Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 62: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

8o2 read when I was at school that it was here Charles Stuart passed through Cromwell’s army on his way back to London,” ‘‘ And farther back than that,” said Mor- gan, “ Jack Cade camped here.” ‘Jack Cade? Him [I have not met.” “He was a radical—years and years be- fore Cromwell. He organized a revolt.” ‘He did not succeed?” e¢ No.” ‘* He would not—in England. At home I hate them, but in England I wish them success.” This so fits the views of all aliens in England that Morgan laughed silently in appreciation. That was her secret, he thought, as they turned across toward Greenwich Park — she was so completely satisfactory that a man did not wish to express it—he was simply content to walk with her and be happy. Those queer streaks of gray in her hair added to her charm without subtracting from her youth. The rest of her was young. They spoke scarcely at all as they walked the paths of the great park. At the site of the Roman Villa where a spring still trickles over a worn, carved lip into a great stone basin, they paused, but turned away again without voicing the queer melancholy that antiquity brings. At that hallowed tree, known as Elizabeth’s Bower, they paused again and gazed, and at the site of Greenwich Castle. At the observatory she spoke. “Behold!” she said. lives.” Under a grove of oaks, tables had been set in front of a booth. Here they had tea, bread, thin slices of ham, and watercress. At the end of it she smoked a cigarette with delicate enjoyment. Her companion watched her, enchanted by the movement of the slim hands. Later she caught his gaze upon the smooth strands of black hair streaked with gray that showed about her ears. “Tt is true,” she said. “I am an old woman. I am an ol’ maid. Soon I shall wear a cap. No?” Morgan shook his head. ‘Not on your life. Something tells me that you are one year younger than I am!” “Tt is where Time ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. She laughed. ‘“ Ah! You are the one medium I should like to believe. But no! If I were a midi- nette I should have danced on the festival of St. Anne years ago.” “Tt don’t believe it.” “* What a kind soldier it is! And how do you know?” ““T know. I have a hunch.” He leaned back in lazy contentment and nodded to confirm what he had said. She fixed her luminous eyes, partly closed, on him and brushed the faint powdering of ashes from her knee. ‘J, too, am a medium, sir. I shall tell you that you are—twenty-one. No? Ah, I see I am right. A young, gloomy soul for such broad shoulders. You should have a care, for you could hurt others as I might hurt a fly. Ah,” she finished at the pain that flashed across his face. “I have touche’ you. I am so, so sorry!” She watched him and stretched out one hand as i: to touch his in sympathy. He shook his shoulders as if fighting off an in- visible foe, and his face cleared. ‘ Perhaps,” she said while her voice deep- ened to its thrilling contralto, ‘‘ I am clair- voyant in truth? And I have divine’ your trouble? No? But we do not speak of it until we are out on the heath again. It is time to go soon. The guests are leaving and the host is closing the house. Come.” Morgan looked about him and saw that they were the only ones left at the tables. A maid bustled about them, and he could see the park attendants walking along the paths and peering into the more secluded places and warning the occupants of them that it was ten minutes to five and the park was to close at five. When he had paid his check they walked back out upon the heath. There was a low bank of cloud in the west, and the air was thickening, but there was enough light to illumine faintly some of the distant walls, and to roof the village itself with silver slates. The woman led him now, and they walked to the northern edge of the plain, where it was nearly deserted. Here, along a walk were benches at long intervals, placed under gas lamps. At one she paused ecomicoooks CO)