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THIS world is unquestionably a vastly stimulating and entertaining place if you take it aright—namely if you recognise that it is the creation of a profound humorist, is designed for wholly practical and personal uses, and proceed to adapt your conduct to that knowledge in all light‐heartedness and good faith. Thus, though in less trenchant phrase since she was still happily very young, meditated Madame de Vallorbes, while standing in the pensive October sunshine upon the wide flight of steps which leads down from the main entrance of Brockhurst House. Tall, stone pinnacles alternating with seated griffins—long of tail, fierce of beak and sharp of claw—fill in each of the many angles of the descending stone balustrade on either hand. Behind her, the florid, though rectangular, decoration of the house‐front ranged page: 196 up, storey above storey, in arcade and pilaster, heavily‐mullioned window, carven plaque and string course, to pairs of matching pinnacles and griffins—these last rampant, supporting the Calmady shield and coat‐of‐arms—the quaint forms of which break the long line of the pierced, stone parapet in the centre of the facade, and rise above the rusty red of the low‐pitched roofs, until the spires of the one and crested heads of the other are outlined against the sky. About her feet the pea‐fowl stepped in mincing and self‐conscious elegance—the cocks with rustlings of heavy‐trailing quills, the hens and half‐grown chicks with squeakings and whifflings—subdued, conversational—accompanied by the dry tap of many bills picking up the glossy grains of Indian‐corn which she let dribble slowly down upon the shallow steps from between her pretty fingers. She had huddled a soft sable tippet about her throat and shoulders. The skirt of her indigo‐coloured, poplin dress, turning upon the step immediately above that on which she stood, showed some inches of rose‐scarlet, silken frill lining the hem of it.
Helen de Vallorbes had a lively consciousness of her surroundings. She enjoyed every detail of them. Enjoyed the gentle, south‐westerly wind which touched her face and stirred her bright hair, enjoyed the plaintive, autumn song of a robin perched on a rose‐grown wall, enjoyed the impotent ferocity of the guardian griffins, enjoyed the small sounds made by the feeding pea‐fowl, the modest quaker greys and the imperial splendours of their plumage. She enjoyed the turn of her own wrist, its gold chain‐bracelet and the handsome lace falling away from and displaying it, as she held out the handfuls of corn. She enjoyed even that space of rose‐scarlet declaring itself between the dull blue of her dress and the grey, weathered surface of the stone.
But all these formed only the accompaniment, the ground‐tone, to more reasoned, more vital, enjoyments. Before her, beyond the carriage sweep, lay the square lawn enclosed by red walls and by octagonal, pepper‐pot summer‐houses, whereon—unwillingly, yet in obedience to the wild justice of revenge—Roger Ormiston had shot the Clown, half‐brother to Touchstone, racehorse of mournful memory. As a child Helen had heard that story. Now her somewhat light, blue‐grey eyes, their beautiful lids raised wide for once, looked out curiously upon the space of dew‐powdered turf; while the corners of her mouth—a mouth a trifle thin lipped, yet soft and dangerously sweet for kissing—turned upward in a reflective smile. She, too, knew what it was to be angry, to the point of revenge; had indeed page: 197 come to Brockhurst not without purpose of that last tucked away in some naughty convolution of her active brain. But Brockhurst and its inhabitants had proved altogether more interesting than she had anticipated. This was the fourth day of her visit, and each day had proved more to her taste than the preceding one. So she concluded this matter of revenge might very well stand over for the moment, possibly stand over altogether. The present was too excellent, of its kind, to risk spoiling. Helen de Vallorbes valued the purple and fine linen of a high civilisation; nor did she disdain, within graceful limits, to fare sumptuously every day. She valued all that is beautiful and costly in art, of high merit and distinction in literature. Her taste was sure and just, if a little more disposed towards that which is sensuous than towards that which is spiritual. And in all its many forms she appreciated luxury, even entertaining a kindness for that necessary handmaid of luxury—waste. Appreciated these the more ardently, that, with birth‐pangs at the beginning of each human life, death‐pangs and the corruption of the inevitable grave at the close of each, all this lapping, meanwhile, of the doomed flesh in exaggerations of ease and splendour seemed to her among the very finest ironies of the great comedy of existence. It heightened, it accentuated the drama. And among the many good things of life, drama, come how and where and when it might, seemed to her supremely the best. She desired it as a lover his mistress. To detect it, to observe it, gave her the keenest pleasure. To take a leading part in and shape it to the turn of her own heart, her own purpose, her own wit, was, so far, her ruling passion.
And of potential drama, of the raw material of it, as the days passed, she found increasingly generous store at Brockhurst. It invaded and held her imagination, as the initial conception of his poem will that of the poet, or of his picture that of the painter. She brooded over it, increasingly convinced that it might be a masterpiece. For the drama—as she apprehended it—contained not only elements of virility and strength, but an element, and that a persistent one, of the grotesque. This put the gilded dome to her silent, and perhaps slightly unscrupulous, satisfaction. How could it be otherwise, since the presence of the grotesque is, after all, the main justification of the theory on which her philosophy of life was based—namely the belief that above all eloquence of human speech, behind all enthusiasm of human action or emotion, the ear which hears aright can always detect the echo of eternal laughter? And this grim echo did not affect the charming young lady to sadness as yet. Still less page: 198 did it make her mad, as the mere suspicion of it has made so many, and those by no means unworthy or illiterate persons. For the laugh, so far, had appeared to be on her side, never at her expense—which makes a difference. And the chambers of her House of Life were too crowded by health and agreeable sensations, mental activities and sparkling audacities to leave any one of them vacant for reception, more than momentary, of that thrice‐blessed guest, pity.
And so it followed that, as she fed the mincing pea‐fowl, Madame de Vallorbes' smile changed in character from reflection to impatience. A certain heat running through her, she set her pretty teeth and fell to pelting the pea‐hens and chicks mischievously, breaking up all their aristocratic reserve and making them jump and squeak to some purpose. For this precious, this very masterpiece of a drama was not only here potentially, but actually. It was alive. She had felt it move under her hand—or under her heart, which was it?—yesterday evening. Again this morning, just now, she had noted signs of its vitality, wholly convincing to one skilled in such matters. Impatience, then, became very excusable.
"For my time is short and the action disengages itself so deplorably slowly!" she exclaimed.—"Pah! you greedy, conceited birds, which do you hold dearest after all, the filling of your little stomachs, or the supporting of your little dignities? Be advised by a higher intelligence. Revenge yourselves on the grains that hit and sting you by gobbling them up. It is a venerable custom that of feasting upon one's enemies. And has been practised, in various forms, both by nations and individuals. There, I give you another chance of displaying wisdom—there—there!—La! la! what an absurd commotion! You little idiots, don't flutter. Agitation is a waste of energy, and advances nothing. I declare peace. I want to consider."
And so, letting the remaining handfuls of corn dribble down very slowly, while the sunshine grew warmer and the shadows of the guardian griffins more distinct upon the lichen‐encrusted stones, Helen de Vallorbes sank back into meditation.—Yes, unquestionably the drama was alive. But it seemed so difficult to bring it to the birth. And she wanted, very badly, to hear its first half‐articulate cries and watch its first staggering footsteps. All that is so entertaining, you yourself safely grown‐up, standing very firm on your feet, looking down!—And it would be a lusty child, this drama, very soon reaching man's estate and man's inspiring violence of action, striking out like some blind, giant page: 199 Samson, blundering headlong in its unseeing, uncalculating strength.—Helen laid her hands upon her bosom, and threw back her head, while her throat bubbled with suppressed laughter. Ah! it promised to be a drama of ten thousand, if she knew her power, and knew her world—and she possessed considerable confidence in her knowledge of both. Only, how on earth to set the crystal free of the matrix, how to engage battle, how to get this thing fairly and squarely born? For, as she acknowledged, in the flotation of all such merry schemes as her present one, chance encounters, interludes, neatly planned evasions and resultant pursuits, play so large and important a part. But at Brockhurst this whole chapter of accidents was barred, and received rules of strategy almost annihilated, by the fact of Richard Calmady's infirmity and the hard‐and‐fast order of domestic procedure, the elaborate system of etiquette, which that infirmity had gradually produced. At Brockhurst there were no haphazard exits and entrances. These were either hopelessly official and public, or guarded to an equally hopeless point of secrecy. A contingent of tall, civil men‐servants was always on duty. Richard was invariably in his place at table when the rest of the company came down. The ladies took their after‐dinner coffee in the drawing‐room, and joined the gentlemen in the Chapel‐Room, library, or gallery, as the case might be. If they rode, Richard was at the door ready mounted, along with the grooms and led‐horses. If they drove, he was already seated in the carriage.
"And how, how in the name of common sense," Madame de Vallorbes exclaimed, stamping her foot, and thereby throwing the now thoroughly nervous pea‐fowl into renewed agitation, "are you to establish any relation worth mentioning with a man who is perpetually being carried in procession like a Hindu idol? My good birds, one's never alone with him—whether by design and arrangement, I know not. But, so far, never, never, picture that! And yet, don't tell me, matchless mixture of pride and innocence though he is, he wouldn't like it!"
However, she checked her irritation by contemplation of yesterday.—Ah! that had been very prettily done assuredly. For riding in the forenoon along the road skirting the palings of the inner park, while they walked their horses over the soft, brown bed of fallen fir‐needles,—she, her father, and Dick,—the conversation dealt with certain first editions and their bindings, certain treasures, unique in historic worth, locked in the glass tables and fine Florentine and piétra dura cabinets of the Long Gallery. Mr. Ormiston was a connoisseur and talked well. And page: 200 Helen had sufficient acquaintance with such matters both to appreciate, and to add telling words to the talk.
"Ah! but I cannot go without seeing those delectable things, Richard," she said. "Would it be giving you altogether too much trouble to have them out for me?"
"Why, of course not. You shall see them whenever you like," he answered. "Julius knows all about them. He'll be only too delighted to act showman."
Just here the road narrowed a little, and Mr. Ormiston let his horse drop a few lengths behind, so that she, Helen, and her cousin rode forward side by side. The tones of the low sky, of the ranks of firs and stretches of heather formed a rich, though sombre, harmony of colour. Scents, pungent and singularly exhilarating, were given off by the damp mosses and the peaty moorland soil. The freedom of the forest, the feeling of the noble horse under her, stirred Helen as with the excitement of a mighty hunting, a positively royal sport. While the close presence of the young man riding beside her sharpened the edge of that excitement to a perfect keenness of pleasure.
"Ah, how glorious it all is!" she cried. "How glad I am that you asked me to come here."
And she turned to Richard, looking at him as, since the first day of their meeting, she had not, somehow, quite ventured to look.
"But, oh! dear me! please," she went on, "I know Mr. March is an angel, a saint—but—but—mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I don't want him to show me those special treasures of yours. He'll take the life out of them. I know it. And make them seem like things read of merely in a learned book. Be very charming to me, Richard. Waste half an hour upon me. Show me those moving relics yourself."
As she spoke, momentary suspicion rose in Dickie's eyes. But she gazed back unflinchingly, with the uttermost frankness, so that suspicion died, giving place to the shy, yet triumphant, gladness of youth which seeks and finds youth.
"Do, Richard, pray do," she repeated.
The young man had averted his face rather sharply, and both horses, somehow, broke into a hand gallop.
"All right," he answered. "I'll arrange it. This evening, about six, after tea? Will that suit you? I'll send you word."
Then the road had widened, permitting Mr. Ormiston to draw up to them again. The remainder of the ride had been a little silent.
Yes, all that had been prettily done. Nor had the piece that page: 201 followed proved unworthy of the prelude. She ran over the scene in her mind now, as she stood among the pecketing peafowl, and it caused her both mirth and delightful little heats, in which the heart has a word to say.—Madame de Vallorbes was ravished to feel her heart, just now and again. For, contradictory as it may seem, no game is perfect that has not moments of seriousness.—She recalled the aspect of the Long Gallery, as one of those civil, ever‐present men‐servants had opened the door for her, and she waited a moment on the threshold. The true artist is never in a hurry. The breadth of the great room immediately before her showed very bright with candle‐light and lamp‐light. But that died away, through gradations of augmenting obscurity, until the extreme end, towards the western bay, melted out into complete darkness. This produced an effect of almost limitless length which moved her to a childish, and at first pleasing, fancy of vague danger—an effect heightened by the ranges of curious and costly objects standing against, or decorating, the walls in a perspective of deepening gloom. Turquoise‐coloured, satin curtains, faded to intimate accord with the silvered surface of the panelling, were drawn across the wide windows. They reached to the lower edge of the stonework merely, leaving blottings of impenetrable shadow below. While, as culmination of interest, as living centre to this rich and varied setting, was the figure of Richard Calmady—seen, as his custom was, only to the waist—seated in a high‐backed chair drawn close against an antique, oak table, upon which a small piétra dura cabinet had been placed. The doors of the cabinet stood open, displaying slender columns of jasper and porphyry, and, little drawers encrusted with raised work in marble and precious stones. The young man sat stiffly upright, as one who listens, expectant. His expression was almost painfully serious. In one hand he held a string of pearls, attached to which, and enclosed by intersecting hoops of gold, was a crystal ball that shone with the mild effulgence of a mimic moon. And the great room was so very quiet, that Helen, in her pause upon the threshold, had remarked the sound of raindrops tapping upon the many window‐panes as with impatiently nervous fingers.
And this bred in her a corresponding nervousness—sensation to her, heretofore, almost unknown. The darkness yonder began to provoke a disagreeable impression, queerly challenging both her eyesight and her courage. Old convent teachings, regarding the Prince of Darkness and his emissaries, returned upon her. What if diabolic shapes lurked there, ready to page: 202 become stealthily emergent? She had scoffed at such archaic fancies in the convent, yet, in lonely hours, had suffered panic fear of them, as will the hardiest sceptic. A certain little scar, moreover, carefully hidden under the soft hair arranged low on her right temple, smarted and pricked. In short, her habitual self‐confidence suffered partial eclipse, She was visited by the disintegrating suspicion, for once, that the eternal laughter might, possibly, be at her expense, rather than on her side.
But she conquered such suspicion as contemptible, and cast out the passing weakness.—The bare memory of it angered her now, causing her to fire a volley of yellow corn at a lordly peacock, which sent him scuttling down the steps on to the gravel in most plebeian haste. Yes, she had speedily cast out her weakness, thank Heaven! What was all the pother about after all? This was not the first time she had played merry games with the affairs and affections of men. Madame de Vallorbes smiled to herself, recalling certain episodes, and shook her charming shoulders gleefully, as she looked out into the sunny morning. And then, was there not ample excuse? This man moved her more than most—more than any. She swore he did. Her attitude towards him was something new, something quite different, thereby justifying her campaign. And therefore, all the bolder for her brief self‐distrust and hesitation, she had swept across the great room, light of foot, and almost impertinently graceful of carriage.
"Here you are at last!" Dickie had exclaimed, with a sigh as of relief. "I shan't want anything more, Powell. You can come back when the dressing‐bell rings."—Then, as the valet closed the door behind him, he continued rapidly:—"Not that I propose to victimise you till then, Helen. You mustn't stay a moment longer than you like. I confess I'm awfully fond of this room. I'm almost ashamed to think how much time I waste in it. Doing what? Oh, well, just dreaming! You see it contains samples of the doings of all my father's people, and I return to primitive faiths here and perform acts of ancestor worship."
"Ah! I like that!" Helen said. And she did. Picture this man, long of arm, unnaturally low of stature, and astonishingly—yes, quite astonishingly—good‐looking, moving about among these books and pictures, these trophies of war and of sport, these oriental jars, tall almost as himself, and all the other strange furnishings from out distant years and distant lands! Picture him emerging from that wall of soft darkness yonder, for instance! Helen's eyes danced under their arched and page: 203 drooping lids, and she registered the fact that, though still frightened, her fright had changed in character. It was grateful to her palate. She relished it as the bouquet of a wine of finest quality. Meanwhile her companion talked on.
"The ancestor worship? Oh yes! I daresay you might like it for a change. Getting it as I do, as habitual diet, it is not remarkably stimulating. The natural man prefers to find occasion for worshipping himself rather than his ancestors, after all, you know. But a little turn of it will serve to fill in a gap and lessen the monotony of your visit. I am afraid you must be a good deal bored, Helen. It must seem rather terribly humdrum here after Paris and Naples, and—well—most places, at that rate, as you know them."
Richard shifted his position. And the crystal moon encompassed by golden bands, crossing and intersecting one another like those of a sidereal sphere, gleamed as with an inward and unearthly light, swinging slowly upon the movement of his hand.
"You must feel here as though the clock had been put back two or three centuries. I know we move slowly, and conduct ourselves with tedious deliberation. And so, you understand, you mustn't let me keep you. Just look at what you like of these odds and ends, and then depart without scruple. It's rather a fraud, in any case, my showing them to you. Julius March, as I told you, is much better qualified to."
"Julius March, Julius March!" Madame de Vallorbes broke in. "Do, I beseech you, dear cousin Richard, leave him to the pious retirement of his study. Is he not middle‐aged, and a priest into the bargain?"
"Unquestionably," Dickie said. "But, pardon me, I don't quite see what that has to do with it,"
Thereupon Madame de Vallorbes made a very naughty, little grimace and drummed with her finger‐tips upon the table.
"La! la!" she cried, "you're no better than all the rest. Commend me to a clever man for incapacity to apprehend what is patent to the intelligence of the most ordinary woman. Look about you."—Helen sketched in their surroundings with a quick descriptive gesture. "Observe the lights and shadows. The ghostly wavings of those pale curtains. Smell the pot‐pourri and spices. Think of the ancestor worship. Listen to the lamenting wind and rain. See the mysterious treasure you hold in your hand. And then ask me what middle‐age and the clerical profession have to do with all this! Why, nothing, just precisely nothing, nothing in the whole world. That's the point page: 204 of my argument. They'd ruin the sentiment, blight the romance, hopelessly blight it—for me at least."
The conversation was slightly embarrassed, both Helen and Richard talking at length, yet at random. But she knew that it was thus, and not otherwise, that it behoved them to talk. For that which they said mattered not in the least. The thing said served as a veil, as a cloak, merely, wherewith to disguise those much greater things which, perforce, remained unsaid.—To cover his and her lively consciousness of their present isolation, desired these many days and now obtained. To conceal the swift, silent approaches of spirit to spirit, so full of inquiry and self‐revelation, fugitive reserves and fugitive distrusts. To hide, as far as might be, the existence of the hungry, all‐compelling joie de vivre which is begotten whensoever youth thus seeks and finds youth.—These unspoken and, as yet, unspeakable things were alone of real moment, making eyes lustrous and lips quick with tremulous, uncalled‐for smiles irrespective of the purport of their speech.
"Ah! but that's rather rough on poor dear Julius, you know," Dickie said. "I suppose you wanted to learn all"—
"Learn?" she interrupted. "I wanted to feel. Don't you know there is only one way any woman worth the name ever really learns—through her emotions? Only the living feel. Such men as he, if they are sincere, are already dead. He would have made feeling impossible."
A perceptible hush descended upon the room. Richard Calmady's hand usually was steady enough, but, in the silence, the pearls chattered against the table. He went rather pale and his face hardened.
"And are you getting anything of that which you wanted, Helen?" he asked. "For sometimes in the last few days—since you have been here—I—I have wondered if perhaps we were not all like that—all dead"—
"You mean do I get emotion, am I feeling?" she said. "Rest contented. Much is happening. Indeed I have doubted, during the last few days, since I have been here, whether I have ever known what it is to feel actually and seriously before."
She sat down at right angles to him, resting her elbows upon the table, her chin upon her folded hands, leaning a little towards him. One of those pleasant heats swept over her, flushing her delicate skin, lending a certain effulgence to her beauty. The scent of roses long faded hung in the air. But here was a rose sweeter far than they. No white rose of paradise, it must be confessed. Rather, like her immortal namesake, that page: 205 classic Helen, was she rosa mundi, glowing with warmth and colour, rose‐red rose altogether of this dear, naughty, lower world!
"Richard," she said impulsively, "why don't you understand? Why do you underrate your own power? Don't you know that you are quite the most moving, the most attractive—well—cousin, a woman ever had?"
She looked closely at him, her lips a little parted, her head thrown back.
"Life is sweet, dear cousin. Reckon with yourself and with it, and live—live."—Then she put out her hand and held up the crystal between her face and his. "There," she went on, "tell me about this. I become indiscreet, thanks I suppose to your Brockhurst habit of putting back the clock, and speak with truly Elizabethan frankness. It belongs to semi‐barbaric ages, doesn't it, thus, to tell the true truth? Show me this. It seems rather fascinating."
And Richard obeyed mechanically, pointing out to her the signs of the Zodiac, those of the planets, and other figures of occult significance engraved on the encircling, golden bands. Showed her how those same bands, turning on a pivot, formed a golden cradle, in which the crystal sphere reposed. He lifted it out from that cradle, moreover, and laid it in the softer cradle of her palm. And of necessity, in the doing of all this, their heads—his and hers—were very near together, and their hands met. But they were very solemn all the while, solemn, eager, busy, as two babies revealing to each other the mysteries of a newly acquired toy. And it seemed to Madame de Vallorbes that all this was as pretty a bit of business as ever served to help forward such gay purposes as hers. She was pleased with herself too—for did she not feel very gentle, very sincere, really very innocent and good?
"No, hold it so," Richard said, rounding her fingers carefully, that the tips of them might alone touch the surface of the crystal. "Now gaze into the heart of it steadily, fixing your will to see. Pictures will come presently, dimly at first, as in a mist. Then the mist will lift and you will read your own fortune and—perhaps—some other person's fate."
"Have you ever read yours?"
"Oh! mine's of a sort that needs no crystal to reveal it," he answered, with a queer drop in his voice. "It's written in rather indecently big letters and plain type. Always has been."
Helen glanced at him. His words whipped up her sense of drama, fed her excitement. But she bent her eyes upon the page: 206 crystal again, and the hush descended once more, disturbed only by that nervous tapping of rain.
"I see nothing,—nothing," she said presently. "And there is much I would give very much to see."
"You must gaze with a simple intention."—The young man's voice came curiously hoarse and broken. "Purify your mind of all desire."
Helen did not raise her head.
"Alas! if those are the conditions of revelation my chances of seeing are extremely limited. To purify one's mind of all desire is to commit emotional suicide. Of course I desire, all the while I desire. And equally, of course, you desire. Every one who is human and in their sober senses must do that. Absence of desire means idiotcy, or"—
"Or what?"
For an instant she looked up at him, a very devil of dainty malice in her expression, in the shrug of her shoulders too, beneath their fine laces and the affected sobriety of that same dull‐blue, poplin gown.
"Or priestly, saintly middle‐age—from which may Heaven in its mercy ever deliver us," she said.
Richard shifted his position a little, gathering himself back from her so near neighbourhood—a fact of which the young lady was not unaware.
"I'm not quite sure whether I echo your prayer," he said slowly. "I doubt whether that attitude, or one approximate to it, is not the safest and best for some of us."
"Safest, no doubt."—Madame de Vallorbes' eyes were bent on the crystal sphere again. "As it is safer to decline a duel, than go out and meet your man. Best? On that point you must permit me to hold my own opinion. The word 'best' has many readings according to the connection in which it isemployed. Personally I should always fight."
"Whatever the odds?"
"Whatever the odds."—And almost immediately Madame de Vallorbes uttered a little cry, curiously at variance with her bold words, "Something is moving inside the crystal, something is coming. I don't half like it, Richard. Perhaps we are tempting Providence. Yes, it moves, it moves, like mist rising off a river. It is poisonous. Some woman has looked into this before—a woman of my temperament—and read an evil fortune. I know it. Tell me, quick, how did the crystal come here, to whom did it belong?"
"To Mary Stuart—Mary, Queen of Scots," Dickie said.page: 207
"Ah! unhappy woman, ill‐omened woman! You should have told me that before and I would never have looked. Here take it, take it. Lock it up, hide it. Let no woman ever look in it again!"
As she spoke Helen crossed herself hastily, pushing the magic ball towards him. But, as though endowed with life and volition of its own—or was it merely that Dick's hand was even yet not quite of the steadiest?—it evaded his grasp, fell off the table edge and rolled, gleaming moonlike, far across the floor, away behind the pedestal of the bronze Pompeian Antinous, into the dusky shadow of those ghostly‐waving, turquoise, satin curtains.
With a sense of catastrophe upon her Helen had sprung to her feet.—Even now, standing in the peaceful warmth of the autumn sunshine, among the feeding pea‐fowl, the remembrance of it caused her a little shiver. For at sight of that gleaming ball hurrying across the carpet, all the nervousness, the distrust of herself, and the vague spiritual alarms, which had beset her on first entering the room, returned on her with tenfold force. The superstitious terrors of the convent‐bred girl mastered the light‐hearted scepticism of the woman of the world, and regions of sinister possibility seemed disclosing themselves around her.
"Oh! how horrible! What does it mean?" she cried.
And Richard answered cheerily, somewhat astonished at her agitation, trying to reassure her.
"Mean? Nothing, except that I was abominably awkward and the crystal abominably slippery. What does it matter? We can find it again directly."
Then, self‐forgetful in the fulness of his longing to pacify her, Richard had pushed his chair back from the table, intending to go in search of the vagrant jewel. But the chair was high, and its make not of the most solid sort; and so he paused, instinctively calculating the amount of support it could be trusted to render him in his descent. And during that pause Helen had felt her heart stand still.—She set her little teeth now, recalling it. For the extent of his deformity was fully apparent for once. And, apprehending that which he proposed to do, she was smitten by immense curiosity to realise the ultimate of the grotesque in respect of his appearance as he should move, walk, grope in the dimness over there after the lost crystal. But there are some indulgences which can be bought at too high a price, and along with the temptation to gratify her curiosity came an intensification of superstitious alarm. What if page: 208 she had sinned, and trafficked with diabolic agencies in trying to read the future? Payment of an actively disagreeable character might be exacted for that, and would not such payment risk disastrous augmentation if she gratified her curiosity thus further? Helen de Vallorbes became quite wonderfully prudent and humane.
"No, no, don't bother about it, don't move, dear Richard," she cried. "Let me find it, please. I saw exactly the direction in which it went."
And to enforce her speech, and keep the young man in his place, she laid her hands persuasively upon his shoulders. This brought her charming face, so pure in outline, set in its aureole of honey‐coloured hair, very near to his, she looking down, he up. And in this position the two remained longer than was absolutely necessary, silent, quite still, while the air grew thick with the push of unspoken and as yet unspeakable matters, and Helen's hands resting upon his shoulders grew heavy, as the seconds passed, with languorous weight.
"There are better things than crystals to read in, after all, Richard," she said at last. Then she lifted her hands almost brusquely and stepped back.—"All the same it is stupid I should have to go away," she continued, speaking more to herself than to him. "I am happy here. And when I am happy it's easy to be good—and I like to be good."
She crossed the room and passed behind the bronze Pompeian Antinous. Under the shadow of the curtains, in the angle of the bay, against the wainscot, Queen Mary's magic ball glowed softly luminous. Helen could have believed that it watched her. She hesitated before stooping to pick it up and looked over her shoulder at Richard Calmady. His back was towards her, his chair close against the table again. He leaned forward on his elbows, his face buried in his hands. Something in the bowed head, in the set of the almost crouching figure reassured Madame de Vallorbes. She picked up the crystal without more ado, with, indeed, a certain flippancy of gesture. For she had received pleasing assurance that she had been frightened in the wrong place, and that the eternal laughter was very completely on her side after all.
And just then a bell had rung in some distant quarter of the great house. Powell, incarnation of decent punctualities, had appeared. Whereupon the temperature fell to below normal from fever‐heat. Drama, accentuations of sensibility, in short all the unspoken and unspeakable, withered as tropic foliage at a touch of frost. No doubt it was as well, Madame de Vallorbes page: 209 reflected philosophically, since the really psychological moment was passed. There had been a dinner party last night, and—
But here the young lady's reminiscences broke off short. She gathered up her blue, poplin, scarlet‐lined skirts, ran down the steps, scattering the pea‐fowl to right and left, and hastened across the gravel.
"Wait half a minute for me, dear Aunt Katherine," she cried. "Are you going to the conservatories? I would so like to see them. May I go too?"
Lady Calmady stood by the door in the high, red‐brick wall. She wore a white, lace scarf over her hair—turned up and back, dressed high, as of old, though now somewhat grey upon the temples. The lace was tied under her chin, framing her face. In her grey dress she looked as some stately, yet gracious, lady abbess might—a lady abbess who had known love in all fulness, yet in all honour—a lady abbess painted, if such happy chance could be, by the debonair and clean‐hearted Reynolds. She stood smiling, charmed—though a trifle unwillingly—by the brilliant vision of the younger woman.
"Assuredly you may come with me, if it would amuse you," she said.
"I may? Then let me open that door for you. La! la! how it sticks. Last night's rain must have swelled it"—and she wrestled unsuccessfully with the lock.
"My dear, don't try any more," Katherine said. "You will tire yourself. The exertion is too great for you. I will go back and call one of the servants."
"No, no"—and regardless of her fine laces, and trinkets, and sables Madame de Vallorbes put her shoulder against the resisting door and fairly burst it open.
"See," she cried, breathless but triumphant, "I am very strong."
"You are very pretty," Katherine said, almost involuntarily.
The steeply‐terraced kitchen‐gardens, neat box edgings, wide flower borders in which a few clumps of chrysanthemum and Michaelmas daisy still resisted the frost, ranged down to greenish, brown ponds in the valley bottom spotted with busy, quacking companies of white ducks. Beyond was an ascending slope of thick wood, the topmost trees of which showed bare against the sky line. All this was framed by the arch of the door, Madame de Vallorbes glanced at it, while she pulled down the soft waves of hair, which her late exertions had slightly disarranged, over her right temple. Then she turned impulsively to Lady Calmady.page: 210
"Thank you, dear Aunt Katherine," she said. "I would so like you to like me, you know."
"I should be rather unpardonably difficult to please, if I did not like you, my dear," Lady Calmady answered. But she sighed as she spoke.
The two women moved away, side by side, down the path to the glistering greenhouses. But Camp, who, missing Richard, had followed his mistress out of the house for a leisurely morning potter, turned back sulkily across the gravel homewards, his tail limp, his heavy head carried low. His instincts were conservative, as has been already mentioned. He was suspicious of new‐comers. And, whoever liked this particular new‐comer, Madame de Vallorbes, he was sorry to say—and on more than one occasion he said it with quite inconvenient distinctness—he did not.


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Any parking spot fitted with Qualcomm Halo™ technology is a place to recharge your electric car. It's a simple, elegant way to power up, cable-free.
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Luke Fera '06
Biology Major
"LSSU has a great reputation for placing students in graduate and professional schools. Many of my classmates from LSSU are now pursuing graduate and professional studies at some of the finest universities in Canada and the United States."
"The student-faculty interaction and the ability to conduct research at the undergraduate level really helped me to achieve success in a competitive graduate program. My professors at LSSU were always interested in helping us succeed."
Luke Fera of Sault Ste. Marie graduated from LSSU in 2006 with a degree in biology and is now working toward a master's degree in epidemiology at University of Western Ontario in London. He plans to continue his studies in the medical sciences.
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This group enjoys the Classic Bash on Saturday night. Click here to download print-version


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Hmm…food, travel, books, and just random stuff that I like.
Bachelorette parties in Las Vegas are always so much fun. Nice hotels + delicious food + insane amount of alcohol = unforgettable weekend. Congratulations Judy!
Scarpetta – Stracci (lobster, shrimp & basil bread crumbs) & Strawberry Tart.
There were no mermaids in the pool at the Marquee, but there were acrobats.
Estiatorio Milos – scallop skewers, Lavraki (grilled bass), walnut pie with Kaimaki ice cream & yogurt martini.
Judy seems to really like the SAW and shooting terrorists.
All photo and video contents having to do with games and dares executed on this particular weekend are censored and will not be posted here.
STK – Colorado lamb chops, fillet medallion w/ foie gras, yukon potatoes and lots of desserts.
We had a lot of fun at XS 🙂


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| Unhealthy frozen meals are not the exclusive domain of dinnertime; breakfast gets its fair share of entries. This 710-calorie Breakfast Bowl, with four sausage links and three pancakes, also has 34 grams of fat and 1,000 milligrams of sodium. Their site asks: "Feeling the glow yet?" Um, no.
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| What could be a good protein source is clouded by enough sodium (2,100 milligrams) and calories (740) to negate the positives. These 30-fat-gram enchiladas come on a corn tortilla and are sided with Spanish rice, beans, and salsa, which in themselves could be fine without all the sodium. They're covered with imitation Cheddar cheese made with sodium aluminum phosphate and cellulose powder, among other things.
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| This single-serving pizza might seem a better idea than grabbing a few slices at your local pizza joint. But still, its 770 calories are significantly more than most frozen pizzas, with 32 grams of fat and 1,330 milligrams of sodium (plus chemicals like methylcellulose and sodium stearoyl lactylate) to boot. And while this pizza is technically two servings, we're not sure who would stop at half.
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| We like our Mexican fix as much as the next person, but not when it involves a heaping load of calories (790), 43 grams of fat and 790 milligrams of sodium (plus a dose of sodium metabisulfite, whatever that is). According to CalorieKing.com, you'd have to walk 219 minutes to work off your meal.
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| Part of Hungry Man's Sports Grill series, the Popcorn Fish and Chips meal is topped with cheese sauce just to make it even more caloric (880). Like its colleague, the Classic Fried Chicken, it has an insane amount of sodium (2,640 milligrams) and actually even more fat (48 grams).
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| You'd better be a Hungry Man (grrr!) to eat this one, which comes with reconstituted potatoes, corn, and a brownie — and you'd better be an Exercising Man to work it off. It tops our list in the calorie category, coming in at 960, with an over-the-top sodium level (2,869 milligrams!) and 45 grams of fat. Ingredients like monosodium glutamate and sodium acid pyrophosphate make it even less like down-home cooking.
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IT happened in this way, towards the end of August 1842. In the grey of the summer evening, as the sunset faded and the twilight gathered, spreading itself tenderly over the pastures and cornfields,—over the purple‐green glooms of the fir forest—over the open moors, whose surface is scored for miles by the turf‐slane of the cottager and squatter—over the clear, brown streams that trickle out of the pink and emerald mosses of the peat‐bogs, and gain volume and rigour as they sparkle away by woodside, and green‐lane, and village street—and over those secret, bosky places, in the heart of the great common‐lands, where the smooth, white stems and glossy foliage of the self‐sown hollies spring up between the roots of the beech trees, where plovers cry, and stoat and weazel lurk and scamper, while the old poacher's lean, ill‐favoured, rusty‐coloured lurcher picks up a shrieking hare, and where wandering bands of gypsies—those lithe, onyx‐eyed children of the magic East—still pitch their dirty, little, fungus‐like tents around the camp fire,—as the sunset died and the twilight thus softly widened and deepened, Lady Calmady found herself, for the first time during all the long summer day, alone.page: 7
For, though no royal personage had graced the occasion with his presence, nor had bears suffered martyrdom to promote questionably amiable mirth, Brockhurst, during the past week, had witnessed a series of festivities hardly inferior to those which marked Sir Denzil's historic house‐warming. Young Sir Richard Calmady had brought home his bride, and it was but fitting the whole countryside should see her. So all and sundry received generous entertainment according to their degree.—Labourers, tenants, school‐children. Weary old‐age from Pennygreen poorhouse, taking its pleasure of cakes and ale half suspiciously in the broad sunshine. The leading shopkeepers of Westchurch, and their humbler brethren from Farley Row. All the country gentry too.—Lord and Lady Fallowfeild and a goodly company from Whitney Park, Lord Denier and a large contingent from Grimshott Place, the Cathcarts of Newlands, and many more persons of undoubted consequence—specially perhaps in their own eyes. Not to mention a small army of local clergy—who ever display a touching alacrity in attending festivals, even those of a secular character—with camp‐followers, in the form of wives and families, galore.
And now, at last, all was over,—balls, sports, theatricals, dinners—the last, in the case of the labourers, with the unlovely adjunct of an ox roasted whole. Even the final garden‐party, designed to include such persons as it was, socially speaking, a trifle difficult to place—Image, owner of the big Shotover brewery, for instance, who was shouldering his way so vigorously towards fortune and a seat on the bench of magistrates; the younger members of the firm of Goteway & Fox, solicitors of Westchurch; Goodall, the Methodist miller from Parson's Holt, and certain sporting yeoman farmers with their comely womankind—even this final entertainment, with all its small triumphs and heart‐burnings, flutterings of youthful inexperience, aspirations, condescensions, had gone, like the rest of the week's junketings, to swell the sum of things accomplished, of all that which is past and done with and will never come again.
Fully an hour ago, Dr. Knott, under plea of waiting cases, had hitched his ungainly, thick‐set figure into his high gig.
"Plenty of fine folks, eh, Timothy?" he said to the ferret‐faced groom beside him, as he gathered up the reins, and the brown mare, knowing the hand on her mouth, laid herself out to her work. "Handsome young couple as anybody need wish to see. Not much business doing there for me, I fancy, unless it lies in the nursery line."page: 8
"Say those Brockhurst folks mostly dies airly though,". remarked Timothy, with praiseworthy effort at professional encouragement.
"Eh! so you've heard that story too, have you?"—and John Knott drew the lash gently across the hollow of the mare's back.
"This 'ere Sir Richard's the third baronet I've a‐seen, and I bean't so very old neither."
The doctor looked down at the spare little man with a certain snarling affection, as he said:—"Oh no! I'm not kept awake o' nights by the fear of losing you, Timothy. Your serviceable old carcass 'll hang together for a good while yet."—Then his rough eyebrows drew into a line, and he stared thoughtfully down the long space of the clean gravel road under the meeting branches of the lime trees.
The Whitney char à bancs had driven off but a few minutes later, to the admiration of all beholders; yet not, it must be admitted, without a measure of inward perturbation on the part of that noble charioteer, Lord Fallowfeild. Her Ladyship was constitutionally timid, and he was none too sure of the behaviour of his leaders in face of the string of very miscellaneous vehicles waiting to take up. However, the illustrious party happily got off without any occasion for Lady Fallowfeild's screaming. Then the ardour of departure became universal, and in broken procession the many carriages, phætons, gigs, traps, pony‐chaises streamed away from Brockhurst House, north, south, and east, and west.
Lady Calmady had bidden her guests farewell at the side‐door opening on to the terrace, before they passed through the house to the main entrance in the south front. Last to go, as he had been first to come, was that worthy person, Thomas Caryll, the rector of Sandyfield. Mild, white‐haired, deficient in chin, he had a natural leaning towards women in general, and towards those of the upper classes in particular. Katherine Calmady's radiant youth, her courtesy, her undeniable air of distinction, and a certain gracious gaiety which belonged to her, had, combined with unaccustomed indulgence in claret cup, gone far to turn the good man's head during the afternoon. Regardless of the slightly flustered remonstrances of his wife and daughters, he lingered, expending himself in innocently confused compliment, supplemented by prophecies regarding the blessings destined to descend upon Brockhurst and the mother parish of Sandyfield in virtue of Lady Calmady's advent.
But at length he also departed. Katherine waited, her eyes full of laughter, until Mr. Caryll's footsteps died away on the page: 9 stone quarries of the great hall within. Then she gently drew the heavy door to, and stepped out on to the centre of the terrace. The grass slopes of the park—dotted with thorn trees and beds of bracken,—the lime avenue running along the ridge of the hill, the ragged edge of the fir forest to the east, and the mass of the house, all these were softened to a vagueness—as the landscape in a dream—by the deepening twilight. An immense repose pervaded the whole scene. It affected Katherine to a certain seriousness. Social excitements and responsibilities, the undoubted success that had attended her maiden essay as hostess during the past week, shrank to trivial proportions. Another order of emotion arose in her. She became sensible of a necessity to take counsel with herself.
She moved slowly along the terrace, paused in the arcaded garden‐hall at the end of it—the carven stone benches and tables of which showed somewhat ghostly in the dimness—to put off her bonnet and push back the lace scarf from her shoulders. An increasing solemnity was upon her. There were things to think of—things deep and strange. She must needs place them, make an effort, anyhow, to do so. And, in face of this necessity, came an instinct to rid herself of all small impeding conventionalities even in the matter of dress. For there was in Katherine that inherent desire of harmony with her surroundings, that natural sense of fitness, which—given certain technical aptitudes—goes to make a great dramatic artist. But, since in her case such technical aptitudes were either non‐existent or wholly latent, it followed that, save in nice questions of private honour, she was quite the least self‐conscious and self‐critical of human beings. Now, as she passed out under the archway on to the square lawn of the troco‐ground, bare‐headed, in her pale dress, a sweet seriousness filling all her mind, even as the sweet, summer twilight filled all the valley and veiled the gleaming surface of the Long Water far below, she felt wholly in sympathy with the aspect and sentiment of the place. Indeed it appeared to her, just then, that the four months of her marriage, the five months of her engagement, even the twenty‐two years which made up all the sum of her earthly living, were a prelude merely to the present hour and to that which lay immediately ahead.
Yet the prelude had, in truth, been a pretty enough piece of music. Katherine's experience had but few black patches in it as yet. Furnished with a fair and healthy body, with fine breeding, with a character in which the pride and grit of her North Country ancestry were tempered by the poetic instincts and quick page: 10 wit which came to her with her mother's Irish blood, Katherine Ormiston started better furnished than most to play the great game that all are bound to play—whether they will or no—with fate. Mrs. Ormiston, still young and beloved, had died in bringing this, her only daughter, into the world; and her husband had looked somewhat coldly upon the poor baby in consequence. There was an almost misanthropic vein in the autocratic land‐owner and iron‐master. He had three sons already, and therefore found but little use for this woman‐child. So, while pluming himself on his clear judgment and unswerving reason, he resented, most unreasonably, her birth, since it took his wife from him. Such is the irony of things, forever touching man on the raw, proving his weakness in that he holds his strongest point! In fact, however, Katherine suffered but slightly from the poor welcome that greeted her advent in the grey, many‐towered house upon the Yorkshire coast. For her great‐aunt, Mrs. St. Quentin, speedily gathered the small creature into her still beautiful arms, and lavished upon it both tenderness and wealth, along—as it grew to a companionable age—with the wisdom of a mind ripened by wide acquaintance with men and with public affairs. Mrs. St. Quentin—famous in Dublin, London, Paris, as a beauty and a wit—had passed her early womanhood amid the tumult of great events. She had witnessed the horrors of the Terror, the splendid amazements of the First Empire; and could still count among her friends and correspondents, politicians and literary men of no mean standing. A legend obtains that Lord Byron sighed for her—and in vain. For, as Katherine came to know later, this woman had loved once, daringly, finally, yet without scandal—though the name of him whom she loved, and who loved her, was not, it must be owned, St. Quentin. And perhaps it was just this, this hidden and somewhat tragic romance, which kept her so young, so fresh; kept her unworldly, though moving so freely in the world; had given her that exquisite sense of relative values and that knowledge of the heart, which leads, as the divine Plato has testified, to the highest and most reconciling philosophy.
Thus, the delicately brilliant old lady and the radiant young lady lived together delightfully enough, spending their winters in Paris in a pretty apartment in the rue de Rennes—shared with one Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, whose friendship with Mrs. St. Quentin dated from their schooldays at the convent of the Sacré Cœur. Spring and autumn found Katherine and her great‐aunt in London. While, in summer, there was always a long visit to Ormiston Castle, looking out from the cliff‐edge page: 11 upon the restless North Sea. Lovers came in due course. For over and above its own shapeliness—which surely was reason enough—Katherine's hand was well worth winning from the worldly point of view. She would have money; and Mrs. St. Quentin's influence would count for much in the case of a great‐nephew‐by‐marriage who aspired to a parliamentary or diplomatic career. But the lovers also went, for Katherine asked a great deal—not so much of them, perhaps, as of herself. She had taken an idea, somehow, that marriage, to be in the least satisfactory, must be based on love; and that love, worth the name, is an essentially two‐sided business. Indirectly the girl had learnt much on this difficult subject from her great‐aunt; and with characteristic directness had agreed with herself to wait till her heart was touched, if she waited a lifetime—though of exactly in what either her heart, or the touching of it, consisted she was deliciously innocent as yet.
And then, in the summer of 1841, Sir Richard Calmady came to Ormiston. He and her brother Roger had been at Eton together. Katherine remembered him, years ago, as a well‐bred and courteously contemptuous schoolboy, upon whose superior mind, small female creatures—busy about dolls, and victims of the athletic restrictions imposed by petticoats—made but slight impression. Latterly Sir Richard's name had come to be one to conjure with in racing circles, thanks to the performances of certain horses bred and trained at the Brockhurst stables; though some critics, it is true, deplored his tendency to neglect the older and more legitimate sport of flat‐racing in favour of steeple‐chasing. It was said he aspired to rival the long list of victories achieved by Mr. Elmore's Gaylad and Lottery, and the successes of Peter Simple the famous grey. This much Katherine had heard of him from her brother. And, having her naughty turns—as what charming woman has not?—had set him down as probably a rough sort of person, notwithstanding his wealth and good connections, a kind of gentleman‐jockey, upon whom it would be easy to take a measure of pretty revenge for his boyish indifference to her existence. But the meeting and the young man, alike, turned out quite other than she had anticipated. For she found a person as well furnished in all polite and social arts as herself, with no flavour of the stable about him. She had reckoned on one whose scholarship would carry him no further than a few stock quotations from Horace, and whose knowledge of art would begin and end with a portrait of himself presented by the members of a local hunt. Therefore it was a little surprising—possibly a little mortifying to her—to page: 12 hear him talking over obscure passages in Spenser's Faerie Queene with Mrs. St. Quentin, before the end of the dinner, and nicely apprising the relative merits of the water‐colour sketches, by Turner, that hung on either side the drawing‐room fireplace.
Nor did Katherine's surprises end here. An unaccountable something was taking place within her, that opened up a whole new range of emotion. She, the least moody of young women, had strange fluctuations of temper, finding herself buoyantly happy one hour, the next pensive, filled with timidity and self‐distrust—not to mention little fits of gusty anger, and purposeless jealousy which took her, hurting her pride shrewdly. She grew anxiously solicitous as to her personal appearance. This dress would not please her nor that. The image of her charming, oval face and well‐set head ceased to satisfy her. Surely a woman's hair should be either positively blond or black, not this undeterminate brown, with warm lights in it? She feared her mouth was not small enough, the lips too full and curved for prettiness. She wished her eyes less given to change, under their dark lashes, from clear grey‐blue to a nameless colour, like the gloom of the pools of a woodland stream, as her feelings changed from gladness to distress. She feared her complexion was too bright, and then not bright enough. And, all the while, a certain shame possessed her that she should care at all about such trivial matters; for life had grown suddenly larger and more august. Books she had read, faces she had watched a hundred times, the vast horizon looking eastward over the unquiet sea, all these gained a new value and meaning which at once enthralled and agitated her thought.
Sir Richard Calmady stayed a fortnight at Ormiston. And the two ladies crossed to Paris earlier, that autumn, than was their custom. Katherine was not in her usual good health, and Mrs. St. Quentin desired change of air and scene on her account. She took Mademoiselle de Mirancourt into her confidence, hinting at causes for her restlessness and wayward, little humours unacknowledged by the girl herself. Then the two elder women wrapped Katherine about with an atmosphere of—if possible—deeper tenderness than before; mingling sentiment with their gaiety, and gaiety with their sentiment, and the delicate respect which refrains from question with both.
One keenly bright, October afternoon Richard Calmady called in the rue de Rennes. It appeared he had come to Paris with the intention of remaining there for an indefinite period. He called again and yet again, making himself charming—a touch of page: 13 deference tempering his natural suavity—alike to his hostesses and to such of their guests as he happened to meet. It was the fashion of fifty years ago to conduct affairs, even those of the heart, with a dignified absence of precipitation. The weeks passed, while Sir Richard became increasingly welcome in some of the very best houses in Paris.—And Katherine? It must be owned Katherine was not without some heartaches, which she proudly tried to deny to herself and conceal from others. But eventually—it was on the morning after the ball at the British Embassy—the man spoke and the maid answered, and the old order changed, giving place to new, in the daily life of the pretty apartment of the rue de Rennes.
About five months later the marriage took place in London; and Sir Richard and Lady Calmady started forth on a wedding journey of the old‐fashioned type. They travelled up the Rhine, and posted, all in the delicious, early summer weather, through Northern Italy, as far as Florence. They returned by Paris. And there, Mrs. St. Quentin watching—in almost painful anxiety—to see how it fared with her recovered darling, was wholly satisfied, and gave thanks. For she perceived that, in this case at least, marriage was no legal, conventional connection leaving the heart emptier than it found it—the bartering of precious freedom for a joyless bondage—an obligation, weary in the present, and hopeless of alleviation in the future, save by the reaching of that far‐distant, heavenly country, concerning which it is comfortably assured us "that there they neither marry nor are given in marriage." For the Katherine who came back to her was at once the same, and yet another Katherine—one who carried her head more proudly and stepped as though she was mistress of the whole fair earth, but whose merry wit had lost its little edge of sarcasm, whose sympathy was quicker and more instinctive, whose voice had taken fuller and more caressing tones, and in whose sweet eyes sat a steady content good to see. Then, suddenly, Mrs. St. Quentin began to feel her age as she had never, consciously, felt it before; and to be very willing to fold her hands and recite her Nunc Dimittis. For, in looking on the faces of the bride and bridegroom, she had looked once again on the face of Love itself, and had stood within the court of the temple of that Uranian Venus whose unsullied glory is secure here and hereafter, since to her it is given to discover to her worshippers the innermost secret of existence, thereby fencing them forever against the plagues of change, delusion, and decay. Love began gently to loosen the cords of life, and to draw Lucia St. Quentin home—home to that dear dwelling‐place which, as page: 14 we fondly trust—since God Himself is Love—is reserved for all true lovers beyond the grave and Gates of Death. Thus one flower falls as another opens, and to‐day, however sweet, is only won across the corpse of yesterday.
And it was some perception of just this—the ceaseless push of event following on event, the ceaseless push of the yet unborn struggling to force the doors of life—which moved Katherine to seriousness, as she stood alone on the smooth expanse of the troco‐ground, in the soft, all‐covering twilight, at the close of the day's hospitality.
On her right the house, and its delicate, twisted chimneys, showed dark against the fading rose of the western sky. The air, rich with the fragrance of the red‐walled gardens behind her,—with the scent of jasmine, heliotrope and clove carnations, ladies‐lilies and mignonette,—was stirred, now and again, by wandering winds, cool from the spaces of the open moors. While, as the last roll of departing wheels died out along the avenues, the voices of the woodland began to reassert themselves. Wild‐fowl called from the alder‐fringed Long Water. Night‐hawks churred as they beat on noiseless wings above the beds of bramble and bracken. A cock pheasant made a most admired stir and keckling in seeing his wife and brood to roost on the branches of one of King James's age‐old Scotch firs.
And this sense of nature coming back to claim her own, to make known her eternal supremacy, now that the fret of man's little pleasuring had passed, was very grateful to Katherine Calmady. Her soul cried out to be free, for a time, to contemplate, to fully apprehend and measure, its own happiness. It needed to stand aside, so that the love given and all given with that love—even these matters of house and gardens, of men‐servants and maid‐servants, of broad acres, all the poetry, in short, of great possessions—might be seen in perspective. For Katherine had that necessity—in part intellectual, in part practical, and common to all who possess the gift for rule—to resist the confusing importunity of detail, and to grasp intelligently the Whole, which alone gives to detail coherence and purpose. Her mind was not one—perhaps unhappily—which is contented to merely play with bricks, but which demands the plan of the building into which those bricks should grow. And she wanted, just now, to lay hold of the plan of the fair building of her own life. And to this end the solitude, the evening quiet, the restful unrest of the forest and its wild creatures, should surely have ministered. She moved forward page: 15 and sat on the broad, stone balustrade which, topping the buttressed masonry that supports it above the long downward slope of the park, encloses the troco‐ground on the south.
The landscape lay drowned in the mystery of the summer night. And Katherine, looking out into it, tried to think clearly, tried to range the many new experiences of the last few months and to reckon with them. But her brain refused to work obediently to her will. She felt strangely hurried for all the surrounding quiet.
One train of thought, which she had been busy enough by day and honestly sleepy enough at night to keep at arm's length during this time of home‐coming and entertaining, now invaded and possessed her mind—filling it at once with a new and overwhelming movement of tenderness yet, for all her high courage, with a certain fear. She cried out for a little space of liberty, a little space in which to take breath. She wanted to pause, here in the fulness of her content. But no pause was granted her. She was so happy, she asked nothing more. But something more was forced upon her. And so it happened that, in realising the ceaseless push of event on event, the ceaseless dying of dear to‐day in the service of unborn to‐morrow, her gentle seriousness touched on regret.
How long she remained lost in such pensive reflections Lady Calmady could not have said. Suddenly the terrace door slammed. A moment later a man's footsteps echoed across the flags of the garden‐hall.
"Katherine," Richard Calmady called, somewhat imperatively, "Katherine, are you there?"
She turned and stood watching him as he came rapidly across the turf.
"Yes, I am here," she said. "Do you want me?"
"Do I want you?" he answered curtly. "Don't I always want you?"
A little sob rose in her throat—she knew not why, for, hearing the tone of his voice, her sadness was strangely assuaged.
"I could not find you," he went on. "And I got into an absurd state of panic—sent Roger in one direction, and Julius in another, to look for you."
"Whereupon Roger, probably, posted down to the stables, and Julius up to the chapel to search. Where the heart dwells there the feet follow. Meanwhile, you came straight here and found me yourself."page: 16
"I might have known I should do that."
The importunate thought returned upon Katherine, and with it a touch of her late melancholy.
"Ah! one knows nothing for certain when one is frightened," she said. She moved closer to him, holding out her hand. "Here," she continued, "you are a little too shadowy, too unsubstantial, in this light, Dick. I would rather make more sure of your presence."
Richard Calmady laughed very gently. Then the two stood silent, looking out over the dim valley, hand in hand.—The scent of the gardens was about them. Moving lights showed through the many windows of the great house. The water‐fowl called sleepily. The churring of the night‐hawks was continuous, soothing as the hum of a spinning‐wheel. Somewhere, away in the Warren, a fox barked. In the eastern sky, the young moon began to climb above the ragged edge of the firs.—When they spoke again it was very simply, in broken sentences, as children speak. The poetry of their relation to one another and the scene about them were too full of meaning, too lovely, to call for polish of rhetoric, or pointing by epigram.
"Tell me," Katherine said, "were you satisfied? Did I entertain your people prettily?"
"Prettily? You entertained them as they had never been entertained before—like a queen—and they knew it. But why did you stay out here alone?"
"To think—and to look at Brockhurst."
"Yes, it's worth looking at now," he said. "It was like a body wanting a soul till you came."
"But you loved it?" Katherine reasoned.
"Oh yes! because I believed the soul would come some day. Brockhurst, and the horses, and the books, all helped to make the time pass while I was waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"Why, for you, of course, you dear, silly sweet! Haven't I always been waiting for you—just precisely and wholly you, nothing more or less—all through my life, all through all conceivable and inconceivable lives, since before the world began?"
Katherine's breath came with a fluttering sigh. She let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her eyes closed involuntarily. She loved these fond exaggerations—as what woman does not who has had the good fortune to hear them? They pierced her with a delicious pain. And—perhaps therefore, perhaps not unwisely—she believed them true.page: 17
"Are you tired?" he asked presently.
Katherine looked up smiling, and shook her head.
"Not too tired to be up early to‐morrow morning and come out with me to see the horses galloped? Sultan will give you no trouble. He is well‐seasoned and merely looks on at things in general with intelligent interest, goes like a lamb and stands like a rock."
While her husband was speaking Katherine straightened herself up, and moved a little from him though still holding his hand. Her languor passed, and her eyes grew large and black.
"I think, perhaps, I had better not go to‐morrow, Dick," she said slowly.
"Ah! you are tired, you poor dear! No wonder, after the week's work you have had. Another day will do just as well. Only I want you to come out sometimes in the first blush of the morning, before the day has had time to grow commonplace, while the gossamers are still hung with dew, and the mists are in hollows, and the horses are heady from the fresh air and the light. You will like it all, Kitty. It is rather inspiring. But it will keep. To‐morrow I'll let you rest in peace."
"Oh no! it is not that," Katherine said quickly.—The importunate thought was upon her again, clamouring, not only to be recognised, but fairly owned to and permitted to pass the doors of speech. And a certain modesty made her shrink from this. To know something in the secret of your own heart, to tell it, thereby making it a hard, concrete fact, outside yourself, over which, in a sense, you cease to have control, are two such very different matters! Katherine trembled on the edge of her confession; though that to be confessed was, after all, but the natural crown of her love.
"I think I ought not to ride now—for a time, Dick." All the blood rushed into her face and throat, and then ebbed, leaving her very white in the growing darkness.—"You have given me a child," she said.


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My aunt owned a boarding kennel, so as a kid I would look forward to going to Aunt Polly's to see what kind of dogs she had. I loved playing with all the different types of dogs and then one day saw this dog with a flat face. I knew right then I wanted one.
Fast forward 40+ years and I came to be owned by Zapper. Zapper is the most unique dog I've ever had; sometimes I think he's gonna start talking ! I work from home so Zapper and I are together practically 24/7. Whatever room I'm in, he'll be with me. When I go to bed, Zapper goes to bed. And where does he sleep ? Right where you think; not only in the bed with me but on the pillow behind me and his big ole head laying on me :)
Zapper has delighted me over the years with his "bulldog" antics but the best has to be him and his "woobies." When he comes in the office with me every morning he brings his favorite woobie with him. At night, he takes it back to the bedroom. The next morning, back in the office it goes!
In the last couple of years arthritis has token it's toll on Zapper so now I carry him up quite a lot. In the warm weather there's nothing he likes better than when I carry him outside and he finds a nice sunny spot to lay in. And on occasion he'll make his way down the front porch steps so he can ramble around in the yard. I love watching him sit in the sunlight and sniffing the air every Spring!
Zapper has forever changed my life and I thank God for the day our paths crossed :)


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Shorewood Hills ranked top Madison suburb
Ratings compared municipalities on safety, property taxes, schools and more
SHOREWOOD HILLS, Wis. - Shorewood Hills offers small-town charm surrounded by a big city, and data show it's Madison's top suburb.
The village of 1,568 residents, nestled between the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the Hilldale Shopping Center, topped Madison Magazine's ratings for the second time.
The magazine surveyed residents of Dane County's suburbs, weighting issues based on responses. It then used data to determine how each community fared on each issue, such as public safety, property taxes, and schools.
"Overall, Shorewood Hills delivered," said Madison Magazine writer Mary Erpenbach, who looked at all the data. "Increasingly in communities, you can find more of what you need without going to Madison."
Shorewood Hills got high scores in its public safety funding, low property taxes, schools, and parks and recreation.
"It feels like a smaller neighborhood, a small-town feel within the bigger city of Madison," said Ellie Schmitt, who teaches kindergarteners and first-graders at Shorewood Elementary School. "The school is really diverse -- international families from all over the world come to this school."Shorewood Hills ranked top Madison suburb
Community swimming pools weren't included in the rankings this time because suburban residents didn't find them important, while municipalities got diversity grades this year for the first time, Erpenbach said.
Fitchburg, Dane County's most diverse community, benefited from the new category and its new city library to move into second place in the "Rating the Suburbs" project.
"When you think about how far we've come in the last 30 years, you can only imagine the possibilities in the next 30 years," said Michael Zimmerman, Fitchburg's economic development director.
Zimmerman said white-collar and blue-collar jobs were important to attract new residents to the city, and to combat crime.
He said projects like Promega Corporation's expansion, planned to open this fall and bring 100 new, high-paying jobs to Fitchburg, were important.
Two grocery store companies have expressed interest in building near the new U.S. Highway 14/Lacy Road interchange on Fitchburg's east side, Zimmerman said.
In hopes of attracting new businesses, the city will send representatives to a retailer show in Chicago this fall, he said.
Shorewood Hills, Mount Horeb, Middleton and Belleville have topped previous "Rating the Suburbs" lists, which started in 1999.
To become a suburb, a municipality must have 1,000 residents and either share a border with Madison or be economically intertwined with the city, Erpenbach said.
Dane, a village in northern Dane County, made the list for the first time this year.
Trends include fewer "bedroom" suburbs -- where residents leave for work in Madison and come home in the evening -- and more community events in surrounding municipalities, Erpenbach said.
"If people look out their windows and see just a little ways down the road, there are some incredibly great, remarkable, fun, wonderful communities out there," she said.
The June issue of Madison Magazine hits newsstands Thursday, and you can read it online here.
Local And Regional News
- Dog recovering after eating nails wrapped in hot dogs; Police look for person who left them
- Dating apps pose risk to teenagers, expert says
- Lawsuit over baked goods ban heads to court
- FDA issues warning letters over 'bogus cancer cures'
- County leaders announce effort to increase access to services for sexual assault victims
- Man barricaded in house with guns, ammunition surrenders, police say


text: This track has kind of a warm and sunny feel. It starts with a crunchy guitar followed by the main part with an optimistic synth melody. In the middle of the song, there is a short break with only a guitar and a piano. After all, everything comes together in the final main theme with guitar, melody synth and piano background.


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You are here
That BIG Book Sale
Date & Time
Saturday, October 13, 2012 -
9:00am to 5:00pm
Omar Shrine Auditorium, 176 Patriots Point Rd., Mount Pleasant.
Event Details
For the 30th year, Charleston Friends of the Library present That BIG Book Sale. This year the sale will take place in the Omar Shrine Auditorium. Over 60,000 books, DVDs, CDs, books on CDs and tapes, VHS, sheet music, and maps will be on sale to the public. Prices start at just 50 cents, and most items will be half-off on Sunday. The event will also feature a rare book auction. Omar Shrine Auditorium, 176 Patriots Point Rd., Mount Pleasant. Friday, 9am-7pm; Saturday, 9am-5pm; Sunday, 10am-3pm. Free. (843)805-6882, www.charlestonlibraryfriends.org
Upcoming Events
Wednesday, May 10, 2017 - 6:30pm
Thursday, May 11, 2017 - 5:00pm
Friday, May 26, 2017 - 12:00pm to Sunday, July 2, 2017 - 12:00pm
Tuesday, May 16, 2017 - 3:00pm


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At a Glance
The Evo 80 replaces the 83 of last year and has, like the rest of the five-board range, been refined in its bottom shape, now incorporating a single to double concave (between the straps) to an increased amount of vee in the tail. Over the years the Evo has established itself as the definitive stubby wave-board, offering more speed through tighter turns and an uncanny ability to project aerials effortlessly...and all possible across greater sail range compared to a conventional wave-board. For 2007 the emphasis has been on increasing the board's carving response and fluidity so that it can get even more vertical in the pocket of the wave. Available in two constructions (all sporting the Dur-X construction label), it is finished beautifully in blue livery and comes supplied with a G10 milled fin, Starboard's superb Slick straps II with extra padding and their uni-directional fish scale deck pads.
Ride and Handling
On the water the 80 has really come of age and rightly sits alongside the 75 as one of the standout models in the Evo series. Early to plane, incredibly smooth and with a massive wind range, it stood out in this test as one of the team's clear favourites. Stable at rest, it responds quickly yet progressively as power is delivered, gaining speed without unnerving the anxious passenger. With your feet locked securely yet comfortably in the straps, the 80 feels very compact and responsive underfoot yet remains controlled at all times. It is extremely versatile and can adapt to any rider style, the fin providing plenty of feedback for blasting, whilst the board sits low and pins itself down intuitively when sailed in a more relaxed manner. Even in severely overpowered conditions it never loses its composure, giving the rider a real sense of trust in the board's character. In this respect we even thought the 80 coped with harsh chop better than its smaller sibling at times, ironing out the clatter and jolting affect as the board travels over confused conditions.
Last year we thought the 83 was a cracking wave-riding board, but trying to recall its performance, we believe that this 80 has gone one step further. With its smooth outline and wide yet thin tail it can be turned off both the front or back foot, making it a scintillating wave tool in cross-onshore conditions of any size. Force its rail into a committed turn, or lean off the back-foot to snap it round at the last second, anything is possible on the 80, flattering the rider and allowing then to pull off stunts they only dreamt of. Carving fluid vertical turns; exploding off the lip for expressive aerials, or even punching off broken white water, the 80 was the complete package and provides that extra bit of float from the 75, giving it more range and practicality, especially for the heavier rider.
Massive range, ease of use and stunning wave riding versatility.
As a state of the art wave board, it cannot be faulted.
Combining early planing with range, control and fantastic wave-riding capabilities, the Evo 80 comes thoroughly recommended by us, especially as the heavier rider's small wave board.


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Family: Colubridae, Colubrid Snakes view all from this family
Description Base light gray, with black bordered red blotches down back. Belly uniform light gray. Blotches can extend down to the sides of the body, appearing somewhat like banding. Single anal plate. 19 rows of, smooth scales.
Dimensions 35.6-82.8cm. (14-32")
Subspecies Florida - Upper lip has 7 scales. Florida peninsular.
Northern - Upper lip has 6 scales. New jersey to Florida, Oklahoma and Texas.
Texas - Black bands above 3rd scale row. Texas.
Breeding 3-8 eggs, 26-35mm (1-1 3/8") long, laid in June. Hatch late summer, hatchlings 15cm (6") long.
Habitat Hardwood or pine forests.
Range New Jersey through to Florida, Oklahoma and Texas.
Discussion Burrows underground or hides under rocks and stones. Active May-September. Diet of small reptiles and eggs. Often mistaken for Coral kingsnake or scarlet Kingsnake. Former is venomous, latter harmless.


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Sochi rings in Olympics with Russian style
Ceremony overcomes early mistakeFebruary 8, 2014 12:33 AM
SOCHI, Russia -- For those looking to seize on every gaffe of Russian President Vladimir Putin's Olympics, there it was, just minutes into the opening ceremony, which claimed to be the "most complex and ambitious technical show ever attempted in Olympic history."
In one of the first acts of "Dreams of Russia," fake snow fell from the rafters of the Fisht Olympic Stadium, turning the 40,000-seat marvel into a futuristic snow globe. Five large snowflakes were lit up and hanging high in the air. The plan called for the snowflakes to suddenly turn into the Olympic rings and interlock. But, when the moment came, the top right flake did not morph, leaving the audience with four interlocked rings and one highly ridiculed piece of electronic precipitation.
What has $51 billion bought Mr. Putin?
More scrutiny than any leader of a country that has been the host of an Olympics. Of course, when Adolf Hitler's Germany had the 1936 Berlin Games, there was no television, much less hundreds of journalists armed with cheeky Twitter accounts.
So, the snowflake didn't turn into a ring. Did that signal that, right then and there, these Sochi Winter Games were going to be just one huge waste of Russian public funds? Or did it simply mean the snowflake didn't turn into a ring as it had during all of the practice runs leading up to the big occasion? The rest of the show would ultimately decide the spin.
And by the end of the night, when a fireworks display that would have made Pittsburghers blush soared into the coastal air to announce the beginning of these Games to the most nearsighted astronauts in space, even the staunchest critics of Mr. Putin couldn't deny that his country's artistic flair had shown well on the grandest stage.
That is especially when one considers this was not an easy job, trying to present Russia's complicated history to a skeptical world using music, dance and some of the most elaborate technology assembled for one performance. All told, this could have been so much worse than a bum snowflake.
But the show was magical and awe-inspiring, as hundreds of ballet dancers delivered their rendering of Leo Tolstoy's "War and Peace" that then made way for an unapologetic ode to the October Revolution of 1917 and the industrial period of the Soviet Union, which included a massive hammer and sickle floating in the stadium.
The pride of this new Russian Federation was everywhere on display, never more so than when the country's winter Olympians marched around the stadium floor to the boom, boom, boom of ground-shaking techno bass. The natives clapped in unison as Mr. Putin looked on from his booth, and it should have come as no surprise that during that stirring interlude came an alarming bit of breaking news on Twitter.
Details were fuzzy, but it was being reported that a man had made a bomb threat on an airplane headed to Istanbul and demanded the flight be rerouted to Sochi. Those paying attention were confronted with the nightmare scenario for all the visitors to this Black Sea resort region, that maybe Sochi truly is a major terrorist target, that maybe the International Olympic Committee had made a huge mistake in bringing the Games here at this volatile juncture in the history of the North Caucasus.
But, whatever this threat was, the Turkish authorities had smothered it. The man was reported to be in custody.
And soon, there would be a giant bear on ice skates, a giant rabbit on skis and a giant cat on a snowboard -- the three mascots of these Olympics oddly making one feel like a kid again -- in the middle of the stadium.
At their best, that is what the Games can accomplish. They can temporarily suspend the petty prejudices of adults, even in Russia, where, by law, people are not allowed to protest for the rights of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community.
Before the opening ceremony began, it was as if the organizers of the preshow entertainment were trying to send a subtle message about the true hearts of the Russian people. They asked everyone to hug their neighbor and played Queen's "We Are the Champions," once sung by the band's gay lead singer, Freddie Mercury. Next, the men of the Russian Police Choir were on stage singing Daft Punk's "Get Lucky."
Later, as the night wrapped up with speeches from officials, IOC president Thomas Bach made it clear what he felt the Olympics should be, and one couldn't help but sense he was talking directly to Mr. Putin as he talked of "living together without discrimination."
Minutes later, Mr. Putin had his chance to rebut. But instead, he simply did what he was supposed to do, stating that the Sochi Games had officially begun.
Keep up with J. Brady McCollough in Sochi on his "Russia Best" blog on post-gazette.com.
J. Brady McCollough: email@example.com or on Twitter @BradyMcCollough. First Published February 7, 2014 11:53 PM