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twg_000000044300 | vanished. My uncle would surely not forgive me. At dinner-time I took my place at table on his right hand in low spirits, ate little, and said nothing. "It will come with the dessert," I thought. Rose looked at me, and I avoided meeting her eyes. As I had expected, the dessert over, my uncle lit his pipe, raised his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044301 | head, and then-- "Rose--come here!" Rose went to him. "Do you know what that fellow there asked me to do, yesterday?" I trembled like a leaf, and Rose did the same. [Illustration: "DO YOU LOVE HIM?"] "To give him your hand," he added. "Do you love him?" Rose cast down her eyes. "Very well," continued my uncle; "on this side, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044302 | the case is complete. Come here, you." I approached him. "Here I am, uncle," and, in a whisper. I added quickly: "Forgive me!" He burst into a hearty laugh. "Marry her, then, donkey--since you love her, and I give her to you!" "Ah!--uncle!" "Ah!--dear papa!" And Rose and I threw ourselves into his arms. "Very good! very good!" he cried, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044303 | wiping his eyes. "Be happy, that's all I ask." And, in turn, he whispered in my ear:-- "I should have given her to you all the same, you big goose; but--keep the story of the helmet between us two!" I give you my word that I have never told it but to Rose, my dear little wife. And, if ever | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044304 | you pass along the Rue des Claquettes, No. , at the place of honour in the old shop, I'll show you my uncle's helmet, which we would never sell. * * * * * _The Music of Nature._ BY A. T. CAMDEN PRATT. II. Reference was made at the close of the last article to the voice of the dog, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044305 | and his method of making his feelings and desires understood. It is, of course, well known that this is an acquired habit, or accomplishment. In a state of Nature the dog does not even bark; he has acquired the art or knowledge from his companionship with man. Isaiah compares the blind watchman of Israel to dogs, saying, "They are dumb; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044306 | they cannot bark." Again, to quote the argument of Dr. Gardiner: "The dog indicates his different feelings by different tones." The following is his yelp when his foot is trod upon. [Illustration] [Illustration: DOG YELPING.] Haydn introduces the bark of a dog into the scherzo in his 38th quartette. Indeed, the tones of the "voice" of the dog are so | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044307 | marked, that more than any other of the voices of Nature they have been utilized in music. The merest tyro in the study of dog language can readily distinguish between the bark of joy--the "deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home," as Byron put it--and the angry snarl, the yelp of pain, or the accents of fear. Indeed, according to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044308 | an assertion in the "Library of Entertaining Knowledge," the horse knows from the bark of a dog when he may expect an attack on his heels. Gardiner suggests that it would be worth while to study the language of the dog. Perhaps Professor Garnier, when he has reduced the language of the monkey to "A, B, C," might feel inclined | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044309 | to take up the matter. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE OX.] Next to the dog there is no animal in which there is more variation of sound than in oxen: "Their lowing, though rough and rude, is music to the farmer's ear save one who moans the loss of her sportive young; with wandering eye and anxious look she grieves the livelong | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044310 | day." It is specially difficult in the case of oxen to suppose that they have a language; but it is impossible to doubt that the variations of their lowing are understood of one another, and serve to express their feelings if not their thoughts. [Illustration] [Illustration: COW LOWING.] In the matter of exclamations, one knows how readily these may be | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044311 | imitated upon the violin, or in the case of the deeper or more guttural sounds, on the violoncello. The natural effect is greatly aided by the sliding of the finger along the note, especially in the case of the lowing of cattle; but there are other exclamations that are readily reduced to music. Gardiner gives one or two interesting cases, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044312 | and the common salutation, "How d'ye do?" may be instanced. It usually starts on B natural, and the voice rising to D ends on C; whereas, the reply, "Pretty well, thank you," begins on D, and falling to A, ends again on D. After a few attempts on the piano, the reader will be able readily to form these notes | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044313 | for himself. [Illustration] [Illustration: HORSE NEIGHING.] The horse, on the other hand, is rarely heard, and, though having a piercing whinny which passes through every semitone of the scale, it is scarcely ever varied. [Illustration: THE CHIRP OF THE GRASSHOPPER.] The music of the insects has already been alluded to, and everyone will agree with Gilbert White that "not undelightful | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044314 | is the ceaseless hum, to him who musing walks at noon." The entomologist has laboured hard to show us that the insect has no voice, and that the "drowsy hum" is made by the wings; a fact which, being beyond all cavil, puts to the blush the old-world story of Plutarch, who tells us that when Terpander was playing upon | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044315 | the lyre, at the Olympic games, and had enraptured his audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm a string of his instrument broke, and a _cicada_ or grasshopper perched on the bridge supplied by its voice the loss of the string and saved the fame of the musician. To this day in Surinam the Dutch call them lyre-players. If there | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044316 | is any truth in the story, the grasshopper then had powers far in advance of his degenerated descendants; for now the grasshopper--like the cricket--has a chirp consisting of three notes in rhythm, always forming a triplet in the key of B. [Illustration] [Illustration: FLY BUZZING.] [Illustration] [Illustration: DUCK.] Gardiner, on the authority of Dr. Primatt, states that, to produce the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044317 | sound it makes, the house-fly must make vibrations of its wings in a second; or nearly , if it continues on the wing a minute. The sound is invariably on the note F in the first space. The music of a duck's note is given in the annexed score. In conclusion, an article on the music of Nature would not | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044318 | be complete without an allusion to the music of the winds and the storm. Admirers of Beethoven will recall numerous passages that would serve as illustrations. One particularly might be mentioned--the chorus in "Judah" (Haydn), "The Lord devoureth them all," which is admirably imitative of the reverberations of the cataract and the thundering of mighty waters. The sounds at sea, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044319 | ominous of shipwreck, will also occur to the minds of some. At Land's End it is not uncommon for storms to be heralded by weird sounds; and in the northern seas sailors, always a superstitious race of people, used to be much alarmed by a singular musical effect, which is now well known to be caused by nothing more fearsome | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044320 | than a whale breathing. These instances might be still further multiplied, but enough have, perhaps, been given to excite some general interest in "the _Music of Nature_." * * * * * _Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives._ SIR HENRY LOCH. BORN . Sir Henry Brougham Loch, G.C.M.G., K.C.B., whose name has recently been so prominently before | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044321 | the public in connection with the disturbances in Mashonaland, is Chief Commissioner at the Cape. In his diplomatic career he was taken prisoner during the war with China; and, with Mr. Boulby, the _Times_ correspondent, was carried about in a cage by his captors, and exhibited to the natives. After his liberation he returned to England, and was appointed Governor | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044322 | of the Isle of Man, and subsequently Governor of Victoria; and, in , was appointed to succeed Sir Hercules Robinson as Chief Commissioner at the Cape. [Illustration: AGE . _From a Painting._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Painting by G. Richmond, R.A._] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Foster & Martin, Melbourne._] MADAME BELLE COLE. It was in Jubilee | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044323 | Year that the British public were first charmed by the singing of this admirable American contralto. She sang in London, and successive audiences were quick to confirm the judgments of Sir Joseph Barnby and certain other critics who had heard her only in private. Her advance to the front rank of English singers was exceedingly rapid, and her position amongst | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044324 | us was long since made secure. Madame Cole has taken part in nearly all the great musical events in this country during the past four years. She has sung everywhere in London--with the Royal Choral Society at the Albert Hall, at the Handel Festival at the Crystal Palace, at the Ballad Concerts, at the Monday Popular Concerts, at Sir Charles | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044325 | Hall's Concerts, and at Bristol, Chester, Leeds, Birmingham, and other leading towns. As seems to have been the case with most well-dowered musicians, Madame Cole's talent owes something to heredity. Musical ability, greater or less, may at all events be traced back in her family for a considerable period. Madame Cole's first distinct success in public was gained with Mr. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044326 | Theodore Thomas, during that gentleman's first "grand transcontinental tour from ocean to ocean" in . [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photograph._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photo. by Naegeli, New York._] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Walery, Regent Street._] THE LORD BISHOP OF PETERBOROUGH. BORN . Professor the Rev. Mandell Creighton, M.A., was born at Carlisle, and educated | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044327 | at Durham Grammar School and Merton College, Oxford. He was ordained deacon in and priest in , and in accepted the living of Embleton, in Northumberland. In he was elected to the newly founded professorship of Ecclesiastical History in the University of Cambridge. In he was appointed by the Crown canon residentiary of Worcester Cathedral. He is the author of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044328 | several historical works: "Primer of Roman History," ; "The Age of Elizabeth," ; etc. His principal work is a "History of the Papacy During the Period of the Reformation." He was appointed Bishop of Peterborough in . [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photograph._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photo. by Wheeler & Day, Oxford._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photo. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044329 | by H.S. Mendelssohn, Newcastle._] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._] LORD WANTAGE. BORN . Robert James Loyd-Lindsay, K.C.B., V.C. is the eldest son of the late Lieut.-General James Lindsay. He was educated at Eton, and at an early age entered the Army. He served in the Guinea, -, part of the time as _Aide-de-Camp_ to the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044330 | Commander-in-Chief. At the battle of Alma, amidst great disorder, he reformed the line and stood firm with the colours. At Inkerman he distinguished himself by charging and repulsing a strong body of Russians with a few men; for which distinctions he was justly awarded the Victoria Cross. Lord Wantage was Equerry to the Prince of Wales, -; and has been | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044331 | Extra Equerry to His Royal Highness since . He is also the Lord Lieutenant and a County Councillor of Berkshire. He married, in , Harriet Sarah, only child of the first Baron Overstone. [Illustration: AGE . _From a Drawing._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photograph._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photograph by Chmar Frres, Brussels._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044332 | Painting by W. Onless, R.M._] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photograph by W. & A. H. Fry, Brighton._] SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, BART, M.P. BORN . Sir Richard Temple, Bart., G.C.S.I., M.P., D.C.L.(Oxon), LL.D. (Cantab), of The Nash, Kempsey, near Worcester, entered the third class of the Bengal Civil Service in . He was Secretary to Sir John Lawrence in the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044333 | Punjab, and eventually was appointed Chief Commissioner of the Central Provinces, and the Political Resident at Hyderabad. He was Foreign Secretary to the Governor-General, and Finance Minister of India, from to . In January, , he was appointed to superintend the relief operations in the famine-stricken districts of Bengal. He became Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal in ; was created a Baronet | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044334 | in August, ; and was appointed Governor of the Presidency of Bombay in January, , which office he held till March, . He sits for the Kingston Division of Surrey. [Illustration: AGE . _From a Painting._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photo. by Southwell Brothers, Baker Street, London._] [Illustration: AGE . _From a Photo. by Bourne & Shepherd._] [Illustration: PRESENT | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044335 | DAY. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._] * * * * * _A Terrible New Year's Eve._ BY KATHLEEN HUDDLESTON. In a little Belgian village not many miles from Brussels the winter sun shone brightly. It shone through the quaint old windows of a little, red-tiled cottage, and on the figure of a girl who stood in the centre | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044336 | of the kitchen reading a long, closely written letter. Over the blazing fire, where the "pot au feu" was simmering, bent an old woman, and the girl's voice came joyously to her as she stirred the savoury mess. [Illustration: "MY AUNT, PAUL HAS SENT FOR ME."] "My aunt, Paul has sent for me. At last he has got permanent work. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044337 | It is nothing very great at present, but it may lead to better things, and the pay is enough, with what he has saved, to enable him to rent a little 'appartement.' If I can, he wants me, with our little Pierre, to catch the coach at 'Les Trois Frres' to-morrow. We should then reach Brussels by night and spend | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044338 | our New Year together." As Babette spoke, her cheeks all flushed with hope and joy, the eyes of both the women rested on a cradle that stood in the room. In this, baby Pierre, only a twelvemonth old, lay sleeping peacefully. Then said the old woman, sadly, "I shall miss you, dearest, and the baby too. Still, it is only | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044339 | right you should go. Perhaps in the summer you may return for a bit. Time passes quickly. A year ago you were weeping over Paul's departure; and now, behold, you are going to join him, and lay in his arms the son he has never seen." Babette nodded. She was between tears and smiles. There was grief, true and deep, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044340 | at leaving the dear old aunt, who had been so good to her and to her child. There was joy at the thought of seeing again the brave young husband whom she had wedded in the little village church two years before, and from whom the parting had been so bitter, when he left her, just before the birth of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044341 | their baby boy, to seek work in the Belgian capital. But there was no time to waste. After the simple mid-day meal there were many things to be done, and all through the short winter day they were busy. There was a bundle of warm wraps to be put together for Babette to take with her. Her little trunk, with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044342 | Pierre's cradle, and some odds and ends of furniture, would follow in a few days, when her aunt had collected and packed them all. Her little store of money was counted over. Alas! it was very slender. She must travel quickly and cheaply if it was to last her till she reached Brussels. "Jean's cart will take you as far | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044343 | as 'Les Trois Frres,'" said the old lady, cheerfully, after finding that counting the little heap of francs and half-francs over and over did not increase them. "That will save something. You can catch the coach that stops there at two, and by six you will be in Brussels. I pray the little one may not take cold." Babette agreed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044344 | to all her aunt suggested. Jean was a farmer of the village; well-to-do and good-natured. She knew he would gladly give her a seat in his waggon, which was going next day to "Les Trois Frres," an inn six miles from the village. The coach for Brussels stopped there twice a week, and when once she had taken her place | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044345 | in it, the worst of her journey would be over. They went to rest early that night, and by eleven next morning the last good-bye had been said. Pretty Babette was seated by the side of Farmer Jean, with her baby boy, wrapped up in numerous shawls, clasped tightly to her, and the great Flemish horses were plodding, slowly but | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044346 | surely, towards "Les Trois Frres". The day was not as bright as the preceding one. Snow had fallen during the night, and the sky looked heavy, as though there were more to come. Babette shivered, in spite of her long, warm cloak. The roads were freezing hard, but they managed to proceed for a mile or two, and then suddenly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044347 | there came a sway and a lurch, for one of the horses had slipped and fallen on the snowy road, and the other was trying to free himself from his struggling companion by frantic kicks and plunges. Farmer Jean had a man with him, and between them they got the poor animal up, while Babette stood in the cold highway, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044348 | her baby peeping wonderingly from the folds of her cloak. The horse was bruised and cut about the knees, but otherwise unhurt, so the men resumed their places; Babette climbed back to hers, and the heavy cart went jolting on. The farmer cracked his whip, and whenever the road grew worse he or his man got down and led the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044349 | horses. In spite of this, their progress grew slower and slower. "I don't like to say so," said the master, "but we've two more miles to go, and it is past one o'clock now. My girl, if the coach is gone, I'll get you back and drive you in again next time it passes." But Babette would not hear of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044350 | this. Not to see Paul by nightfall! Not to be clasped in his arms, she and little Pierre together, in one warm embrace! Not to spend New Year's Day with him! No! she would not think of it. And yet when, more than an hour later, they rolled into the yard of "Les Trois Frres," there was no sign of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044351 | the Brussels coach. It had started half an hour before. "Les Trois Frres" was a quiet, homely inn, little used excepting when the coach stopped there. Babette, pale and trembling, got down and ran into the bar, where the landlord stood smiling behind a row of bright pewter taps. "Am I too late for the coach?" she cried. "Has it | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044352 | gone?" And then, when the man told her she was indeed too late, all strength and energy left her, and she sank sobbing on the wooden bench by the door. There were two other men in the room, who looked at her curiously; she was such a pretty girl, even in the midst of her grief. One was an old | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044353 | pedlar, with his well-filled pack on the floor beside him. He had a pleasant, homely face, and thin, bent figure. The other was a middle-sized, powerful fellow, clean shaven and beetle-browed, and dressed in shabby, ill-fitting garments. It was hard to tell what his rank in life might be. He stared once again at Babette, and then handed his glass | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044354 | to the host to be re-filled. The pedlar was the first to break the silence. [Illustration: "'CHEER UP, MY LASS', HE SAID KINDLY."] "Cheer up, my lass," he said, kindly; "I too have missed the coach, and I too must reach Brussels to-night. I have two thousand francs in notes and gold in my pocketbook, which are the savings of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044355 | a lifetime, and I am going to pay them into the bank tomorrow. Then I shall give up my trade and start a little shop." "I would not talk too much about them in the meantime, friend. In some countries it might be dangerous, but we are honest in Belgium." It was the other man who spoke, and his voice, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044356 | though rough, was not unpleasant. He paid the landlord, caught up his stick, and with a curt "Good-day" passed out of "Les Trois Frres." "He, also, perhaps, is going to Brussels. He means to walk, and if he, why not I?" said the pedlar. He had come in cold and tired, and the landlord's good ale had made him slightly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044357 | loquacious. "Yes, I shall try and walk. The roads are better walking than driving. It is not so very many miles, and most likely I shall be overtaken by some cart going the same way." And he rose as he spoke. Babette rose also and caught him eagerly by the hand. "I will walk with you," she cried. "I am | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044358 | strong, well shod, and the fastest walker in our village. We can get to Brussels before dark, in spite of my having my boy to carry. Oh! bless you for thinking of it, for now I shall see Paul before the year is out." Nor would she be dissuaded. Farmer Jean came in and said something about snow. "The sky | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044359 | was darkening for it already." But Babette was firm. The landlord's buxom wife came forth from an inner room and offered her a lodging for the night, and then, when she could not persuade her, helped her to wrap the baby up afresh, and finally made her place in her pocket a tiny flask of brandy, "in case," she said, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044360 | "the snow should overtake them." So they started. Babette had spoken the truth when she called herself a good walker. She was but twenty, and was both slight and active. The pedlar too, in spite of his bent form, got over the ground quickly. They had put four or five good miles between themselves and "Les Trois Frres" when the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044361 | snow began to fall. It came down steadily in thick, heavy flakes. Babette drew her cloak yet closer round her boy and they plodded on, but walking became more and more difficult, and they grew both weary and cold. Suddenly, by the roadside, several yards ahead, they saw a man's figure. He was coming to meet them, and drew near | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044362 | rapidly, and then they recognised their friend in the shabby brown clothes, who had left the inn so shortly before them. "I saw you coming," he explained, "so came to meet you. Madame"--with a bow to Babette, polite for one so uncouth looking--"can go no further to-night; the storm will not pass off yet. I live not far from here | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044363 | with my mother and brothers, and if madame likes, we can all take shelter under my humble roof. It is but a poor place, but you will be welcome, and doubtless we can find two spare beds." They could do nothing but thank him and accept his offer. Even Babette acknowledged that all hope of reaching Brussels was now over. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044364 | The New Year would have dawned before she and her husband met. The wind had risen and the snow, half turned to sleet, was now beating furiously into their faces. It was all they could do to keep their feet. They struggled on after their guide as best they could, till he turned out of the high road into a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044365 | lane; and thankful were they when he stopped, and, pushing open a gate that creaked on rusty hinges, led them up a narrow, gravelled pathway to a small, bare house, flanked on either side by some dreary bushes of evergreens. In answer to his peremptory knock, the door was opened by a man slighter and shorter than himself, but sufficiently | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044366 | like him to be known as his brother, and the travellers staggered in--the door, with a heavy crash, blowing to behind them. Perhaps now for the first time it really struck Babette that she had been headstrong in persisting in her journey, and in trusting herself and child to the mercy of utter strangers so far from home. The same | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044367 | thought passed through the old pedlar's mind, but it was too late to retreat, so they silently followed their new host and his brother. They went down a passage and into a room, half kitchen, half parlour, snugly and even comfortably furnished. [Illustration: "A MAN AND A WOMAN SAT OVER THE FIRE."] Heavy wooden shutters dulled the noise of the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044368 | boisterous gale outside. A thick red curtain hung over the door, and a cheery log fire burnt in the stove. A man and woman sat over it; the man, a tall, repulsive-looking creature, with unkempt hair and matted beard, his age apparently about fifty. The woman looked seventy or more. She too had once been tall, but now old age | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044369 | gave her a withered, witch-like appearance, in spite of her great height. She was dressed in limp, faded garments, with a tattered shawl crossed over her chest, and had a scared, miserable look in her bleared old eyes. There were a few words of explanation from the man who had come home, and then, in gruff but not unkindly tones, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044370 | he bade Babette be seated, and told his mother to get some supper speedily. She spread a coarse cloth on the wooden table, and when all was ready, lifted a large black saucepan from the stove and turned out a smoking, savoury-looking stew. The youngest son produced a bottle containing the thin acid wine of the country, and another of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044371 | spirits. As he set them on the table, Babette noticed that across one of his hands, which were much smaller and whiter than those of his brothers, there ran a dull red scar that looked as if he had had a bad cut there. Then they all sat down, excepting the old mother, who busied herself in waiting on them. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044372 | "It's the last good meal you'll get for some time, I'm thinking," she croaked, as she watched them devouring their supper, "unless you turn to and find more work than you've done lately. The landlord called for his rent again to-day and swore he would wait no longer, but turn us out if we did not pay in three days' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044373 | time." "Curse him!" muttered the man who had brought the strangers in, half under his breath; then aloud he added, "Shut up, good mother: remember, we have visitors; and one a man of property, who will hardly sympathize with our poverty." Babette looked up as he spoke, and intercepted a glance so strange and savage that passed between the brothers | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044374 | and then rested on her friend the pedlar, that involuntarily she shuddered and turned pale. The old man, however, did not appear to notice anything unsatisfactory in the appearance or manners of his hosts. He had eaten to his liking, and had allowed the grim-looking eldest brother to fill his glass again and again with "Genievre" till his face began | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044375 | to flush, and his eyes grew dazed and heavy. Babette felt more and more uneasy. Oh! to be back at "Les Trois Frres" again, or even out in the snowy road! Anything would be better than sitting in this lonely house, with those three forbidding faces glaring on her. She rose hastily and caught up her sleeping child. "I am | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044376 | very tired, good people," she said, timidly, "and I must start betimes in the morning. If I might go to bed now, I should be so thankful." In answer to her request, the old woman lighted a candle, and Babette followed her upstairs into a small, low chamber. There was no superfluous furniture in it, but the little bed looked | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044377 | clean and inviting, and the curtains that hung in front of the tiny window were made of light, fresh-looking chintz. Facing the bed was a door, leading apparently into another room. Babette wondered if it was the one her friend the pedlar was to occupy, but she was not long left in doubt. The old woman wished her good-night and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044378 | left her, and Babette, after hushing her boy to sleep again, had just sunk wearily into the one chair the room boasted, when she heard a slow, heavy step ascending, and knew the pedlar was coming to bed. He shut the outer door behind him, and began arranging his pack. Babette could hear the pedlar moving backwards and forwards with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044379 | uncertain, tired footsteps. There was no sound below, even the wind was hushed. She drew aside the curtains and looked out, and saw that the snow had ceased to fall, and lay thick and white on the ground. Then there came a sudden presentiment upon her. A sense of danger, vague and undefined, seemed to surround her. It was all | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044380 | the more terrible on account of its vagueness. She did not know what she feared, yet the terror of something horrible was strong upon her. She slipped off her boots, and stole gently up to the door that divided her room from the pedlar's. "Sir," she whispered, "you are very, very tired, and will sleep heavily. I am so anxious, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044381 | I don't know why; but forgive me and do trust me. Push your pocket-book that contains your money under the door. See--it does not fit tight! We don't know who the people of the house are: they may try to rob you. I will tie it up inside my baby's shawls, and will give it back to you as soon | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044382 | as we are out of this place. Oh, would to God that we had never entered it! Your money will be safe with me, and they will never think of looking for it here. Will you give it me?" In answer to her pleadings, a shabby little leather book was pushed into her room. As she picked it up and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044383 | proceeded to hide it securely away beneath the baby's many wrappings, the pedlar said, in a voice rendered hoarse and indistinct by the spirits he had partaken of in such unaccustomed quantities: "Here, my dear, take it. It will, I know, be safe with you. I feel so tired that I don't think a cannon would wake me to-night once | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044384 | I get to sleep." He groped his way to his bed, and flung himself down on it, dressed as he was. Soon Babette heard him snoring loudly and regularly, and then she took off her clothes, and rolling her cloak around her, lay down by the side of her child. In after years, when she looked on that awful time, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044385 | she often wondered how, feeling as she did that she was surrounded by so many unknown perils, she had ever closed her eyes. Perhaps the long walk and the excitement she had undergone accounted for the profound sleep into which she fell almost immediately, and from which she was aroused in the dead of night by a noise in the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044386 | next room. It was neither snore nor cry. It was more like a long, shuddering gurgle, and then--silence! Frightful, terrible silence, broken at last by the sound of stealthy footsteps and hushed voices. Babette sunk down on her pillow again, her baby clutched in her arms. A voiceless prayer went up to Heaven for the child's safety and her own, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044387 | for already she heard them approaching her door, and made sure her last hour was come. Through nearly closed eyelids she watched two of the men enter; the one who had brought them to the house and his elder brother. They were muttering curses, low but deep. "To have risked so much for nothing!" whispered one. "Can she have it, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044388 | or was the old fool jesting with us?" "It's a jest that has cost him dear," answered the other, as he watched his brother search the girl's clothes and then slip his murderous hands beneath her pillow. He withdrew them empty. "Shall we settle her?" he asked, "or let her go? Is it not best to be on the safe | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044389 | side?" But the smooth-shaven one said, decisively: "Let her alone; we have enough to answer for. See, she is sound asleep, and if not, it will be easy to find out before she reaches Brussels how much she knows. Let her be." Babette lay like a log, stirring neither hand nor foot. In that awful moment, when her life or | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044390 | death was trembling in the balance, her mother love, that divine instinct implanted in every woman's breast, came to her and saved her. She knew that if she moved her baby's life was gone--her own she hardly cared about just then. But those little limbs that were nestling so soft and warm against her own, and that little flaxen head | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044391 | that was cuddled against her arm, for their sake she was brave. [Illustration: "SHE LAY MOTIONLESS"] So she lay motionless and listened, fearing that the men would hear even the quick, heavy throbs of her heart. But they did not. They searched quickly and systematically amongst all her clothing. They felt under her pillow again, but never thought of looking | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044392 | at the shawls of the baby who lay so peacefully by her side; and then at last they crept away and closed the door gently behind them. The room was in utter darkness. For ages, as it seemed, Babette lay there, afraid to stir, and listening vainly for some sound; then she sat up, all white and trembling. "My God!" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044393 | she thought. "What awful thing has happened? Oh, give me strength and courage, for my baby's sake." As an inspiration, there came to her the thought of the little bottle that the good-natured landlady of "Les Trois Frres" had given her. She felt in the pocket of her dress and drew it out, taking a long, deep draught of the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044394 | fiery spirit. She had been on the verge of fainting, though she knew it not, and the brandy put new life into her. She listened for a long time and then gently--very gently--she crept out of bed and drew aside the little curtain from the window. Perhaps a wild idea of escaping into the cold, dark night outside, aided by | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044395 | a sheet or blanket, flashed through her brain. If so, she soon realized that it would not be practicable. The window was not high, but it was small, and divided by thick, old-fashioned bars of iron. To get out was impossible. [Illustration: "SHE STOOD CONSIDERING."] As she stood considering, a thin, flickering moonbeam crept in and partially lighted up the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044396 | room. It fell on to the door that led into the pedlar's chamber, and showed her something dark and slimy that was flowing slowly--slowly from under it into her room. She did not cry out or fall senseless. She bent down and put her hand into it, and saw that it was blood--her poor old friend's life-blood--for she knew now | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044397 | beyond all doubt that he had been murdered for the sake of his supposed wealth. She knew she was helpless till morning. To get out of the house was impossible, for to do so she must pass down the stairs and through the room below, where probably they were either sleeping or watching. If she had courage and could only | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044398 | let them think she knew and suspected nothing, she might still escape. Surely they would not dare to murder her also, for they knew her husband would be expecting her next day, and would be looking for her if she did not come. With another prayer, this time uttered shiveringly, for the soul of the pedlar, she nerved herself to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000044399 | get into bed again, and lay there till morning with her child against her heart; gazing with staring, sleepless eyes at the door which divided her from that awful room; keeping surely the most terrible vigil that ever woman kept. At last the morning dawned, clear and bright. A frost had set in, and the roads were clean and hard, | 60 | gutenberg |
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