PART SECOND (continued 2)

Such thoughts rushed through the Doctor’s mind when Adele told him he ought to go with the rescue party, as he supposed, to help Onset.

An executive officer was superintending the boat close by, when Doctor Wise approached and asked nervously:

“Where is the physician of the ship?”

“With the next boat ahead.”

“Then I should like to go with this one.”

“Contrary to all rules,” said the officer, sharply.

Adele overheard this and before Doctor Wise decided what to do she had the executive officer by the sleeve, holding on firmly.

He politely but forcibly told her to let go and keep cool, but she would not, not until she drew herself near enough to whisper in his ear. If he could have seen her eyes he would have listened even more quickly than he did, but she made her voice speak from her heart.

Those close by only heard the first words, “Doctor Wise will be of the greatest use, he——” the rest in an undertone.

Several of the self-constituted advisory critics at once volunteered the opinion that two doctors were not too many for two men overboard. The title “Doctor” carried its own weight and the rush of events prevented any questions.

Miss Winchester meanwhile had worked her way through the crowd to the side of the vessel and was straining every nerve to discover the whereabouts of the two men struggling in the water. No doubt they had been sighted already by the officers on the bridge, because the speed of the vessel had been slackened and the search light kept in a definite direction, but Frank wanted to see them with her own eyes, alive and kicking, if possible, especially the kicking, to make sure they were alive. She thought she saw them, then knew she did not; she put up her hands to look through the fingers curved to form binoculars, but this was no better. Then eagerly looking around she spied a pair of glasses in the hands of a lady. “Oh, excuse me, just a minute!” and without waiting for a response, took the glasses without ceremony. Mrs. Thorn let her keep the glasses, but watched her excited fingers attempting to focus them in the dim light.

The speed was now so much less that boats could be lowered, ready to be let adrift at a moment’s notice. Miss Winchester saw the Doctor in the second boat, then noticed a small white spot in the distance upon the surface of the sea, and while struggling to focus those “obstinate glasses” on the white spot only made matters worse. Annoyed, clumsy just when most anxious and impatient, she pressed her lips together to steady her usually strong nerves, almost biting the end of her tongue, and lo! the glasses were all right, and into vision sprang the white spot, a life preserver supporting some one waving a handkerchief; one end of it was in his teeth and the other corner was held at full length, not at all unlike a flag of truce or a “peace-flag” amid all the commotion and excitement.

“Oh, Adele, I see them! He doesn’t seem to mind it in the least.”

“Both?” asked Adele, eagerly.

“Yes! no! yes!—I can’t make out what he’s got. Yes, two! I think so.”

“They’re both there, ma’am,” said a sailor, respectfully. “The Captain gave orders for each boat to bring a man. He’s seen ’em ’way back.”

The boats were cast off; they rose and fell upon the undulations of the mighty deep, now more impressive than when traversed at the more rapid speed. The tiny boats ascended to the summits of the white-crested waves and then were hidden in the deep valleys of the dark sea. Paul, fluttering his little white flag, rose and fell with them. They approached each other with the movements of a stately minuet upon the ocean. The fixed lights in the heavens above and the creeping search light of man below illumined the scene.

When Doctor Wise recognized Paul it gave him an icy chill down the middle of his back. It will never be known which was really experiencing the worst chill at the instant, the Doctor or Paul. However, the Doctor managed to shake himself back into a normal condition, then stood up in the boat and motioned with a peculiar movement, knowing Paul would recognize one of their private signals. Paul did recognize it and gave the reply. The Doctor then felt in his hip pocket for his whiskey flask—it was all right—and then waited until the boat was near enough to throw a line; Paul seized it.

The rescued Mr. Warder was found floating in a circular life preserver as serenely as a duck in a pond. He held Onset tightly with one arm, while Onset clung to him with both, though safe enough if he could but have realized it. There was nothing tragic whatever about either of them, except Onset’s state of mind, which he showed by his convulsed clasp of Paul.

Paul had taken a great risk, from the popular point of view, but in so doing had trusted to the good faith of others to aid him and had not been deceived. Without formulating these facts in his own mind on the instant, he had acted nevertheless upon the presumption that the science of navigation was able to meet such a case, and he had faith in human nature when embodied in sincere men. He had trusted the truth, and that had made him free to act for the best, as he saw it; and all this spontaneously, because he had the courage of such convictions ingrained in his character.

XVIII A SENSATION VERSUS AN IMPRESSION

WHY did you do it?” asked the Doctor, as they rowed back to the ship.

“He called me.”

“Who? Onset?”

“Yes. There was no real danger, only some risk.”

“The deuce there wasn’t,” rather surprised at Paul’s nonchalance.

“I knew you would pick me up. Onset floated, but was nearly a goner when I reached him.”

“What possessed the fellow?”

“I don’t know. He was scared wild when I first saw him, beating his arms about in every direction. That’s what kept him from sinking, even if his head went under at times. Got any more whiskey?”

Paul had been in the water only about half an hour, no longer than during many a previous dip in the surf, but the nervous tension had been severe.

The Doctor took hold of his hands and found the finger tips were merely cold, not blue, and as usual the form and vitality of the hand showed every element of power to give many a good grip yet.

“Ah!” thought the Doctor, “your type can put forth the strenuous effort if your spirit calls for it, and it does sometimes draw upon the physical too much; the best swimmers are for this cause sometimes drowned. Don’t do it again, my boy. When the reaction comes you require stimulants even more than at the time of exertion,” and he again gave Paul the flask.

Mr. Onset was similarly cared for in the other boat. When the two crews came together near the steamer Doctor Wise inquired of the physician in charge what Onset had to say for himself.

“He says he became giddy and fell over. I don’t believe him.”

“H’m,” mused the Doctor, “weak head and hysterical legs—what will he do next?”

Once on board again and the steamer well on her course, the incident produced quite a little sensation, a surface ripple, but very little serious impression.

Paul, in spite of himself, had to gratify curiosity and explain details—how he first caught one of the floating deck stools (“the one I threw over,” said the benign countenance with the woollen hood), then swam towards where he thought Onset might be, and saw his head against the sheen on the water, and then kept his eye on the head while swimming; how it did not seem a long swim, but a little slow after finding a life preserver to tow along; how he managed to get the floats under Onset, after first boxing his ears to keep him quiet, and then ducked into the life preserver himself, “and there we were until the steamer turned head on and the search light became so blinding that I could not see what I could see.”

“Oh, you good boy!” again exclaimed the beaming hooded countenance, who had evidently been reading one of Mr. Frank Stockton’s stories. “Do tell us, is it true, as Miss Frank says, that you wore black stockings to keep off sharks?”

“Trousers, this time, madame—trousers! I really didn’t have time to change.”

“All’s well that ends well,” but with Adele it was not the end, much more the real beginning.

The part she had taken in connection with the case of Onset’s hysteria, her mental activity during the discussion with Mrs. Geyser and the spiritual experience she had just encountered in learning Paul’s decided force of character, made the young woman live and breathe intensely. Her whole being had been brought into play. She developed more during that eventful week of their life in mid-ocean than she might have done in a whole year on land. Not that aught of her past was lost or ignored, but it was made effective and she herself made more completely alive. She was now indeed amid the turmoils of life, where she found herself taking an active part.

The strange and varied motives which actuated many, also the lofty aspirations and the power to act, seemed very similar to her own ideals, far more so than she had expected. This took away some of her own youthful conceit, but gave her a much deeper and stronger appreciation of things as a whole.

Naturally a strong conviction arose within her that two individuals with different characteristics, yet harmonious in purpose, must be able to work better together than alone. She had always felt rather independent as to any methods she chose to adopt, but now she felt herself confronted by a whole series of things she could not do, no matter how good the motive. Paul, for instance, being a man, had done just what she would have liked to do, but could not, being a woman. She felt quite able to have done it—oh, yes; she could dive and swim and keep it up; but somehow, for her to have jumped overboard—well, don’t do it—foolishness—ridiculous. But Paul could—no foolishness, nothing ridiculous; in fact, a praiseworthy act, a reasonable risk, approved by his conscience at the time and eventually strengthening his character. She began to obtain a realizing sense of the complementary equivalent in human nature.

Unavoidably Paul rose higher in her estimation. Twice he had shown himself her equal, perhaps even her superior, not mentally, but somehow in a forcible manner which taxed her spirit as well as her intellect to comprehend. He had once proved how her own vocal accomplishments, so much more highly developed than his, could be in spirit most potent when made subsidiary to the words and sentiment of a song; now he had shown that actions are more convincing than words themselves in spiritual significance. She no longer thought of Paul as like other men, two-sided, one side good and the other—well, not so good; but rather as good all round, a really good man. Being an idealist, she put Paul on a pedestal and took a good look at him. Certainly he was very sensible and brave, also fascinating, now that she saw him in a good light.

This was the state of affairs when the crossing of the Atlantic ended by their entering the Straits of Gibraltar.

XIX GIBRALTAR APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS

IT may seem superfluous to observe that the military spirit dominated every other at “The Gib,” but the ladies of the Cultus party had little idea how forcibly it would affect them until they were behind the guns.

Four regiments were quartered at the station—brilliant uniforms in all directions. Regulation scarlet most in vogue; also “the sporty Rifles,” parti-colored like paroquets, green predominating; also Scotch Highlanders in white and flesh tints of nature. Bands and bag-pipes, fifers and drum corps perambulated the narrow streets—action, color, martial music in the air—the spirit of the place exhilarating at first and its activity contagious.

“Look at those red-breasts, and, oh, dear, how very perky!” exclaimed Miss Winchester, as Tommy Atkins and a group of his chums went by—Tommy had winked at her when passing.

“Come, Paul, fall in! Keep step! We’ll take that battery just ahead.”

“Look before you leap!” cried Adele, laughing.

“Oh, that’s only a military mote in your eye,” laughed Miss Winchester, “soldiers don’t mind a small matter like that——” and she drew the young people off along the crooked street which led to the hotel, Convent (headquarters), Park and Alameda beyond, Professor and Mrs. Cultus following in a carriage. As they looked upward the Rock frowned upon them from a great height, and O’Hara’s Tower appeared near as the bird flies, but a fatiguing ascent for those on foot. At the Signal House flags were fluttering, and with a glass one could distinguish “wig-wagging” in the direction of the Mediterranean, possibly to an approaching steamer many miles distant, on the way from that Far East which they all hoped soon to reach.

Life at “The Gib” not forming an integral part of this narrative, it is enough to recall that during their stop-over between steamers they were fortunate in assisting at a battle upon the neutral-ground, after which they attended a ball at the “Convent.” Our interest just now is to note how well Mrs. Cultus improved her opportunity, especially after visiting Tangiers.

When at home Mrs. Cultus was a busy member in several clubs, all fashionably active in good works. She had a pigeonhole for each particular style of club letter paper, with headings artistically engraved. Among them, “Politely Civil Club,” “Amateurs’ Topographical,” “Domestic Relief Association,” “Cat Home,” and “Old Man’s Depository.” Mrs. Cultus doted on cats and variety in good works, and was determined to prove all things and hold fast to that which is good. In a spasm of zeal previous to her departure she had faithfully promised to report from abroad such of her observations “obtained by travel on the spot,” as might be interesting in connection with the club work at home. It goes without saying that both Gibraltar and Tangiers each proved to be a bonanza to Mrs. Cultus, and she very wisely determined to get rid of the troublesome business at once.

“I know I can write something better than that communication about ‘Tobogganing in St. Petersburg,’ and as to the one on ‘Seesawing in Alaska,’ it was a very trivial production. In civil matters it’s quite as important to know what not to do as what to do, and I certainly do see here on ‘The Gib’ many things highly instructive to Uncle Sam in connection with our new colonies. Now, let me see! Let me arrange my thoughts before writing them out.

“Why, I feel quite an embarrassment of riches” (she repeated it in French): “Gibraltar! certainly the most cosmopolitan region we have yet reached, a perfect conglomeration of diversified interests, and yet they are not at loggerheads; military, also millinery, costumes very important; not so much commercial as confidential; financial, with four kinds of currency; national yet international, geographically considered; diplomatic, aromatic, and ethical; all substantial problems working in harmony—not a gun fired to keep the peace, only for salutes.”

Mrs. Cultus’ finished production proved to be in a style quite unique, what might be called demi-semi-official or colloquial-realistic, with “side tags” to inform the Club in what direction the region might be further “explored.” Of course her full text became part of the archives of the Society, but her opening and closing sentences were in this case so brilliant that the world at large should really have the benefit of their luminosity. No expert in the modern school of English composition had greater appreciation than Mrs. Cultus of the real value of an opening sentence to attract attention in the right direction. What she fired off at the Amateurs’ Topographical thus began:

“We are supposed to be in Europe, en route from America to Asia; as a matter of fact we are in Africa, just across the way. I write from the Café Maure, in order to get the flavor of the place.” With her literary feet thus planted on four continents at once, why, of course the Club knew precisely where she stood, and obtained a glimpse of the habits and customs of the population, also of Mrs. Cultus in particular. Her closing sentence was also a masterpiece, this time of imagery and charming retrospection, all carefully led up to by a vivid description of the Zok or market place; introducing a group of snake-charmers at work charming, fascinating to watch, especially fascinating when the charmers, accompanied by tom-toms and a sana (tambourine), appeared to eat the snakes.

“It was diabolical,” wrote Mrs. Cultus; “I fled, and called the others to escape fascination also. We had enough of the Zok and snakes. Unfortunately, camels were in our way. I had nothing but my parasol to keep the beasts off. No doubt they too had been fascinated by the snakes, for a hubbub arose which completely demoralized the dromedaries. A camel with both humps up and rear legs in the air and his front legs helping him to scream is calculated to make one leave his vicinity unceremoniously. We did, we made our exit—sans ceremonie—as I have the profound honor of now doing at the end of this report.”

And the Society sent her a note of appreciation later on for the sincere observation and vivid realism displayed in her graphic report—noblesse oblige.

But in the meantime, while the report was on its way home, Mrs. Cultus, when thinking it over, seemed not quite sure as to its effect, in fact rather worried.

“I know,” said she, “that my style embodies that happy medium between dignity and frivolity which is sure to take at the Club, but, oh, just suppose somebody has described Tangiers before!”

Miss Winchester overheard this terrible conjecture with the keen interest of a real member of the literary craft, and naturally came to the rescue of Mrs. Cultus, who was yet a novice.

“Tangiers!—sung about before? Not more frequently than some other good songs.”

“What song are you talking about, Frank? I sang no song.”

“‘Thou art like unto a flower, O Tangiers! so pure, so white,’ et cetera. A Morocco rose by any other name will always smell as sweet.”

“Anyhow, it’s Oriental,” quoth Mrs. Cultus, “and that’s what I’m after just at present.”

Oriental—yes; they had been fascinated by their first glimpse of the Orient and its surfeit of varied impressions. From this time forward Adele was continually looking Eastward with great and increasing eagerness. The shores of the Mediterranean had yet in store for her some experiences quite as forcible as those of the Atlantic mid-ocean, but she knew it not. No doubt this had something to do with her present mood when they came to leave Gibraltar, and she stood with Paul and the Doctor upon deck, watching the disappearance of the Rock.

The steamer took a southerly course when leaving port, heading for the African shore, then bore off towards the Orient, which was the real goal of their voyage. When passing Europa Point the impregnable Rock, with terraced fortifications, loomed up in gigantic proportions; seen edgewise, its decreased width added to the apparent height. Lofty and massive, it was indeed a Pillar of Hercules at the Gateway of the Inland Sea.

The steamer passed into more open waters, the Rock rising higher and higher, as if determined to assert its majesty, no longer a pillar but a column of Victory, a strong and mighty outpost of Europe, an advance guard of that domain which lay behind, a bulwark of defence, a salient point for attack, a formidable diplomatic menace to the nomads of Africa—“Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.” And they sailed onwards, out upon the blue expanse of sea and sky; the landscape receded from view and different objects sank in turn beneath the horizon. The graceful curves of the Iberian coast faded away in the background, the mainland of Europe but a thin line in the distance; the gateway of the Straits soon followed, and the Atlantic, highway to America and home, was lost to sight. There was naught left in what they saw to suggest America.

As the ship sailed on, the sunlight pouring upon the sands of Africa produced a hazy, luminous, rose-tinted mist o’er the Land of the Moors, the mountains of Morocco blended away amid the fleecy clouds in the azure of distance.

And they gazed until the sombre outline of the Rock alone remained, an isolated dot upon the waters. A fisherman’s craft scudded across the open, the Rock was hidden behind a sail. A sea gull flitted along the horizon, the Rock was no larger than a bird. The human eye grew weak in the effort to retain its whereabouts. Could it yet be seen? Yes, it is there—a mere speck in space! No, ’tis gone! Gibraltar had disappeared.

Adele, standing between the Doctor and Paul, clinging to the arms of her good friends, looked dreamily upon the vacancy. In thoughtful silence this vivid experience in life had become but a thing of the past.

XX THE ARTISTIC SENSE

AFTER a short tour through Italy, they had reached the Vesuvian Bay. As Mrs. Cultus expressed it, “Heretofore we have been visiting lakes and crypts, ruins and picture galleries, and now at last have met a volcano. It’s really beautiful, I assure you, quite as artistic as in pictures, and set in a frame of landscape which I don’t wonder artists love to paint. I feel just that way myself. Oh, it is so exquisite with these sloping shores! and in the distance that beautiful Island of Capri.”

Capri, the haunt of so many emperors in art as well as in government. Capri, favorite of the imagination, one of the enchanted isles, legendary locality, with its rustic stone ladder to ascend heavenward. Capricious Capri, with its grotto in blue, whereas ordinary mortals would be satisfied with grottoes in green. Picturesque Capri, with rocky foreground, no middle distance whatever, and several Paradises in the background. Mythological Capri, ever under the watchful eye of Minerva of the Promontory. Sportive Capri, with quails on toast, and woodcocks twice a year. Historic Capri, famous to the antiquary and modern economist; infamous, but only in days gone by.

All this appeared very mysterious on the morning that the Doctor looked from Capo da Monti over the Bay of Naples. The island, enveloped in light mist, hung, as it were, in mid-air between sea and sky. Adele and Paul were with him.

“Hazy atmosphere,” remarked the Doctor.

“I see violet tints,” remarked Adele. “I love violets.”

“It looks as if the island had no weight,” said Paul; “it might be blown away by the wind.”

“One of those atmospheric effects,” continued the Doctor, “which some artists portray with great success because much is left to the imagination.”

“Then the other fellow imagines what he likes best; safe, sure plan that; it just suits me,” said Paul. “All the pictures I had in my room at college had a ‘go’ in them, and I imagined what was coming.”

“Happy the artist who has the art of suggestion. It is a rare gift; inborn, I think—the power to make others complete the picture by reading their own best thoughts into it.”

“Some seem to care very little about what they say,” remarked Adele. “I never could understand why they paint a woman looking at herself in a glass; one’s back hair should not be the most conspicuous thing in the picture; and as to those extraordinary soap-bubble-cherubs, they don’t appeal to me, no matter how well they are painted.”

“What sort do you like?” asked Paul the innocent.

“Why, dancing, of course—dancing on one’s knee—that’s the place they would enjoy it most, stretching out their arms in play, not catching flies. Those fly-catching cherubs are just as bad as the bubblers.”

“How much you’re like your mother at times,” thought the Doctor while laughing; then audibly: “You’re right, Adele; art never is very high unless it reaches for something better than catching flies—fleeting impressions.”

“Then from your point of view,” said Paul, “the technical part and the science per se may appeal to the physical and mental only; but if you want a picture to be thought about afterwards, the subject must speak to the spiritual sense.”

“Well, rather!” exclaimed the Doctor, now getting somewhat excited; “and more than that, many a well executed work of art has been utterly forgotten simply because the subject had better be forgotten. Some artists have actually killed their pictures before they first touched brush to canvas.”

Adele appeared to agree to this, but said nothing. Paul was not so loftily mystical in his appreciation.

“Perhaps they belong to the ‘yellow’ school?”

“And have the jaundice themselves?” quoth the Doctor, warming up; “perhaps, for a bad subject is apt to have bad influence. No picture worthy the title of masterpiece endures as such unless it possesses the spiritual element and excites spiritual perception of the right kind. In the final analysis, the higher spiritual element is the salvation of any artistic production. Woe betide the artist who belittles his art by what might be called aspiration towards the low, and thinks to justify it by a perfect technique! That is a false position for a true man; for there is but one art—the Art Divine, which cannot be debased by unworthy association.”

“Of course you mean Music,” said Paul, smiling. “Now you’re off on your hobby; every man thinks his own hobby the best—his art divine. You’re just like ’em all, Doc! Look out! don’t measure everything by your own pocket-rule.” The Doctor paid no attention.

“In other arts than Music,” said he, “the physical association is so intimate and permanent that the artist has increased responsibility in consequence.”

“Then greater achievement when he does succeed,” interrupted Adele.

“Possibly, but not probably,” said the Doctor. “I only referred to music because it furnishes an ideal standard by which to judge of the unlimited power (of course divine, if unlimited) which may be exercised through the artistic sense. For instance, Mozart’s ability to excite pure spiritual aspirations towards the good and true by means of the beautiful in melodic phrase, was, and is (for he is immortal), so great that those who yield themselves to his art are often led to forget even the debased Don Juan (miserable subject), and have pure emotions and beautiful visions suggested by the melodic beauty of the music. One might almost say Mozart’s inspired art awakens the dormant Angel who sleeps within the nature of every man. You know what we find stated in Rau’s ‘Tone King’ about him?”

Adele drew close to listen.

“Mozart, when on the border land, when his lovely spirit so melodious in expression could see upwards even more clearly than around and about him, said something like this:

“‘All work is divine, and raises man above earth. We all love earthly things, but there are higher delights than these. I, too, know something of this higher joy of creating. The faculties God has given me render me happy; but I feel that these powers within me are capable of fuller development in eternity. To think that my power of producing something great and fine could cease just when it begins to rise to the full consciousness of all that might be accomplished, would be to doubt the perfection of Divine Wisdom—perhaps my whole being may be absorbed in one flow of immortal harmony, for the musical spheres within one cannot perish.’”

After a pause, the Doctor asked, with much feeling:

“I suppose you know what all this means?”

“Tell us,” whispered Adele.

“It means that all true art in this life springs from Love Divine, and aids in bringing life and immortality to light.”

As the Doctor said this the sound of a simple, plaintive melody came floating upward toward the crest of the hill on which they stood. Paul went forward to see whence it came.

“Some peasants in the next field; one is singing, another playing a pipe, before a shrine.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor; “not the first time that shepherds abiding in a field have heard music with a spiritual significance.”

“And neither a Mozart nor very fine art,” remarked Paul.

Adele stood musing, then added, in a subdued voice:

“Yes; it is yet bringing Life and Immortality to Light.”

XXI AN ARTIST WITH DOUBLE VISION

THEY were again overlooking the Vesuvian Bay, Capri still in the distance, but more distinct, not unlike a phantom appearing and disappearing as the mist passed by. The intermediate space was much clearer, more light, better definition, as photographers say.

“Paul,” began the Doctor, “you remember George Le Roy, the artist we met at Tarpon Bayou, Florida? He is now at Capri.”

“Good!” exclaimed Paul. “A genius if ever there was one. He takes me a walk out into the country whenever I look at his pictures.”

“‘Art is his religion,’ so he says,” quoth the Doctor. “His palette and his Bible tell the same story, or something like that.”

“I can’t tell exactly why I like his pictures,” said Paul, “but I do.”

“His pictures speak,” said the Doctor; “they echo the Mind of Nature, the Voice, yet he never copies a tree or a cloud. You hear something said to you, yet not a word spoken. Now, Paul, that’s quite as high a flight for the artist as one is apt to find in figure painting.”

“Oh, I can’t agree with you there. The human form requires far greater ability to portray; one must depict action, and emotions, too—in fact, a better draughtsman is required.”

The Doctor took him up.

“No doubt greater accuracy in detail, correct eye for form, knowledge of anatomy to make the figure plastic, and intense feeling to give power to convey to others the idea of emotions; but when it comes to exciting emotions the landscape artist has a field bountiful with opportunity for spiritual insight and significance—as a matter of fact, figures themselves need not be ignored, but made accessory.”

“The world and his wife don’t value landscapes as highly as you do,” remarked Paul, cogitating. “Who ever sees all that in a landscape?—why, the average man wouldn’t like it if he did see it.” This somewhat nettled the Doctor.

“The average man! that pretentious individual who always thinks of himself as Lord of Creation—let him keep on thinking of his physique and physical comforts. I enjoy good landscapes for the very reason that they lift one above all that; they respond to something better, and that settles it for me. I enjoy having inspiring landscapes always where I can see them; there are precious few faces of which I can say the same thing.” Then he added, as if mindful of one in particular: “Some faces never respond; I take to the woods to get rid of ’em, as I often leave a portrait for a landscape.”

The Doctor was getting roused. Paul detected it and concluded to laugh the matter off.

“Why not take your piano with you, Doctor—to the woods?”

“I would if I could. Gottschalk did; and others to-day, like him in that respect, do seek fresh thoughts and sounds direct from Nature. Saint-Saëns does; he told me so during some talks we had when out in far east Ceylon; and he is the most notable living expert in different forms of musical composition, ranging from complicated rhythmic conceits to serious harmonies well nigh sublime. As to Edvard Grieg, I caught him in the very act, entranced by Nature’s strange moods and melodies amid the waterfalls of his beloved Norway. And Beethoven! ah! there is the real test! Beethoven’s most profound utterances are but the unadulterated deep sounds and chords from Nature, both felt and heard when others thought him deaf. His experience was in the woods of Austria, and if we do not hear now, elsewhere, when he yet speaks, we do not really comprehend Beethoven, how he transmuted into another form that which exists in Nature. Blessed be his name! for he did it that we, too, might hear. And we call that Art.”

“Well, there’s one advantage about a piano in the woods,” teased Paul.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll be more comfortable, and possibly less moist than the other fellow.”

“What other fellow?”

“The one who sat on a wet cloud pecking at a harp—ask Widow Bedot.”

Evidently Paul was trying to escape a serious discussion. Fortunately for both, Adele came to the rescue. She perceived that men of such different temperaments could seldom see anything from the same point of view unless it was the result of a similar or simultaneous experience, and that with Paul the personality of the artist should go far to promote a thorough appreciation of his work.

“It strikes me,” said Adele, “neither of you knows all that may be said on that subject.”

“H’m!” ejaculated the Doctor, looking out of the corner of his eye.

“Or else you’re not thinking about the same thing.”

“Give it up,” laughed Paul. “I was with the Widow on that cloud.”

“Then, isn’t it just possible, a wee bit possible, that a landscape artist himself, Mr. Le Roy, for instance, should know more about such things than either of us?”

“All right; we’ll visit him,” said the Doctor; “take a run over to Capri for the sake of our—artistic health.”

“You mean your credit as a critic,” thought Adele.

The venerable artist, nearly seventy years of age, gave them a cordial welcome, his sharp eyes sparkling behind his old-fashioned spectacles; a man of medium height, with evidently no thought to throw away on mere matter of dress. His light-colored soft hat covered a mass of touzled hair, with a few streaks of gray; his beard was sparse on the cheeks and luxuriant on the chin.

The Doctor looked with interest at his thin hands and his hectic cheeks; then noticed his forcible action as he walked and talked. Outward signs of a highly nervous, impulsive temperament were very pronounced.

“He looks more like an impractical, enthusiastic mystic than ever,” pondered the Doctor; “even more so than when I met him years ago—no doubt Italy suits him as he ages in spiritual discernment. He certainly can give very powerful impressions when he paints, and to all sorts and conditions of men; how remarkable, yet quite reasonable, that a man so frail as he should produce such effects of power. I suppose it is the intensity of his visions which makes him great. I wonder how Paul the practical will size him up?”

The artist was talking to Paul about fresh air and the delightful life at Capri.

“Then you paint in the open?” asked Paul.

“Well, yes, and no. Of course, one must go out, but not necessarily far—all is near at hand. The paysage intime, as it was called at Barbizon, is here, too, as we also found it in Florida. There’s a sort of unity in nature, and in it we live and move and have our being. It is a vast thing, that unity, but it is close to us also. The landscape picture may convey a comprehensive impression very large, out of proportion to its actual subject. Art, you know, is but part of the universal-plan, and like both science and religion, must drop into its appropriate place.”

Paul seemed interested, also somewhat amused. “Fresh air certainly does surround everything, and no doubt there is a universal-plan in nature; but why mix up art, fresh air and the universal-plan in that way?” Paul wondered how a fellow who could paint such practical pictures, so true to life, should talk so vaguely. “He’s a high-flyer. I like his fresh air and his pictures better than his queer sentiments.”

Now, what Doctor Wise especially desired to learn was, not what other people thought of Mr. Le Roy, but how he himself satisfied his own keen, analytical sense. How Le Roy worked, not in mere allegorical figure, but, going directly to nature, discovered and conveyed something worth portraying. For it was well known in art circles that Le Roy had slowly gathered together his own theories as to nature and what nature could give him, and of the Immortality of Art. The conversation, therefore, took that turn.

“Every artist,” said Le Roy, “has his own feeling, and if he develops it, may be a great artist in his way; yet, the other schools, the men with other methods and ideas, may not recognize the merit in his work.”

“Can this matter of feeling be explained in words?” asked Adele.

“I think so, having made a thorough and complete theory of it. I am now seventy years of age, and the whole study of my life has been to find out what it is that is in myself—what is this thing we call Life—and how does it operate. The idea has become clearer and clearer; and as we see that the Creator never makes any two things alike, nor any two men alike, therefore every man has a different impression of what he sees, and that impression constitutes feeling, so every man has a different feeling.”

The Doctor’s face lighted up as he eagerly drank in these words. Here was the “unlimited,” the very thing he had heard so much about—the unlimited with a vengeance. He knew that varied mentality and temperament among musicians who were artists often produced discord, but here was a successful artist of ripest maturity who insisted that no two artists were ever alike—all received different impressions, all had different feelings. Evidently everything or anything might be expected from an artist. “Hurrah for the typical artistic capacity and temperament; feelings of endless variety and scope, hence unlimited.” Such was the Doctor’s interpretation—the way it impressed him.

Le Roy continued:

“As to sitting at the feet of nature for inspiration, that came to my mind in the beginning of my career. I went instinctively to her, and drawn by a sympathetic feeling, I put something on canvas. It was not always a correct portrayal of the scene, but only something more or less like what I had in mind. Other artists and certain Philistines would see it and exclaim, “Yes! there is a certain charm about it. Did you paint it outside?—because if you did, you could not have seen this, that and the other.”

“Of course I could not deny it, and thought I ought to improve my method. Being young, I then took it for granted that we saw physically, and with the physical eye only. What I had to learn was that a true artist has two sets of eyes: the one physical, the other spiritual.”

Adele began to be uneasy lest the Doctor should at once claim three pairs of eyes, physical, mental, and spiritual, one of his own theories about such things, so she appealed to the artist as quickly as possible.

“What did you do about it, Mr. Le Roy?”

“At first I tried to paint what I thought I saw, calling memory to supply the missing details.”

“And the result?”

“The picture had no charm whatever; there was nothing beautiful about it. I asked myself why it is that when I try to do my duty and paint faithfully I achieve so little, but when I care little for so-called faithful duty and accuracy I get something more or less admirable.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Doctor, “I presume the first pair of eyes is always imitative, that is to say, photographic, and copies; the second, artistic or spiritual—but how about the third pair, the intermediate?”

“Whose?” asked Le Roy.

“The highly intellectual critic’s, self-constituted.”

“Oh, the critic! He always sees more than I do,” laughed Le Roy. “Let him pass; what I wish to tell you is this:

“Little by little I began to find out that my feeling was governed by a principle, and I needed to find out the law under which it would act—the law of the unit, that is, of impression; although I did not then understand it as such.”

Paul thought this a rather big undertaking, to discover any law which would apply to all feelings, no two alike. Le Roy continued:

“Landscape is a constant repetition of the same thing under different forms and in a different feeling. When we go outdoors our minds are underloaded in some, overloaded in others—we don’t know where to go to work. We can only achieve something if we have an ambition so powerful as to forget ourselves and grasp whatever nature may give from any source; that is to say, one must be up in the science of his art. To be able to draw what you feel, you must first of all be able to draw what you see. There can be no true color without true form. In other words, to create an impression you must have both knowledge and technique to do so.”

This statement pleased the Doctor immensely, a clear recognition of the great philosophic truth that in the nature of things science and art are both essential under the law of impression in order to produce the best work. Now, what could the artist say about the higher spiritual element?

The reply came: “If a man could be as God when he is painting outside (perfection, thought the Doctor), then it would be easy enough; but, as he cannot, he must fall back on science. It is not possible for us to establish a measuring point in art—not in a broad, general sense. Even the early masters of the Renaissance were not always perfect in technique; they sought sympathy, not applause; and their results will always remain pre-eminent and authoritative in the domain of impression.” Le Roy seemed strong in his convictions about this, and followed up his thoughts with a still more comprehensive statement: “The worst of it is that all thinkers are apt to become dogmatic, and every dogma fails because it does not give us the other side.”

“Then it restricts the truth to one point of view?” inquired the Doctor.

“Yes—and the same applies to all things, to religion as well as to art. A man who thinks must find a third element besides the science of his art for his standpoint of reason. There is a Trinity operative in regard to this.”

All the party now strained every nerve to catch the words as they fell from the great artist’s lips.

“At one time I took up the science of geometry because I considered it the only abstract truth; the diversion of the arc of consciousness, and so on. No one can conceive the mental struggles and torments I endured before I could master the whole thing. I knew the principle was true, but in practice it seemed contradictory. I had constantly to violate my principles to get in my feeling.”

“Purely intellectual effort,” thought the Doctor, “must ever fail, in the very nature of things.” Le Roy continued:

“I used this mathematical mode of thought as my third, together with natural science and the art, to form the stable tripod-standpoint of reason. I found it enabled me to keep the understanding under perfect control, except——”

“Except when?” interrupted the Doctor, nervously. “Was not pure mathematics always invariably sufficient to attain stability and confidence?”

“Except when I overworked myself, then I was mentally tired, my spirit not satisfied—I got wobbly, like any one else.”

“Now what do you do?” asked Adele, in thorough sympathy, her lovely black eyes, full of intelligence, meeting those of the venerable philosopher in art.

“What do I do, my child? What do I do?”

“Therein lies the secret of my life.”

XXII THE SECRET OF A LIFE

ALL waited reverently until the venerable artist was ready to explain. They watched him take off his spectacles and polish them, so that his physical sight might aid his mental vision, and his spiritual insight assert its potency. He stepped across his studio toward one of his superb paintings—a landscape in which a wealth of rich coloring streamed forth from behind dark, luxuriant foliage. At first sight “the related masses of color rather than the linear extensions” was what appealed to the beholder, as if, as a work of art, it was not intended to instruct or edify, but to awaken an emotion. Le Roy stood with one hand held forth toward the picture; his other, as the Doctor noticed, rested naturally, unostentatiously, upon a sacred volume lying upon a table at his left, as if he wished to feel in physical touch with that book while he spoke.

“You ask me what I do in the final resort—what I do when both science and art grow weak and unstable.

“I retire to be alone, take only certain books with me, and write, applying the principles I have already experienced as true in art to the purest of all forms of reasoning, theology—religious truths scientifically stated. Speaking of and with God in nature is the saving, the salvation of my art. The impressions I then receive are what you see in my pictures and ask me to explain. That is the feeling you recognize and the sentiment you appreciate. You see and appreciate precisely in accordance with your own experience in personal religion, no more, no less. You are part of the truth in unity just as I am; we all have the soul for the beautiful, the beautiful soul within us. One Father breathed into each man when he became a living soul in beauty of mind and spirit. In a way, I worship through my paintings.

“I know I have always had this power; all of us, when at our best, know we have it in some degree, creative or responsive—but I did not always understand the principles which govern it. Science now assures me it is the truth. The unit law of impression, you now see, demands the three in one, Science, Art, and Communion with the Holy Spirit of Truth, God in nature.

“People ask me why I keep on painting, old as I am, and I answer: Simply because of a constraining force from beyond me, from without, something which lifts me higher and higher toward finding the very best forms of truthful expression. Of course this development must depend in a measure on physical strength and individual endowment. I am obliged to watch myself that I do not overwork, and when I grow weary of painting then I open the Book—the Source of Wisdom. This gives me the only point of view, except the artistic, which interests me—in fact, art and religion are very closely connected.”

Le Roy ceased speaking and stood thoughtfully before his wonderful picture—verily his masterpiece, in that it rose to a height of spiritual suggestion he had not before attained, and by means the best he knew. His eyes were fixed upon it, and he seemed to become oblivious to his surroundings.

Adele drew near, the Doctor and Paul close behind her; the grouping itself was suggestive. The artist-philosopher, mystic and artistic; the inquisitive Doctor, sincere and at times metaphysical; the practical Paul, true and observing; and Adele, an idealist—all dominated by a landscape utterly devoid of figures.

A pure landscape. The beholder stood upon a moderate elevation, a grove of trees on his left, the branches covering the upper part of the canvas. Looking forward, a valley; a village nestled below, telling of happy homes and playgrounds, and near by the parish church, where the belfry chimes could almost be heard. Through openings in the grove and in the broader expanse were cultivated fields, and faintly outlined was a winding stream meandering off toward the horizon; the course of the stream broken by woodlands and far distant bluffs, the bluffs lessening to a point in mid-distance, where the stream for a time was concealed behind the foliage on its banks. As observed by the physical eye trained to seek many lines and complicated perspective it was truly a very simple, modern subject, embodying little more than elementary drawing. But what had this great artist seen by spiritual insight dominating his art? What impression had the Spirit that is Holy, the Creator with whom he had spoken when alone, revealed to him? What had “the candle of the Lord,” within himself, illumined?

An early morning, the atmosphere clear and transparent, with fleecy clouds pure and chaste, late draperies of the flying night, so delicately refined in form and shade, with light and shadow, that with the birth of a new day the resurrection from the dawn became brilliant with color. Every cloud and celestial vista, every hillside, undulation, meadow, stream, stone, branch, leaf and leaflet gave its own responsive reflection of the Brightness of the Coming. Each diversified form was alive with the inspiration caught and expressed by tints and hues in the harmony of colors. So brilliant were some of the combinations nature had called for, that the artistic sense demanded that they should be partly hidden behind the darker foliage. A vision of this world as it is, yet looking towards something more beautiful, heavenward. Earth idealized by the artist’s dream, to a reality too lavish for the credulity of ordinary experience. None, unless with the artist (he had seen with the eyes of the Spirit as well as of Science and of Art), would have credited the glorious impression so simple a landscape could give; therefore the sombre contrast had been introduced. The artistic sense had controlled the flight of imagination, and deeper shadows told each beholder to look within and complete the scenes from his own experience. Let us approach more closely, and go with the artist nearer to the inner recesses of the heart of nature.

Among the shadows what had the Spirit suggested? “The place whereon thou standest is Holy Ground.”

The beholders are upon an elevation, and close at hand in the subdued light a group of trees, modestly conspicuous among others in the grove. Vines encircle and climb their trunks, and blossoms glorify the branches on either side. The central vine is more luxuriant than the others, and its flowers, tinged with a roseate glow, much akin to flesh tints in nature.

The vine and its branches are waving in the wind; they take graceful forms and scatter blossoms at the beholders’ feet. To every lover of nature and weary one who seeks repose it is a vision of beauty and rest now, and a promise of rest to come.

The artist seemed especially fond of this feature in his work; his eyes repeatedly reverted from the glorious coloring he had given to the sky and the heavens above, to this notable detail in shadow.

“May I ask what flower you intend to suggest?” said Adele.

“A passion vine. It climbs aloft among the ordinary forest trees; some life-plants grow at its feet; the Rose of Sharon is in bloom among the shrubs, and I leave to your imagination the lilies-of-the-valley in the grass beneath. One of my impressions when alone was, that a cross might have once stood in such a place in the years gone by, when the mount was bare and bleak; since then nature has shown her constant kindness, for she abhors the void of bleakness and barrenness in such a place, and has covered the mount with lovely foliage. But the vision, the sight and the site of the cross remain; you may find the suggestion here—it upholds the vine and the branches, and the flowers are cradled in its arms.

“The cross is conceived as in bloom; and to me all the beauty is greatly enhanced by one precious significance—the same light in nature which so brilliantly illumines the celestial cloud vistas also gives the roseate tint to the flowers upon the cross.”

“That is ‘a creation’—by the artist,” meditated Adele.

“Through nature, looking upward,” remarked Paul, pensive.

“The crucifixion itself is marvellously beautiful,” said the Doctor, “when portrayed in landscape without a figure upon the scene. How great is genius in art, if it is endowed with a gift for spiritual impressions.”

Adele put her arm in Paul’s as they walked along, pondering over what they had seen. “The Cross in bloom, illumined by the Light of the World. The Divine in Art has both sought and spoken the Word.” She thought of how the artist had searched the Book of Wisdom; and she recalled what had long since been written therein about such Words spoken in nature and in history: “They are they which testify of Me.”

XXIII OLYMPUS—COURT FESTIVITIES

SAILING down the Adriatic, the Ionian Isles finally rose above the bosom of the sea; before them lay modern Greece, with its landscape and atmosphere still populated with the legendary divinities of ancient times. Mrs. Cultus adjusted her eye-glasses to catch first glimpse of Olympus, evidently under the impression that the Mountain of the Gods towered over Greece much as Fuji Yama does over Japan. She found it did, but not precisely as she had anticipated.

As to Adele and Paul, they were becoming more susceptible to impressions subtle, if not mystical, than ever before. Being in the region of the old-time divinities the influence of those deities at the Court of Olympus, whose especial duty was to direct love affairs, began to be felt. So potent was this influence that the lovers became intensely absorbed in watching for Aphrodite, lest she might rise from the sea at any turn of the tide. They had heard how, in modern times, she often arose at other points than Cyprus.

As the vessel proceeded southward, a new Olympus was constantly discovered and pointed out. This was great sport to Miss Winchester; such an accommodating guide-book mountain she had not before encountered.

“How many mountain resorts does our present Zeus keep up?” asked she of the Captain, a jolly sailor.

“Oh, wherever you see storm clouds around the highlands, there’s some fun going on.”

“Any court festivities, any Apollo bands or musical sands to entertain Court circles?”

“Apollo is not popular at this season—since rag-time came in, the lyrique and doggerel have gone out—the old accompaniment was too sleepy.”

“But I must hear Orpheus on a lute, or Pan give a toot.”

“Orpheus played last at a ball game,” said the Captain.

“Too dulcet?”

“Not enough wood wind and brassy; the boys said too lugubrious. They came to play ball, not to shed tears.”

“And poor Orpheus?”

“Went off with an organ grinder; now his name only appears on Club letter paper and headings for concert programmes. He manages to get into print, but he never plays.”

“How discouraging to art and musicians! Alas! alas! But apropos of games, what is the popular athletic sport now-a-days around Olympus?”

“Chasing quinine pills—a caddy holds the pills. You take the pills and then chase ’em ‘over the hills and far away.’”

“For the health, I presume?”

“Of course; the discus has gone out, but this later game makes more discussion than the discus ever did. Golf goes first-rate in Greek costume. You ought to see it. Scotchmen outdone.”

“How about ‘events’—athletic events?”

“Oh, events always occur in the Stadium.”

“Bless me, how exciting! But it sounds very stationary.”

“The victor generally does feel puffed up,” said the Captain. “During the last Olympiad a local divinity came down (from up the country) and accumulated such centrifugal force in running that he flew off to Thermopylæ or Marathon, some outside place or other, caught hold of the post there, swung himself round and slid into the Stadium in fine style.”

“What honors did he receive—laurel or oak wreath?”

“Think it was fig leaves,” remarked the sailor Captain, “but I am not sure. At any rate he was a hero. The town gave him free entrance to all the beer saloons for life, a new pair of sandals with wings and honors galore.”

“How appreciative! Discriminating public!”

“Sure! His name was engraved in the most honorable place possible.”

“How was that?”

“At the foot of the list of victors from B. C. 1776, or thereabouts, to A. D. 1896. He can no doubt stand the honor, but I doubt about the beer.”

“May I ask his name?”

“Name—his name—let me see, what was his name? It escapes me just at present. I’ll ask the steward some time, he’s up in such things,” and the Captain went off to superintend the passage of his vessel through the narrow channel between the islands and the mainland.

“There’s modern fame!” thought Miss Winchester. “After winning an Olympiad, to be labeled No. 3672, approx., name forgotten and soon marked ‘Unknown.’”

XXIV THE GODS INTERFERE

WHILE in the vicinity of Olympus it was, of course, quite natural for the gods to take an interest in Adele and Paul at this critical period in their affairs. They had heard of Adele as an Idyl—and assumed her to be an interesting, romantic and possibly poetic little creature, and in their old-time way of looking at things were far from imagining what a modern American Idyl might have become.

Mrs. Cultus in turn also had her own ideal. “Those Grecian gods,” said she, “are so frightfully anthro-popo—something, I forget the exact word, but it means meddlesome men. If I had my way we would leave this place at once. Who is Aphrodite, anyhow? I thought Venus was the most popular at Olympus. Oh, dear, my Greek is awfully rusty. I wish I had a copy of Took’s—good old Took’s Pantheon was full of such things.”

Now, unfortunately for Mrs. Cultus, her flippant words flew upwards. They were heard in Olympus by the great Aphrodite herself, ever one of the most influential of the Twelve Court Divinities. Hearing herself referred to in this trivial manner she determined to prove to this modern woman her potency, and that too by hastening events before madame and daughter could escape from her realm. The campaign opened at once.

Aphrodite whispered in Adele’s ear to be sure to make herself attractive to Paul, especially in personal appearance, for he was acutely sensitive to certain impressions just at that time.

Adele’s natural instincts would no doubt have taught her that much, but as she was under the brow of Olympus it is better to call natural instincts and some other forces in nature by their proper names.

At any rate Adele was thus affected, using every natural womanly effort to make herself agreeable, and Paul responded with a keen sense of appreciation. If Adele expressed a desire to stroll on deck, Paul cleared the deck to give plenty of room; if she wished to rest after a promenade he hurried to bring two chairs, one in either hand; if she said the night was dark, he said “ebony;” and if she expressed admiration for the heavenly moonlight he was ready to agree they were together in a Paradise.

Things would have worked admirably if some of the deities other than Aphrodite and some busybodies who hang around Courts and courting in general had not further interfered. Juno the Jealous and Diana the Golf-player, both Roman divinities visiting Zeus and his consort Hera, conceived the idea that the course-links in the game Adele and Paul were playing were entirely too smooth for real life, and it was astonishing how many of the lesser dignitaries with their relations came to the same conclusion. Complications at once arose, since all were in the secret.

Juno promptly stirred up Boreas, whose special domain was a little farther round the coast in the Ægean Sea, inciting him to blow great guns which reverberated from shore to shore across the billows. This in turn ruffled up Neptune, and in consequence there was a tremendous commotion in the roadstead where the steamer lay. Neptune’s venerable locks shone like white-caps in all directions at once.

As to Adele, she admired the sea in commotion and Paul agreed it was “the most magnificent spectacle.” Adele thought she could stand the movement, in fact did at first, until the united efforts of Boreas and Neptune acting simultaneously produced a very peculiar motion of the vessel, and a diversity of feelings so complicated within herself that she naturally took to her state-room on short notice. Paul at once pronounced the weather “beastly,” and the previous magnificence took flight on the wings of the wind.

Now, with all these divinities conspiring against her, Adele’s resemblance to her mother was certainly brought into prominence as never before, and all the romance of her nature seemed to vanish.

Adele in her state-room: “It is a physical impossibility to look well, much less be agreeable, when things are tossing about in this frightful way. Where’s my trunk?” and as she reached down to open it, the trunk slid across the room. Alas, too late! When she raised her head a new sensation.

“Oh, what’s that? Oh, dear, what a peculiar pain! Call the steward, somebody. Steward, steward!”

Enter steward. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m miserable, steward.”

“Yes, ma’am, take tea and toast and a little porridge.”

Adele, sharply: “Go for Miss Winchester at once, steward. Tell her I’m—I’m——”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Enter Miss Winchester. “Awful sorry you feel so upset, Adele. What can I do for you?”

“I never felt so collapsed in my life,” moaned the sufferer. “Now, tell me, Frank, shall I really die of this or not? Really, I couldn’t stand a joke!” Miss Winchester smiled when she perceived this universal symptom.

“No joke? Not even an antique in Greece, good yet? You know what Ulysses said when he passed this way: ‘You fear you will, then fear you won’t, and don’t’; that’s what he thought, I’m sure.”

“Frank Winchester, you’re positively heartless! You make me feel like throwing both you and Ulysses through that port-hole. Oh, dear, dear! How badly I do feel!”

Miss Winchester did what she could to quiet matters. “No, Adele, you certainly won’t die on purpose, not just yet.”

“Oh, Frank, what an awful thing to say, when you know it’s really so critical;” then musing as if of unutterable things, “what will Paul think of me?”

Now Paul, as luck would have it, was constitutionally opposed to seasickness even in the roughest weather; and as for Adele she had never before been so badly affected. “Owing to too much ‘Egyptian Delight’ and dates,” said Miss Winchester, feeling her pulse.

Paul thought the trouble would prove merely a trivial matter on Adele’s part. If he had suspected how miserable she really felt he would have acted differently, but being a veritable tease at times, he sent her, by Miss Winchester, the following verses from a newspaper clipping “for consolation.”

Frank proceeded to console Adele by reading these newspaper verses:

“In the gloaming,” said Frank, and finished with a deep sigh. Adele looked unutterable things. “Best keep Paul out of my presence—to send me such stuff, and just now, too!” The vessel gave an awful lurch, and a tumbler broke in falling. “Oh, Frank, I feel those terrible twists again! Is that awful propeller still at it?—it feels just that way.”

“It will soon untwist, dear—don’t mind; think of the consolation in those lovely verses.”

“I shall never speak to him again!” said Adele—“never!”

“Oh, yes, you will, and before the moon sets.” Miss Winchester was thinking of other lovers’ quarrels in her experience.

“Moon!” exclaimed Adele. “If this continues there’ll be no moon and I will be a lunatic. I have a thunder-gust headache.”

Frank bathed her temples with cologne.

“Oh, how delicious that is! It’s so kind of you, Frank. The Doctor would say your hand is sympathetic; I think it’s you, Frank. How much better I should feel if this ship would only keep still one minute, just one minute, half a minute, quarter of a——”

“That’s right, dear, go to sleep,” and Miss Winchester kissed her on the forehead as she slept.

And while she slept, one should remember the season when these events occurred—during the early autumn, the period when summer changes and a purer radiancy obtains in nature. The compensations of age in the year supplied the “unthought-of deficiencies of an ardent past.”

Luna, the Italian goddess, was also visiting Olympus at this time. She was behind a cloud during the pranks of Boreas and Neptune, but overheard the conversation between Adele and Miss Winchester, and her appeal to Adele that the lovers’ quarrel should be settled before she sank beneath the horizon touched her pride as a goddess. Luna was generally considered cold and purely philosophic and at times artistic in relation to lovers, but when in her march across the heavens her pride and power were touched or called in question, she could see very clearly and influence coming events with great force. In fact all the tides in mundane revolutions were affected by Luna.

Being a great personal friend of Aphrodite, the two goddesses put their heads together and approached Zeus. The very sight of two such exquisitely beautiful creatures of his own creation, embodying both philosophy and love in league towards one accomplishment, proved eminently effective. Their anthropomorphous paternal progenitor, as usual, listened to their request and granted it, his reason for so doing being markedly paternal in its character. In order to keep peace in the family while strangers were looking on, Zeus directed Neptune to cease his uproarious behavior, and sent Zephyr to take the place of Boreas. Zephyr, well known as the mildest and gentlest of the sylvan deities, was only too glad of the opportunity to take his family for an outing at the seaside. He and the little Zephyrs played with ripples on the waves like children enjoying themselves on the beach, while Mrs. Zephyr waved the tree branches to and fro when fanning herself in a hammock beneath. Thus, while Boreas scudded off with the heavy clouds from above, the Zephyr family wafted in gentle and delicious breezes below.

Luna looked down, smiling at intervals between clouds, at the result of her visit to Zeus, and her open countenance, often mistaken for that of a man, assumed the likeness of a cameo goddess.

While this went on Paul, on deck, was watching the heavens clearing after the storm, the breaking away of the clouds, the falling of the wind, the quieting of the sea. Through rifts in the sombre sky he caught glimpses of a silvery glow in the mysterious depths, the glow became a radiancy, and darker clouds hurried by in troops, their places taken by delicate draperies, gauze-like, upon which the silvery light played in form of a halo.

This celestial scenery riveted Paul’s attention. As the last shadow-cloud passed away the gauze-like draperies also receded from view, as a veil withdrawn from before a beautiful face.

Luna of Italy—Queen of the Night—shone forth.

Paul, keenly susceptible and appreciative, became absorbed in admiration, but such his mood at this time that never before had he been so affected by the moon’s glory.

“Our harvest moon at home,” thought he, “the merrymaking moon for lads and lassies, so they say. I like it better for yachting; no, I don’t, either;—the cozy twosing moon when one feels like confiding after the day’s work is done. Yes, I feel just that way—in some one we love best: Yes, I think so, too. The moon which settles things before the winter comes on—the moon—the—confound it! that moon knows entirely too much! let me think for myself.” He imagined he heard a whisper putting his secret longings into words, and telling him he ought not to live alone—that is to say, not enjoying this moon alone—no! And off he started, as if something very urgent suggested itself.

It was Aphrodite who had whispered to him.

XXV APHRODITE RISES FROM THE SEA

IN the meantime the quieting of the sea had produced a most beneficial effect upon Adele. Thanks to the kind ministrations of her mother and Miss Winchester, the thunder-gust headache had passed away as suddenly as it came. The steward entered again to open the port-holes in her state-room; a delicious breeze, soft and balmy, entered, most refreshing.

“How quickly the storm has passed,” said Adele to her mother.

“Yes, my child, and you had better leave this stuffy state-room as quickly as possible. I feel sure you will recover as soon as you breathe the invigorating air.”

“I had a whiff just now.”

“These coast storms are very fussy while they last,” said Mamma, “but I suppose ’twill be like all those along the Riviera; we often had superb nights following terrible gusts. You had better get up, Adele.”

“Do you think it safe to venture?”

“Not the slightest risk, not the slightest. I’ll ask your father to have the chair ready; you can take his arm at first.”

The soft, balmy air was again wafted in through the port, and passed with healing touch over Adele’s cheek.

“How delicious that is,” and she repeated the line:

“Soft as downy zephyrs are.”

Why Adele used the word zephyrs instead of pillows, Zeus only knows;—it must have been Zeus, not Aphrodite, for the latter seldom troubled herself about either zephyrs or garments; and yet the association of ideas aroused in the mind of her mother by Adele’s talking about zephyrs was most potent in results.

“That reminds me, Adele, I have a zephyr-shawl that is just the very thing. I’ll go and get it,” and off she hurried.

In the passage outside she met Paul, also in haste, and they stumbled over one another.

“I’m after a shawl for Adele; she ought to be on deck.”

“Ah! just what I think,” said Paul, enchanted to find matters already so favorable.

“Her father will bring her up.”

“I shall be delighted; let me.”

“No, thanks very much; but, no, it’s not at all necessary,” probably thinking of her daughter’s appearance. “But you may arrange her chair in some protected place.”

“Better than ever,” thought Paul. “I’ll find it; a first-class protection, to suit us all round.”

When Mrs. Cultus put the shawl around her daughter’s shoulders and mentioned incidentally that Paul was arranging things for her on deck, Adele had a violent revulsion of feeling. Still thinking of those trashy verses Paul had sent her, she felt little disposition to meet him; then noticed again how stuffy was the air of the state-room; then her mother insisted.

“But those verses, mother!”

“Never mind poetry,” said Mrs. Cultus, laughing. “Think of what you’ve done in that line yourself. You’re just like me. I did it,” and her mother shook all over with amusement.

“What are you laughing at?”—Adele serious.

“Why, my dear, you’ve been singing verses about ‘doves’ and ‘loves,’ and ‘toujours’ and ‘amours’ ever since you began singing lessons. If I believed half of what you’ve sung in public, I would not know what to think. Never mind poetry, verses don’t count. Now go on deck.”

“It was half Frank’s fault, anyhow,” mused Adele, “to read me such stuff when I felt so wretched. Never mind, I’ll have a good crow to pick with Paul when I get him alone.”

Aphrodite also laughed—one of her most bewitching ripples of laughter—when she overheard Adele’s last conclusion, and promptly sent for her accomplished son, Eros.

Eros was a youngster, at least in appearance, but very precocious. Like his father, the ancient Hermes (Mercury), he was very quick in his movements, and affected considerable style in his undress, for a divinity. He even appeared wearing a collar, with the very latest style of neck-tie, a cordon of blue ribbon over his shoulder instead of a belt around his waist; which fact often troubled artists and “fotographers” when they took his “picture.” Being thus ultra, he carried at times a torch, then again bow and arrows, in lieu of a walking stick; and sometimes put the name “Cupid” on his visiting cards, because he said it sounded “cute.” The modern divinities elsewhere, as well as at Olympus, were much divided in their opinions about this Eros-Cupid, “modern-antique.” Some said he was a good boy; others, the most mischievous little urchin that was to be found sporting around the Mount of the Gods; some contended that the mischief he wrought showed him to be a charming little elf with his mother’s dimples and ripples of laughter. Later, some foreigners dubbed him Puck, but he was never so designated at Olympus, never, not even by his mother; only by those who never ate apples, the apples of discord, nor sported with him in the Gardens of Hesperides.

Cupid, himself, however, when among the Romans generally followed their example and called her Venus, which he never did in Greece. The Greeks would have been shocked; they were artistic and saw nothing improper, even under the electric lightning-lights of Olympus; the Romans merely commonplace, practical, useful. It was rumored, however, that the pair of them, Aphrodite and Eros, did work together, as Venus and Cupid even in Greece, on the sly as it were, when Juno was off with her swans, and Diana gone out fishing; beg pardon, it was hunting in those days, fishing came in later.

On this occasion Eros appeared in due time, obedient to his mother’s call. But, marvellous to relate, in appearance quite different from what Aphrodite had expected. He became visible in his most ancient Greek garb, his aspect the Beauty of Youth. He bore a flaming torch which Zeus had given him, the torch with which he had been armed from the beginning of human experience, the torch which was lighted in the Garden of Eden. The most youth-full as well as ancient of all the divinities approached. From remote ages he had been known to exist in some form, not only as an epiphany or an apparition of youthful life and beauty, but more than this, far more: the personification of the principle of union among the disunited elements of the world, drawn together by that “enthusiastic congeniality of spirit” which is the basis of all true love; potent among human kind as the power which operates for that sincere friendship which continues and develops, ever ascending through the domain of mutual respect and regard, into the glorious realm of devotion, self-sacrifice. This, the purity of union among human kind, the purity of marriage, the birth of souls, the realm of Immortal Youth.

Such was the unexpected aspect of Eros when he first appeared; and such the significance of his presence.

Being a divinity, in the old Greek sense of the term, that is to say, a personification of the natural forces and instincts and passions, he could not appear reasonably in other garb or aspect at this time, when active in relation to the affairs of such a one as Adele Cultus, an Idyl, an ideal girl.

Upon Adele, in modern times, the same forces of nature were still operative as they had ever been since the beginning. Adele, too, possessed the divine spark or flame, within her, as given by her Creator Father, and she was both lovely and lovable. Paul adored her for her beauty of character, and her youthful form as he saw it; and her devotion to the truth as they both saw it; the true union, earthly, heavenly, eternal.

Alas, that such a divinity or personification, this original, ancient Eros, should ever have been dethroned by others less spiritual than Adele; dethroned, aye, dragged down from the lofty pedestal, the rock of ages; and his torch of flame become but an urn of ashes to be scattered by every vagrant wind; he, himself, in time, represented as a thoughtless wayward child, often as a wanton sporting with bows and arrows as if at play; and forcing himself where no true affection exists, not even regard. His unhappy victims deluded, and wandering in a region of shadows where the light ever grows more dim; alas! forever failing to enter the realm of Immortal Youth, the realm illumined by the unfailing radiance of true love.

Yet such are the vicissitudes involving changes and irregularities in mortal experience, especially in connection with the materialistic tendencies of modern times, that the original aspect of Eros has suffered, as with many other similar conceptions. His aspect only, not the natural forces which he personified; hence, in relation to Adele, the truth in Eros remained untouched, whereas, his interview with Aphrodite in this case certainly did illustrate the deterioration which had overtaken the region of Olympus since so many of the old divinities have fallen from their pedestals.

The Eros of the ancient Greeks could no longer retain his lofty attitude and position amid modern requirements, and his behavior in this instance certainly did demonstrate the deterioration. He became, in aspect only, by various stages, the versatile modern imp, Cupid, the Cupid now so often represented as blindfolded, or even blind; and with or without wings when used for decorative purposes. In fact, he might easily be mistaken for an all-day-vaudeville performer, or a cherub brought up upon the latest cereal, so little is left of the original mythological divinity.

As before noted, Eros responded promptly to his mother’s call, his appearance as it had been in the beginning.

Aphrodite was struck with amazement, it had been so long since she had seen him in that guise. It recalled to her the early Grecian period, soon after she herself had risen, born by the forces of nature from the foam of the sea at Cyprus; of the time when Eros (Amor) and the Graces were ever in her train, and she herself the deity of reproduction and love; of the time when the myrtle, the rose, and the apple were especially sacred to her, and the dove, the swan and certain other animals were symbolic of her activities. And she looked upon him with affection.

“Eros! Oh, Eros! my lovely boy! son of my youth!” and her voice failed. Overwhelmed by surging memories, some time elapsed before she could again speak.

“How long, Eros! how long since thou camest to me as now?”

Eros knelt before her as if to receive her blessing.

Verily, no Phidias, or Praxiteles, among the ancients, could have worshiped by means of the sacred art of their day, and found a better subject to crystallize in form for the good of future generations, than this, an Olympian Madonna, a son at his mother’s knee. Maternal love and the responsive trust and veneration of Youth.

The nearer approach of Eros naturally brought his torch in closer proximity. Its brilliancy became dazzling, in fact blinding to eyes long since unused to its power.

Aphrodite, conscious only of the physical inconvenience, placed her hand before her face as if to shade the eyes. This was enough for Eros, he placed his torch upon a tripod at greater distance, where it remained, so near and yet so far; so subtle are the adverse influences when the physical becomes dominant over the spiritual.

And instantly the natural consequence:

Eros separated from his torch was no longer the same. He had entered the shadows; his aspect at once changed. His form, still exquisite to behold, was like sculptured marble, faultless in outline, yet without the flesh tint, the warmth of color; complete except the illuminating flame which Zeus had given him.

Aphrodite still gazed with admiration, but, alas! strange to say, his aspect having become more familiar to present conditions and himself speechless, she also said nothing; and Eros continued to manifest the beauty of form alone.

And again the natural consequence:

Aphrodite had called him for a purpose, and must talk with him; must cause the exquisite form to manifest life, the statue must respond. And she called him anew:

“Eros! Oh, Eros! why not speak? Come to me from amid those shadows! Eros! answer!”

Alas, no response.

And again she called him.

He was but a stone.

And again, for the third time.

No response possible.

Yet while she waited, a profound and thrilling change did take place, both in form and expression. Not that Eros spake, but his form manifested a movement or evolution towards another phase of his nature. So impressive had he been as a statue of divine suggestion, that many a Greek would have placed him within the precincts of a sacred temple as most appropriate locality for his abode. Once there, his heavenly youth would serve to uplift the hearts of all who beheld him. Once so conceived, any religion might have felt enriched from an artistic point of view, to possess him among the treasures of the sacred enclosure, as a symbol of the countless babes within the heavenly realm; for “of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

And so Eros now appeared, as a mediæval cherub, a concomitant to a sacred picture. His religious aspect still apparent, but now as accessory; and often represented only as “head and wings,” gazing upwards.

And still he was silent; significant, but silent.

To Aphrodite he seemed as one fading away from her forever, to be lost amid enveloping clouds; possibly to be appropriated by other worshipers than those who frequented Olympus. And such would have been the case if the torch of Zeus, ever radiant, so near and yet so far, had not still cast some light upon the scene. To Aphrodite, Eros was still hers, of her, and from her, by whatever name he might be addressed; and who more potent than she to call him by any name she chose, any endearing term that sprang from her heart?

“Eros, my own! Eros, my darling! My cherub! surely you wish not to offend me, and rest gazing at others. Cupid! speak!”

She had called him by his later and modern name; and again the natural consequence, the final change. Of course he spoke. Being what he was as Cupid in modern conception, he could not do otherwise, he could not avoid conversation. Also, his youthful wings commenced to flutter; and his beauty, never lost since the beginning, made him, from the worldly point of view, adorable.

But, alas! not as Eros, simply the modern fascinating Cupid. Sad, also! no longer the Aphrodite of early times, but the Roman Venus still in vogue; Venus who at once asserted herself by giving orders to her attendant Cherub. The Cherub carried his bow and arrows, and the torch of Zeus grew very dim as Venus spake:

“Cupid! you certainly are clever! but you gave me such a shock! I thought you never would wake up, or speak to me again!”

The Cherub fluttered about her person not unlike a butterfly to fascinate by graceful movement; the poetry of motion, an admirable motif for decoration; activity, new sensations; no more, no less.

“Cupid! if ever that occurs again, you will be caught and imprisoned, imprisoned within a picture gallery, and there you will remain. Zeus help you! Naughty boy!”

The beautiful winged youth, the spritely Cupid, at once answered:

“I’ll girdle the earth in forty minutes. Catch me, who catch can.”

Venus smiled. Some would have thought this smile “bewitching,” others could have called her expression “a cynical smile.” But it soon faded away, and in no degree prevented her proceeding at once to the object of their interview.

“Cupid! there is going to be an engagement.”

“Ah! then the fight comes later on,” remarked the precocious Sprite.

“Are you ready?”

“Always ready,” and as if to suit the action to the word, he fluttered in graceful curves, and finally, en passant, kissed her upon the cheek.

“Good. I see you are! You may amuse yourself with bow and arrows when the time comes.”

“May I respectfully inquire when this momentous engagement is to transpire?”

“When you see me——”

“Do what, my Lady Venus?”

“Rise from the sea, and give the usual signal.”

The confab ended for the present. Lady Venus and Cupid understood each other perfectly.

A moonlit night and zephyrs wafted in; an easy chair, and no one looking on. Two in shadow, gazing upon legendary Greece; talking mythology such as they alone could understand; feeling fluctuations of quite another kind.

A convalescent lassie, and a sympathizing lad, old friends for at least a year, it seemed as if from childhood. A timely aid, and a grateful maid; compliments in words, and nature’s complementary. A man’s stout heart, and a woman’s tender sympathy, sincerity and truth.

The conditions were favorable.

What else?

A secret, a secret to all but Cupid who stood behind a celestial-rose bush on the heights nearby, his bow and arrows ready. An event not to be seen by the binoculars of newsy gossips, nor even perceived by the mental eyes of inquisitives. All is left to the spiritual discernment of those who have loved.

What actually occurred during that heavenly evening when they drifted upon the bosom of the Adriatic, when the stars shone brightly or when cloud-draperies hid some endearing charm, can only fully be known to two (and the divinities), these two nature’s lovely, lovable and loved. But sure it is, before the evening closed, Aphrodite again arose from the sea, a Vision of Loveliness. Gliding by in her graceful shell, floating amid foam on the crest of a wave, illumined by a divine radiance, she threw a kiss of affection, the signal. And from behind the celestial-rose bush sped Love’s Arrow, borne upon the wings of the unseen. As this sweet messenger enters the hearts of those ready to respond, so it was welcomed by Adele and Paul, reclining beneath the brow of Olympus.

XXVI INTERMEZZO—ALLEGRO

OH, that voyage! From the brow of Olympus, across the Mediterranean, down the Roseate Sea, the two lovers journeyed. As they skirted the shore, never did delicate tints upon a sapphire surface give back more heavenly reflections! Those sunny days, under double awnings, when none dared look at a thermometer lest he himself should melt away. Those first-magnitude starlit nights when sleeping on deck, with glimpses of others passing like spooks in the dark; and in the distance, on “P. and O.” boats, the invisible friends known to be there.

The last glimpse of Boreas was in a storm brewing off in the direction of the Ægean Sea. Some thought they saw him in propria-persona, gesticulating upon the high cliffs of Candia as the vessel sailed by in the teeth of the wind, but this individual proved to be merely a Turkish brigand, one of the gang which infested that region.

But are not all such minor incidents already recorded in the chronicles of the Cultus family for publication in future genealogical records? How at Alexandria the Doctor took little interest in the modern city upon the island of Pharos, but much interest in the Ancient Library with no books left! How, since said Library was destroyed some time ago, Paul and Adele managed to reconstruct a brand new temple with lamps, incense, and priests—all complete, to say nothing of singing birds, and vestal virgins each carrying a sieve instead of a lamp! How Miss Winchester met the Four Hundred élite of Alexandria at the base of Pompey’s Pillar, and was kodaked by Paul with the four hundred gamins at her feet, asking for backsheesh; this historic picture labeled, “Hypatia Addressing the Multitude. A. D. MDCCCLXXXXIX.” How Mrs. Cultus took in the situation from a barouche, positively refusing to set foot on the sward of a country famous for asps and beetles; and also how Mrs. Cultus announced that Cleopatra’s relish for pearls was in good taste, only it carried her too far. How the unfortunate noseless Sphynx turned up her nose, as usual, at all innocents abroad; and how Mrs. Cultus, when entering the memorial bridal chamber of Cheops, slipped upon the inclined staircase which leads thereto, and fell into the arms of a modern bridegroom—a young sheik. How the Professor stood upon the apex of Cheops and took notes, alternate notes upon lichens which grew there, and upon Memphis where it once was. Is it not also recorded among the archives of modern Egypt how, during the period of occupation of Shepherd’s, cards were left in due form upon Pharaoh’s mummy in the Boulak Museum; and how Mrs. Cultus received in turn a scarab, and some little scarabei, of Manchester manufacture, taken from the left pocket of Pharaoh’s forty-second cousin, after reposing there since A. D. 1492 (some said from 4000 B. C.)—a slight token of regard from the Pharonic dynasty to the latest Republic on earth? Was it not recorded also at the time, in the society column of the “Pyramid Times,” that “Miss Pearline Cultus and Mr. Adolph Warder were last seen behind an umbrella on the top of the Pyramid with their feet hanging over the top step?” probably the most conspicuous perch on the globe for two lovers.

And above all, was it not also jotted down in the private memoranda of both Paul and Adele, when passing Mocha and Perim and Aden, in and out of the gloaming, that the voyage was perfect bliss, the coffee—nectar fit for the gods, and the coals of Perim—black diamonds? As to Aden, the much-abused Aden, said to be separated only by a thin sheet of Manila paper from the infernal-region-frying-pan—such assertions proved absolutely false. Aden was a Paradise of fruit and flowers, its reservoir like Lake Tahoe, and its inhabitants—white-robed angels with Chinese features, flying hither and thither in phantom jinrikishas. Was it not here at Aden that Paul had the innocent audacity to open that delicious but appalling fruit, the dorian, chopping it with a hatchet under their very noses, only to hurl both dorian and hatchet into the sea for the delectation of fishes whose noses were equal to the occasion? And finally, did not the whole party, except Mrs. Cultus, visit Mother Eve at Djeddah, and find her the most attenuated specimen of humanity, both physically and historically, that anyone could imagine, at least forty feet long, aged six millenniums (some say eight or nine; possibly seven times seven, or thereabouts), with her toes turned up about two feet? And did they not make the astonishing discovery which Mrs. Cultus at once reported to the Politely Civil Archæological Society, that our own Mother Eve was really very dark in complexion; in fact, quite a fast black (since local tradition said so, and tradition was invariably exact, if not too exact)?—a case of proving too much; which wonderful discovery made them all wonder and debate if they themselves, being white at present, might not possibly be changed backwards, and revert to original color and type before entering Mahomet’s Paradise.

Youth! Oh, Youth! how many are thy pleasures and privileges, and thou dost not realize it. Thine the period when all things are interesting, new sensations at every turn, and little responsibility to interfere with whims. Go to the circus, go globe-trotting in an automobile, and take part in the show. Oh, Youth! thine is the blessed time of freedom, although thou mayst not think so. Thou wilt, no doubt, hear much good advice, but follow thine own inclinations, and enjoy the happy privilege of changing thy mind on short notice. Mrs. Cultus was no longer youthful, but she held on to the privileges just the same.

“I always change my mind, Frank, when it suits me. I fully intended to call upon Eva at Djeddah, certainly the first lady in the land, even if she were only Mahomet’s wife, and not our mutual ancestress; but, Frank, when it turned out so midsummer hot, with such a brazen sky, I gave it up. Why, Frank Winchester, I wouldn’t appear in the condition you were, in that bedraggled gown and hat and felt slippers—no! not if I really wished to call. That’s wisdom, my dear; take an elder’s advice. Never hesitate to change your mind, especially when it suits you.”

XXVII INTERMEZZO—ANDANTE

The Royal Route.

O SCIENCE! How true thou art! How true thou strivest to be! Yet, what is not claimed in thy name, when few are the golden gems picked up upon the limited shore of this single world! We learn of thee, O Science! through thee! by thee! but ever when we ask of thee the Bread of Life, thou givest us a stone; and when we ask for a fish, thou givest us a serpent. From the beginning it has been so. Know thyself, O Science! thy finite place. Learn even as a little child sitting at the feet of Infinite Knowledge.

O Philosophy! How noble thou art, to seek the truth in all things as they are; ignoring nothing in nature, in any province of thought, word or deed—in Science or Religion. But thou revealest nothing. Thy intellect is finite—not infinite; thy standpoint mortal—not immortal. Thou art god-like—but not God.

O Religion! Thou Voice of the Mind of Nature! of Our Almighty-Father, Creator; accepting all of Truth in Science and Philosophy; yet, ever speaking of a higher and better life, here and hereafter. How many untruths have been spoken in Thy name, even spoken as ex cathedra, taking Thy name in vain; yet, verily none can escape Thee, Thyself, O Thou Holy Spirit of Truth in Love, in the heart of Humanity—Immanuel, God with us!

XXVIII THE AFTERGLOW

AGAIN the shores had vanished, this time Europe left behind, and the Orient lifting before them. It was after the sun had plunged beneath the waves, and the distance was illumined with the afterglow; when the Parsee matrons had retired to rest, publicly, upon the saloon floors, and some mysterious figures re-entered to recline on deck in awkward pose, with crooked necks against chairs and skylights, that Paul and Adele also glided forward, past captain and capstan, to their favorite spot. Only the prow of the vessel when it mounted the billows, and a spooky lanthorn aloft, hung in space between them and the constellations. Together they gazed forwards and upwards, listening to the thoughts of the stilly night.

“Fond memories for other days,” remarked Adele.

Paul looked round to discover the object supposed to suggest memories, and then concluded his chair was not quite close enough to hers.

“There it is,” said she, looking toward the constellation of the Southern Cross, resplendent in the heavens. “I never shall forget it.”

“Beautiful, each star a gem, all gems; but——”