
“I do remember one little trifle of news."
said he. “Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Ktmball-
ton, was murdered In his orchard at eight o’clock
last night by an Irishman and a niggor. They
strung him up to the branch of a St. Michael’s
pear tree where nobody would find him till the
morning.”
As soon as this horrible Intelligence was com
municated the stranger betook himself to hl^
Journey again with more speed than ever, not
even turning his head when Dominicus invited
him to smoke a Spanish cigar and relate alt
the particulars. The peddler whistled to his
mare and went up the hill, pondering on the
doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had
known in the way of trade, having sold him
many a bunch of long nines and a great deal
of pig tail, lady's twist and flg tobacco. He
# was rather astonished at tha rapidity with
which the news had spread Kimballton was
nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line;
the murder had been perpetrated only at eight
o'clock the preceding night, yet Dominicus had
heard of It at seven In the morning, when. In all
probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham’s own fam
ily had but just discovered his corpse hanging
on the St, Michael's pear tree. The stranger on
foot must have worn seven-league boots to
travel at such a rate.
“Ill-news flies fast, they say,’* thought Do
minicus Dike, “but this heats railroads. The
fellow ought to be hired to go express with the
President's message.”
The difficulty was solved by supposing that
the narrator had made a mistake of one day In
the date of the occurrence; so that our friend
did not hesitate to Introduce the story at every
tavern and country-store along the road, ex
pending & whole bunch of Spanish wrappers
among at least twenty horrified audiences. He
found himself Invariably the Urtt bearer of
the intelligence, and was so pestered with ques
tions that h© could not avoid filling up the out
line till it became quite a respectable narrative.
He met with one piece of corroborative evi
dence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader, and a
former clerk of his to whom Dominicus related
the facts testified that the old gentleman was
accustomed to return home through the orchard
about nightfall with the money and valuable
papers ef the store in his pocket. The clerk
manifested but little grief at Mr. Higgin
botham’s catastrophe, hiuting—what the ped
dler had discovered In his own dealings with
him—that he was a crusty old fellow, as dose
as a vise. His property would descend to a
pretty niece who waa now keeping school in
Kimballton.
What with telling the news for the public
good and driving bargains for his own. Domini
cus was so much delayed on the road that he
chose to put up at a tavern about five miles
short of Parker's Falls. After aupper, lighting
one of his prime cigars, he seated himself In
the barroom and went through the story of the
murder, which had grown so fast that It took
him half an hour to tall. There were as many
as twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom
received it all for gospel. But the twentieth
was an elderly farmer who had arrived on horse
back a short time before and waa now seated
in a corner, smoking his pipe. When the story
was concluded, he rose up very deliberately,
brought his chslr right In front of Dominicus
and stared him full In the face, puffing out the
vilest tobacco-smoke the peddler had ever
smelled.
“Will you make affidavit,” demanded he, in
the tone of a country-justice taking an exam
ination, “that old Squire Higginbotham, of Kim
ballton, was murdered In his orchard the night
before last and found hanging on his great pear
tree yesterday morning?!’
“I tell tho story as I heard It, mister,” an
swered Dominicus. dropping his half-burned
cigar. ”1 don’t say that I saw the thing done,
so I can’t take my oath that he was murdered
exactly In that way.”
“But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “that
If Squire Higginbotham was murdered night be
fore Jast I drank a glass of bitters with his
ghost this morning. Being a neighbor of mine,
he called me into his store as I was riding by,
and treated me, and then asked me to do a little
business for him on the road. He didn't seem
to know any more about his own murder than
I did.” ^
“Why, then It can't be a* fact!’’ exclaimed
Dominicus Pike.
“I guess he’d have mentioned if it was," said
the old farmer, and he removed his chair back
to the corner, leaving Dominicus quite down In
the mouth.
Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Hig
ginbotham! The peddler had no heart to mingle
In the conversation any more, but comforted
himself with a glass of gin and water and went
to bed, where all night long he dreamed of
hanging on the 8t. Michael’s pear tree.
To avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested
that his suspension would have pleased him
better than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus
rose In the gray of the morning, put the little
mare Into the green cart and trotted swiftly
away toward Parker's Falls. The fresh breeze,
the dewy road and the pleasant Summer dawn
revived his spirits, and might have encouraged
him to repeat the old story had there been any
body awake to hear it, but he met neither ox-
team, light wagon, chaise, horseman or foot-
traveller till, Just as he crossed Salmon River,
a man came trudging down to the bridge with
a bundle over his shoulder, on the end of a stick.
“Good morning, mister,” said the peddler,
reining In his mare. “If you come from Kim
ballton or that neighborhood, maybe you can
tell me the real fact about this affair of old
Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow actu
ally murdered two or three nights ago by an
Irishman and a nigger?”
Dominicus had spoken in too great hurry to
observe at first that the stranger himself had
a deep tinge of negro blood. On hearing this
sudden question the Ethiopian appeared to
change his akin, its yellow hue becoming a
ghastly white, while, shaking and stammering,
he thus replied:
“No, no! There was no colored man. It was
an Irishman that hanged him last night at
eight o’clock; I came away at seven. His folks
can’t have looked for him In the orchard yet.”
Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when
he interrupted himself and, though he seemed
w#ary enough before, continued his Journey at
a pace which would have kept the peddler’s
mare on a smart trot. Dominicus stared after
him in great perplexity. If tho murder had not
been committed till Tuesday night, who was the
prophet that had foretold it in all Its circum
stances on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higgin
botham’s corpse were not yet discovered by his
own family, how came the mulatto, at above
thirty miles distance, to know that he was
hanging in the orchard, especially as he had
left Kimballton before the unfortunate man
was hanged at all? These ambiguous circum
stances, with the stranger's surprise and ter
ror, made Dominicus think of raising a hue-
and-cry after him as an accomplice in the mur
der. since a murder, it seemed, had really been
perpetrated.
“But let the poor devil go,” thought the ped
dler. “I don’t want his black blood on my head,
and hanging the nigger wouldn’t unhang Mr.
Higginbotham. Unhang the old gentleman? It’s
a sin. 1 know, but I should hate to have him
come to life a second time and give me the lie."
With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove
into the street of Parker’s Falls, which, as
everybody Jcnows, is as thriving a village as
three cotton factories and a slitting mill can
M;
i#
§
fill
“The young lady appeared at the tavern door, making a modest
signal to be heard.”
make it. The machinery was not in motion and
but a few of the shop doors unbarred when he
alighted in the stable yard of the tavern and
made it his first business to order the mare
four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course,
was to Impart Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe
to the hostler. He deemed It advisable, how
ever, not to be too positive as to the date of
the direful fact, and also to be uncertain
whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman
and a mulatto or by the son of Erin alone.
Neither did he profess to relate It on his own
authority or that of any one person, but men
tioned it as a report generally diffused.
The story ran through the town like fire
among girdled trees, and became so much the
universal talk that nobody could tell whence it
h^d originated. Mr. Higginbotham was as well
known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of the
place, being part-owner of the slitting mill and
a considerable stockholder in the cotton fac
tories. The inhabitants felt their own prosper
ity interested in his fate. Such was the excite
ment that the Parker’s Falls Gazette anticl
awful emergency. Certain it is, however, that
out with half a form of blanK paper and a col
umn of double pica emphasized with capitals
and headed “Horrid Murder of Mr. Higgin
botham.”
Among other dreadful details, the printed
account described the mark of the cord round
the dead man’s neck and stated the number of
thousand dollars of which he had been robbed;
there was much pathos also about the afflic
tion of his niece, who had gone from one faint
ing fit to another ever since her uncle was
found hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree
with his pockets inside out. The village poet
likewise commemorated the young lady’s grief
in seventeen stanzas of a ballad. The selectmen
held a nieeting, and in consideration of Mr.
Higginbotham’s claims on the town determined
to issue handbills offering a reward of five hun
dred dollars for the apprehension of his mur
derers and the recovery of the stolen property.
Meanwhile the whole population of Parker's
Falls, consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of
boarding houses, factory girls, mill men and
schoolboys, rushed into the street and kept up
such a terrible loquacity as more than com
pensated for the silence of the cotton machines,
which refrained from their usual din out of re
spect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham
cared about posthumous renown, his untimely
ghost would have exulted in this tumult.
Our friend Dominicus in his vanity of heart
forgot his intended precautions, and. mounting
on the town-pump, announced himself as the
bearer of the authentic intelligence which had
caused so wonderful a sensation. He imme
diately became the great man of the moment,
and had Just begun a new edition of the nar
rative with a voice like a field-preacher
the mail stage drove into the village street. i,t
had travelled all night and must have shifted
horses at Kimballton at three in the morning. ^
“Now we shall hear all the particulars!
shouted the.crowd.
The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the
tavern, followed by a thousand people; for if
any man had been minding his own business
till then, he now left it at sixes and sevens to
hearr the news. The peddler, foremost in the
race, discovered two passengers, both of whom
had been startled from a comfortable nap to
find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every
man assailing them with separate questions,
• all propounded at once, the couple were struck
speechless, though one was a lawyer and the
other a young lady.
"Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell
us the particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham!”
bawled the mob. “What is the coroner’s ver
dict? Are the murderers apprehended? Is Mr.
Higginbotham’s niece come out of her fainting
fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!”
The coachman said not a word except to
swear awfully at the hostler for not bringing
him a fresh team of horses. The lawyer inside
had generally his wits about him even when
asleep; the first thing he did after learning tho
cause of the excitement was to produce a large
red pocketbook. Meantime, Dominious Pike, be
ing an extremely polite young man, and also
suspecting that a female tongue would tell the
story as glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the
lady out of the coach. She was a fine, smart
girl, now wide awake and bright as a button,
and had such a sweet, pretty mouth that Do
minicus would almost as lief have heard a
love-tale from it as a tale of murder.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” said the lawyer to
the shopkeepers, the mill men and the factory
girls, “I can assure you that some unaccount
able mistake—or, more probably, a wilful false
hood maliciously contrived to injure Mr. Hig
ginbotham’s credit—has excited this singular
uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three
o’clock this morning, and most certainly should
have been informed of the murder had any been
perpetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong
as Mr. Higginbotham’s own oral testimony in
the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit
of his in the Connecticut courts which was de
livered me from that gentleman himself. I find
it dated at ten o’clock last*evening.”
So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and
signature of the note, which irrefragably proved
either that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was
alive when he wrote it, or, as some deemed the
more probable case of two doubtful ones, that
he was so absorbed in worldly business as to
continue to transact It even after his death. But
unexpected evidence was forthcoming. The
young lady, after listening to the peddler’s ex
planation, merely seized a moment to smooth her
gown and put her curls in order, and then ap
peared at the tavern door, making a modest
signal to be heard.
“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higgin
botham’s niece.”
A wondering murmur passed through the
crowd on beholding her so rosy and bright—
that same unhappy niece whom they had sup
posed, on the authority of the Parker’s Falls
Gazette, to be lying at death’s door in a faltit-
tng-flt. But some shewd fellow had doubted
all along whether a young lady would be quite
so desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle
“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with
a smile, “that this strange story is quite un
founded as to myself, and I believe I may affirm
It to be equally so in regard to my dear on#le
Higginbotham. He has the kindness to give me
A a home in his house, though I contribute to my
1 own support by teaching a school. I left Kim-
bajlton this morning to spend the vacation of
commencement-week with a friend about five
miles from Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle,
when he heard me on thfe stairs, called me to
his bedside and gave me two dollars and fifty
cents to pay my stage fare, and another dollar
for my extra expenses. He then laid his pockqt-
book under his pillow, shook hands with me,
and advised me to take some biscuit in my bag
instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel con
fident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative
alive, and trust that I shall find him so on my
return.”
The young lady, courtesied at the close of the
speech, which was so sensible and well worded,
and delivered With such grace and propriety,
that everybody thought her fit to be preceptress
of the best academy in the State. But a stranger
would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham
was an object 6f abhorrence at Parker’s Falls
^and that a thanksgiving had been proclaimed
* lor his murder, so excessive was the wrath of
the 4 inhabitants on learning their mistake. The
milKmen resolved to bestow public honors on
Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether to tar
and feather him, ride him on a rail or refresh
him with a^i ablution at the town-pump, on the
top of which, he had declared himself the bearer
of the news. The selectmen, by advice of the
lawyer, spoke ©f prosecuting him for a misde
meanor In circulating unfounded reports, to the
great disturbance of the peace of the common
wealth. Nothing saved Dominicus either from
mob-law or a court of justice but an eloquent
" Anneal made by the young lady in his behalf.
Atalreacilng a few words of heartfelt gratitude
to his btenoJJactress, he mounted the green cart
and rode out of town under a discharge of ar
tillery from schoolboys, who found plenty of
ammunition In the neighboring clay-pits and
mud-holes. As he turned his head to exchange
a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham’s
niece a ball of the consistence of hasty-pudding
hi,t him slap in the mouth, giving him a most
grim aspect. His whole person was so bespat
tered with the like filthy missiles that he had
t almost a mind to. ride back and supplicate for
, the threatened ablution at the town-pump; for,
though not meant in kindness, it would now
have been a deed of charity.
However, the sun shone bright on poor Do
minicus, and the mud—an emblem of all stains
of undeserved opprobrium—was easily brushed
off when dry. Being a funny rogue, his heart
soon cheered up, nor could he refrain from a
hearty laugh at the uproar which his story
had excited. The handbills of the selectmen
would cause the commitment of all the vaga
bonds In the State, the paragraph In the Packer’s
Falls Gazette would be reprinted from Maine to
Florida, and perhaps form an item in the Lon
don newspapers, and many a miser would trem
ble for his money-bags and life on learning the
catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The peddler
meditated with much fervor an the charms of
the young schoolmistress, and swore that Daniel
Webster never spoke nor looked so like an an
gel as Miss Higginbotham while defending him
from the wrathful populace at Parker’s Falls.
Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turn
pike, having all along determined to visit that
place, though business had drawn him out of
the most direct road from Morristown. As he
approached the scene of the supposed murder
he continued to revolve the circumstances in
0 his mind and was astonished at the aspect which
the whole case assumed. Had nothing occurred
to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it
might now have been considered as a hoax; but
the yellow man was evidently acquainted either
with the report or the fact, and there was a
mystery In his dismayed and guilty look on be
ing abruptly questioned.
When to this singular combination of inci
dents it was added that the rumor tallied ex
actly with Mr. Higginbotham’s character and
habits of life, and that he had an orchard and
a St. Michael’s pear tree, near which he always
passed at nightfall, the circumstantial evidence
appeared so strong that Dominicus doubted
whether the autograph produced by the lawyer,
or even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to be
equivalent. Making cautious Inquiries along the
road, the peddler further learned that Mr. Hig
ginbotham had in his service an Irishman of
doubtful character, whom he had hired without
a recommendation, on the score of economy.
“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Domini
cus Pike, aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely
hill, “if I’ll believe old Higginbotham is un
hanged till I see him with my own eyes and
hear it from his own mouth. And. as he’s a raal
shaver, I’ll have the minister, or some other
responsible man, for an endorser.”
It was growing dusk when he reached the
toll-house on Kimballton turnpike, about a
quarter of a mile from the village of this name.
His little mare was fast bringing him up with
a man on horseback who trotted through the
gate a few rods In advance of him, nodded to
the toll-gatherer and kept on toward the vil
lage. Dominicus was acquainted with the toll
man, and while making change the usual re
marks on the weather passed between them.
“I suppose." said the. peddler, throwing back
his whiplash to bring it down like a feather on
the mare’s Hank, “you have not seen anything
of old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?”*
“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed
the gate just before you drove up, and yonder
he rides now, if you can see him through the
dusk. He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, at
tending a sheriff’s sale there. The old man gen
erally shakes hands and has a little chat with
me, but to-night he nodded, as If to say, ‘Charge
my toll,’ and Jogged on; for, wherever he goes,
he must always be at home by eight o’clock.”
“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.
“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin
as the squire does,” continued the toll-gatherer.
“Says I to myself to-night, ‘He’s more like a
ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and
blood.’ ”
The peddler strained his eyes through the
twilight, and could Just discern the horseman
now far ahead on the village road. He seemed
to recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham, but
through the evening shadows and amid the dust
from the horse’s feet the figure appeared dim
and unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mys
terious old man were faintly molded of dark
ness and gray light.
Dominicus shivered. “Mr. Higginbotham has
come back from the other world by way of the
Kimballton turnpike,” thought he. He shook
the reins and rode forward, keeping about the
same distance In the rear of the gray old
shadow till the latter was concealed by a bend
of the road. On reaching this point the peddler
no longer saw the man on horseback, but found
himself at the head of the village street, not
far from a number of stores and two taverns
clustered round the meeting-house steeple. On
his left was a stone wall and a gate, the boun
dary of a wood-lot beyond which lay an orchard,
farther still a mowing-field, and last of all a
house. These were the premises of Mr. Higgin
botham, whose dwelling stood beside the old
highway, but had been left in the background
by the Kimballton turnpike.
Dominicus knfcw the place, and the little mare
stopped short by Instinct, for he was not con
scious of tightening the reins. “For the soul
of me, I cannot get by this gate!” said he, trem
bling. “I never shall be my own man again till
I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging orr>
the St. Michael’s pear tree.” He leaped fro f
the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate
post, and ran along the green path of the
wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind.
Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as
each deep stroke fell Dominicus gave a fresh
bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in
the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the
fated pear tree. One great branch stretched
from the old contorted trunk across the path'
and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot
But something seemed to struggle beneath the
branch.
The peddler had never pretended to more
courage than befits a man of peaceable occupa
tion, nor could he account for his valor on this
parted its regular day of publication and came
he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irish
man with the butt-end of his whip, and found—
not, indeed, hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-
tree, but trembling beneath it with a halter
round his neck—the old Identical Mr. Higgin
botham.
“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominlcua, tremu
lously, “you’re an honest man, and I’ll take your
word for it. Have you been hanged or not?”
If the riddle be not already guessed, a few
words will explain the simple machinery by
which this “coming event” was made to cast
“its shadow before.” Three men had plotted
the robbery and murder of Mr. Higginbotham*
two of them successively lost courage and fle'b,
each delaying the crime one night by their dis
appearance; the third was in the act of per
petration, when a champion, blindly obeying the
call of fate, like the heroes of old romance, ap
peared in the person of Dominicus Pike.
It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham
took the peddler into high favor, sanctioned his
addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and set
tled his whole property on their children, al
lowing themselves the interest. In due time
the old gentleman capped the climax of his fa
vors by dying a Christian death in bed; since
which melancholy event Dominicus Pike has
removed from Kimballton and established a
large tobacco manufactory in my native village.
iL
The One WOman
George Brandeis
A S the door opened. Grimston looked up Ir
ritably.
The light from the electric globes over
head fell full on his wife, standing on t''*
tbresbhold. drawing on her long white gloves
“You a re not coming?” she said.
“No. I’m sorry. Beatrice; but I am too busy.
Enjoy yourself, but don’t overdo things. Will
you be late?”
She shrugged her shoulders, and wondered
for a brief moment whether he realized how
very lovely she was.
“Don’t sit up for me. in any case,” she said,
•or r eally don’t know' when 1 shall be in. Good
night!”
The fire crackled cheerfully, and presently
Grimston shut away hia papers and put aside
his untiring pen. He switched off the light,
and then sat down in the* pleasant shadows,
dreaming, lulled by the silence which enfolded
him. Suddenly he was aroused by that most
prosaic of sounds—a postman s knock.
Grimston, man of letters, celebrity, though
he would not admit it, and the author of some
o* the most famous books and plays of his
time, switched cn the light again with a sigh,
as the man came in with a salver piled with
letters. Thank Heaven this was the last post!
One or two bills, a couple of letters—evi
dently invitations—for his wife, proofs of a
story, several letters—from editors and pub
lishers—all these wore quickly put aside or
opened and as hasitly scanned, and then he
turned to the letter ne ftaa left till the last—a
small, white envelope. Inscribed in a delicate
hand, the opening of which seemed to sooth
him in some strange fashion.
There waa a bundle of letters in the same
delicate hand securely locked away from all
prying eves in his bureau, and only Grimston
himself knew’ what comfort and help they had
been to him during tho past year or more.
They had given him the sympathy, the under
standing affection, the guidance and help which
he had njped to find in his wife—and missed.
An accident had started this strange corre
spondence. Looking back, he wondered how
he had lived without it, yet scarcely a year had
passed since that manuscript of his had been
returned by the w’riter of these letters. A wo
man he had guessed from the first, though only
initials had signed the brief note explaining
that his story had been returned to her by a
magazine in error. He never understood why
the writer had interested him from the first and
how that little note had sprung into being a
friendship by letter. They had never met. He
only knew’ her to be a woman of rare refine
ment and culture, a woman w’ho responded im
mediately to his every mood, a woman wdth
whom he could be himself—not a creature of
veneer and outward polish and Insincerity.
Not that he had ever, even in thought,
swerved from his allegiance to his wife. He
had loved her dearly In the first halcyon days
of their marriage, and the steady, almost im-
I erceptible, drifting apart had been—whose
fault?
Now his face cleared as he read and reread
the letter which the last post had brought him.
How well she understood him, this woman he
had never seen, w’hose name he did not know!
He had written to her—at the club—only the
day before, and their letters had crossed. To
morrow might bring him another missive, and
he wondered, with rather a sad smile, what its
tone would be. For he had told her something
of the work which he had made—or something
had made—of his married life.
He had shown her in a few’ reticent words
how deeply he had loved—nay, still loved—his
beautiful wife, and he had, w’ith the groping de
sire to do better, almost asked her what he
could do to right matters. Surely, if any one
could help him. she could!
How his head achedl He put out one hand
and switched off the too brilliant light.
He did not know' how r long he had been sit
ting there, when the door opened and some one
hurried in. The light was hurriedly switched
on. and he heaved himself out of his deep chair.
“What's the matter?” he asked.
He recognized In the stranger a man who
lived a few doors from them. The man’s face
was rather white; he looked anywhere but at
the great man of letters, and some incoherent
words fell from his lips.
"Confound it man.” said Grimston angrily,
"can't you speak out? What do you want?”
“Your—your wife has met with an accident,"
said the other quietly. “The horses bolted. It’s
a horrible affair! They’ll tell you about it at
the hospital. I came to fetch you. There’s no
time to be lost if you wish to—to see her alive!”
To see her alive! Beatrice—the beautiful Mrs.
Grimston, as they called her always! No time
to lose if he wished to see her alive! And it was
of his Beatrice the man was speaking. He must
be mad! He never knew how he got into his
fur-lined coat and tore off into the waiting mo
tor to find himself a little later in the quiet
place—a private ward—where they had taken
Beatrice She lay so still and white, only there
was blood on the bandages that hound her beau
tiful head.
“Jim,” she said, “has it all come right at last?
It’s not too late, thank Heaven, to tell you how
much I’ve loved you all the time. We never told
each other, did we? We didn’t understand, per
haps; and you were so far away from me. I
seemed to be quite alone, but I could never for
get all we had been to each other once. Could
you?”
"I could never forget!” said a hoarse voice.
“We were alw*ays happy then, weren’t we,
Jim? I’ve wondered sometimes where the fault
lay. I think it was because you hid yourself
from me; and seeing that, I dUf the same. It
was a horrible mistake. But it s too late to do
better now. It’s getting dark, Jim. I can’t see
your face. Are you holding my hands tight?
Don’t let me go—don’t let me go”
A hoars# cry broke from his lips, then—
• • * * *
“Dreaming?” said a light, cool voice.
Grimston sat up with a start. The light fell
full on Beatrice as she stood before him. a smile
on her beautiful face. The clock on the mantel
shelf chimed the hour of midnight.
“Thank Heaven,” he muttered, “it was only
a dream!”
He got up then, with a laugh.
“Yes,” he said. “I fell asleep, Beatrice, and it
was a ghastly dream. Had a good time?”
He turned away that she might not see the
agitation which he could not Keep from his face.
It had been so horribly vivid, so true! He gath
ered a pile of discolored papers on his bureau,
and as he did so swept to the ground the letter
which had come by the last post. It slid over
the polished floor to Beatrice’s feet, and she
stooped and picked it up.
“This is yours,” she said, and held it out to
him. Her hand trembled and suddenly she sat
down iff Grimston’s own chair. “Can you spare
me a moment?” she asked. “I want to speak to
you, Jim.”
^ “Of course, Beatrice. What is it?” he asked,
as she did not speak. Her cheeks had blanched,
even her lips were white. For answer she put
her hand into the pocket of her wrap, pulled out
a bundle of letters, and gave them to him. At a
glance he saw they vere all his own letters—
the letters he had written to his unknown corre
spondent.
“Beatrice,” he said, “I must have some ex
planation! How did you como by these letters?”
She did not answer.
“Don’t think for a moment that I mind your
knowing,” he said. “I should have told you my
self, only that you seem to have lost all Inter
est in me. I have never cared for any woman
as I’ve always ^ared for you—as, Heaven help
me, I care for you still! But J’ve had neither
sympathy nor help from you. I don’t blame
you. I suppose it is largely my own fault.”
“Don’t try to Justify yourself,” she said with
an odd quietude; **it is not necessary. What I
want to tell you now—at last—is”
“Yes?”
"I am -your unknown friend.' ” she said.
“The letters are mine.”
“You—you”—he stammered.
“It Is the truth.”
“The truth! What does it mean? In Heaven’s
name explain yourself BeatHce! Am I to un
derstand that*for this past year you have been
writing to me—knowing it was to your hus
band—the letters? That I have been writing
to you and”
“Showing me yourself as I never knew youl”
she said very low. “Yes, that is the truth. Jim.
Are you sorry? It was all such an accident.
The returned manuscript fell into my hands. I
conceived the plot. I disguised my writing and
sent it back from my club. You were always too
busy to inquire into my doings or my goings.
I felt it bitterly, but it seemed useless to rebel.
I thought I would make one last despairing ef
fort to find you. The real you that I had some
how lost. And I found you. Do you blame me?
I know you now, Jim. Unless you were writing
nonsense in that letter I got to-day?*
His memory made a swift journey. He start
ed to his feet.
“I only wrote what I felt- -rrom the bottom
of my heart. I was sure of your understanding
and your sympathy.”
“And you were true to me in word and thought
all along,” she said. “I think I loved you the
more for that—my husband.”
He opened his arms and, like a tired child,
she crept into their safe shelter.