text:
The Man of Property/Part III/Chapter 7

June had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of the journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at first puzzled old Jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it with all the promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character.

She will always remember best in her life that morning when at last she saw amongst the reliable Cause List of the Times newspaper, under the heading of Court XIII, Mr. Justice Bentham, the case of Forsyte v. Bosinney.

Like a gambler who stakes his last piece of money, she had prepared to hazard her all upon this throw; it was not her nature to contemplate defeat. How, unless with the instinct of a woman in love, she knew that Bosinney's discomfiture in this action was assured, cannot be told—on this assumption, however, she laid her plans, as upon a certainty.

Half past eleven found her at watch in the gallery of Court XIII., and there she remained till the case of Forsyte v. Bosinney was over. Bosinney's absence did not disquiet her; she had felt instinctively that he would not defend himself. At the end of the judgment she hastened down, and took a cab to his rooms.

She passed the open street-door and the offices on the three lower floors without attracting notice; not till she reached the top did her difficulties begin.

Her ring was not answered; she had now to make up her mind whether she would go down and ask the caretaker in the basement to let her in to await Mr. Bosinney's return, or remain patiently outside the door, trusting that no one would, come up. She decided on the latter course.

A quarter of an hour had passed in freezing vigil on the landing, before it occurred to her that Bosinney had been used to leave the key of his rooms under the door-mat. She looked and found it there. For some minutes she could not decide to make use of it; at last she let herself in and left the door open that anyone who came might see she was there on business.

This was not the same June who had paid the trembling visit five months ago; those months of suffering and restraint had made her less sensitive; she had dwelt on this visit so long, with such minuteness, that its terrors were discounted beforehand. She was not there to fail this time, for if she failed no one could help her.

Like some mother beast on the watch over her young, her little quick figure never stood still in that room, but wandered from wall to wall, from window to door, fingering now one thing, now another. There was dust everywhere, the room could not have been cleaned for weeks, and June, quick to catch at anything that should buoy up her hope, saw in it a sign that he had been obliged, for economy's sake, to give up his servant.

She looked into the bedroom; the bed was roughly made, as though by the hand of man. Listening intently, she darted in, and peered into his cupboards. A few shirts and collars, a pair of muddy boots—the room was bare even of garments.

She stole back to the sitting-room, and now she noticed the absence of all the little things he had set store by. The clock that had been his mother's, the field-glasses that had hung over the sofa; two really valuable old prints of Harrow, where his father had been at school, and last, not least, the piece of Japanese pottery she herself had given him. All were gone; and in spite of the rage roused within her championing soul at the thought that the world should treat him thus, their disappearance augured happily for the success of her plan.

It was while looking at the spot where the piece of Japanese pottery had stood that she felt a strange certainty of being watched, and, turning, saw Irene in the open doorway.

The two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence; then June walked forward and held out her hand. Irene did not take it.

When her hand was refused, June put it behind her. Her eyes grew steady with anger; she waited for Irene to speak; and thus waiting, took in, with who-knows-what rage of jealousy, suspicion, and curiosity, every detail of her friend's face and dress and figure.

Irene was clothed in her long grey fur; the travelling cap on her head left a wave of gold hair visible above her forehead. The soft fullness of the coat made her face as small as a child's.

Unlike June's cheeks, her cheeks had no colour in them, but were ivory white and pinched as if with cold. Dark circles lay round her eyes. In one hand she held a bunch of violets.

She looked back at June, no smile on her lips; and with those great dark eyes fastened on her, the girl, for all her startled anger, felt something of the old spell.

She spoke first, after all.

"What have you come for?" But the feeling that she herself was being asked the same question, made her add: "This horrible case. I came to tell him—he has lost it."

Irene did not speak, her eyes never moved from June's face, and the girl cried:

"Don't stand there as if you were made of stone!"

Irene laughed: "I wish to God I were!"

But June turned away: "Stop!" she cried, "don't tell me! I don't want to hear! I don't want to hear what you've come for. I don't want to hear!" And like some uneasy spirit, she began swiftly walking to and fro. Suddenly she broke out:

"I was here first. We can't both stay here together!"

On Irene's face a smile wandered up, and died out like a flicker of firelight. She did not move. And then it was that June perceived under the softness and immobility of this figure something desperate and resolved; something not to be turned away, something dangerous. She tore off her hat, and, putting both hands to her brow, pressed back the bronze mass of her hair.

"You have no right here!" she cried defiantly.

Irene answered: "I have no right anywhere"

"What do you mean?"

"I have left Soames. You always wanted me to!"

June put her hands over her ears.

"Don't! I don't want to hear anything—I don't want to know anything. It's impossible to fight with you! What makes you stand like that? Why don't you go?"

Irene's lips moved; she seemed to be saying: "Where should I go?"

June turned to the window. She could see the face of a clock down in the street. It was nearly four. At any moment he might come! She looked back across her shoulder, and her face was distorted with anger.

But Irene had not moved; in her gloved hands she ceaselessly turned and twisted the little bunch of violets.

The tears of rage and disappointment rolled down June's cheeks.

"How could you come?" she said. "You have been a false friend to me!"

Again Irene laughed. June saw that she had played a wrong card, and broke down.

"Why have you come?" she sobbed. "You've ruined my life, and now you want to ruin his!"

Irene's mouth quivered; her eyes met June's with a look so mournful that the girl cried out in the midst of her sobbing, "No, no!"

But Irene's head bent till it touched her breast. She turned, and went quickly out, hiding her lips with the little bunch of violets.

June ran to the door. She heard the footsteps going down and down. She called out: "Come back, Irene! Come back!"

The footsteps died away....

Bewildered and torn, the girl stood at the top of the stairs. Why had Irene gone, leaving her mistress of the field? What did it mean? Had she really given him up to her? Or had she? And she was the prey of a gnawing uncertainty.... Bosinney did not come....

About six o'clock that afternoon old Jolyon returned from Wistaria Avenue, where now almost every day he spent some hours, and asked if his grand-daughter were upstairs. On being told that she had just come in, he sent up to her room to request her to come down and speak to him.

He had made up his mind to tell her that he was reconciled with her father. In future bygones must be bygones. He would no longer live alone, or practically alone, in this great house; he was going to give it up, and take one in the country for his son, where they could all go and live together. If June did not like this, she could have an allowance and live by herself. It wouldn't make much difference to her, for it was a long time since she had shown him any affection.

But when June came down, her face was pinched and piteous; there was a strained, pathetic look in her eyes. She snuggled up in her old attitude on the arm of his chair, and what he said compared but poorly with the clear, authoritative, injured statement he had thought out with much care. His heart felt sore, as the great heart of a mother-bird feels sore when its youngling flies and bruises its wing. His words halted, as though he were apologizing for having at last deviated from the path of virtue, and succumbed, in defiance of sounder principles, to his more natural instincts.

He seemed nervous lest, in thus announcing his intentions, he should be setting his granddaughter a bad example; and now that he came to the point, his way of putting the suggestion that, if she didn't like it, she could live by herself and lump it, was delicate in the extreme.'

"And if, by any chance, my darling," he said, "you found you didn't get on—with them, why, I could make that all right. You could have what you liked. We could find a little flat in London where you could set up, and I could be running to continually. But the children," he added, "are dear little things!"

Then, in the midst of this grave, rather transparent, explanation of changed policy, his eyes twinkled. "This'll astonish Timothy's weak nerves. That precious young thing will have something to say about this, or I'm a Dutchman!"

June had not yet spoken. Perched thus on the arm of his chair, with her head above him, her face was invisible. But presently he felt her warm cheek against his own, and knew that, at all events, there was nothing very alarming in her attitude towards his news. He began to take courage.

"You'll like your father," he said—"an amiable chap. Never was much push about him, but easy to get on with. You'll find him artistic and all that."

And old Jolyon bethought him of the dozen or so water-colour drawings all carefully locked up in his bedroom; for now that his son was going to become a man of property he did not think them quite such poor things as heretofore.

"As to your—your stepmother," he said, using the word with some little difficulty, "I call her a refined woman—a bit of a Mrs. Gummidge, I shouldn't wonder—but very fond of Jo. And the children," he repeated—indeed, this sentence ran like music through all his solemn self-justification—"are sweet little things!"

If June had known, those words but reincarnated that tender love for little children, for the young and weak, which in the past had made him desert his son for her tiny self, and now, as the cycle rolled, was taking him from her.

But he began to get alarmed at her silence, and asked impatiently: "Well, what do you say?"

June slid down to his knee, and she in her turn began her tale. She thought it would all go splendidly; she did not see any difficulty, and she did not care a bit what people thought.

Old Jolyon wriggled. H'm! then people would think! He had thought that after all these years perhaps they wouldn't! Well, he couldn't help it! Nevertheless, he could not approve of his granddaughter's way of putting it—she ought to mind what people thought!

Yet he said nothing. His feelings were too mixed, too inconsistent for expression.

No—went on June—she did not care; what business was it of theirs? There was only one thing—and with her cheek pressing against his knee, old Jolyon knew at once that this something was no trifle: As he was going to buy a house in the country, would he not—to please her—buy that splendid house of Soames' at Robin Hill? It was finished, it was perfectly beautiful, and no one would live in it now. They would all be so happy there.

Old Jolyon was on the alert at once. Wasn't the 'man of property' going to live in his new house, then? He never alluded to Soames now but under this title.

"No"—June said—"he was not; she knew that he was not!"

How did she know?

She could not tell him, but she knew. She knew nearly for certain! It was most unlikely; circumstances had changed! Irene's words still rang in her head: "I have left Soames. Where should I go?"

But she kept silence about that.

If her grandfather would only buy it and settle that wretched claim that ought never to have been made on Phil! It would be the very best thing for everybody, and everything—everything might come straight.

And June put her lips to his forehead, and pressed them close.

But old Jolyon freed himself from her caress, his face wore the judicial look which came upon it when he dealt with affairs. He asked: What did she mean? There was something behind all this—had she been seeing Bosinney?

June answered: "No; but I have been to his rooms."

"Been to his rooms? Who took you there?"

June faced him steadily. "I went alone. He has lost that case. I don't care whether it was right or wrong. I want to help him; and I will!"

Old Jolyon asked again: "Have you seen him?" His glance seemed to pierce right through the girl's eyes into her soul.

Again June answered: "No; he was not there. I waited, but he did not come."

Old Jolyon made a movement of relief. She had risen and looked down at him; so slight, and light, and young, but so fixed, and so determined; and disturbed, vexed, as he was, he could not frown away that fixed look. The feeling of being beaten, of the reins having slipped, of being old and tired, mastered him.

"Ah!" he said at last, "you'll get yourself into a mess one of these days, I can see. You want your own way in everything."

Visited by one of his strange bursts of philosophy, he added: "Like that you were born; and like that you'll stay until you die!"

And he, who in his dealings with men of business, with Boards, with Forsytes of all descriptions, with such as were not Forsytes, had always had his own way, looked at his indomitable grandchild sadly—for he felt in her that quality which above all others he unconsciously admired.

"Do you know what they say is going on?" he said slowly.

June crimsoned.

"Yes—no! I know—and I don't know—I don't care!" and she stamped her foot.

"I believe," said old Jolyon, dropping his eyes, "that you'd have him if he were dead!"

There was a long silence before he spoke again.

"But as to buying this house—you don't know what you're talking about!"

June said that she did. She knew that he could get it if he wanted. He would only have to give what it cost.

"What it cost! You know nothing about it. I won't go to Soames—I'll have nothing more to do with that young man."

"But you needn't; you can go to Uncle James. If you can't buy the house, will you pay his lawsuit claim? I know he is terribly hard up—I've seen it. You can stop it out of my money!"

A twinkle came into old Jolyon's eyes.

"Stop it out of your money! A pretty way. And what will you do, pray, without your money?"

But secretly, the idea of wresting the house from James and his son had begun to take hold of him. He had heard on Forsyte 'Change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house. It was 'too artistic,' but a fine place. To take from the 'man of property' that on which he had set his heart, would be a crowning triumph over James, practical proof that he was going to make a man of property of Jo, to put him back in his proper position, and there to keep him secure. Justice once for all on those who had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless outcast.

He would see, he would see! It might be out of the question; he was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why, perhaps he would do it!

And still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her.

But he did not commit himself. He would think it over—he said to June.

title: The Man of Property/Part III/Chapter 7


text:
The Man of Property/Part III/Chapter 8

Old Jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house at Robin Hill, had not June's face told him that he would have no peace until he acted.

At breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should order the carriage.

"Carriage!" he said, with some appearance of innocence; "what for? I'm not going out!"

She answered: "If you don't go early, you won't catch Uncle James before he goes into the City."

"James! what about your Uncle James?"

"The house," she replied, in such a voice that he no longer pretended ignorance.

"I've not made up my mind," he said.

"You must! You must! Oh! Gran—think of me!"

Old Jolyon grumbled out: "Think of you—I'm always thinking of you, but you don't think of yourself; you don't think what you're letting yourself in for. Well, order the carriage at ten!"

At a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at Park Lane—he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat; telling Warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went, without being announced, into the study, and sat down.

James was still in the dining-room talking to Soames, who had come round again before breakfast. On hearing who his visitor was, he muttered nervously: "Now, what's he want, I wonder?"

He then got up.

"Well," he said to Soames, "don't you go doing anything in a hurry. The first thing is to find out where she is—I should go to Stainer's about it; they're the best men, if they can't find her, nobody can." And suddenly moved to strange softness, he muttered to himself, "Poor little thing, I can't tell what she was thinking about!" and went out blowing his nose.

Old Jolyon did not rise on seeing his brother, but held out his hand, and exchanged with him the clasp of a Forsyte.

James took another chair by the table, and leaned his head on his hand.

"Well," he said, "how are you? We don't see much of you nowadays!"

Old Jolyon paid no attention to the remark.

"How's Emily?" he asked; and waiting for no reply, went on:

"I've come to see you about this affair of young Bosinney's. I'm told that new house of his is a white elephant."

"I don't know anything about a white elephant," said James, "I know he's lost his case, and I should say he'll go bankrupt."

Old Jolyon was not slow to seize the opportunity this gave him.

"I shouldn't wonder a bit!" he agreed; "and if he goes bankrupt, the 'man of property'—that is, Soames'll be out of pocket. Now, what I was thinking was this: If he's not going to live there"

Seeing both surprise and suspicion in James' eye, he quickly went on: "I don't want to know anything; I suppose Irene's put her foot down—it's not material to me. But I'm thinking of a house in the country myself, not too far from London, and if it suited me I don't say that I mightn't look at it, at a price."

James listened to this statement with a strange mixture of doubt, suspicion, and relief, merging into a dread of something behind, and tinged with the remains of his old undoubted reliance upon his elder brother's good faith and judgment. There was anxiety, too, as to what old Jolyon could have heard and how he had heard it; and a sort of hopefulness arising from the thought that if June's connection with Bosinney were completely at an end, her grandfather would hardly seem anxious to help the young fellow. Altogether he was puzzled; as he did not like either to show this, or to commit himself in any way, he said:

"They tell me you're altering your Will in favour of your son."

He had not been told this; he had merely added the fact of having seen old Jolyon with his son and grandchildren to the fact that he had taken his Will away from Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. The shot went home.

"Who told you that?" asked old Jolyon.

"I'm sure I don't know," said James; "I can't remember names—I know somebody told me Soames spent a lot of money on this house; he's not likely to part with it except at a good price."

"Well," said old Jolyon, "if, he thinks I'm going to pay a fancy price, he's mistaken. I've not got the money to throw away that he seems to have. Let him try and sell it at a forced sale, and see what he'll get. It's not every man's house, I hear!"

James, who was secretly also of this opinion, answered: "It's a gentleman's house. Soames is here now if you'd like to see him."

"No," said old Jolyon, "I haven't got as far as that; and I'm not likely to, I can see that very well if I'm met in this manner!"

James was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations such as these made him nervous—he never knew quite how far he could go.

"Well," he said, "I know nothing about it. Soames, he tells me nothing; I should think he'd entertain it—it's a question of price."

"Oh!" said old Jolyon, "don't let him make a favour of it!" He placed his hat on his head in dudgeon.

The door was opened and Soames came in.

"There's a policeman out here," he said with his half smile, "for Uncle Jolyon."

Old Jolyon looked at him angrily, and James said: "A policeman? I don't know anything about a policeman. But I suppose you know something about him," he added to old Jolyon with a look of suspicion: "I suppose you'd better see him!"

In the hall an Inspector of Police stood stolidly regarding with heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old English furniture picked up by James at the famous Mavrojano sale in Portman Square. "You'll find my brother in there," said James.

The Inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap, and entered the study.

James saw him go in with a strange sensation.

"Well," he said to Soames, "I suppose we must wait and see what he wants. Your uncle's been here about the house!"

He returned with Soames into the dining-room, but could not rest.

"Now what does he want?" he murmured again.

"Who?" replied Soames: "the Inspector? They sent him round from Stanhope Gate, that's all I know. That 'nonconformist' of Uncle Jolyon's has been pilfering, I shouldn't wonder!"

But in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease.

At the end of ten minutes old Jolyon came in. He walked up to the table, and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long white moustaches. James gazed up at him with opening mouth; he had never seen his brother look like this.

Old Jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly:

"Young Bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed."

Then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down at him with his deep eyes: "There's—some—talk—of—suicide," he said.

James' jaw dropped. "Suicide! What should he do that for?"

Old Jolyon answered sternly: "God knows, if you and your son don't!"

But James did not reply.

For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had bitter experiences. The passer-by, who sees them wrapped in cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that such black shadows had fallen on their roads. To every man of great age—to Sir Walter Bentham himself—the idea of suicide has once at least been present in the ante-room of his soul; on the threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. To Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it is hard! Seldom—perhaps never—can they achieve, it; and yet, how near have they not sometimes been!

So even with James! Then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke out: "Why I saw it in the paper yesterday: 'Run over in the fog!' They didn't know his name!" He turned from one face to the other in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was rejecting that rumour of suicide. He dared not entertain this thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his son, of every Forsyte. He strove against it; and as his nature ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. It was an accident! It must have been!

Old Jolyon broke in on his reverie.

"Death was instantaneous. He lay all day yesterday at the hospital. There was nothing to tell them who he was. I am going there now; you and your son had better come too."

No one opposing this command he led the way from the room.

The day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to Park Lane from Stanhope Gate, old Jolyon had had the carriage open. Sitting back on the padded cushions, finishing his cigar, he had noticed with pleasure the keen crispness of the air, the bustle of the cabs and people; the strange, almost Parisian, alacrity that the first fine day will bring into London streets after a spell of fog or rain. And he had felt so happy; he had not felt like it for months. His confession to June was off his mind; he had the prospect of his son's, above all, of his grandchildren's company in the future—(he had appointed to meet young Jolyon at the Hotch Potch that very manning to—discuss it again); and there was the pleasurable excitement of a coming encounter, a coming victory, over James and the 'man of property' in the matter of the house.

He had the carriage closed now; he had no heart to look on gaiety; nor was it right that Forsytes should be seen driving with an Inspector of Police.

In that carriage the Inspector spoke again of the death:

"It was not so very thick—Just there. The driver says the gentleman must have had time to see what he was about, he seemed to walk right into it. It appears that he was very hard up, we found several pawn tickets at his rooms, his account at the bank is overdrawn, and there's this case in to-day's papers;" his cold blue eyes travelled from one to another of the three Forsytes in the carriage.

Old Jolyon watching from his corner saw his brother's face change, and the brooding, worried, look deepen on it. At the Inspector's words, indeed, all James' doubts and fears revived. Hard-up—pawn-tickets—an overdrawn account! These words that had all his life been a far-off nightmare to him, seemed to make uncannily real that suspicion of suicide which must on no account be entertained. He sought his son's eye; but lynx-eyed, taciturn, immovable, Soames gave no answering look. And to old Jolyon watching, divining the league of mutual defence between them, there came an overmastering desire to have his own son at his side, as though this visit to the dead man's body was a battle in which otherwise he must single-handed meet those two. And the thought of how to keep June's name out of the business kept whirring in his brain. James had his son to support him! Why should he not send for Jo?

Taking out his card-case, he pencilled the following message:

'Come round at once. I've sent the carriage for you.'

On getting out he gave this card to his coachman, telling him to drive—as fast as possible to the Hotch Potch Club, and if Mr. Jolyon Forsyte were there to give him the card and bring him at once. If not there yet, he was to wait till he came.

He followed the others slowly up the steps, leaning on his umbrella, and stood a moment to get his breath. The Inspector said: "This is the mortuary, sir. But take your time."

In the bare, white-walled room, empty of all but a streak of sunshine smeared along the dustless floor, lay a form covered by a sheet. With a huge steady hand the Inspector took the hem and turned it back. A sightless face gazed up at them, and on either side of that sightless defiant face the three Forsytes gazed down; in each one of them the secret emotions, fears, and pity of his own nature rose and fell like the rising, falling waves of life, whose wish those white walls barred out now for ever from Bosinney. And in each one of them the trend of his nature, the odd essential spring, which moved him in fashions minutely, unalterably different from those of every other human being, forced him to a different attitude of thought. Far from the others, yet inscrutably close, each stood thus, alone with death, silent, his eyes lowered.

The Inspector asked softly:

"You identify the gentleman, sir?"

Old Jolyon raised his head and nodded. He looked at his brother opposite, at that long lean figure brooding over the dead man, with face dusky red, and strained grey eyes; and at the figure of Soames white and still by his father's side. And all that he had felt against those two was gone like smoke in the long white presence of Death. Whence comes it, how comes it—Death? Sudden reverse of all that goes before; blind setting forth on a path that leads to—where? Dark quenching of the fire! The heavy, brutal crushing—out that all men must go through, keeping their eyes clear and brave unto the end! Small and of no import, insects though they are! And across old Jolyon's face there flitted a gleam, for Soames, murmuring to the Inspector, crept noiselessly away.

Then suddenly James raised his eyes. There was a queer appeal in that suspicious troubled look: "I know I'm no match for you," it seemed to say. And, hunting for handkerchief he wiped his brow; then, bending sorrowful and lank over the dead man, he too turned and hurried out.

Old Jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. Who shall tell of what he was thinking? Of himself, when his hair was brown like the hair of that young fellow dead before him? Of himself, with his battle just beginning, the long, long battle he had loved; the battle that was over for this young man almost before it had begun? Of his grand-daughter, with her broken hopes? Of that other woman? Of the strangeness, and the pity of it? And the irony, inscrutable, and bitter of that end? Justice! There was no justice for men, for they were ever in the dark!

Or perhaps in his philosophy he thought: Better to be out of, it all! Better to have done with it, like this poor youth....

Some one touched him on the arm.

A tear started up and wetted his eyelash. "Well," he said, "I'm no good here. I'd better be going. You'll come to me as soon as you can, Jo," and with his head bowed he went away.

It was young Jolyon's turn to take his stand beside the dead man, round whose fallen body he seemed to see all the Forsytes breathless, and prostrated. The stroke had fallen too swiftly.

The forces underlying every tragedy—forces that take no denial, working through cross currents to their ironical end, had met and fused with a thunder-clap, flung out the victim, and flattened to the ground all those that stood around.

Or so at all events young Jolyon seemed to see them, lying around Bosinney's body.

He asked the Inspector to tell him what had happened, and the latter, like a man who does not every day get such a chance, again detailed such facts as were known.

"There's more here, sir, however," he said, "than meets the eye. I don't believe in suicide, nor in pure accident, myself. It's more likely I think that he was suffering under great stress of mind, and took no notice of things about him. Perhaps you can throw some light on these."

He took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table. Carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady's handkerchief, pinned through the folds with a pin of discoloured Venetian gold, the stone of which had fallen from the socket. A scent of dried violets rose to young Jolyon's nostrils.

"Found in his breast pocket," said the Inspector; "the name has been cut away!"

Young Jolyon with difficulty answered: "I'm afraid I cannot help you!" But vividly there rose before him the face he had seen light up, so tremulous and glad, at Bosinney's coming! Of her he thought more than of his own daughter, more than of them all—of her with the dark, soft glance, the delicate passive face, waiting for the dead man, waiting even at that moment, perhaps, still and patient in the sunlight.

He walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father's house, reflecting that this death would break up the Forsyte family. The stroke had indeed slipped past their defences into the very wood of their tree. They might flourish to all appearance as before, preserving a brave show before the eyes of London, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same flash that had stricken down Bosinney. And now the saplings would take its place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property.

Good forest of Forsytes! thought young Jolyon—soundest timber of our land!

Concerning the cause of this death—his family would doubtless reject with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so compromising! They would take it as an accident, a stroke of fate. In their hearts they would even feel it an intervention of Providence, a retribution—had not Bosinney endangered their two most priceless possessions, the pocket and the hearth? And they would talk of 'that unfortunate accident of young Bosinney's,' but perhaps they would not talk—silence might be better!

As for himself, he regarded the bus-driver's account of the accident as of very little value. For no one so madly in love committed suicide for want of money; nor was Bosinney the sort of fellow to set much store by a financial crisis. And so he too rejected this theory of suicide, the dead man's face rose too clearly before him. Gone in the heyday of his summer—and to believe thus that an accident had cut Bosinney off in the full sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young Jolyon.

Then came a vision of Soames' home as it now was, and must be hereafter. The streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny gleam on bare bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising flesh was gone....

In the dining-room at Stanhope Gate old Jolyon was sitting alone when his son came in. He looked very wan in his great armchair. And his eyes travelling round the walls with their pictures of still life, and the masterpiece 'Dutch fishing-boats at Sunset' seemed as though passing their gaze over his life with its hopes, its gains, its achievements.

"Ah! Jo!" he said, "is that you? I've told poor little June. But that's not all of it. Are you going to Soames'? She's brought it on herself, I suppose; but somehow I can't bear to think of her, shut up there—and all alone." And holding up his thin, veined hand, he clenched it.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

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Rh a ship get away!" was the cry which rang out on one American ship and another, and on went the fastest of our ships, the Oregon leading, and the Texas and Brooklyn not far behind. The Iowa and Indiana now dropped out to keep an eye on the ships which had gone ashore and on the harbor, for it was thought there might still be other Spanish ships in hiding there.

At last it was seen that the Vizcaya was burning fiercely, and that she, too, was turning in shore. At this point on land was a portion of the Cuban army, and the Iowa was directed to stand by and see that the suffering enemy was cared for, for there had been several serious explosions on the Vizcaya, and it was known that hundreds must be dead or dying.

Only the Colon now remained in the race, and she was straining every nerve to get away. But the Oregon and Brooklyn followed her relentlessly, and when their heaviest guns fired over and into her she hauled down her flag and turned in shore.

The news of the combined victories on land and sea in the vicinity of Santiago


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The Man of Property/Part III/Chapter 9

After leaving James and old Jolyon in the mortuary of the hospital, Soames hurried aimlessly along the streets.

The tragic event of Bosinney's death altered the complexion of everything. There was no longer the same feeling that to lose a minute would be fatal, nor would he now risk communicating the fact of his wife's flight to anyone till the inquest was over.

That morning he had risen early, before the postman came, had taken the first-post letters from the box himself, and, though there had been none from Irene, he had made an opportunity of telling Bilson that her mistress was at the sea; he would probably, he said, be going down himself from Saturday to Monday. This had given him time to breathe, time to leave no stone unturned to find her.

But now, cut off from taking steps by Bosinney's death—that strange death, to think of which was like putting a hot iron to his heart, like lifting a great weight from it—he did not know how to pass his day; and he wandered here and there through the streets, looking at every face he met, devoured by a hundred anxieties.

And as he wandered, he thought of him who had finished his wandering, his prowling, and would never haunt his house again.

Already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the identity of the dead man, and bought the papers to see what they said. He would stop their mouths if he could, and he went into the City, and was closeted with Boulter for a long time.

On his way home, passing the steps of Jobson's about half past four, he met George Forsyte, who held out an evening paper to Soames, saying:

"Here! Have you seen this about the poor Buccaneer?"

Soames answered stonily: "Yes."

George stared at him. He had never liked Soames; he now held him responsible for Bosinney's death. Soames had done for him—done for him by that act of property that had sent the Buccaneer to run amok that fatal afternoon.

'The poor fellow,' he was thinking, 'was so cracked with jealousy, so cracked for his vengeance, that he heard nothing of the omnibus in that infernal fog.'

Soames had done for him! And this judgment was in George's eyes.

"They talk of suicide here," he said at last. "That cat won't jump."

Soames shook his head. "An accident," he muttered.

Clenching his fist on the paper, George crammed it into his pocket. He could not resist a parting shot.

"H'mm! All flourishing at home? Any little Soameses yet?"

With a face as white as the steps of Jobson's, and a lip raised as if snarling, Soames brushed past him and was gone.

On reaching home, and entering the little lighted hall with his latchkey, the first thing that caught his eye was his wife's gold-mounted umbrella lying on the rug chest. Flinging off his fur coat, he hurried to the drawing-room.

The curtains were drawn for the night, a bright fire of cedar-logs burned in the grate, and by its light he saw Irene sitting in her usual corner on the sofa. He shut the door softly, and went towards her. She did not move, and did not seem to see him.

"So you've come back?" he said. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

Then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it seemed as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her veins; and her eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide, startled brown eyes of an owl.

Huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a strange resemblance to a captive owl, bunched fir its soft feathers against the wires of a cage. The supple erectness of her figure was gone, as though she had been broken by cruel exercise; as though there were no longer any reason for being beautiful, and supple, and erect.

"So you've come back," he repeated.

She never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over her motionless figure.

Suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then that he understood.

She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing where to turn, not knowing what she was doing. The sight of her figure, huddled in the fur, was enough.

He knew then for certain that Bosinney had been her lover; knew that she had seen the report of his death—perhaps, like himself, had bought a paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read it.

She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had pined to be free of—and taking in all the tremendous significance of this, he longed to cry: "Take your hated body, that I love, out of my house! Take away that pitiful white face, so cruel and soft—before I crush it. Get out of my sight; never let me see you again!"

And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was fighting to awake—rise and go out into the dark and cold, without a thought of him, without so much as the knowledge of his presence.

Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, "No; stay there!" And turning away from her, he sat down in his accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth.

They sat in silence.

And Soames thought: 'Why is all this? Why should I suffer so? What have I done? It is not my fault!'

Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and dying, whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from it, whose poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, soft, unseeing look, taking farewell of all that is good—of the sun, and the air, and its mate.

So they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side of the hearth.

And the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well, seemed to grip Soames by the throat till he could bear it no longer. And going out into the hall he flung the door wide, to gulp down the cold air that came in; then without hat or overcoat went out into the Square.

Along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way towards him, and Soames thought: 'Suffering! when will it cease, my suffering?'

At a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance named Rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of 'I am master here.' And Soames walked on.

From far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and Irene had been married were pealing in 'practice' for the advent of Christ, the chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. He felt a craving for strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or rouse him to fury. If only he could burst out of himself, out of this web that for the first time in his life he felt around him. If only he could surrender to the thought: 'Divorce her—turn her out! She has forgotten you. Forget her!'

If only he could surrender to the thought: 'Let her go—she has suffered enough!'

If only he could surrender to the desire: 'Make a slave of her—she is in your power!'

If only even he could surrender to the sudden vision: 'What does it all matter?' Forget himself for a minute, forget that it mattered what he did, forget that whatever he did he must sacrifice something.

If only he could act on an impulse!

He could forget nothing; surrender to no thought, vision, or desire; it was all too serious; too close around him, an unbreakable cage.

On the far side of the Square newspaper boys were calling their evening wares, and the ghoulish cries mingled and jangled with the sound of those church bells.

Soames covered his ears. The thought flashed across him that but for a chance, he himself, and not Bosinney, might be lying dead, and she, instead of crouching there like a shot bird with those dying eyes

Something soft touched his legs, the cat was rubbing herself against them. And a sob that shook him from head to foot burst from Soames' chest. Then all was still again in the dark, where the houses seemed to stare at him, each with a master and mistress of its own, and a secret story of happiness or sorrow.

And suddenly he saw that his own door was open, and black against the light from the hall a man standing with his back turned. Something slid too in his breast, and he stole up close behind.

He could see his own fur coat flung across the carved oak chair; the Persian rugs; the silver bowls, the rows of porcelain plates arranged along the walls, and this unknown man who was standing there.

And sharply he asked: "What is it you want, sir?"

The visitor turned. It was young Jolyon.

"The door was open," he said. "Might I see your wife for a minute, I have a message for her?"

Soames gave him a strange, sidelong stare.

"My wife can see no one," he muttered doggedly.

Young Jolyon answered gently: "I shouldn't keep her a minute."

Soames brushed by him and barred the way.

"She can see no one," he said again.

Young Jolyon's glance shot past him into the hall, and Soames turned. There in the drawing-room doorway stood Irene, her eyes were wild and eager, her lips were parted, her hands outstretched. In the sight of both men that light vanished from her face; her hands dropped to her sides; she stood like stone.

Soames spun round, and met his visitor's eyes, and at the look he saw in them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. He drew his lips back in the ghost of a smile.

"This is my house," he said; "I manage my own affairs. I've told you once—I tell you again; we are not at home."

And in young Jolyon's face he slammed the door.

title: The Man of Property/Part III/Chapter 9


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250 Bay reached this country on the evening of July 3, and never was there a greater or more glorious Fourth of July than that which followed. Cannons boomed as never before, parades were had everywhere, and bonfires and fireworks lasted far into the night. Of our ships, although struck many times, not one was seriously injured, while but one man had been killed and only half a dozen hurt.

President McKinley had worked hard to bring the campaign against Santiago to a speedy and victorious conclusion. He had urged all in command to hurry matters as much as possible, and the result proved the wisdom of his course. In less than ninety days after war became a certainty he had the army and navy on a proper war footing and Spain was given two blows on the sea and one blow on land from which recovery was well-nigh impossible. It was the President himself who dictated the message to Dewey which resulted in the victory of Manila Bay, and this message was sent after a number of his advisers had protested, on the ground that we were hardly prepared to meet the enemy. It was the


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Rh President who hurried the Regulars, the Rough Riders, and other troops into Cuba, and who ordered that the blockade of Santiago Bay must be made absolutely perfect. Not only this, but he sent a part of the army, under General Miles, into Porto Rico to subdue that Spanish possession, and asked the War Department to hold a fleet of ships in readiness to harass the coast of Spain itself, should it become necessary to do so. Throughout the whole contest he showed himself really and truly not alone the Chief Magistrate, but also the Commander in Chief of the Army and the Navy.

With her war-ships at the bottom of the sea, and her army around Santiago and in Porto Rico reduced and hemmed in, Spain could scarcely hope to continue the struggle, and soon came a cessation of hostilities pending negotiations for peace. The matter was placed in the hands of President McKinley and his advisers, and on August 9, Spain accepted the terms of peace as offered by our President. Thus the war with Spain came to an end.


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252

war with Spain, instituted solely for the purpose of helping the Cubans to establish their liberty, threw into the hands of the United States the island of Porto Rico, quite a valuable possession, and also all the rights Spain possessed in the twelve hundred islands composing the Philippine Archipelago.

At this time the situation in the Philippines was a delicate one. As in Cuba, there had been numerous revolutions there, and the Filipinos were fighting for their liberty when war between Spain and the United States was declared. The Filipinos were now willing to take sides with the Americans, but they wanted to do this only in order to have the country to themselves as soon as Spain should be driven out.

It had been an easy matter for Admiral


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Rh Dewey to sink the warships of Admiral Montojo, but with only a handful of sailors and marines it was absurd to think of capturing or trying to hold the city of Manila itself.

When the war with Spain broke out, nobody had any idea that we should have to ship our soldiers half around the world, to fight in a country that was new and strange to nearly all of us. Up to that time the Philippines were known only to a few traders, and the trade with the United States amounted to very little. The people were strangers to us, just as they were to a large part of the rest of the world.

But President McKinley had put his hand to the plough, and with him, when once this was done there was no turning back. As soon after Dewey's victory as possible, extra volunteers for Philippine service were called for, and on May 25 the first detachment left San Francisco, under command of Brigadier-general Thomas A. Anderson. This expedition was followed by one under General Green, and a third under General McArthur. These forces numbered about eleven thousand officers and men.


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254 Admiral Dewey's war-ships lay in the bay of Cavité, and it was at and near the latter place that the troops landed. Without delay preparations were made to attack Manila city with as much vigor as Dewey had exhibited in attacking the war-ships in the bay, whose battered wrecks still dotted the shore.

At this time the Filipino army consisted of about twelve thousand men. The insurgents were commanded by General Emilio Aguinaldo, who had set up a republic of his own, of which he was the President and of which he afterward became Dictator. Aguinaldo was both shrewd and daring, and it was largely through him that the struggle in the Philippines was continued for so long a time.

General Merritt was in command of the American forces, and on August 9 he and Admiral Dewey united in a demand on the Spanish governor-general of the Philippines for a surrender of the city, under threat of bombardment. The governor wished time for consultation, but this was denied; and on the 13th the city was attacked, and, after some sharp fighting, captured.


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Rh The insurgents were anxious to get into the city immediately after it was taken, for the purpose of looting it, but this was prevented by the Americans. This made Aguinaldo and his followers very angry, and from that moment the friendliness between our troops and those of the Filipino rebels ceased. Soon came an open rupture and a fight of more or less importance, and then followed the war in the Philippines which cost the lives of thousands of brave Yankee soldiers, and equally brave but misguided Filipinos.

Soon after the city was taken our army was increased to thirty thousand men and placed in charge of Brigadier-general Elwell S. Otis, who was also made military governor of the Philippines. The insurgents became active, and an attempt was made to burn Manila, but this plan failed. Then began a campaign along the railroad running from the capital city to Dagupan, resulting in the capture of Caloocan, Malabon, Polo, and the rebel capital, Malolos. Here our soldier boys endeavored to catch the wily Aguinaldo, but he was on the alert and escaped in the direction of San Isidro.


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256 In the United States, opinions were very much divided upon the question of what should be done with the Philippines. Many were opposed to what they called Imperialism, and claimed that the United States had no right to take the islands, but should give them into the hands of the Filipinos led by Aguinaldo. But the so-called Filipino government was only such in name, and had this been done, it is more than likely that the Filipinos would have had constant revolutions among themselves, attended with great slaughter, and in the end foreign powers might have treated them far worse than we proposed to treat them.

"It is our plain duty to take hold out there," said President McKinley. "We must protect them, both from themselves and from the world at large. We must restore order and civil power, and teach them the art and science of real civilization. We must give them good roads, good schools, good courts of justice, open up the industries and commerce of the islands, and assist them in all those things in which they need assistance." These were not his


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 remembrance "in His name" a double commemoration.

Then came the waiting time for the wished-on-wished Restoration. The day came when news of Cromwell's death reached Virginia, and the belief was general that Parliament, like the Protectorate, would end, for it was apparent when Richard Cromwell succeeded his father that he would not, or could not long hold "the Dictatorship of England"; hence the King and Crown men waited for the Restoration with faith and patience; perhaps no one with more loyal pride than Matthews, who stood for England during the tragedy of Civil War, during the crimes of Parliament and horrors of anarchy, the last Governor who acted under the Royal Council, under the Protectorate, under the Parliament, and from the Burgess stood vested with kingly power over Virginia when England was making and writing history with sword and blood. A loyal son who died before finis was written. Governor Matthews died suddenly March 13, 1660, two months before the Restoration.

The Burgess announced his death in one expression of great sorrow: "England without a King; Virginia without a Governor."

All attested the affection he won and held for thirty-eight years, and all admitted the results he had achieved to close a life noble in action and rich in rewards. He died without realizing the hope of his life, but lived long enough to realize the time had come and the people ready "to hail the King."

He lived long enough to serve his country faithfully and to leave a name to pass over the cable of time until records of the world perish.

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Rh exact words, but it was what he meant and the policy which he carried out to the letter.

President McKinley had appointed a Philippine Commission to go to Manila and deal with the Philippine question as justly and humanely as possible. This commission now issued a proclamation calling on the rebels to surrender and promising them the many good things enumerated above. But many of the more ignorant could not read the proclamation after they received it, and some of the leaders went among the people and said it was merely a Yankee trick, and that if they submitted they would be treated worse than when under Spanish rule. So the proclamation did little good, and the war went on, laying the country waste for miles around and involving the continued loss of brave lives.

One of the most gallant fighters in the Philippines at this time was Major-general Henry W. Lawton, who had made for himself such a record at the battle of El Caney. Lawton was a veteran of the Civil War, and had spent years in tracking the Indians of the West. He was fearless to the last


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258 degree, which is proved by the fact that he died on the firing line after covering himself with glory in more than one brilliant campaign.

While one body of the Filipino insurgents had gone northward from Manila, another body operated in the east, and it was General Lawton, who, after the fall of Malolos, engaged this eastern army on the shores of Laguna de Bay. Here a victory of some importance was gained, and the insurgents were scattered in several directions, the most of them fleeing northward to join the balance of the army in that territory.

The rainy season in the Philippines was now but a few weeks off, and it was felt by General Otis that if Aguinaldo and his followers were to be defeated, another movement must be started against them without delay. A campaign was formed whereby General McArthur at Malolos was to strike out northward, while General Lawton was to aim for San Isidro in something of a semicircle. Thus if the rebels were defeated at Calumpit and tried to fall back to the mountains, General Lawton would be on hand to cut them off.


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Rh The advance of General McArthur was comparatively easy, although several severe engagements were fought. But the advance under General Lawton taxed his troops to the utmost. The route lay directly through the jungle, where the roads were extremely bad, and where many streams with broken bridges had to be crossed. A hundred and fifty miles were covered in twenty days, and during that time the soldiers fought twenty-two battles and captured twentyeight toAvns and a large quantity of army supplies.

But the wily Aguinaldo was not to be captured, and when San Isidro was taken, he and his army immediately fell back to Tarlac and to the mountains. The rainy season was now on in all of its fury, the waters in all streams and lakes rising to a great height, and for the time being further pursuit became out of the question.

The Filipinos had sued for peace, and now they sued again. But they wanted everything settled upon their own terms, and much as he desired to see peace established. President McKinley, backed by his ofhcial advisers, had to decline their terms. Our


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260 people everywhere pitied the condition of the Insurgents, but it was felt that now Old Glory had been planted in the islands the supremacy of the United States must be firmly established.


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Rh

the rainy season in the Philippines preparations were made on a large scale to bring the fighting in the islands to a close. Our troops had much to contend with, in the shape of sickness and fevers, bad roads and scanty supplies, and it was found that to draw the rebels from their mountain retreats was by no means easy. Sometimes the Filipinos would show themselves, make a quick attack on some point, and then disappear from view before any troops could be brought forward to give them battle. The territory was so immense that to garrison even a fair portion of it was next to impossible with the soldiers available for that purpose.

But President McKinley was determined to push ahead with all vigor, and through him extra soldiers and vast amounts of


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262 supplies were shipped to Manila and other points. In the meantime some of our troops and war-ships had attacked other islands than Luzon, and many seaport towns were held by us.

As soon as the rainy season let up, General Lawton instituted another campaign in the vicinity of the Laguna de Bay, capturing many insurgents and supplies and several towns, some of which were garrisoned as well as the strength of his command permitted. Then Lawton turned northward again, and a second campaign ensued against Aguinaldo, with the object, if possible, of hemming in the rebel leader completely. This campaign resulted in the fall of Magalang, Bongabong, Tarlac, and Dagupan, the end of the railroad line. The rebels were chased into the mountains in all directions, many were captured, and large quantities of stores and ammunition taken. Among the prisoners made was Aguinaldo's private secretary and several of his staff officers, but, as before, the Dictator himself could not be found.

In the meantime General Wheaton had conducted an expedition which landed on


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Rh San Fabian beach, and after some hot fighting occupied San Fabian. From this town the troops moved to San Jacinto, and then, after more fighting, joined McArthnr's column. Fighting in the mountains occurred in several directions, and at last the Americans pushed through to Subic Bay and northward to Laoag. At the latter place the Filipinos were holding two thousand Spanish soldiers prisoners. As the war between the United States and Spain was now over, our soldiers released the Spaniards, much to their delight.

December found Lawton again operating farther to the south, and the middle of the month found this gallant commander at San Meteo. During a violent rainstorm on the 19th, the general went out on the firing line, and the bullet from a sharpshooter's rifle laid him low. His death came as a great shock to all who knew him, and no one mourned for him more sincerely than did President McKinley, who had known the plucky fighter for years. Had he lived, there is small doubt but that General Lawton would have gone high up among our military commanders.


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264 In the end of December there was a plot to attack all the Americans in the city of Manila. About a thousand natives were concerned in this, but the plot miscarried, and many natives were arrested. After that the military guard in the city was doubled, and every effort made to guard against a surprise.

To go into the details of the warfare which followed in various parts of the islands is needless, although in some cases these details would prove very interesting. The rebels continued their guerilla method of warfare, swooping down on a small garrison here or there, and then disappearing as rapidly as they had come. In many places they made the peaceful natives contribute heavily to their support, and if the help demanded was not forthcoming, villages were burnt and rice fields laid waste.

Aguinaldo was now waiting only for the next Presidential election in the United States. As said before, many of our people were not in favor of laying claim to the Philippines, contending that such a move would be imperialistic. Some of the most


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Rh hot-headed declared that McKinley was trying to create an empire, over which he might be emperor. Nothing was further from our worthy President's mind. He simply wished to do his duty, and he considered that it was the duty of the United States to govern the Philippines, and to aid the Filipinos in every way possible, until law and order was restored, and they were educated up to the point where they could do for themselves.

Early in the new year, 1900, the Insurgents became more than usually active south of Manila, and Generals Wheaton and Schwan were sent to drive them back. The Laguna de Bay became once more the scene of several battles, and the rebels were driven away from this lake, and also away from the vicinity of Lake Taal. Batangas was captured, and some of our troops moved both south and west, with considerable success.

In the meantime the campaign on the north had again reopened. The Insurgents were more badly scattered than ever, and could get together a regiment of soldiery only with the greatest of difficulty. There was


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266 some fighting in several other islands, yet this amounted to but little.

On June 19 the Republican party met once more to nominate their candidates for President and Vice-President. The gathering was a notable one, all the party leaders being present. The convention was held in the Exposition Building, Philadelphia, which was beautifully decorated for the occasion. Over the main entrance hung a mammoth picture of McKinley, and the name of the President was heard upon every lip. He was nominated amid wild enthusiasm, the hand-clapping, stamping, and shouting lasting half an hour.

For Vice-President the nomination fell upon Theodore Roosevelt, the man who had served so well as governor of New York, and who was so well known as the gallant leader of the daring Rough Riders. Roosevelt tried in vain to decline the honor. The party insisted upon his accepting, and this made him what he has since become,—our twenty-sixth President.

In opposition to McKinley and Roosevelt the Democratic party placed in the field Colonel Bryan, who had been up for the


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Rh Presidency four years before, and Adlai Stevenson. A bitter contest lasting up to the hour of election ensued, the main points at issue being imperialism, as the Democrats termed it, trusts, and the old silver issue. But the personal popularity of President McKinley could not be overcome, nor could the army and political record of Theodore Roosevelt be assailed, and the two were elected by a large majority.

His second election to the Presidency was highly gratifying to President McKinley, not so much because he wished the office, but because it showed that the great majority of his fellow-citizens approved of his actions in the war with Spain, and in dealing with the Philippine question.

During the campaign something happened which caused great alarm throughout the country, and was the cause of sending some of our soldiers to China. This disturbance is known as the Boxers' Uprising of 1900.

In China there is a certain society of men called the Boxers who are much opposed to all foreigners. The Boxers had been worrying the missionaries and tradesmen of all other nations a great deal, and matters


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268 were brought to a head by a revolt in the great Chinese city of Pekin, during which the German State Minister was shot down. Some of the Chinese soldiers joined in the Boxer movement, and the foreigners in and around Pekin were compelled to seek shelter and protection in the various buildings and grounds of the legations. Here they took a stand with guns and a small field-piece, determined to hold out to the last, and sell their lives if necessary as dearly as possible.

Among those to suffer were a number of Americans, missionaries and others, and as soon as our country was notified of this, President McKinley took steps looking to their rescue. An international army and a navy was hastily formed, composed of soldiers and sailors, as well as war-ships, belonging to the United States, England, Germany, France, Japan, and several other nations, and an attack was begun on the Taku forts, at the mouth of the Pei-ho River.

The bombardment of the forts was a furious one, and they soon capitulated, and then the Allied Troops, as they were termed, took possession of Taku and also Tongku, on the other side of the broad river, where


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Rh there was the end of a railroad line running along the Pei-ho to Tien-Tsin, about twenty-seven miles inland.

At Tien-Tsin the foreigners were suffering fully as much as at Pekin, and hither the Allied forces moved. A series of battles lasting several days ensued, and finally the Allies got possession of one part of Tien-Tsin. More fighting followed, and at last the Boxers fled, the majority toward Pekin.

General Chaffee was in command of the American soldiers, which numbered several thousand. All told, there were at least forty thousand Allies in the field, but of these only sixteen thousand participated in the attack on Pekin itself. The distance from Tien-Tsin to Pekin is about eighty miles, and the enemy made several halts on the route, stopping to give battle and then fleeing with all the swiftness at their command. To the American soldiers, fighting against the Chinese was a great novelty.

"I fought in Cuba and in the Philippines," said one old regular, in telling about it afterward, "but I never saw


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 270 like that in my whole life. The Boxers had the whole battlefield filled with banners, and they kept up the greatest lot of dum-dumming on their drums you ever heard. They were fantastically dressed, some in long robes that were continually in the way when they wanted to move around, and some of the officers actually carried their fans and had servants to carry their big parasols. Some of the poor fellows wore garments with strange symbols on them, thinking that they would be saved thereby from getting shot. And the strangest part of it all was that many of them, when they were shot, would simply crouch up in a little heap to die, without letting anybody touch them to turn them over to a surgeon or give them aid."


text: American Boys' Life of William McKinley/Chapter 27


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286

curtain meditations of the Squire had not been without the produce of a resolve. His warm heart once re-opened to the liking he had formerly conceived for Clifford; he longed for an opportunity to atone for his past unkindness, and to testify his present gratitude; moreover, he felt at once indignant at, and ashamed of, his late conduct in joining the popular, and, as he now fully believed, the causeless prepossession against his young friend, and before a more present and a

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Rh stronger sentiment, his habitual deference for his brother's counsels faded easily away. Coupled with these favourable feelings towards Clifford, were his sagacious suspicions, or rather certainty, of Lucy's attachment to her handsome deliverer; and he had at least sufficient penetration to perceive that she was not likely to love him the less for the night's adventure. To all this was added the tender recollection of his wife's parting words; and the tears and tell-tale agitation of Lucy in the carriage were sufficient to his simple mind, which knew not how lightly maiden's tears are shed and dried, to confirm the prediction of the dear deceased. Nor were the Squire's more generous and kindly feelings utterly unmixed with selfish considerations. Proud, but not the least ambitious, he was always more ready to confer an honour than receive one, and at heart he was secretly glad at the notion of exchanging, as a son-in-law, the polished and unfamiliar Mauleverer for the agreeable and social Clifford. Such in "admired disorder" were

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288 the thoughts which rolled through the teeming brain of Joseph Brandon, and before he had turned on his left side—which he always did preparatory to surrendering himself to slumber—the Squire had fully come to a determination most fatal to the schemes of the Lawyer and the hopes of the Earl.

The next morning, as Lucy was knitting

before the little mirror of her chamber, which even through its dimmed and darkened glass gave back a face which might have shamed a Grecian vision of Aurora, a gentle tap at her door announced her father. There was in his rosy and comely countenance, that expression generally characteristic of a man pleased with himself, and persuaded that he is about to give pleasure.

"My dear child," said the Squire, fondly stroking down the luxuriance of his Lucy's hair, and kissing her damask check, "I am come to have some little conversation with you, sit down now, and—(for my part, I love to talk at my ease,

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Rh and, by the by, shut the window, my love, it is an easterly wind)—I wish that we may come to a clear and distinct understanding. Hem!—give me your hand, my child,—I think on these matters one can scarcely speak too precisely, and to the purpose; although I am well aware—for, for my own part, I always wish to act to every one, to you especially, my dearest child, with the greatest consideration—that we must go to work with as much delicacy as conciseness. You know this Captain Clifford—'tis a brave youth, is it not?—well—nay, never blush so deeply, there is nothing—(for in these matters one can't have all one's wishes,—one can't have every thing)—to be ashamed of! Tell me now, child, dost think he is in love with thee?"

If Lucy did not immediately answer by words, her pretty lips moved as if she could readily reply, and finally they settled into so sweet and so assured a smile, that the Squire, fond as he was of "precise" conversation, was in want of no fuller answer to his question.

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290 "Ay, ay, young lady," said he, looking at her with all a father's affection, "I see how it is. And, come now—what do you turn away for? dost think, if, as I believe, though there are envious persons in the world, as there always are when a man's handsome, or clever, or brave; though by the way, which is a very droll thing in my eyes, they don't envy, at least not ill-naturedly, a man for being a Lord, or rich; but quite on the contrary, rank and money seem to make them think one has all the cardinal virtues,—Humph!—If, I say, this Mr. Clifford should turn out to be a gentleman of family,—for you know that is essential, since the Brandons have, as my brother has probably told you, been a great race many centuries ago;—dost think, my child, that thou couldst give up—(the cat is out of the bag)—this old Lord, and marry a simple gentleman?"

The hand which the Squire had held was now with an arch tenderness applied to his mouth, and when he again seized it, Lucy hid her glowing face in his bosom; and it was only by a whisper,

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Rh as if the very air was garrulous, that he could draw forth—(for now he insisted on a verbal reply)—her happy answer.

We are not afraid that our reader will blame us for not detailing the rest of the interview between the father and daughter, it did not last above an hour longer; for the Squire declared, that for his own part, he hated more words than were necessary. Mr. Brandon was the first to descend to the breakfast, muttering as he decended the stairs, "Well now, hang me if I am not glad that's off—(for I do not like to think much of so silly a matter)—my mind. And as for my brother, I shan't tell him till it's all over, and settled. And if he is angry, he and the old Lord may—though I don't mean to be unbrotherly—go to the devil together!"

When the three were assembled at the breakfast-table, there could not perhaps have been found any where a stronger contrast than that which the radiant face of Lucy bore to the haggard and worn expression that disfigured the

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292 handsome features of her lover. So marked was the change that one night seemed to have wrought upon Clifford, that even the Squire was startled and alarmed at it. But Lucy, whose innocent vanity pleased itself with accounting for the alteration, consoled herself with the hope of soon witnessing a very different expression on the countenance of her lover; and though she was silent, and her happiness lay quiet and deep within her, yet in her eyes and lip there was that which seemed to Clifford an insult to his own misery, and stung him to the heart. However, he exerted himself to meet the conversation of the Squire, and to mask as well as he was able the evidence of the conflict which still raged within him.

The morning was wet and gloomy; it was that drizzling and misty rain which is so especially nutritious to the growth of blue devils, and the jolly Squire failed not to rally his young friend upon his feminine susceptibility to the influences of the weather. Clifford replied jestingly, and the jest, if bad, was good enough to content the railer.

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Rh In this facetious manner passed the time, till Lucy, at the request of her father, left the room to prepare for their return home.

Drawing his chair near to Clifford's, the Squire then commenced in real and affectionate earnest his operations—these he had already planned—in the following order: they were first to inquire into, and to learn, Clifford's rank, family, and prospects;—secondly, having ascertained the proprieties of the outer man, they were to examine the state of the inner one;—and thirdly, should our skilful inquirer find his guesses at Clifford's affection for Lucy confirmed, they were to expel the modest fear of a repulse, which the Squire allowed was natural enough, and to lead the object of the inquiry to a knowledge of the happiness that, Lucy consenting, might be in store for him. While, with his wonted ingenuity, the Squire was pursuing his benevolent designs, Lucy remained in her own room, in such meditation and such dreams as were natural to a heart so sanguine and enthusiastic.

She had been more than half an hour alone,

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294 when the chambermaid of the hostelry knocked at her door, and delivered a message from the Squire, begging her to come down to him in the parlour. With a heart that beat so violently it almost seemed to wear away its very life, Lucy slowly, and with tremulous steps, descended to the parlour. On opening the door, she saw Clifford standing: in the recess of the window his face was partly turned from her, and his eyes downcast. The good old Squire sat in an elbow-chair, and a sort of puzzled and half-satisfied complacency gave expression to his features.

"Come hither, child," said he, clearing his throat; "Captain Clifford—a-hem!—has done you the honour—to—and I dare say you will be very much surprised—not that, for my own part, I think there is much to wonder at in it—but such may be my partial opinion—(and it is certainly very natural in me)—to make you a declaration of love. He declares, moreover, that he is the most miserable of men, and that he would die sooner than have the presumption to hope. Therefore

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Rh you see, my love, I have sent for you, to give him permission to destroy himself, in any way he pleases; and I leave him to show cause why—(it is a fate that sooner or later happens to all his fellow men)—sentence of death should not be passed against him." Having delivered this speech with more propriety of word than usually fell to his share, the Squire rose hastily, and hobbled out of the room.

Lucy sank into the chair her father had quitted, and Clifford approaching towards her, said, in a hoarse and low voice,

"Your father, Miss Brandon, says rightly, that I would die rather than lift my eyes in hope to you. I thought yesterday that I had seen you for the last time;—chance—not my own folly or presumption, has brought me again before you, and even the few hours I have passed under the same roof with you, have made me feel as if my love—my madness—had never reached its height till now. Oh, Lucy!" continued Clifford, in a more impassioned tone, and as if by a sudden and

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296 irresistible impulse, throwing himself at her feet; "if I could hope to merit you—if I could hope to raise myself—if I could—but no—no—no! I am cut off from all hope, and for ever!"

There was so deep, so bitter, so heartfelt an anguish and remorse in the voice with which these last words were spoken, that Lucy, hurried off her guard, and forgetting every thing in wondering sympathy and compassion, answered, extending her hand towards Clifford, who still kneeling, seized and covered it with kisses of fire,

"Do not speak thus, Mr. Clifford; do not accuse yourself of what I am sure, quite sure, you cannot deserve. Perhaps, forgive me, your birth, your fortune, are beneath your merits; and you have penetrated into my father's weakness on the former point; or, perhaps, you yourself have not avoided all the errors into which men are hurried; perhaps, you have been imprudent, or thoughtless; perhaps you have—(fashion is contagious)—played beyond your means, or incurred debts;—these are faults, it is true, and to be regretted, yet not surely irreparable."

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Rh For that instant can it be wondered that all Clifford's resolution and self-denial deserted him, and lifting his eyes, radiant with joy and gratitude, to the face which bent in benevolent innocence towards him, he exclaimed, "No, Miss Brandon!—no, Lucy!—dear, angel Lucy! my faults are less venial than these, but perhaps they are no less the consequence of circumstances and contagion; perhaps it may not be too late to repair them. Would you—you indeed deign to be my guardian, I might not despair of being saved!"

"If," said Lucy, blushing deeply, and looking down, while she spoke quick and eagerly, as if to avoid humbling him by her offer, "if, Mr. Clifford, the want of wealth has in any way occasioned you uneasiness, or—or error, do believe me—I mean us—so much your friends as not for an instant to scruple in relieving us of some little portion of our last night's debt to you."

"Dear, noble girl!" said Clifford, while there writhed upon his lips one of those smiles of

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298 powerful sarcasm that sometimes distorted his features, and thrillingly impressed upon Lucy a resemblance to one very different in reputation and character to her lover—"Do not attribute my misfortunes to so petty a source; it is not money that I shall want while I live, though I shall to my last breath remember this delicacy in you, and compare it with certain base remembrances in my own mind. Yes! all past thoughts and recollections will make me hereafter worship you even more than I do now; while in your heart they will—unless Heaven grant me one prayer—make you scorn and detest me!"

"For mercy's sake do not speak thus!" said Lucy, gazing in indistinct alarm upon the dark and working features of her lover; "scorn, detest you! impossible! how could I, after the remembrance of last night!"

"Ay! of last night," said Clifford, speaking through his ground teeth: "there is much in that remembrance to live long in both of us: but you—you—fair angel!"—(and all harshness and

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Rh irony, vanishing at once from his voice and countenance, yielded to a tender and deep sadness, mingled with a respect that bordered on reverence,)—"you never could have dreamt of more than pity for one like me,—you never could have stooped from your high and dazzling purity to know for me one such thought as that which burns at my heart for you,—you—yes, withdraw your hand, I am not worthy to touch it!" And clasping his own hands before his face, he became abruptly silent; but his emotions were but ill-concealed, and Lucy saw the muscular frame before her heaved and convulsed by passions which were more intense and rending because it was only for a few moments that they conquered his self-will and struggled into vent.

If afterwards,—but long afterwards, Lucy, recalling the mystery of his words, confessed to herself that they betrayed guilt, she was then too much affected to think of any thing but her love and his emotion. She bent down, and with a girlish and fond self-abandonment, which none

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300 could have resisted, placed both her hands on his: Clifford started, looked up, and in the next moment he had clasped her to his heart; and while the only tears he had shed since his career of crime, fell fast and hot upon her countenance, he kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips in a passionate and wild transport. His voice died within him, he could not trust himself to speak; only one thought, even in that seeming forgetfulness of her and of himself, stirred and spoke at his breast—flight. The more he felt he loved—the more tender and the more confiding the object of his love, the more urgent became the necessity to leave her. All other duties had been neglected, but he loved with a real love, and love which taught him one duty, bore him triumphantly through its bitter ordeal.

"You will hear from me to-night," he muttered; "believe that I am mad, accursed, criminal, but not utterly a monster! I ask no more merciful opinion!" He drew himself from his perilous position, and abruptly departed.

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Rh When Clifford reached his home, he found his worthy coadjutors waiting for him with alarm and terror on their countenances. An old feat in which they had signalized themselves, had long attracted the rigid attention of the police, and certain officers had now been seen at Bath, and certain inquiries had been set on foot, which portended no good to the safety of the sagacious Tomlinson and the valorous Pepper. They came, humbly and penitentially demanding pardon for their unconscious aggression of the Squire's carriage, and entreating their Captain's instant advice. If Clifford had before wavered in his disinterested determination; if visions of Lucy, of happiness and reform had floated in his solitary ride, too frequently and too glowingly before his eyes, the sight of these men, their conversation, their danger, all sufficed to restore his resolution. "Merciful God!" thought he, "and is it to the comrade of such lawless villains, to a man, like them, exposed hourly to the most ignominious of deaths, that I have for one section of a moment dreamt of consigning the

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302 innocent and generous girl, whose trust or love is the only crime that could deprive her of the most brilliant destiny?"

Short were Clifford's instructions to his followers, and so much do we do mechanically, that they were delivered with his usual forethought and precision,—"You will leave the town instantly; go not, for your lives, to London, or to rejoin any of your comrades. Ride for the Red Cave; there are provisions stored there, and, since our late alteration of the interior, it will afford ample room to conceal your horses. On the night of the second day from this I will join you. But be sure that you enter the cave at night, and quit it upon no account till I come!"

"Yes!" said he, when he was alone, "I will join you again, but only to quit you. One more offence against the law, or at least one sum wrested from the swollen hands of the rich sufficient to equip me for a foreign army, and I quit the country of my birth and my crimes. If I cannot deserve Lucy Brandon, I will be somewhat less

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Rh unworthy. Perhaps—why not? I am young, my nerves are not weak, my brain is not dull, perhaps I may in some field of honourable adventure win a name, that before my death-bed I may not blush to acknowledge to her!"

While this resolve beat high within Clifford's breast, Lucy sadly and in silence was continuing with the Squire her short journey to Bath. The latter was very inquisitive to know why Clifford had gone, and what he had avowed; and Lucy scarcely able to answer, threw every thing on the promised letter of the night.

"I am glad," muttered the Squire to her, "that he is going to write, for somehow or other, though I questioned him very tightly, he slipped through my cross-examination, and bursting out at once, as to his love for you, left me as wise about himself as I was before, no doubt—(for my own part I don't see what should prevent his being a great man incog.)—this letter will explain all!"

Late that night the letter came; Lucy,

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304 for her, was alone in her own room; she opened it, and read as follows:—

"I have promised to write to you, and I sit down to perform that promise. At this moment the recollection of your goodness, your generous consideration, is warm within me; and while I must choose calm and common words to express what I ought to say, my heart is alternately melted and torn by thoughts which would ask words, oh how different! Your father has questioned me often of my parentage and birth—I have hitherto eluded his interrogatories. Learn now who I am. In a wretched abode, surrounded by the inhabitants of poverty and vice, I recall my earliest recollections. My father is unknown to me as to every one—my mother! to you I dare not mention who or what she was;—she died in my infancy. Without a name, but not without an inheritance,—(my inheritance was large—it was infamy!)—I was thrown upon the world: I

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Rh had received by accident some education, and imbibed some ideas, not natural to my situation; since then, I have played many parts in life: books and men I have not so neglected, but that I have gleaned at intervals some little knowledge from both. Hence, if I have seemed to you better than I am, you will perceive the cause: circumstances made me soon my own master, they made me, also one whom honest men do not love to look upon; my deeds have been, and my character is, of a par with my birth and my fortunes. I came, in the noble hope to raise and redeem myself, by gilding my fate with a wealthy marriage, to this city: I saw you, whom I had once before met. I heard you were rich.—Hate me, Miss Brandon, hate me!—I resolved to make your ruin the cause of my redemption. Happily for you, I scarcely knew you before I loved you—that love deepened—it caught something pure and elevated from yourself. My resolution forsook me; even now I could throw myself on my knees and thank God that you—you dearest

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306 and noblest of human beings—are not my wife. is my conduct clear to you? if not, imagine me all that is villainous—save in one point, where you are concerned—and not a shadow of mystery will remain. Your kind father, over-rating the paltry service I rendered you, would have consented to submit my fate to your decision. I blush indignantly for him—for you—that any living man should have dreamt of such profanation for Miss Brandon. Yet I myself was carried away and intoxicated by so sudden and so soft a hope—even I dared to lift my eyes to you, to press you to this guilty heart, to forget myself, and to dream that you might be mine! Can you forgive me for this madness? And hereafter, when in your lofty and glittering sphere of wedded happiness, can you remember my presumption and check your scorn? Perhaps you think that by so late a confession I have already deceived you. Alas! you know not what it costs me now to confess! I had only one hope in life—it was that you might still, long after you had

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Rh ceased to see me, fancy me not utterly beneath the herd with whom you live. This burning, yet selfish vanity, I tear from me, and now I go where no hope can pursue me. No hope for myself, save one which can scarcely deserve the name, for it is rather a rude, and visionary wish, than an expectation:—It is, that under another name, and under different auspices, you may hear of me at some distant time; and when I apprise you that under that name you may recognise one who loves you better than all created things, you may feel then, at least, no cause for shame at your lover. What will you be then? A happy wife—a mother—the centre of a thousand joys—beloved—admired—blest when the eye sees you and the ear hears! And this is what I ought to hope; this is the consolation that ought to cheer me;—perhaps a little time hence it will. Not that I shall love you less; but that I shall love you less burningly, and therefore less selfishly. I have now written to you all that it becomes you to receive from me. My horse waits below to bear

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308 me from this city, and for ever from your vicinity. For ever!—Ay, you are the only blessing for ever forbidden me. Wealth I may gain—a fair name—even glory—I may, perhaps, aspire to! to Heaven itself, I may find a path; but of you my very dreams cannot give me the shadow of a hope. I do not say, if you could pierce my soul while I write, that you would pity me. You may think it strange, but I would not have your pity for worlds; I think I would even rather have your hate—pity seems so much like contempt. But if you knew what an effort has enabled me to tame down my language, to curb my thoughts, to prevent me from embodying that which now makes my brain whirl, and my hand feel as if the living fire consumed it; if you knew what has enabled me to triumph over the madness at my heart, and spare you what, if writ or spoken, would seem like the ravings of insanity, you would not, and you could not despise me, though you might abhor.

"And now, heaven guard and bless you!

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Rh on earth could injure you. And even the wicked who have looked upon you, learn to pray. I have prayed for you!"

Thus (abrupt and signatureless) ended the expected letter. Lucy came down the next morning at her usual hour, and, except that she was very pale, nothing in her appearance seemed to announce past grief or emotion. The Squire asked her if she had received the promised letter? she answered in a clear, though faint voice, that she had—that Mr. Clifford had confessed himself of too low an origin to hope for marriage with Mr. Brandon's family; that she trusted the Squire would keep his secret, and that the subject might never again be alluded to by either. If in this speech there was something alien to Lucy's ingenuous character, and painful to her mind, she felt it, as it were, a duty to her former lover, not to betray the whole of that confession so bitterly wrung from him. Perhaps, too, there was in that letter a charm, which seemed to her too sacred to

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310 be revealed to any one. And mysteries were not excluded even from a love so ill-placed, and seemingly so transitory, as hers.

Lucy's answer touched the Squire in his weak point. "A man of decidedly low origin," he confessed, was utterly out of the question; nevertheless, the young man showed a great deal of candour in his disclosure. He readily promised never to broach a subject necessarily so unpleasant; and though he sighed as he finished his speech, yet the extreme quiet of Lucy's manner re-assured him, and when he perceived that she resumed, though languidly, her wonted avocations, he felt but little doubt of her soon overcoming the remembrance of what he hoped was but a girlish and fleeting fancy. He yielded with avidity to her proposal to return to Warlock; and in the same week as that in which Lucy had received her lover's mysterious letter, the father and daughter commenced their journey home.

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text: Paul Clifford/Volume 2/Chapter 11

title: Paul Clifford/Volume 2/Chapter 11


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hoton, Richard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hotten, John Camden


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Houblon, John


text: Index:The Biographical Dictionary of America, vol. 04.djvu


text: Index:The Biographical Dictionary of America, vol. 05.djvu


text: Index:The Biographical Dictionary of America, vol. 06.djvu


text: Index:The Biographical Dictionary of America, vol. 07.djvu


text: Index:The Biographical Dictionary of America, vol. 08.djvu


text: Index:The Biographical Dictionary of America, vol. 09.djvu


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Rh came she to be saved? it was beyond her comprehension. Many articles of value to her and her captors were saved from the wreck. Everything portable was removed to the main encampment, which was situated on one of the lake islands a short distance inland, where all the women and children of the tribe were at the time. Among the latter Bella, or Lindigo, as she was named, became a great favourite through her kind attentions to their wants, particularly those suffering from illness. A medicine chest belonging to the ship was among the articles saved, by which she was able to cure several cases among them.

On becoming acquainted with part of their language, after a great amount of trouble on her part as well as her instructors, she understood the reason why herself and Bran were so much venerated among the tribe.

It appeared that the chief, Bungilina's father, had the year before been fishing at the very spot where the vessel was wrecked, when an enormous shark carried him off. On the tribe seeing the ship cast on shore, and the people struggling in the waves, Bungilina's attention was attracted by Bran saving the body of Bella, and never having seen an animal of that sort, he thought that it was his father, who had taken upon himself the form of a large dog (a general belief among the aborigines) in order to save Lindigo, who, like a spiritual being was sent to their tribe to confer many benefits upon them. Bungilina was so impressed with this idea that he gave positive orders that Lindigo and Bran were not to be interfered with, neither was any insult to be offered to either.

Lindigo, as we shall now call Bella, derived a great deal of instruction from a youth of the tribe named Matoka, who was apparently about seventeen years of age, possessed great intelligence and activity, and was remarkable for his appearance, being far above the rest of the tribe. He considered Lindigo as a spiritual being, and was guided by her instructions in the improvement of his mind and habits. His instructress had gained his confidence to such an extent that all the intentions and secrets of the tribe were communicated to her by

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