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meister never saw the softening come in her hair that had wound themselves into the eyes of Mademoiselle Genlis. about his soul: and his heart went out She accepted his constant presence be- to her in love and pity. But he saw cause it was her brother's wish, and then the drawn lines of her mouth and for the same reason when the Prus. the hardness of her eyes: and with sian gentleman was sitting with Jules that he saw the barrier that was alshe left the house to walk in the ways between them. fields or the lanes, for she avoided the "Mademoiselle,” he said, this friend town. But the hiss of the Rittmeis- of the house, “will you tell me what ter's sabre was ever in her ears, pois. you are going to do now? oning her life. For all her wrestling think you will return to France?" with God she could not find that im- She looked at him almost in surpulse to toleration and forgiveness prise. that came, without prayer, to her "To France?" she asked coldly. To brother. She accepted with stifled- leave Jules here, alone, Herr Rittdown resentment the kindnesses that meister? In Prussia ?” were showered on her by her friendly You would leave him with friends." neighbors. And the Rittmeister, look: She drew herself up. ing into the cold steel of her eyes of- "I am only a woman,” she answered, ten wished passionately that some An- "and perhaps in this I shall seem to gel of Destiny had hewn of his sword- you not so very womanly. But i, at arm at the shoulder before his blade any rate, do not accept Prussian came down on that face rising up at friendship.” bim white from the red haze of battle. "Jules-Captain Genlis," he said

The day arrived when Captain Jules with a sigh, “was not so bitter against Genulis went down to that dark river: and this time the ferryman was ready “And I," she exclaimed, all the for him, because his turn had come. smothered-down resentment of years What was left of him on this side of shooting up of a sudden into angry Styx they clothed in the old tarnished flames, "I hate it all. You do not uniform of the Hussards of the Guarıl know how I hate it all! I hate Behnsand carried to the prisoners' corner of leben! I hate your patronizing women! the Friedhof. Marie refused the offer I hate your God! Oh, how I hate your that was made of a military escort. God, your merciless, crushing divinity,

The Rittmeister went to the house cold and formal as your churchesthat evening. She received him in the your God of Victory!" room where Jules had listened so long “Germany, too, has her orphans and for the foot of Death upon the stair. widows," said Sponnagel sadly. His couch was still there, with its "Yes, but the orphaps and widows dark-green coverlet, his reading-stand, of conquerors, Herr Rittmeister. Vichis books, his chessboard set out. The tory is a salve for all wounds. We windows

open towards the have none of that wonderful salve. Brocken, from whence his had We have only the memory of blunders come. The hour, everything, should and defeats and treachery, nothing to have spoken to Marie of peace and for- honor but our dead." giveness. But the hiss of the sabre “We would honor your dead, too," was in her ear and set mountains be- he said. “Why did you not let us?" tween herself and the Rittmeister. “You mean, why did I refuse the And he looked at the soft lines of her military escort, Herr Rittmeister?" she slight figure and at the gray strands replied. "Oh, you will say, I know,

us."

were

"Always."

"I do not believe it," he cried. "I will not take the answer. Marie, you do not know yourself."

And he left her.

The Rittmeister was mistaken. Marie knew herself in that moment. She was conscious that the walls she had raised around her heart were only to be maintained by the painful and constant beating back of the nobler impulses that would have torn them down. The Rittmeister was a Prussian: there was Mars-le-Tour: there were the wrongs of France: there were the lost provinces: but it was by desperate force of will alone that she could bring herself to say, yes, almost to think, "I do not love him."

His step went down the stair. It was as if Death were leaving the house for a second time.

"I do not love him," she persisted in the teeth of her soul.

The door closed behind him, and his slow tread died into the night upon her straining ear.

"I love him not!"

And she burst into tears.

or you will think that it is a womanish view, girlish and petty; but I believe that if it is not the view of more than myself, France is indeed lost. I will accept no favors, no compliments from Germany, till justice has been done. Give us back our provinces: give us back Alsace and Lorraine-and then send escorts for our dead."

"Mademoiselle Genlis," he said at length, breaking in desperately on a dragging, painful silence, "if you must stay on here, if you will not leave Jules alone with us, will you let me continue to be what I have perhaps been to you in these years? I loved your brother Jules, and 'if"

"Herr Rittmeister," she interrupted coldly, "there is Mars-le-Tour."

"Mars-le-Tour brought us together and kept us together, Jules and me," he exclaimed passionately.

"Mars-le-Tour is between us, you and me," she said.

"No, no!" he cried. "No, that must not be. Marie-Mademoiselle Genlis, cannot you see? I would to God any other hand but mine had done it; but what were we, he and I? Pieces on the board of war that must move and strike and be struck. I could no more help it than—”

He stopped, not so quickly but she had carried on his thought and glanced involuntarily at the empty sleeve. But that was only just, she insisted to herself: was Prussia then to pay no price at all for victory after victory? And no softening came into her eyes.

"I will tell you," he said, rising, "what it was in my heart to say to you. I love you, Marie: that was all. You knew it: I can see it in your eyes. But I am a Prussian: I can read that reproach, too, in your eyes."

"It could never be, Herr Rittmeister," she said. She had risen, too. and was as pale as he.

"Will Mars-le-Tour always be between us?"

Another five years passed, and the Rittmeister came back to Behnsleben. He had been offered such employment as a man without a bridle-arm can undertake, and had travelled far. But into the sweltering depths of the Cameroon forests, up to the Great Wall of China, he had carried with him the image of the solitary, resentful French girl. The horseman for all his skill cannot be rid of Black Care; but Love rides pillion, and sits the steed yet more tenaciously.

So he came home one summer day and went to her house. She was not there. They told him he would be sure to find her at the Friedhof: she went to that prisoners' corner every day.

He followed her to the Friedhof, and

found her at her brother's grave. The her, and found that he wondered if he sapling acacia by which they had had not deceived himself all through. buried Jules had grown into a fair For some have defined love in chemiyoung tree, and made of the place it cal terms as a precipitate of gratitude: pleasant green and gold shade, and laid and the Rittmeister asked himself if a tapestry of soft colors over the love may not as often be a precipitate sleeping soldier and shifted it and re- of compassion. But, in any case, laid it. Beyond the low bounding when a man comes to analyze his love, wall of the cemetery you could see that love is dead. that plain of pine forests and sand- This time he did not put the old rents and the eternal hills above. twice-asked question, but inquired of

More gray had come into her hair, her life, and told her of his, and spoke and his soul was ever entangled in the of Jules. But his talk halted more pathos of those gray strands. But her and more, and at last ran out into sieyes were always hard, and he could lence: and he went away, melancholy not see the tumult of her heart.

and pensive. For looking into her "No," he cried again. “And noic I eyes he had seen the softening there. will not take the answer."

That evening Marie received a mesRittmeister Sponnagel was in sage asking her to go at once to the Bebnsleben once more.

He had been hospital. Rittmeister Sponnagel, said again half across the world, and had the messenger, had met with an accilooked Death in the eyes. Somewhere dent. He had been crossing a road in his journey the thought had come and in a fit of absent-mindedness had to him that he was weary of that love come into the way of a cart and had riding pillion before him. Was it the

been run

over. He had begged that care or the danger of his life that Mademoiselle Genlis should be sent came between him and it? The pleas- for. When Marie asked if the acciure it could not be: he had no such dent was serious, the messenger only great pleasure in living. Was it the said that Ma'amzelle would do well to hopelessness of the thing? Was it come at once. that his solitude, hateful at first, had Marie hurried to the hospital, which grown to be a treasure that he could is the old Krankenhaus, instituted and not relinquish? He did not know: but maintained by the Benedictines in the the little thought grew stronger and days before charity was elevated into stronger in him, until at last it was a a public virtue. It has monastic sug. conviction. He looked that love of his gestions: stone dials and sun-entrapin the face: how pale and wan and old ping cloisters, an aged, time-wrenched it had become! He lifted it down mulberry-tree set on a square of green gently, with sighs, from the pillion of turf, low-arched doors and cobbled his heart, and rode on-alone.

walks and window-work of delicate The Rittmeister went again to the tracery. And the invalids in their Friedhof, for he knew that she would gray wrappers creep about the old be there: and they must always re- courts, shadows crawling into Etermain friends, though now they would nity across the great dial of Time. be nothing else for all their years. He Here the head-surgeon came to meet found her to be grayer than before: Mademoiselle Genlis. Yes, he said, in the lines of her face detached them- answer to her look, it was bad. They selves more saliently: and she was a had been obliged to amputate the little bent. He felt a great pity for crushed leg. The Rittmeister was not

yet aware of the full extent of the dis- but in that minute he had called to the aster that had come upon him; and if ferryman, and the ferryman was putthey could keep this knowledge from ting his barge across the river of him until they had got up his strength death. a little, bis system would be better The evening sun came in through able to endure the shock. But the the leaves and threw over the dying Rittmeister had not spared himself wan's bed that same shifting tapestry these last years, and there was not of green and gold that it was laying at much reserve of strength to draw that moment about the Hussard of the upon. In fact, perhaps Mademoiselle Guard in the Friedhof. It was the Genlis would come at once.

hour of the sun's setting, and of men's She followed the doctor up through setting. the wards to the room where the Ritt- "Sit," he said, “where I can see meister was stretched out, with that you." gray on his face which you only see She drew up a chair and sat by at the dawn of the sun and at the him. He looked into her eyes: yes, the dawn of eternity. His white hand lay softening was there upon which he outside the coverlet, and over his leg had once set his whole happiness. He was a great hoop. He said that he looked into his heart: his love was was feeling better except for that dead, not even on the brink of the numbness in his damaged limb. Then, grave to be quickened for a second with the usual cautions, the doctor from the dead past. and nurses left them together.

But she was crying. “Will you draw back the blind?” he He put out his hand, and she gave said.

him hers. · His tired arm sank on Now while she was at the window, the bed: but he always held her hand: that white hand of his stole underneath and when at last his grasp loosened, the coverlet, and the Rittmeister knew he was dead. what had happened. It was a minute That movement of compassion and before Marie could find the blind friendship she took for a movement of cords, and when she came back to him love. And the Rittmeister had meant the hand was on the coverlet again; it to be taken so.

Blackwood's Magazine.

THE LAST OF AMERICAN MUSIC.

I cannot write articles about Ameri

gence to music, with the result that can music, because it does not exist. America possesses what is probably The only real American music was the the finest orchestra and one of the negro minstrelsy of the South, and finest operas in the world. They that is fast fading away, drowned in have amazing machinery for the prothe noises of the great machine that is duction of music; the suave four-part so busily moulding human society ou minstrelsy of the South begat long this continent. They love music in ago the American organ, as the nearAmerica, there is no doubt of that; the est and cheapest means of imitating it; wonderful curiosity which they apply and I am glad to think that America is to all the new and beautiful things that already getting over the American-ordawn upon an unfolding civilization is gan stage and has got into the piano applied with more than usual intelli- stage-a considerably less vile and

ers

painful condition. It is unnecessary Franz Arens and the various composto say that the gramophone and the whose works were being permechanical piano-player are here in all formed, played extremely well. This their glory, but I am not sure that the is the programme: sensitive American ear will allow itself

Prelude to the “Hamadryads" ever to be as much blunted or the

William J. McCoy. growing soundness of American taste

Four Songs with Viola Obligato permit itself to be as much debauched

Charles Martin Loeffler. by these contrivances as will the ear Concerto in D minor for Piano and Orand taste of Germany and England.

chestra

Edward MacDowell.

Ballad for Baritone Solo and Orchestra The Americans have a damning and

--"Lochinvar" George W. Chadwick, saving love of the superlative; they are

Dawn," a Fantasie for Orchestra, afquick to recognize their own limita

ter an Indian Legend tions and to set about removing them;

Arthur Farwell. quick also to recognize their mistakes, Recitation with Orchestra, "The Raand to set about correcting them.

ven"

Arthur Bergb. They love to have the best of every.

Orchestra) Dances, “Creole Days" thing; that best to which the prosper

Harry Rowe Shelley. ity of all their rolling fertile plains The composition of this programme should entitle them; and in music- is significant; it covers a wide range that is to say in the performance of and ought to have been full of variety. music—they get it. They have all the As a matter of fact it was the most machinery of transmission and recep- curiously monotonous performance tion; the creative part of it they have that I have ever heard; and if one not. There are native composers here, should have fallen asleep during one native music-makers; but the thing of the pieces (which would have been they make is not American music. quite possible) and not wakened up The giant children of the world, play- until another one had begun one would ing as yet with life and with art, and hardly have noticed the difference. as yet ignorant what to do with either. The only real piece of mature music Music has not had time to grow up in was MacDowell's fine Piano Concerto; them; like the wines, the model hats but even that is in no sense American and gowns, the best of all the civil. music; it is purely German in its inized things they enjoy, it is imported; spiration--and MacDowell is dead. and, like some of these, it does not The rest I can only describe on the travel well. It is a part of the Ameri- whole as a striking example of comcan genius to imitate, to observe in- mercial methods and ways of thought telligently what is being done else applied to the production of art. Do where and to see if it cannot be done you like Debussy? Then try our as well or better at home. And some American Debussy, Charles Martin things, like lavatories and barbers' Loeffler, who is now out on his spring shops, they do better here than in the journey, showing a strong line in unold world; other things, like music, not resolved discords, unrelated harmonies, so well,

little wriggling runs and all the latest I was fortunate enough to hear a external characteristics of the modern concert of representative American French composer. Do you want to go music organized by Mr. David abroad for your Wagner, or will you Bispham, the President of the Amer- have it right here? Whichever you ican Music Society. The People's Sym- like; but, before you decide, try our phony Orchestra conducted by Mr. canned Wagner, picked and packed the

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